But darkness would not take him.

"Sir."
Voltke woke up. His mind came back to the world slowly. It was so bright. So clean. A hospital!
"No!" Voltke exclaimed, jerking up.
He was in a small cot with a doctor and nurse standing over him. Sitting in the corner was a Death Korps officer, rebreather under his arm.
"Sir, please lay still." The doctor said, gently guiding him back down.
Voltke's mind was a slow whirl of confusion. But there were priorities for Death Korps officers.
"Where's my rebreather? My pistol and sabre?"
The other officer in the corner reached under his chair and brought up a rebreather and beautiful sabre for Voltke. He presented the items to Voltke with head bowed.
"A gift from the officer's mess, sir."
The officer's expression said it all. The humiliation of living while his men died. The terror spread through Voltke's body like frostbite.
"Who rescued me?" Voltke asked.
"A young officer from Longreach, assigned to your command." The officer said. He gave a small shake of the head as if to apologise for the fool's desire to keep his commander alive. Voltke laid back into his pillow and closed his eyes. He had been so close to atonement. So close to release.
"Captain Sterling." Voltke said, remembering the name. The damned fool.
"Yes, sir. The Krieger officers came together to purchase you a new sabre and rebreather." The officer said again. The Krieger officers could probably feel Voltke's shame burning hot. The gifts were almost an apology. As if to say: "We're sorry that you could not escape, Colonel. It wasn't your fault."
The doctor was explaining Voltke's injuries. Voltke didn't hear him. The real injury was his honour. The real injury was that he lived.
"You poor man." The nurse said, cupping his chin. She clearly misinterpreted his shame for some other post-battle emotion.
"Yes." The doctor said. "We'll leave you to your thoughts, Colonel."
The nurse and doctor left, but the Krieger officer stayed. He'd taken his place back in the corner, sitting silently. Voltke knew what he was there for.
"My regiment?"
"Overrun and destroyed. Reinforcements are assembled and the name 202nd Death Korps Infantry Regiment lives on. There's some three thousand troops in a holding location."
"They died well?"
"The entire Ork advance was blunted and stalled. Your men were fighting atop your body when the Longreach Captain arrived to order the retreat. They fought out with the Grenadiers. About sixty or so. The Orks drove through the remains of the city a few days ago, our forces lost the last grip on the outer-suburbs earlier this morning. The Ork's numbers are immense and there's no word on where their reinforcements are coming from. Somewhere underground." The officer said.
"My orders?" Voltke asked, eyes closed for the bright hospital lighting.
"I haven't heard. A Colonel in the mess said you weren't getting the 202nd back, though."
Voltke sighed at that thought. Perhaps High Command didn't trust Voltke with a regiment now that he hadn't even had the decency to die with it.
"Very well." Voltke said, resigned to imagining life as the kind of officer others looked at when he entered the room. The kind that they'd tell this one story about. "There goes Voltke, the shameful Colonel."
"Good luck, sir." The officer said, standing up and leaving the room.

Voltke donned his new uniform in front of his bathroom mirror. After a week in hospital he was ready for war. Though he didn't know if he'd ever see one again. He pulled his breastplate over his head and strapped it up tightly. It wasn't as fine as his old one, but that didn't bother him. Next he drew his red sash over his right shoulder and pulled it tight against his breastplate. Is was shiny and new. His greatcoat came on, it was snug. After a year or two of wear it would become looser and easier to move in. He looked at the gold braid and other embellishments. Over time, these too would lose their colouring. He strapped his new sabre to the left side of his belt and his laspistol to the right side. Lastly his rebreather and helmet. He looked at himself in the mirror for quite a while. Under this uniform he wasn't Colonel Voltke anymore. He was just a Death Korps colonel.
Voltke signed out of the hospital and stepped outside. He didn't even know who to report to. He began walking aimlessly. He was in one of the many third-line bases on this world. With the fighting mostly contained to two locations, these bases were safe enough to have large civilian presences. This one was inundated with rest/relaxation spots. Everything from restaurants to beer halls. These bases were like small towns. Cafes and supermarkets. Hairdressers and tailors. Voltke walked down the street and observed them all, returning the salutes of the scores of laughing, excited men who came past. They were from scores of different worlds and he didn't recognise many of their uniforms. But the all recognised his. He drew long glances from the guardsmen. Their sergeants would give him an appreciative nod as they came past saluting. To these men he was still a legendary figure. A Death Korps colonel.
There were Death Korps guardsmen too. A group of them sitting outside a beer hall. None of them were drinking. They swapped the occasional word, but otherwise somber stared off into the street.
Voltke saw a wooden sign with the words "Officer's Mess" on it. He headed towards it and watched a couple of officers enter ahead of him. It was the biggest building around and probably one of the first to be constructed when the camp was built. The mess was always busy. It wasn't just a dining facility, it was a social hub for all the officers to congregate to. This was where personal relations were made and maintained. Where careers builders would go around handshaking anybody they could find, anybody who was useful on their way up the ladder. Kriegers scoffed at those men, quietly sharing a glance or two as one of the bootlickers came over to try and make an attempt at breaking into the closed circle of Death Korps officers. It was rare that non-Kriegers were welcome at a Death Korps table.
Voltke entered and the mess was bustling as expected. There were a dozen or more tables with about 20 chairs at each through the middle of the room. Along the right side of the room were leather couches and chairs around coffee tables; where quiet conversations or drinks could be had. On the left was a long bar, with many officers sitting on the tall stools; some with paperwork and files in front of them. Some with many empty glasses.

Voltke spotted the Krieger table. He headed towards it.
"Colonel Voltke." Said an officer as he approached. Voltke knew him. The Colonel Gushel of the 440th Death Korps Siege Regiment.
"Colonel Gushel." Voltke replied, shaking the man's hand. There was some stiffness at the table at the sound of Voltke's name. Voltke had expected that. Embarrassment for him.
Voltke was introduced to some of the other officers. At this side of the table was nobody less than a Major. The lower ranks respectfully sat closer to the noisy bar to give their superiors the quieter side of the room. Voltke thanked the officers for the sabre they had purchased for him, before a major gave up his seat so Voltke could sit with his fellow colonels. They had their helmets and rebreathers on the table in front of them. Pale but grizzled faces looked upon him.
"How are your injuries, Colonel?" Somebody asked.
"Many broken ribs. Much grenade shrapnel that needed to be removed. But I'm fit and ready." Voltke replied.
"Who is in command of the Death Korps Regiments?" Voltke asked.
There was no easy answer for that question apparently. All the regiments were broken up across many different armies. Nobody knew exactly whose command Voltke fell under now.
"Voltke, I don't think you're getting the 202nd back." One colonel said apologetically.
Voltke paused. It was an awful thing to be so publically shamed. Whoever had decided to take his regiment away was essentially saying he was incapable as a colonel. Incapable of command.
"So I heard." Voltke replied. "Though I'd like to receive the news officially, in writing."
Voltke needed the order in writing because until he had it, he was the commander of the 202nd by law. If he was going to lose his command he wanted it sooner than later.
"I've heard they need commanders in the sulfur deserts." Another colonel said. "Your record is good, Voltke... Bad luck aside, you've had a fair career."
It was generous of the man to try to give Voltke hope, but Voltke didn't want to hope.
There was some discussion of the war. The colonel's didn't have enough of a strategic view to know exactly what was going on. It seemed like the Orks in the city had been contained and they didn't wish to attempt a breakout. They were content with holding their urban fortress. Just as the Orks on the other content were content with holding their own desert fortress of bunkers, barbed wire and trenches. The Orks were hunkering down for the long war. The long campaign. The siege. And there wasn't anybody better at siege warfare than the Death Korps. The slow grind. The hard nights.
Voltke spoke a little. Even for a Krieger he was quiet. They ate at dinner time and most of the officers had work to do so were headed back to their lodgings with a goodbye and goodluck here and there. Sterling had no orders still, so made his way over to the comfortable leather couches at the side of the room. He took a seat and closed his eyes, listening to the laughing of officers in the couches next to him. He wondered how to Then his brooding was interrupted.

"Sir!"

Sterling was standing in front of him.
"How's your war, sir?"
Sterling. The man who had pulled Voltke from the grips of death. After decades of war. Decades of service. When it had finally been Voltke's time; this man, some junior officer from a rural world of farmers and shopkeepers had stolen Voltke's honour. The disgrace of it. And now here he was. Voltke considered shooting the man on the spot. Kriegers would understand. But no, he couldn't. The man had just done his duty as best as he understood it. It had been his duty to save his commander and order the retreat.
"I hoped you'd have recovered sir, good to see you up and about."
It occurred to Voltke that Sterling was quite clueless as to the the offence he had done to Voltke's entire life and career.
"May I sit, sir?" Sterling asked.
Voltke nodded.
Sterling sat. He was in a clean and well pressed uniform. No armour, no lasgun. Just a pistol at his side.
"It was quite a fight in the city, sir. When we lost communications with you I decided to break my company back and peel across to you for new orders. I had the impression it was high-time for a retreat: we were all virtually overrun. When I arrived you had some men holding up in a house, fighting hard. I had the men grab your body and start pulling out. Not many of your men made it, unfortunately." Sterling explained.
"I heard as much." Voltke replied quietly.
Voltke couldn't hold a grudge against the man. The Krieger ways were strange and alien to these other-worlders. Voltke might have more in common with the Orks, who are bred for war, than men like Voltke. But in a sense Voltke did respect Sterling. He had identified Sterling and his men as great soldiers… in their own way. And there was a changed Sterling in front of him, Voltke thought. Perhaps that final battle had shifted something inside him. The man seemed more tired and less excited than he had been in the city.

"How do you feel about losing the city, Colonel?" Sterling asked.
"I don't feel anything about it." Voltke replied flatly.
"You're a Krieger. Shouldn't you be furious at any sign of Imperial defeat?"
"We're at war on a million worlds as we speak. We'll lose a battle here and there." Voltke replied.
"I've never heard of a Krieger officer taking defeat in his stride like that." Sterling said with eyebrows raised.
"What should I say? Sometimes it doesn't work out. Those are the stakes." Voltke said. Then he sensed Sterling wanted a further explanation. Voltke shrugged slightly and went on. "Even a smart gambler who wins in the long run knows he'll lose a bet here and there. As a soldier you're a gambler. Want to play the percentages, take the small wins? Fine. Want to take a gamble? Fine. But gamblers don't complain when it doesn't work out."
"We gambled in an attempt to hold the line and cover another army's retreat. In the end it failed and both armies were virtually annihilated." Sterling said.
"Those are the stakes." Voltke repeated. "If that line was made up of an army of Death Korps regiments we'd have likely held. My regiment was spread thin. Your Longreach regiments didn't do their part."
Sterling was taken aback by that.
"Sir, you insult my whole world."

"Do you want me to say I'm sorry? This is a war. You can hardly have a war without hurting somebody's feelings." Voltke replied.
Sterling looked away at that comment, then changed the subject.
"I looked you up, Colonel. You have a Macharian Cross. A Triple-Cross, too. Many campaign medals. You might be the highest decorated officer in this room." Sterling said.
"Trinkets, that's all."
"Why don't you wear them? It shows you've done your duty."
"I haven't done my duty."
"You do your duty every day you're in that uniform, sir." Sterling remarked.
"I do my duty in one day. In death." Voltke said cooly.
"You see a hard world, Colonel."
"Because it is hard. What do you see, Captain?"
"I see... the light of the Imperium..." Came the slow reply. "I see the civilisation that we're rebuilding. For the Emperor, for the imperium, for you and me."
"No you don't." Voltke replied. He let out a rare smirk.
"I don't?" Sterling asked.
"You don't care about the Imperium. It's too big. You care about you. In this war. You care about the battle. The smell of it. The taste. The touch. And more than anything, the sound. You won't be able to sleep without the sound of war before long." Voltke said.
Sterling paused.
"I'm not like a Krieger. I do my duty, I fight when ordered. And yes, I go to battle, I think about it every day. I can taste it, yes. But one day this will be over. And I'll have done my duty." Sterling said, a hint of apprehension in his voice. But Voltke knew the truth. Men like Sterling might resist the idea. The truth was that he'd never leave this life. He'd never go home.
"It has you now. I can feel it." Voltke said, thinking about the change in Sterling since the battling in the city. "Have you ever seen a perfect column of guardsmen march onto the parade ground? Have you seen them march to war? There's nothing like it. It's inspiring. Stirring, even for me. You're in it now. It's magnificent, isn't it? Men with a war to fight. All your problems pale before it. You have no problems. Only war. Just like the rest of us. It's a weight off your shoulders. All you need to carry is a lasgun; and they're not heavy." Voltke paused and leaned in close to Sterling, another small smirk on his face. He spoke quietly now.
"I could send you home you know. I could order it. You'd sit there, day after day, wishing you were back here. Those people back home can feel it too. They know what we have. They love us for it. And hate us. This is your wife now. It'll nag at you. You'll tell it your secrets. You'll think about it at night. You'll wake up with it. You'll yell and scream at it. But in the end you'll kiss and makeup. It has you now. I can feel it."
Sterling sat back in his chair, looking at Voltke. Voltke stood up. He'd go and report to the camp commandant and request orders.
"Good luck, Captain. Have a good war."