Full deployment in 10 minutes. Guardsmen to the assault ladders. The Emperor Protects.
Droned the recorded monotone of a long dead Commissar.
Breathe. Just breathe. I grip my Lasgun tighter, softly saying a prayer to the weapon of war's machine spirit."Spirit may your sight be true and your wrath swift. Aid me in the coming maelstrom of battle. May your anger smite my foes. May you bring harsh judgement to the Xeno, the Heretic and the Traitor. May the enemies of Man fall before your blessed fire." A fresh energy cell is slid home, gauges are checked, power levels flashing a reassuring green as I tighten the strap on my helmet, taking a shuddering breath as I head towards the assault ladder. The sound of incessant artillery shells slamming into the earth embankments above, shaking the ground and causing a relentless rain of clods of dirt, rock and mulched plant life.
I didn't belong here.
I join my squad. Others. Some older, scarred individuals who look over my fresh uniform and unbuttered rifle and then look away, no words. They never speak any words to the Fresh Ones.
"Oh Emperor, He who sits on the Golden Throne of Holy Terra, guide our hands and fill our hearts with your righteous fury!"
A passing member of the Ecclesiarchy spouts the words of the Guardsman's Primer. Some of the Fresh Ones seem to take heart, responding when the prayers call for it, making the sign of the Aquila and closing there eyes.
The hardened men ignore the cleric and focus on their weapons. Battered, ugly things that have seen death in all its forms and dealt several kinds in turn. I look at my own weapon. Clean. Unmarred lines gleam with the fresh look that only newly assembled weapons of war have. The serial number and mark of the Omnissiah is still recognizable, the Imperial Aquila unscathed from the rigours of battle. The machine spirit untested in battle. I repress a shudder as I think of the consequences of a faulty machine spirit, an overcharge detonation would be the worst of my problems once the signal was given, but it wouldn't be a pleasant surprise.
"Platoon to the assault ladder! Up you go, move you Fethers!" The burly, bionic legged sergeant roared, carapace armour sheathing his body as he held the combat shotgun on his shoulder, pointing to the much abused and used ladder up to the assault bunker, reinforced redoubts with gates and armoured tops for sorties across the pulverized landscape.
Slinging my rifle over my shoulder I climb, following the man in front of me. 10 feet, then 20 feet climbed, the sounds of the artillery barrage gets more and more earth rattling the higher I climb. I hit the top of the ladder and take my position, waiting behind a pair of corroded gates with a single pair of lights beside it in the top right corner. The world is shaking as through the vision slits of the fortified bunker I can see great plumes of shattered earth flung in the air with every strike of the enemies weapons. Every bunker can, theoretically, hold a platoon. They never said it was a comfortable fit, but then again we weren't meant to stay long. The lieutenant is making his rounds, talking to the sergeants of the separate squads, nodding and making sure they know the drill. Charge across the open ground and meet the entrenched enemy. If you find cover before the enemy does, you shoot the sacred feth out of foul Xenos and hold it for the rest of the platoon
Simple, the way the Guard likes it.
I check my Chronometer, shivering at how close the signal is to sounding.
1 minute to assault. Fix bayonets and prepare for battle. The Emperor Protects.
In unison the men around me fix a variety of differently shaped blades to the ends of lasguns.
I look down to find myself doing the same, without thought or desire to do so. They train us well for our the ladder comes the Commissar, a tall, grim figure in black. Always black. The guardsmen move away from him, like he is plagued, grimacing and trying not to let him see their discomfort."Take heart men! Today we take the fight to the enemy! Let no man take a step back, drive the foul Xeno from this planet and your names shall live in glory as you will be brought to His side when your rest is finally earned!" The Commissar passes by me, I step back, allowing him past, I shudder as I see the flecks of blood and grey matter that fleck the front of his great coat. At least he didn't shoot the poor fethers in the back when he executed them for cowardice.I want to go home.
A dull chime starts sounding.
30 seconds to assault. The Emperor Protects.
I swallow bile, some of my fellow Fresh Ones aren't so lucky and vomit where they stand, gripping weapons in bone white grips. I look down and see myself doing the same. The artillery keeps shaking the ground, my teeth chatter and I hear a whimper beside me as another man hums a prayer to He on Terra.
15 seconds to assault.
"Keep your sights clean! Find cover and aim for center of mass! Keep your guns on half power to conserve shots! Emperor willing we'll show these fethers what foul Xeno can expect from humanity!"
10 seconds to assault.
The light flashes a dull, grimy green, I watch it, hoping for it to stop blinking. Please stop, I don't want to go out their. I want to go home. I hear a sob and hope it isn't my own.
The Commissar revs his chainsword and takes his bolt pistol from its holster, an eager grin on his face as he yells out, the artillery barrage intensifying, almost as if the enemy knows what we're about to do before we do it.
"Not one step back men! Cowardice breeds defeat! Courage breeds victory! For the Emperor! For the Imperium of Man!"
5 seconds to assault.
"The Emperor Protects." I say aloud, a few of the hardened men nod, others smile sardonically, the Fresh One beside me urinates himself where he stands."Slay the Xeno! Purge the heretic! Kill the Traitor! The Imperium of Man comes for relics of humanities dark past! Let no foe stand before us!" The Commissar yells, whipping the bravest and most simpleminded of us into a blood hungry mob.
4 seconds to assault.
3 seconds to assault.
The grimy green light in the top right corner blinks off, color draining rapidly from the glowing orb as it's partner glares a hateful red and a tinny marching tune that warbles with the fluctuating volume of the dilapidated old speaker as the rusty gates slowly grind open, corroded gears turning and opening the bleak, brown shattered landscape to our eyes, enemy artillery shells thudding into the ground only meters in front of us.
A shard of Xeno forged metal spirals into the close packed bunker and lodges itself firmly in the forehead of a guardsmen in front of me, he collapses in a heap, grey matter and blood mingling as it spills from his cloven head. A fresh faced teen standing near me takes a step back, the Commissar whirls immediately and fires a single bolt round into his head, the projectile detonating only after lodging deep in the poor youths brain before detonation, splattering those unlucky enough to stand near with his brain tissuem myself included. The Commissar turns back around nonchalantly, ignoring the newly made corpse cluttering the bunker's floor.
2 seconds to assault.
1 second to assault.
Assault commencing. The Emperor Protects.
The Commissar blows his whistle, and as one the platoon surges out, clearing the gate within moments as we sprint madly for the gouges in the earth that signify salvation in the otherwise open ground, looking along the trench line shows thousands, tens of thousands of similarly frantic figures doing the same, a shell lands in the midst of one of the closer groups, bodies are pulped into a fine red mist or sent spiralling into the air in mashed clumps of unrecognisable flesh and bone.
I want to go then, the shells start landing among us, throwing bodies into the air haphazardly, and there is no more time for thoughts of home.