We sat in silence for as long as possible, just listening to the artillery outside. It's ork artillery now, coming from the west. You can tell the difference. The whine is shorter, the explosion duller. Orks don't care about actually reaching the trenches all that much. So long as it makes an explosion, they're pretty much satisfied.
Now there's the rebuttal from the East. It's not artillery, not in the sense of the word. Its tau missiles. Undoubtedly, they had Pathfinders or Stealth Suits target crucial ork targets. Wouldn't surprise me. Heretical as the thought may be, the only armies I've seen that comes close to matching the efficiency of mankind are the eldar and the tau.
Perhaps it's time to say it then. After all, there's no Commissar around. Yes, I think humanity is dying. Yes, I think the Emperor can't do a damned thing about it. But that doesn't make me a heretic. Quite the opposite, actually.
We're all lighting lho sticks, not saying a word. A few of us start reorganizing their kit for the hundredth time, to make it easier to reach things. The battered, mud splattered armor still proudly displays our regimental numbers: the three hundredth Valhallan. Complete with tanks, artillery, more infantry than a standard regiment has any business doing. All of it, strewn across the planet.
Which planet? I don't know, and don't rightly frakking care. They're all the same to me. Just a place to go and fight. And die.
I take another drag, then throw the stick away, looking at the remains of my regiment. Four years. Four Emperor damned years, fighting nearly every alien, heretic and monstrosity that the warp could see fit to throw at us. In this one campaign, I've fought more xenos than in my entire service. And now, the three-hundredth meets her end like this, in a muddy trench, out of supplies, caught between two alien desecrators. Six men. No heavy weapons.
We haven't discussed it, but we're all wondering which side we should rush once the artillery stops. None of us are quite sure. Which is more honorable? To go out fighting man's oldest enemy, or fighting man's newest threat?
I draw my laspistol, weighing it in my hand. Is there any honor in taking my own life? Perhaps. To deny the enemy the chance of a fair fight.
I holster the gun again, not even sparing it another thought.
The shelling stops.
I can hear the orks on one side, the loud screams and battle cries. I can hear the tau commanders, giving instructions in their cryptic language.
The time has come. We all stand, grabbing our equipment and weapons. Each one jumps out of the trench in the direction he wants to go. I don't even look to see who is standing beside me. Instead, I rack my shotgun, and I know, somehow, that we're all going to say it at the same time, and the now crystalline silence is broken by a single sentence.
We all open our mouths wide, and scream at the top of out lungs "FOR THE EMPEROR!"