The firing had stopped for some time and all was quiet. All around him a thick fog made of kicked up ash, smoke from artillery, and natural mist created an impermeable blanket. His eyepieces were covered with condensed water, which he constantly rubbed away. He was badly dehydrated and he wanted nothing more than to take off his mask and collect some of the water, but he remembered the gas attack earlier in the morning and kept the mask on. The last 16 waves had failed, but they owed Trooper 413 his life.
He took shelter behind human sandbags, the corpses of what was left of the 62nd, 43rd, and 130th Infantry Regiments. He and the remnants of 78th Infantry Regiment lay scattered about the battlefield, holding out in craters and puddles. He was bent over fumbling with his ammunition packs, listening cautiously for signs of a counter attack, when he heard footsteps. He gazed into the fog trying to discern the source. The sound of footsteps came from all different directions and he strained his eyes though the smog. Dark shapes began to materialize in the haze. He raised his Lasgun, ready to meet the enemy, but then lowered his weapon.
The figures were approaching from the Imperial frontlines. Dozens of hunched figures materialized from the smog, silently trudging through the dust. They moved like phantoms across the cratered landscape, searching for the unknown. A glimpse of the ribcage engraving on their breastplate and the skull motif on their masks reassured him that they were on his side. They were followed by small groups of servitors, who carried bags, crates, and bandoliers. They hovered from body to body, taking weapons, armor, and unused supplies and depositing them in the containers.
One of the scavengers was in the middle of searching the body of another fallen guardsman when a wounded trooper nearby stirred and caught his attention. He rose from the corpse and silently approached the dying soldier. He examined the trooper's wounds and removed a small syringe from his overcoat; a few faint words escaped his mask before injecting the unknown liquid into the Korpsman. After a few seconds the soldier went limp and the servitors checked him for provisions. Trooper 413 looked on, thought about the enemy not too far away in their trenches and reached for his ammunition pouch. They wouldn't help him if he was dead, and he was essentially dead already, knowing he wasn't going to survive the attack. He had been "dead" since he was born, brought into the universe, as was every single other Krieger, and bred for the sole purpose of doing The Emperor's will. He stood up and held out his pouch and helmet to the Quartermaster. The Quartermaster walked over to him and bowed his head and quickly said a prayer as he took the equipment. When they could carry no more they all stopped and left as ominously and quietly as they came, disappearing into the fog. The sound of artillery picked up again followed by a few flares, signaling the next wave. Trooper 413 gazed out in the direction of the enemy, firmly gripped his gun, jumped over the bodies of his fallen comrades and charged the enemy lines.