Kasr Kraf, 09:04
Unhurriedly, the aide came over to General Creed and passed him the folded sheet of green paper that one of the many humming cogitators had just churned out. In the bluish light from the map, Creed read it to his staff. "Our orbital observation reports armoured attack in I Corps sector as of zero eight nineteen."
"What of the Korg Mountains? Has the enemy tried for the dam?" A staff colonel asked. There was a general worry circulating the command centre now that every front was being assailed. With the larger battles occurring west of Kasr Stark, the Kolarak plains, and far to the south of Kraf at Martyr's Rampart, the northern flank, closest to the river, was now being drawn into the war.
"Precautions were taken to ensure no enemy offensive could be carried out through the mountains," Creed said grimly. Removing the ever-lit cigar from his mouth he gesticulated at the map. "Once clear of the pass, and the dam, the enemy has a downhill run to the Elysion Fields where he would slice our armies in two. That is unacceptable. But nevertheless, an assault from the river was expected. With faith and the bayonet we shall blunt the enemy's thrust as a sword is by a rock. Let us manoeuvre General Wallace's 15th Infantry Division – write this down, lieutenant!"
The tip of his pencil quivering, a young subaltern quickly scribbled down Creed's dictated orders. "Compliments to the officer commanding One Corps, General Cathker A. Wallace. Displace Fifteen I.D. from positions along the banks of the Luten and form blocking force along Highway Two. Expect infantry and armoured assault from north. Chances of relief: slim. Signed, General Ursarker Edgar Creed. Lord Castellan."
As Creed was dictating, one of his colonels was poring over the map, swiping it with his hand to blow up the image. "Sir, there are two firebases guarding the approaches to Highway Two."
"Numbers?" Creed was dubious about the lightly-defended scratch bases that lined the Luten. The garrisons were not comprised of Cadians and therefore far inferior in quality. Those third-rate troops would crumble like wet paper in the face of a combined infantry and armoured assault. Either way, their loss would be of little significance.
"About five hundred combined. Roughly 250 men at each."
"Let the enemy have them," Creed dismissed. "Their grand strategy revolves around the subjugation of our great Kasrs. And Jark and the Cadian Shock Troopers shall stand firm in the face of assault as Stark is currently. Five hundred men – half a battalion at most are negligible losses. Now, air cover must be arranged for Fifteenth Div. It will be bad for morale if it appears that the enemy controls the skies."
"All fighter and bomber groups are currently engaged, my lord," the naval officer coordinating the planes said. "If not then they are in constant rotation."
"And the Marines?" Creed wondered what the garrison inside the downed strike cruiser not far from the firebases was doing and why it was not helping the companies. Rifles and automatics could do nothing against tanks.
"MAG One-Five is still sitting on the tarmac, sir. On the occasion they have gone up, it was only to provide close air support to the Black Templar detachment down in the south at Martyr's Rampart. There has been only one recorded sortie anywhere else and that was the briefest flypast of Kasr Jark."
"A flypast?" Creed growled. "Tell me it was a combat operation and not simply showboating."
"It was allegedly in honour of Orven Highfell, he commands the Space Wolves Great Company. They are occupying the Kasr."
"Why they are not in the field right now is anyone's guess," another staff officer mused. "The Dark Angels' Four Company inside the cruiser are the same. Idle. There is no other word for it."
"The Sisters?" Creed indicated the Shrine of Saint Morrican sitting on the very eastern extent of the Korg Mountains.
"Awaiting their canoness' orders, sir."
"And Admiral Quarren's battlegroups are otherwise too engaged in trading barrages with the enemy fleet or holding the corridor to give us a precision strike from orbit," Creed said to himself. The strangulation of resources was a significant hamper, but by no means was it damning. Creed had fought battles with far less at his disposal and won.
Stubbing his cigar out, Creed said sternly, "then we will win this fight with or without their help. Time, gentlemen. Time is a must. The longer we hold, the closer relief comes. In the meantime I want every battalion not engaged to launch aggressive counterattacks where the terrain, manpower and logistics permit. Make sure our army commanders know this is the lord castellan's word."
Creed deliberately avoided the ongoing evacuation from Kraf and the airbase as mentioning it might stir thoughts of retreat which, right then, was impossible. Any unit caught retreating in the face of the enemy would face a commissar's discipline. That rule he made sure would be enforced harshly.
Rakka
On the morning after the aborted tank assault, Cannon Company lost Hill 558. It was simple, basic fact. Dug-in infantry with zero means to repel tanks and a complete absence of artillery or air could not stand. The fresh force of cultists, ostensibly never-ending, came with renewed vigour, their spirits bolstered by the welcome presence of armour. Under the cover of the cannons firing closely over their heads, sharpened bayonets bobbed up and down as cultists and mercenaries advanced; the former yammering with delight at the chance to shed blood.
Olen Azar ducked as the rush of air above his head was immediately followed with a crash of a howitzer shell dumping tides of earth onto the trench floor and inside the collar of his flak jacket. Mortars too were gnawing away at the OP. They were indistinguishable from the tank fire. Sneezing from all the dust and propellant stinking up the air, Azar blew dirt from where it had fallen inside the ejection port of his Lecta which was in danger of fouling the thick pistol-calibre rounds inside the magazine. Taking turns to bob up and shoot at the incoming Zekes with Gale, Azar heard the first scream for more ammunition somewhere down the trench. One of the men hauled up from M/T reached for an M-36 power pack he had laid out on the trench parapet to recharge in the sun but yanked his hand back, howling in pain as bullets struck the sandbags, sending the riddled pack spinning away, a pair of severed fingers with them. Azar was in the process of tossing an aid packet over to the writhing grunt when more shells thudded, or rather, exploded too close. Each report rang a giant gong inside Azar's head, boxing his ears and making him dizzy.
Down the trench, someone was clutching at his throat. Weld's glasses were broken and blood was running from a cut on his forehead. "Ammo!" the cry went up.
"What's that?" Gale slapped his ear.
"Ammo's running out, Sarn't," Scurm felt about his girth for any live charge packs. "I've just got what's left in my weapon."
"There's tanks rolling up on us," CQMS stood up and stuck his eye to the optical gunsight he had attached to his .338. "Four of them."
"Time to start throwing rocks maybe." Gale shook loose earth from his trouserleg. The floor was scattered with dirt flying in from above. Empty .338 magazines, dead M-36 charge packs, and spent shells were being constantly kicked around by feet, clinking as they came into contact with one another. The single Rekyl gun still in action had used its last magazine and there was no time to painstakingly reload loose rounds.
"I'm good, Sarn't." Azar rose and shot into the grass where bayonets were the only targets visible. He was steadily working through his bundle of stick magazines, having expended both of his heavy drums. The presence of the automatic had annoyed Scurm and Weld enough for Scurm to complain about it to Gale. Gale had told him to shut up and ordered Scurm to give up the shotgun Azar had fetched from Stores to the corporal instead. The weapon, sounding closer to a miniature cannon due to the cut-down barrel, gave one last boom before falling silent. The corporal dropped back down into the trench, sliding back the bolt with his thumb and inspecting the chamber. "Fuck it, I'm out." He plucked at his bandolier and found it empty.
"Cold steel now." Gale nodded at his cooks to affix their bayonets onto their respective weapons.
"Nah. Negative, you lot," the corporal shouted at the top of his voice to be heard over the combined noise of the advancing tanks and wallops of the mortars. "Once your ammo's out. Take off back to Rakka and tell the captain we're pulling out."
"Got it," Gale acknowledged. "Look sharp, lads. Stand by to displace."
The faint blast of a whistle carried over the racket to the ears of the men in the OP.
"As you were trained to do, boys. Tap 'em centre mass and never mind the bayonets." The corporal passed out his last few grenades. "Any rear-echelon blokes make your way quietly and sensibly down the slope to your right once your ammunition is expended, not before."
"We'll go in twos and threes," Gale said. "Scurm and I first then CQMS, me, and the lads from Motor-T. Azar, you've still got ammo so stay here and cover our retreat; sound good?"
"Number one. Can't wait to leave. Worst holiday ever," Weld joked.
"What's a holiday?" CQMS sneered. Behind, and unnoticed by him, one of the corporal's men, instantly killed by a round to the eye, slumped against the wall and gently slid down until he was lying in a pile, half-buried. The resulting blood spray was lessened as the bullet bit into the brain and sheared off the top of the man's skull, leaving the mess contained inside his cover. The man nearest him pushed the quartermaster sergeant from behind and went to check on his pal.
"Ceri, get back up," the corporal exclaimed.
"He's wasted." Ceri pressed the helmet back down onto the head when it became apparent the top half of the skull, and parts of the brain had come away completely when Ceri had tried to take the helmet off.
"Work that piece like you were trained!" The corporal shoved the last M/T man past him as he latter's magazine ran dry. "Move it, son."
"Give us cover, Azar," Gale pulled Scurm from the OP with him.
Grenades were going off now, the last whispers from the M-36s and cracks of LARs dropping to nothing. Throwing overarm, the corporal and the remaining able-bodies in his section delivered the frags into the enemy's midst, sometimes simply rolling them out of firing holes into the grass and bodies below. They caught incoming stick grenades too and returned them to their senders. Azar, the heat rising from his Lecta's barrel, did not bother to wait for any of the men from M/T; he just took off after CQMS and Gale. Powering down the slope he found again that Zeke was just a poor shot in general as no-one had been felled by him. The exhilaration turned to dismay when it appeared Gale had called a halt on the lower slopes of the hill just before the first water-filled shell holes.
"Stop." Gale held up a hand when Azar careened onto his stomach beside the group. "Wait for the others."
"We're in the open here, Mess Sergeant," CQMS fidgeted worriedly. "Zeke will shoot down on us once he's cleared the OP."
"Agreed Colour Sarn't. We're obliged to give the others covering fire, so we stay."
Azar looked at Scurm and Weld. Both were red-faced and panting, neither having had to move so fast before. They hadn't been up and down the bloody hill twice. He had. Where was the gratitude for that matter?
"With what? We're out of ammunition."
"I'd say it's the thought that counts," Gale glassed the smoke-covered hill. "There they are."
Azar watched the little group of men, nothing more than specks of green, attempt to break off the engagement and escape, leaping, jumping, and zig-zagging down the slope even as cultists appeared a stone's throw behind them and took up firing positions. A handful of them, slightly more insane than the usual type, charged after them with bladed weapons. Despite not knowing or particularly caring for any of them, Azar found his mouth dry watching the desperate flight. As the cracks of rifles increased, bursts of automatics added to the fray. Some cultists were firing, some were chasing. A few had fallen in the grass and were relaxing, content to be spectators. One even got up and waved. Two of the corporal's men, hit or not, it was unclear, were overtaken by a bunch of the more energetic cultists and brought down. They were then dragged back up the slope by their arms and legs and out of sight.
"Get moving, the lotta you!" the corporal bellowed as he and his four remaining men rolled the last few feet and tumbled into the cover of the shellholes. "You're stationary targets."
"You heard the corporal." Gale dragged the beat Scurm and Weld to their feet.
"Not gotta tell me twice." Azar made a showing of helping one of the corporal's men who was limping along.
Rakka had watched the retreat from 558. Mik Meller too had left the CP to observe. It was inevitable, he thought with a sinking heart. The heavy rumble of the tanks could be heard near the crest of the hill and cultists ran around this way and that, ecstatic that they had finally got one up on the enemy.
The trudge of boots on the muddy ground and the men that had made it down the hill plodded through the main gate. The encouragement by the unit on gate duty to hurry up was ignored. At the head of his little band, the corporal came and presented himself to Meller.
"Good morning, Corporal," Meller said, keeping his tone light so as not to appear condemning to the weary men.
"Good morning, sir. We were forced off Hill 558."
"Inevitable. Not yours or your mens' fault, Corporal. Casualties?"
"Sir. Four KIA, Two MIA. Superficial wounds on some." The corporal shrugged off his shotgun and planted the butt in the ground, leaning on it.
"Right. Any man in need of medical treatment report to Cain Med. Sarn't Gale, is your cookforce intact?"
"Uh, yessir." Gale glanced between Azar, Scurm, and Weld. "All present and accounted for."
"Accompany CQMS over to Stores and sign your gear back in. You will be back in the kitchen for now."
"Very good, sir," CQMS looked relieved at being able to return to his roost. "Follow me, you cooks."
Azar balked at the notion he would be subservient to Gale again. "Sir, can I…?" he stalled.
"Azar, you're with us." Gale jerked a thumb. He and the other cooks were already moving off after CQMS.
Meller remembered the runner that had gone up and down Hill 558, Olen Azar. Quickly dismissing the three from M/T he called over to Azar. "Private?"
"Sir, can I be a runner instead?" Azar babbled. "I'm gonna be back in the kitchen otherwise."
"Come on, Azar. Sorry, sir." Gale stood behind Azar and tried to get him to move. "Absolutely not, you're second cook."
"A foot runner would be welcome," Meller said. "Your present post is now at the company CP unless I leave, whereupon you'll accompany me. Does that make sense?"
"Yessir, thank you, sir." Azar casting a triumphant grin at Gale then threw a salute.
A bullet whacked into a wooden post beside Meller's head, throwing out splinters before screaming off. Gale was the first to take off. Meller had to grab Azar's arm and haul him out of sight of the marksmen on the hill before they could fire again. "Important lesson for a runner and for anyone, Private," Meller spoke calmly despite coming close to having his life ended prematurely. "Never salute an officer in the field. That's why we don't wear any of this," he lifted up a corner of his collar which was hanging out side his flak jacket. The pin holes for rank insignia were visible.
Azar nodded sheepishly, embarrassed he had fluffed up like that. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled.
"Lesson learned. I know how you ORs hate officers and that. But we're a lesser evil compared to those scum on the hill."
With the revelation that Zeke could put fire down inside the base, everyone was a lot more cautious, and most movement in the open ceased entirely. Some dismissed the rounds as nothing more than strays, hopefuls fired by the cross-eyed cultists as nothing more than annoyances to incite fear. Neither Woulter or Peter were aware of the developments, with both still locked up inside the Pen with no indication of what was going on.
"You've got a good friend in that lad," Woulter said gently to the ex-sergeant curled up against the opposite wall. "I wish I'd had friends who looked out for me during my service period."
Peter looked up at his dad hopefully. "You never spoke much about your old friends."
"Well it was sixteen – seventeen years ago. I forget really. I was never good at remembering names, not like you or your mum."
"Our lot were different back then, weren't they?"
"It was a different time, son. Tabor was under imperial governance. Though I suppose nothing really changed down in the mid-hive when our new masters came. Work quotas went up a bit but that was expected really. The planet was at war. It was me and your mum and she was pregnant. It was difficult enough raising a toddler down in that stuffy, smog-filled cesspit. But, here we are. She'd be proud of you, Peter."
"Proud of me for what? I haven't done anything. Well nothing of my own accord anyway. Every bit of your life is controlled isn't it? That's what made us think fighting the Imperium's a good thing. They want your arms and legs constantly working like one of those servo-bots. You're not seen as human, are you?" The last question he directed at the lad the other man had called James.
"Oh, of course he's human," Woulter said.
"No, no. What's the word? You're human literally but not…"
"Metaphorically?"
"Metaph… yeah."
"Well I wouldn't say our way was any better than his. I shudder to think that those cultists are – were? – our allies, especially after what they did to our section."
"Running down that street…" Peter left it hanging for a moment, trying to find the words. "Those shots were so loud. The banging. Terrifying. We didn't have a chance."
"It doesn't matter. We're here. We're safe—"
"No-one's safe," the young soldier grunted.
"Huh?"
"Not safe."
"We'll take here over out there. I figured we'll get better treatment with your lot than with them. James, was it?"
Immediately the soldier clammed up, hugging his knees with his arms tightly and burying his face.
"How's he a sergeant? He doesn't look that much older than me," Peter whispered.
"He's not a sergeant any more, Peter. He made a mistake, that's all. He'll be back outside with his friends soon."
"We weren't allowed to make friends in the regiment, Dad. Everyone got beaten one time or another by the other blokes in his section."
Woulter hugged Peter immediately. "Well, we don't talk about that now, do we? We were forced. And if anyone hesitated then he was beaten too."
"You've had the bugger," the soldier said.
"We did."
"We got shot at with paint rounds in phase one. Got a live one in every thousand rounds disguised as a painter. If we buggered up it was one in five-hundred, then two-fifty, then a hundred."
"Did anyone…?" Peter asked slowly.
"No-one bought his farm on Jumael. That came later."
"Is that where you live?"
Woulter stayed silent, listening to Peter, hoping that his son could make the lad come out of his shell.
"Was."
"Tabor was a shithole—"
"Language."
"Dad, the lads I trained with all had potty mouths. You can't keep me shielded from them. I've got to grow up sometime," Peter said, a little irritated by his father's protectiveness. "And I've got my dad along with me to worry about. He can be a pain."
"Oh really…?" Woulter's eyebrows raised but he was secretly overjoyed that Peter was slowly starting to find his feet and talk openly again. He hoped Peter and James might find something in common and warm to one another.
"Yeah, uh, Tabor was one big old waste. Just complete desolation. But there were these hive-cities where we lived. Huge, staggered cities built one on top of the other, going up into the sky, growing narrower and narrower – richer too – until the very tip-top spire. From the outside it was beautiful and ugly at the same time. We never saw it though. Never saw daylight. It's why Tabors are so pale, something inside our skin."
"Melanin," Woulter mentioned. "You're less pale. Could you see the sun from your city?"
"No city."
"Are you a spacer?"
"No."
"He said Jumael, Dad, I think it's a planet."
"Well I guess anywhere's better than Tabor," Woulter tutted. "Your parents must be proud of you."
"Nah. I've done nothing. If they see me they won't recognise me."
"How can a parent not recognise their child?" An expression of dread crept across Peter's face. "Dad?"
Woulter shushed Peter. "That's just how it is, Peter. People change as time goes by. They age."
Sighing loudly, artillery shells crashed down outside. Instinctively the soldier covered his head. Peter did not.
"Safe in here," Woulter murmured.
Zeke wasted no time in rushing observers onto Hill 558, allowing the artillery on Cadia Primus to lay their fire on Rakka with precision accuracy. During the first barrage a shell scored a direct hit on one of 11 Platoon's bunkers, collapsing it completely and burying the men inside. Reacting immediately, and with a calmness he did not know he was capable of, 2d Lieutenant Morgan Ehle ordered a party armed with shovels to follow him out to the remains of the bunker and begin digging. This he became involved in personally, refusing to abandon his men to slow suffocation; never mind if all of them were dead. While all this was going on, shells continued to howl down, exploding both inside the perimeter and out. Rifle and lasgun fire from 558 was whizzing overhead, many times even thumping into the earth closeby. The Rekyl and .50 Cal teams were returning fire at Zeke, setting their sights at a higher elevation to compensate for the difference in height. As Ehle shovelled at the earth and collapsed wooden supports, one man nearby dropped his shovel, grasping at his arm shouting, "I'm hit."
Displaying - what he hoped was inspiring too - overt disdain for the enemy sharpshooters, Ehle stood up straight, rubbed his back, and went over to the private. "Get yourself over to Cain Med, Private."
"No, no, sir," the private said through set teeth. "I'm alright." He tore open a first aid packet and began to treat his arm himself. "I'll be back on task in a jiffy."
"Well done, laddie." Ehle gave a curt nod of approval and resumed the dig. Very quickly another man was shot, this time receiving a ricochet in the buttocks. The pain only came when he tried to sit and found it hurt tremendously. "Sorry about that, sir," the man whimpered, rubbing the tender spot.
"Cain Med, now." Ehle called out to his platoon sergeant to bring up more men to work on the bunker. The fresh earth underfoot was slowly giving and the crushed supports would soon be out of the way. Even under fire from Zeke and with artillery landing the men were working ceaselessly. It stirred an intense pride within Ehle who did his best to dig harder and faster than anyone else whilst offering loud encouragement. Because of the sharp bursts of the Rekyls and deeper reports of the .50 Cals, Ehle only heard the shriek of the incoming when it was right over his head. Shovels were tossed in the dirt as men threw themselves into cover where they could. Ehle felt himself launched a few feet into the air from where he lay by the force of the blast. Dazed for a second, he felt the ground beneath him and realised he was on his back. Dimly, through the noise, he heard the call for stretcher-bearers go out. Invisible hands grabbed his arms and legs, lifting him up and depositing him on the stretcher that had appeared out of thin air beneath him. Now lying horizontal, a big, dumb slab of meat, Ehle was bumped and jostled and nearly thrown from the stretcher as howling piledrivers dropped their payloads nearby, throwing up building-sized geysers of grey dirt that blew across Rakka like a sandstorm. At one point Ehle almost slid off when the man in front collapsed to his knees, his head drooping.
"Come on, don't stop!" the other stretcher-bearer shouted.
"I can't see. I'm blind."
"Get back up. We've gotta get Mister Ehle inside."
Groaning, the blinded man slowly rose, picking up Ehle's weight again and staggering forwards. His pal shouted directions to him. Both, despite the terrific banging, made it across Rakka and down inside the overcrowded aid station where Ral Bleak and two other medics worked on the casualties from the shelling.
"We've got Lieutenant Ehle here," the stretcher-bearer said to Ral. "My mate says he's blind too."
Ral, his plastic gloves wet with blood, glanced at Ehle. "Right, put him down and get back out there." To the blind grunt he said, "sit yourself down, we'll get to you when we can."
"Can you see him now?" the stretcher-bearer asked hopefully.
"How serious?" Ral said in-between applying tourniquets. "VSIs first. Headwound?"
"Huh?" the stretcher-bearer's mouth went slack as he set Ehle down on the floor amongst other litter cases.
"The lieutenant, does he have a headwound?"
"Uh, nah, no headwound."
"Well where's he hit?" Ral passed a suture to one of the other medics who was poised over a grunt who'd had his skull partly shaved to better treat the wound.
"Side of the leg. Uh, something white on it – in it."
"Those're his bones, dummy," a disgruntled litter case snorted, pointing at Ehle's right leg.
"Don't sweat it, sir."
Ehle blinked and tried to sit up.
"I never seen what's inside a leg before."
Ehle's probing fingers found his trouserleg ripped from hip to ankle. Beneath that he could feel where his flesh had parted and what was beneath. Panic began to grip him. Will I lose the leg? Will I be able to walk again? But then an even more agonising thought came to him. I left my men trapped. They are still buried alive.
A maddening fear sent shivers through his body. The frustration of being rendered immobile was enough to make him want to pummel something into oblivion, to crush with his bare hands in an hysterical rage. Ehle's leg was less agonising than the guilt he felt at himself, lying wounded and helpless when his platoon was getting seven shades knocked out of them outside.
"Any more room?" someone called from the entrance.
"No, no more space in here for litter cases. Take them to the CP," Ral said over his shoulder. "Once this artillery lets up we'll move the litter cases over there. More room."
Ehle swallowed. Straining his neck, he looked round at the other wounded men crowding the dugout. Ral was right, there was no more space to sit or lie down. Most were being forced to stand, awaiting their turn. Tensing his thigh muscles, Ehle felt his leg flare and dropped his head back down. It was getting steadily worse now. Against his will his thoughts were turned from his trapped men and selfishly onto his leg where they stayed. Blood and bad breathe stunk out the air, filling the dugout with a nauseating stench.
Tapping the unfolded map with a finger, Mik Meller mulled over the tactical situation, routinely glancing at his tiny chrono dangling from a buttonhole on his collar as if it might provide a solution to Rakka's Zeke problem. With 558 gone, the west flank, 11 Platoon, was under threat, their situation now identical to 10 and 12 Platoon. Meller had never expected that he would admit to being surrounded but to deny the present conditions would be idiocy. Adapt and overcome. Just how do I hold off a force many times my size, surrounded on three sides, and with neither artillery nor air cover? It was one for the lecturers at OCTU to ask the young officer candidates. Meller had wondered what the correct answer to give was when he and his class had been set with the scenario and told to figure out the best possible solution. Best possible solution, which is? Meller himself had stayed silent, preferring others to attempt an answer. Disappointingly, and quite unsettling too, the answer was eventually given by the lecturers as simply 'die for the Emperor, for there can no greater service to the Imperium.'
"Die for the Emperor…" Meller worked a .45-calibre slug between his fingers, wanting to crush the shiny brass into finely ground dust. He had believed it. They all had. There was no greater service, no greater sacrifice. Put frankly, all Meller was expected to do was to die holding ground, that was his job. Then why are we still here? Meller pressed the slug onto the tiny black blot on the map that was Rakka. Dying for the Emperor, to him, inside the trembling dugout, was not in the least bit appealing, not now. Not after Cannon Company had repelled Zeke repeatedly with their own tenacity and the terrain. Balling his fist, Meller slammed it onto the table, startling Azar and Wharton. Cannon wasn't dead yet. They still had their secret weapon, one that had yet to be put into action. "Dig in and hold," Meller spat. "Let them climb over their friends' corpses to get at us."
13:03
11 Platoon had Zeke watching them on 558 to keep them focused all morning. 10 and 12, with no contact to speak of, were similarly wired. 12 in particular were watching the derelict tank for any signs of life. To ease the boredom a box of black-tipped, armour-piercing .338 cartridges was issued to the best marksman in the platoon. Careth Belisha was 12 platoon's best shot and was hence ordered to put rounds through the Zeke tank's vision slits to try and scare out any Zekes if they were hiding inside. Observing from inside his bunker, Simon Corta watched through his glasses as each sharp crack of Belisha's LAR was followed by an impact on the glass. Five rounds were fired in total, all landing precisely where they were aimed.
"I'd recommend him for advanced marksmen training, Sarn't," Corta commented.
"Paperwork's ready sir," Molchan said, already ahead of his officer on the matter.
"Good man."
"I think he could handle a section too."
"Paperwork's ready, sir."
Corta smiled, thankful that he had a good sergeant he could rely on. Meanwhile, Belisha was being congratulated on his marksmanship, something he repeatedly tried to deflect with a new-found modesty that was quite different to his usual confident bravado. Maybe it was to do with the fact that Aimo, his section leader, was there monitoring him and making sure Belisha did not get too big for his boots. "Nah, anyone could've done that," Belisha grinned.
"With optics certainly. You're firing with the old iron sights and you can hit targets downrange we can't even see," Aimo said. "You can shoot, Elisha. At least there's one thing going for you."
Cyrano added, "I would still rather have him on this side of the wire than the other."
"Does CQMS want these back?" Belisha picked up the half-open box of AP cartridges.
"Keep 'em. If they go through tank periscopes like that then they'll wreck engines easily. Worried about those guntrucks making a dash through our lines…"
Keeping the special ammunition, Belisha sat down and began to field-strip his .338. "Higher powder load in 'em. Fouls the barrel easier."
"Aah, never been fond of the old autoguns." Cyrano's knee jiggled up and down as he perched on a crate. "Our cavalry carbines were treats. Never had a misfire or jam. As long as there was sunlight then ammunition was never a concern. Of course our biggest problem was keeping the horses fed. If food was scarce for us on Nemtess then what could they eat?" Realising he was going off on a tangent, Cyrano stopped.
"Aren't them horses dangerous?" Belisha asked, dipping his rifle's cleaning rod inside the barrel. "A mate o' mine got kicked in the 'ead by some four-legged thing. Can't remember what it was called. Might've been a horse."
"Was he alright?" Cyrano looked up concernedly.
"No, he went loopy after that. Stopped speaking and started acting like a baby."
"…I meant the animal."
"They put it down. Dangerous to society it was – that's what they said."
"How do you know they put it down?"
"Because I did it. Boltgun straight to the brain, never felt a thing."
Aimo, still listening, laughed in derision. "A bolter, are you joking?"
"Wha–? Nah, not them seventy-five cal beasts, this one was pneumatic, powered by compressed air. Basically this retractable bolt would shoot forwards with enough force to punch a hole in something. It was perfect for livestock and whatnot. Far too quick a process to cause any pain."
Looking disheartened, Cyrano shuffled his feet closer together.
"Focus on your rifle, Elisha," Aimo glared. He sympathised fully with Cyrano on the matter of service animals, having been present when the Atreides Cavalry had rendered their four-legged companions unusable to the enemy. He could only imagine the pain Cyrano and the other horsemen had felt over losing their mounts. "Remember the litany of maintenance, Corporal."
"If I'm reciting that then…" Belisha trailed off. Casual conversations died away as grunts' outstretched ears eschewed listening to their fellow platoon members owing to the noticeable increase in noise levels to the north.
Vehicles were approaching. Their engines growing louder, topping the bone-jarring thuds of Zeke's artillery even. Quietly, 12 Platoon stood-to, crowding firesteps and sharing out ammunition with one another for the upcoming brass swap. Twisting the rotating drum forwards on his Rekyl gun, Aimo set his sights to 300 yards. "For what we are about to receive," he muttered. A tap on his shoulder and Molchan was there.
"Keep 'em on a tight leash. No wasting rounds."
"Roger," Aimo replied mechanically.
"They're doing well, Garst. Let's keep the performance up."
Sharp, frenzied bursts of automatic gunfire added to the noise of battle. Only it did not come from the north where the hidden Zekes were preparing to attack, rather the south. Dismayed and not a little concerned, Aimo turned and looked over his shoulder, finding every other man in the trench had done the same.
"Keep watch on your sector," Molchan, the only man whose attention was not taken by the fighting to the south, barked. "Look to your front."
The worry that Zeke was slowly surrounding the base on every side was felt keenly by the men of 12 Platoon, several men making the sign of the aquila and whispering prayers. Aimo, appearing as unconcerned as Molchan, shot him a glance. Cannon Company was in serious trouble. That was plainly obvious to anyone with even the most fragile grasp in tactics. The platoon sergeant met Aimo's eyes briefly then strode off to enforce discipline in the other sections. He knows, Aimo thought. And if Molchan knew then Corta did too. Rakka would be overrun unless a miracle happened.
Captain Meller, the moment he heard the reports to the south, ordered Wharton to contact battalion headquarters. "…I say again, automatic weapons fire south of my callsign's location. Over," Meller said, making sure to repeat himself so Jark got the picture.
"Zero Alpha. Negative, Three Alpha, there are no enemy units south of your callsign's location. Over."
"Three. I can hear an engagement taking place south of my callsign's location. Are there any friendly callsigns near to my callsign? Over."
"Zero Alpha. Negative, Three Alpha. No friendly callsigns in vicinity of your callsign. Over."
A biting, profanity-laden reply was on Meller's lips when more firing began, this time to the west. Hill 558, Meller realised. This was Zeke's final assault. "Three. My callsign is at present under threat from a combined infantry and armoured force many times our number. We are cut off. Do you understand the situation on the ground here? Unless you have any support other than moral to give me then I am signing off. Do not expect further transmissions. Over." Furiously holding his tongue, Meller waited, inwardly imploring headquarters to send relief in any form. Outside, the combined crackling of rifles and stuttering bursts of automatics – 11 Platoon – was seeping into the CP. Was it his own imagination, or was the floor of the CP shaking, shaking over the trample of thousands of boots?
"Zero Alpha. Observe your orders. The Emperor protects. Out." A metallic click and the line went dead.
"Colonel!" Meller snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. It was wasted breath as headquarters had closed the line.
"Nothing, sir." Wharton played with the vox set. "Jark's off the air."
Headquarters was abandoning them, Meller realised, feeling a nasty stab of anguish in his lower abdomen. Wiping the spit-covered receiver he handed it back to Wharton and scooped up his Kantrael from the table. "On me, Wharton. You too, Azar."
"Is your battalion sending relief?" the reporter, Herle, who had unofficially attached himself to the company asked.
"No," Meller said frankly. "Were you even authorised to come and report here?"
"Well, it's a bit late to leave now, sir. I figured I'd stick it out with this lot."
"I suppose I can't stop you. Write what you see. Just tell me you've had some training."
"I qualified on an M-36, sir." Herle wiggled the stub revolver holstered at his hip. "Not sure how much use this plinker will be though.
"You're safety's not guaranteed here, you know."
"I wouldn't worry about me, sir. I'll let Zeke know I'm a hotshot civilian journalist. Just hope he doesn't know there are no civvies on Cadia."
"Fine, fine. You can stay here or stick with me. Do not obstruct anyone or Emperor help you. Ready, Azar?"
Standing ready with his Lecta, Azar nodded eagerly.
"Sir?" Wharton twisted in his seat, his hands over his headset. "Me too?"
"Nothing more from the battalion now, so fetch your weapon and cover. Bring the vox carrier too."
Jumping to his feet, Wharton scrambled to find his Kantrael. "Yessir."
On the way out of the CP, Meller, Wharton, Herle, and Azar bumped into Ral Bleak who came clattering down the steps, his service weapon slung over his shoulder and Unit One medical bag in his arms. "Sir, Captain."
"How are our casualties?"
Pausing to take a breath, Ral said, "the aid station's overflowing. I would like permission to move our casualties into the CP. There's more room there, sir."
Meller agreed to Ral's request immediately then took off with his party to 11 Platoon's sector. Skirting around grunts hugging the sandbag walls, Meller searched for Morgan Ehle or his platoon sergeant. The unholy racket of the platoon's three .50 Cals, all of which were covering the slope of 558 that faced Rakka, made all communication outside of screaming into ears impossible. After continuously trying to make his intentions known, Meller was pointed further down the trench where he came face to face with Ehle's sergeant. "Mister Ehle around, Sarn't?" Meller asked once inside a dugout where the cacophony was dulled. Meller's ears ached from the pain of hearing the stubbers and his voice sounded quieter than normal.
"Mister Ehle took shrapnel, sir." 11 Platoon's sergeant had also suffered minor hearing loss. "He was taken to the aid station about ten minutes ago. Everything's in hand. Our main issue right now, sir, are those Zekes proceeding down Hill 558 in our direction."
"Show me." Meller peered through the dugout's viewing slit and glassed the grassy slopes.
"Five hundred yards to the top of that hill, sir." The sergeant motioned with his hand. "I estimate Zeke is in the range of seven-hundred to eight-fifty riflemen. They'll be here in about ten-fifteen minutes."
"Seen." Meller's throat dried out at the sight of hundreds of Zekes moving off the crest of 558 and down the eastern slope. At 500 yards it looked like a dark grey cloud was rolling over the hilltop. Through the glasses however the view was much clearer. The ill-disciplined swarm of cultists, and their giddying numbers gave far greater weight to the situation now that they had the high ground and would be supported by other elements attacking on different flanks.
"Wharton," Meller called the signaller forwards. "Get me Ten Platoon."
Working the bulky set from his shoulders, Wharton fiddled with the set whilst casting worried glances out of the bunker's slit.
"Take the extra second to do it right, Wharton," Meller said gently. "I need Staff Sergeant Perandis."
Once he had established comms with 10 Platoon Wharton passed the plastic bag holding the handset to Meller.
"Three Alpha. Three-One Alpha, do you have contact? Over."
Perandis replied, "Three-One Alpha. Negative at this time. No visual contact, only sound. Those tanks that overran the OP are now north of my callsign. Over."
"Three Alpha. Roger. Be vigilant. Out."
Hearing the fizz and crack of incoming fire, Meller ordered Wharton to contact 12 Platoon. Corta was the sole platoon officer still able-bodied, Meller thought. He was not too worried about the absence of Morgan Ehle. His sergeant knew what he was doing and could command a platoon as effectively as any officer, possibly even better.
"Mister Corta, sir." Wharton gave the handset back to Meller.
"Three Alpha. Three-Three Alpha, do you have contact? Over."
Simon Corta's reply came inbetween fuzzy cracklings that distorted his speech. "Three-Three Alpha. Enemy contact one five zero yards north-east of my callsign. Enemy strength, your callsign. Over."
My callsign? Corta was coming under attack from a body of at least 150 men, a mere fraction of Zeke's force. Just how many men could he afford to waste?
A runner entered the bunker then and approached Meller. "Sir, Mister Corta sent me to inform you that Twelve Platoon has contact."
"Understood, Private. Off you go." Meller gave a quick-fire explanation of the withdrawal plan to 11 Platoon's sergeant and was relieved when the NCO took it all in his stride.
"And only pull out when you're on the verge of being overrun. Not before," Meller advised before departing. "Remember the detonators!"
Painfully conscious of the gross imbalance of manpower, Meller got hold of Azar. "I need all the cooks, every single one of them, mechanics too, and even CQMS to fall out and draw rifles. Every trigger-finger must be on the firing line, iggery. Understood, Azar?"
"Got it." Azar doubled off as quick as he could over the slippery mud.
10 Platoon was fully alert and standing by for Zeke's attack. Perandis met Meller coming the other way down the trench. "I want you to send a section to reinforce both Eleven and Twelve."
"Are you sure, sir?" Perandis looked uneasy at the thought of weakening the north flank. "We'll only have a dozen men left to hold this sector."
"Zeke's gonna be pressing hard from the west and east. They want to envelop us. Pick your sections and get 'em posted where they need to go."
Perandis called to the nearby Draino. "Dranno, take your section over to reinforce Eleven Platoon."
Hearing his platoon sergeant's order, Dranno acknowledged with a small nod. "One Section, retire from the firing line. On me."
"Katecka, take Three Section and report to Mister Corta."
As well as organising the reinforcements for the other platoons, Meller had to be certain that Perandis fully understood the plan. "Detonators?"
"All wired, sir."
"You fire them only when—"
"Only when we're about to be overrun, sir, got it." Perandis grinned. "Then we fall back."
"You know where?"
"CP."
"Outstanding." Meller trusted Perandis to brief 10 Platoon on the plan without needing to be reminded by him.
Hastily following the section sent to 12 Platoon, Meller heard 11's riflemen open up on Zeke, their fire adding to the fusillades from the crew-served weapons. Have I done the right thing here? Meller agonised over his decision to weaken his centre in favour of bolstering the flanks. There was no right option to take; at least that was how he saw it. The situation was quite impossible.
12 Platoon was exchanging fire with multiple Zeke guns which were firing from directly east and north-east. The camouflaged weapons were making it difficult to locate and suppress. Observing with Corta, Meller seethed at Zeke's sudden grasp of infantry tactics. The automatic weapons were firing out of synch with one another so that whenever one stopped to reload, others would keep the air filled with lead, covering the mercenaries as they advanced by platoon.
"How long can you hold?"
"It won't matter if Zeke's rolling over our flanks, will it?" Corta, his eyes pressed firmly to his glasses, replied.
"Bastards have finally pulled their collective heads out of their arses," Meller observed. Zeke's assault was driving forwards from the east, avoiding the shell-scarred, corpse-filled waste to the north. The four Mark VIIs were staying out of the fight, choosing to give cover from the trees over leading the glorious armoured spearhead the tank platoon commander may have envisaged. The tank cannons were little more than nuisances though, being the wrong type to deal with dug in infantry.
"We have contact to the south as well," Meller said quietly. "We may have to improvise if this all goes tits-up."
"Are you staying or going, Captain?" Corta picked up an M-36, aimed it out of the narrow slit, and fired. It was impossible to tell whether or not he had hit anything as the leap-frogging platoons came on undeterred.
"We'll be moving around platoons." Meller felt the hammer-like thuds of the .50 Cal team on the roof above his head. "Are the detonators ready?"
"Yeah. We're waiting for your go."
"I'll leave it down to you, Simon. Just be aware if Perandis pulls out, you do too."
"Back to the CP, sir?"
"Iggery, alright?"
Corta, distracted by Zeke, returned fire alongside his platoon. Their output was matched and returned in even greater magnitude by the enemy weapons teams.
"One more thing." Meller grasped Corta by the shoulder. "Keep the bunkers clear of men. I don't want any inside if they cave in."
"Yes, sir." Corta shouted without lowering his rate of fire.
"Good luck to you."
Wharton, gesticulating urgently, thrust the handset at Meller once he was back outside. "Sir, it's the section on the gate."
Tilting his cover sideways, Meller tucked the handset into his ear, ramming a finger into the other as the mortars started to stonk the base again. "Three Alpha." His concern that the lightly-defended south flank was about to cave in was confirmed when the section commander began wailing that Zeke was rolling up in heavy numbers from the south. "If Zeke breaks in, we've all had it. Can you hold?"
"They won't get past us, sir. We'll give 'em a good fight."
Fight they'll have to, Meller understood. He also understood that a great many mens' lives would be lost during the battle for Rakka. Will history remember this little scrape? Or will we all be as forgotten as those many hundreds of Zekes lying out there already?
13:11
With the clever one gone, all that was left of the mercenaries were bull-headed thugs without a single brain cell amongst them. How else could Izuru Numerial have folded herself into their company without anyone recognising her? The thick, fur-lined jacket she was wearing over her oversuit bulked up her body considerably, though to even the simplest mind it was plain as to her sex. The cap she wore had its earflaps down, and a pair of dust goggles obscured her upper face. Completing the human disguise, a black neckwarmer was pulled up over her chin. Izuru's only real issue was that there were few human women over six foot and none of the female cultists were even close to her height so she stooped wherever possible and adopted a slouch quite different to her usual gait. A hollow chuckle arose from her throat as the temptation to laugh out loud at the human's idiocy got the better of her.
The envelopment of the human firebase was underway. Staccato bursts carried over from the large hill the cultists had overrun. Slower, sharper reports of the more-disciplined mercenary platoons came from the east. Loud crashes of mortars took the centre: the firebase. Its location was marked by a pillar of black and grey smoke which was seeping out across the land wherever the wind took it. Even hundreds of yards away to the south the smell of the fighting was strong, a bitter, ashen taste that stuck to skin like a thin, itchy powder. Above, the sun in the sky was being obscured by the excess of battle, dimming the light.
The silence amongst the mercenaries allowed Izuru to perform her pre-battle meditation. To onlookers it appeared that she had closed her eyes for a brief moment only. But inside her mind she had called for the god of battle, Khaela Mensha Khaine, to bless her for the upcoming slaughter. Instil within me your rage, O Bloody-handed One. Grant me a heady desire for death. And trouble me not with the loss of pathetic human life. Prodding back at Izuru though was sentimentality and the admiration for the pluck the humans were so full of. The fondness for the father and the son, whom she had taken shrapnel for, tugged at her conscience, as did the muted pain in her side and belly where the metal was embedded. On some days it hurt terribly. Others it was an irritation. It was always there though. Too fond of the humans was what she was guilty of, enflaming the aloof, arrogant Eldar within her, arousing a petulant rage to make her want to hit herself repeatedly for her crime. Further eating away at Izuru were the two young humans she felt the most for, the quiet, troubled Larn, and the other, Aimo, a father too; so desperate to return to the wife and child he was. Could she look upon their faces through her lasgun's sights as she would have done normally?
Strong, sweetly-scented smoke drifted over her. The final few cigars and narcotic Iho sticks were sampled before being stubbed out. Rangers tapped magazines and straightened links, knowing a kink or jammed round might kill them. Cultists passed around tiny injectors, infusing their blood with powerful painkillers and other drugs meant to psych them up for battle, bringing out relieved grins in some. Others, aroused, gasped with glee. A burst of an engine and a guntruck wove through the gathered assault force. The looming form of Marcos Hassid stood with one foot up on the side panel, holding onto the chunky spade grips of the heavy Krupnok stubber that was bolted to the flatbed.
"Get ready." He cried, sticking his whistle into his mouth.
Poised amidst the huddle of crouching humans, Izuru watched the guntruck bump and bounce up to the vanguard of the company. It would have been simple to snipe the big man at the same time Izuru had shot Talvera, though Talvera had always been her focus, being of a slightly higher intellect than his subordinates. Only the big human posed any further threat to her. And with any luck, the Imperials would do the job for her.
"Stand up!" An unnamed Ranger officer signalled. As one, the mercenaries rose, the cultists following their lead with customary slowness. Joining Hassid's guntruck in the van were three vehicles, one carrying a lascannon and the rest stubbers.
"Advance behind the vehicles."
The attack began at a quick trot. Some Rangers were bent low, making their profiles as small as possible, others stood up straight, unconcerned. Displaying a similar disdain for death were many cultists, who, like they had done before, broke ranks and meandered about, keeping their grip on their weapons loose. Keeping her spacing, Izuru noticed the sloping khaki berets of the handful of Gellen Highlanders bobbing up and down and was surprised they still lived. It would not be for long though. Izuru had no illusions that the assault would be easy. Prayers muttered by nearby humans piqued her curiosity. As they had renounced the God-Emperor of Mankind then who was it that they prayed to? The piercing blast of the whistle drove off her thoughts of human deities. Thunder arose around her from the tramp of boots and warcries rising in the humans' throats. The growl of the guntruck's engines grew in pitch. Muzzle flash lit up the smoke as cultists fired weapons into the air. The surge of bodies infected Izuru, and she was running too, upwards and over the crest of a shallow hill then down the short slope towards the besieged firebase.
Dislodged by the pounding the base was taking, dirt fell from the roof of the Pen, spreading around inside, forming a fine mist. Peter and Woulter set their shoulders into the heavy door, drawing back and slamming into it fruitlessly time and time again. "Come on, lad, we need your help here!" Woulter shouted to the cowering soldier. Trying to dig himself deeper into the earth, the soldier covered his ears as the banging outside drew closer. It was almost directly above their heads.
"Help us, James!" Peter reached down and shook him by the shoulder. "Your mates want you with them. Don't abandon them."
Shaking his head stubbornly, the soldier dragged himself away.
"Well roll over and die like an animal then!" Peter kicked at the door angrily. "We have to fight this."
As admirable as Peter's newfound courage was, Woulter was aware that only a certain kind of manner would work with a soldier frozen by fear. "That is the worst display of cowardice I have ever seen in my entire life, soldier. You can't even be a coward effectively. Your fellow soldiers will die, and it will be entirely your fault because you gave up on them. By cowering in here you have forsaken your vows as a hard-wired, life-taking grunt. All those promises you made have been for nothing. NOTHING!" For emphasis, Woulter shook the soldier vigorously. "Snap out of it, that's an order, soldier." Woulter's officer act had paid dividends when James, plaintively crying, tried to lash out at Woulter. "Hit me like you mean it," Woulter barked.
Gasping through tears, James balled both fists and struck Woulter's arms and chest.
"This door's gotta go. Stand up and help us." Woulter pulled James to his feet. "Put your back into it."
Incomprehensible grunts and moans came out as James attacked the bolted door alongside Peter and Woulter. Praying for help to come, Woulter heard the multiple firefights raging from all corners of the base.
"HELP, THEY'RE COMING FROM THE SOUTH." Someone screamed over Wharton's vox as Meller's party left 12 Platoon's sector. Meller jumped in fright as a colossal explosion of black earth tore up the area in front of the lightly-manned patch of line 10 Platoon were manning, throwing a massive shower of dirt over the dead zone.
"Shit, they're breaking through." Wharton cried, fumbling for his weapon.
"Calm down," Meller snapped. He was listening for the other platoons, hoping they had heard and were just about to pull out. "There," he said as 11 Platoon's buried mortars were detonated in the cultist's faces. "Into the CP, gentlemen, on the double."
Simon Corta, seeing the cataclysmic detonation, ordered his reinforced platoon to hold on until the mercenaries were within spitting distance. "Sir?" Sergeant Molchan, his expression steady, gripped the detonator crank. Beneath it wires trailed away to the buried mortar shells.
"Hold." Corta felt his M-36 sputter and die. The mercenaries' bayonets were glinting in the pale sunlight. Their eyes and teeth were visible. On the roof above, the .50 Cal played its last piece, the gunners crying for a freshly-spaced barrel.
"They're within range, sir."
"Hold."
"Sir, we need ammo." Grunts' trembling hands fixed bayonets in place and drew back to stab upwards as Zeke made the final push.
"Sir?" Molchan's teeth were set.
"NOW!"
Twisting the crank, Molchan pressed a hand over one ear and hunched over. Corta did the same and held his breath. What was possibly the biggest explosion he had ever heard ripped through his ears. Evil, choking smoke billowed through the dugout, blanketing everything. The roar, indescribably loud, muted everything. Frozen in the hunched-over posture, Corta felt Molchan pull at him. Molchan's mouth moved but nothing came out. Peering outside at the view of destruction, Corta saw, through heavily-blurred vision, Zeke's flanking force had had a huge chunk of its manpower torn to shreds by the improvised fougasses. Not all had been wasted though. A large portion – probably the second and third wave – had been outside the killzone. They were dazed, but it would not last.
"Fall back. Go!" Corta mimed in Molchan's face, imploring him to get the order out to the platoon. Fleeing the dugout, Corta coughed in the dirty air, his senses muddled. "You men, withdraw to the CP, on the double." His voice was one of a drunks'. "Retreat!"
The section guarding the gate was pinned down immediately by the unending tide of Zekes rushing up from the south. Chattering from inside the concrete defence, the single Rekyl was outstripped by the combined stubber and rifle fire. As pointless as it was to shoot, the effect of firing a rifle at a giant mob of ants, the dozen men kept on, determined to hold onto their precarious position.
"Rekyl team, displace," the corporal in command opened his mouth in shock when he recognised a lascannon and its bulging capacitor mounted to the back of one of the trucks. "Get outta there!"
The Rekyl's distinct flared muzzle slid backwards from the firing slit just as a thin beam of light pulsed from the lascannon's barrel, striking the concrete and making it boil over, gouging a wide hole. The red-hot edges of the concrete peeled back and dripped, melting before the eyes. Having withdrawn in the nick of time, the Rekyl team crossed the road and bundled their weapon onto the sandbag barricade, resuming firing without pause. With the lascannon recharging, the truck withdrew. Another, mounting a Krupnok, cut across the charging Zekes, the massive form of the gunner aiming at the barricade. The Krupnok fired, producing a terrific muzzle flash, the heavy .50 calibre slugs blowing out entire chunks of the concrete which constituted nothing more than flimsy paper when beset with the weapon's deadly power.
"Sorry, Corp, we're out of ammo," the gunners said when the Rekyl went quiet.
"Not to worry. Fall back to the CP, the lot of you. Iggery!"
Doubling up to the CP, the sounds of Zeke crashing through the gate in their ears, they met Captain Meller who waved them down the CP steps urgently. "Is that the last one of your section, Corporal?"
"Yes, sir."
"No-one else from my platoon, Captain," Corta said, ducking as a mortar barrage struck again. "Everyone from Eleven is too."
Zeke was almost upon them. The first line of fougasses had blunted the vanguard, but had left the follow-up waves intact. It was they whom Meller could hear tearing up the base, throwing grenades into bunkers and finishing off all of the wounded men who were lost during the retreat. The nearby crump of a satchel charge going off inside a bunker prompted Meller to order Corta down into the CP with him following a moment later.
Squeezed with more men than it could reasonably hold, the CP was filled with hot breath and the musk of bodies zipped up in flak jackets which instantly made Meller sweat. Ordering the door to be sealed and barricaded, Meller stepped calmly over the bodies of the men too badly wounded to walk and picked up the detonator from where it sat on the table.
"Give Zeke a moment to make his way up here, sir," Staff Sergeant Perandis said. Like with his men, Perandis had taken numerous superficial wounds to the face and arms. Blood shone through the grime coating his skin.
"Standby." Meller inserted the crank into the detonator. A few men put their fingers in their ears, anticipating the loud noise above ground. Ral Bleak, frozen beside the stretcher-bound, held up bags of plasma and glanced at the ceiling, saying something inaudible. The grunt's breathing became ragged. Someone stifled a sob. Listening to the clatters and movement of Zeke above them, Meller gripped the crank and twisted. The explosions above ground shook the CP mercilessly, causing the light bulbs to flicker. Imagining the devastation inflicted upon the mobs of Zeke swarming over the bunker, Meller stuck out his hand and was presented with the last detonator. Meller tried searching for words, one last compliment to his mens' fortitude. Banging on the CP door as rifle butts set about it broke off his chain of thought. With the second line of explosives ineffective at driving away Zeke, it was down to the last ring of mortar shells buried amongst the sandbag walls outside the CP. Crouching down low with the detonator, Corta and Perandis doing the same, Meller looked around the faces of his men, all making themselves as small as possible, tucking their chins into their flak jackets and pressing their covers down tightly. From within the packed bodies a little voice could be heard singing a children's rhyme. Bless their souls, Meller prayed, and turned the crank. Holding his breath in, Meller felt the world collapse inwards with a roar as all the lights went out.
The shockwave of the second line of mortars and Comp-C rolled over the Pen, rattling the door. "What was that?" Peter clutched at his heart fearfully.
"That wasn't a mortar," Peter's father said.
"Mortar shells stuffed with RDX and rigged to blow," I replied breathlessly. "Thought if we got overrun it'd catch Zeke off-guard."
"How much RDX?"
"All of it," I said without missing a beat. "Hope it's knocked seven shades outta them. They 'aven't blown the last line yet, so we might not need to."
"Last line?"
"Three waves," I explained. "Last one's rigged right outside the CP – c'mon, push." I redoubled my efforts against the door, drawing back my boot and kicking it together with Peter and his father. The out-of-character tirade from the normally-quiet father had galvanised me. "When that goes off it's gonna sound like an earthquake. Anyone outside's gonna be Zeke paste."
"What about in here?" Peter shrunk away from the door as if it might be shot back in his face.
"I dunno but I don't wanna be here when it goes, so bloody push."
"Wait, what's that?" Peter's father froze; a mask of horror on his face. "Peter."
"Dad."
Against the door I felt the rumbling of the shockwave. Throwing myself back, the door was battered by the horrific blast, shaking it on its hinges. Cracking and buckling, the ceiling supports above our heads collapsed, showering us with dust and earth. My scream was muffled as the roof caved in, reducing it to a pathetic whine of a trapped animal about suffocate. A hand pushed through the earth, attaching to my arm and pulling. Struck by an insane urge to fight, I floundered as if drowning in water, inhaling earth that was pressing against my face and chest. Through the muck surrounding me I heard one of the Tabors moaning, trying to fight like I was. The moans in my ears grew shorter and quieter as strength ebbed, mind accepted the inevitability, and the air ran out, starving the body of life.