You may ignore this below nonsense and go on directly to the story.
A hopefully short story on the short life of a guardsmen.
Oh, I don't own anything gobbo or space marine or easily owned Necron related.
(Laughing madly)I laugh at your pitiful attempts to tarnish the great Imperium of Mankind with your weak...(Spaces marines get blasted by a few Gauss flayers) unbeliveably strong Gauss weaponry...(jumps in Rhino and makes a run for it before being sat on by a teleporting Monolith)
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It was my turn for observation now. Dammit. Stuck out in the freezing cold with nought but a jacket and a failing thermos cup. Ah well. At least the thermos and the liquid inside it saves my skin and the lives of the other 1199 men who live with me. I stare around as I take a few steps into the biting cold and observe a guardsmen foolish enough to take of his glove and accidentally hold his lasgun. I wonder if he was one of the new recruits who haven't been informed of how dangerous it is to hold metal in this temperature. No...no time for that. I take my lasgun from my hurting shoulder and with months of continous trench lookouts, I expertly swing it into my firing hole and begin my hard time outside. Well its not that bad really. I mean it is nice to get some fresh air (if you can call it fresh) instead of hauling your weight around fixing the cavalry. And its a good opportunity to have a nice chat with the other guardsmen before a sergeant shouts at you to get back to duty. But then again I already miss the comforting warmth (if you call 5 degrees above freezng point warm) of my bunker. The monotone landscape I am viewing is distracted by a small jet streaking dangerously low above my head and roars down and begins its descent towards a landing point... Its a Valkyrie bearing the insignia of the Imperial Guard.
Four things could happen now.
The Valkyrie could be full of nice dehydrated food, supplies, reinforcements, and Emperor forbid... commandeered by a lot of bloody traitors looking for a death or glory charge deep behind enemy lines.
The very bloody reason why Imperial Command decided a few divisions of men...me included will be stuck in some barren wasteland for the next few months. My attention shifts back into this reality and I look at what in the name of the Emperor might be unloaded from this Valkyrie.
Well... It was actually a mixture of the first three options. A few crates there and there and a mumbling lot of Whiteshields. Ok. Not that bad. The sergeant who just told me off for drinking from my thermos and not looking out for traitors now heads towards the group of conscripts.
I suppose the sergeant is now saying the notorious 'welcoming' and 'friendly words of arrival at this base.
My thoughts are comfirmed as a conscript falls down after being addressed rather loudly and rudely by the sergeant.
A bell resonates clearly through the frost-bitten air...my shift is over. At last. I hook my lasgun back on my webbing and begin the short trudge back to my relatively warm bunker. It takes a few tries for the door to open but once it is I defiantly leap over to my bed and land on a once elaborate house of cards... A few stunned faces look at the house and then at me but I for once feel good. More reinforcements usually mean less shifts outside and yes... that probably does mean we are losing in this Emperor-damned war. A low growl brings me from the states of my subconcious mind and informs me that I have without any fore-thoughts flattened my platoons house of cards. I reply that it was crap anyway...which ends in a few punchs landing on me but once the news of reinforcements escapes my mouth they end their futile punches and they turn into a series of collective groans. Oh... thats right. Reinforcements also mean in the world of Imperium 'Another strategic venture into possible hostile territory'. Emperor-damned euphemisms. Yeah, the attempts to punch me fail after that miserable announcement, but hey, thats less bruises for me. After several minutes of lounging around in my bed, I decide that my overly short life is best not spent in a grey bed so I none too gently jump off my bed and head off in search of the distant aromas of dehydrated kophee roots and some hopefully good cowel steak.
A few days later...
'Guardsmen!'
'you have assembled here for briefing for a strategic venture into possible hostile territory. As you know, we have recieved reinforcements a couple of days ago and IG command and intel suggests we conduct another strike at the rebel-held city. As you know, that city has been a damned piece of shit in the upcoming campaign to take the west continent back...' the comissar paused, took a sip from his not so banged up thermos and continued 'IG and the remnants of the PDF have searched through holofiles and they've found out about the mass storage of foodstuff and other material that will help us and yeah, fill your damn stomachs up. Ok, usually the strike at this city would involve a standard siege with Imperial artillery divisions, but the damn tank divisions and...the artillery company are stuck in the big mudflats south of here so you'll have to slug it out on foot and take the city yourself'
The captain pauses and then says
'Ok! GUardsmen! Report to your platoon officer and after that get your equipment from the quartermaster. Remember, we assemble for attack at 2100. Ok guardsmen, 2nd Platoon has to hold Objective...'
2nd Platoon has to hold Objective 2, a hill, until 1st and 3rd Platoon can reach it. Then a massed attack near the west gates by all forces and whatever vehicles we can muster. Thats what me and 31 more men have to do. Capture a hill and wait out for the others to catch up try to bust the city gates and storm the city. Basically a suicide mission when considering the gates are triple layer admantium with force shields copied directly from one of those Imperial Navy battleships...
Ok..now to the friggin quartermaster. Nice guy, but he once caught me trying to get some 'extra' food. We never got on well after that. Surprisingly, he welcomes me quite graciously and gives a few more clips of ammo then usual. Hmmm. After I assemble at the mass of men at the bottom of the bunker.
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It all starts of rather well with Sidney stumbling a few times and pissing his pants (piss does freeze!) but after we get off to a nice rythmn and start marching towards Hill 2 everything is as smooth as a well-oiled confabulator.
After a few hours of marching the bright moon of Cimmere is now at its peak and casts a soft glow to the surroundings. The snow now silently drifts between gentle drafts of air. Its a pity a serene place like this could be stained with blood. I am pulled rather forcifully from my dreams when the sergeant in command of our group halts and everybody bumps in to me. Ah well. The sergeant motions for us to lie down and wield our lasguns...as he thinks he saw something approaching. I take aim in my illegally bought scope and search the surroundings for any bastards intent on ruining my potentially short life. A few bushes, long grasses...oddly shaped rock, hmm...The things that our sergeant saw was 3rd Platoon...
After our sergeant is properly reprimanded by 2nd Platoon for his inept sighting we set off once more. The ground is becoming more softer and marshier. So 2nd platoon is now in the marsh...Kakarot voxs command that we have reached the marshes. Another vox-cast comes from command. Objective two...rendezous with all nearby Leman Russ squads and try to group together before marching to the traitor held hive. The stuck Leman Russ's?... we had better not get another objective to pull the stuck Leman Russ's from the marsh...I doubt even one of those Adeptus Astartes could. Oh well.
A few hours later...
The reeds try to entangle me in their twisted roots but I'm likelier to drown in the emperor forgotten shite-inundated marshes...Sergeant Rilling stops and motions again at a bogged Leman Russ. Sidney the sees something move near the Leman Russ and shoulders his battered lasgun. I follow suit and go into a more inconspicious position...the figures near the tank shift slowly and my first gut instinct is that something isn't right. And its oddly silent too, and if anything, the soft glow of the moon has dimmed, and we can barely see our frost-bitten hands in front of us. But the remaining light still makes out the ominous silhouettes skulking around the Leman Russ. Gyran and Ervin look into their infrared sights of their heavy weapons. Gyran, into his illegal rangefinder and Ervin into the scope scavenged from a burnt out Chimaera.
After a few moments of pure silence, Gyran whispers something into Ervins ear and they both nod their heads by a few fractions of a centimetre. They then both signal in unison to Rilling that the silhouettes trudging around the shell are probably patrol or reconnaissance groups sent out by the traitors. Rilling responds with a nod and a silently mouthed 'damn...'
Kakarot voxs in to Command that a sighting of enemies secured in the mudflats has been verified by a sergeant and then puts in a request for a spontaneous assault. But before the vox even starts on its millisecond race to Command, volleys of mass-reactive shells send great pillars of mud flying around my squad. All hell breaks loose. I stumble in the great voids left by the bolts and dodge the chunks of human flesh that lie sinking in the turbulent mud. Noticing a small bastion of grass and dry soil, I leap at it, and bring my lasgun to bear on these traitors. Gyran quickly notices me and lunges for my safety. Around us two, things keep on getting worse. Hails of lasers score the air into little holes and the bolt shells from the other side rip our platoon up. Explosions ringing in my ears, I leap up and wielding my bayonet, land it deep into a throat daubed with acrid unguents and empty rounds into a frothing maniac. Rilling, punctured by multiple wounds staggers over and falls on the body of Kakarot. Voices keep going in the background.
And then smoke. Not the thin clear smoke you get when lounging around and drinking too close to the basilisks, but thick heavy smoke when the basilisks jamm and you have to help with clearing it up because you were the nearest person there. And when basilisks jam...well they do a bloody good job of it as well. The smoke curls around my legs like some bloody reptile from those catachan worlds. And it stings my eyes so bad I can barely see because of the amount of tears. And the a frothening traitor, eyes wide open charges straight into me. He wrestles into me with extreme force and I feel several the flak jacket crack under the immense pressure. And to make matters worse, my lasgun is flung into a bloody melee between Gyran and two crazed rebels. The lasgun falls into Gyrans hands and he unleashes a spray of las-shots that punch mine and his opponents into the ground. Mine looks up weakly and then he dies.
I quickly run off to find my next target.
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That was a bit odd. Getting into a scrap before the main event (taking the city starts is not good for overly planned plans. Please read and ...not review but if you feel bothered enough to tell as to what I should have done with this story go ahead. Flames are welcome as long as they help me realise one of my shortcomings
