The slew of profanity streaming from the officer's mouth would have made an Astartes blush, though mostly its seemed to centre around "those fraking heretical bastards." Alek made his way towards the sounds, stepping over the twitching corpses of those "heretical bastards" in question. He put a las-bolt through each of their skulls just to be sure they stayed dead. Never could be too careful when it comes to the ruinous powers. In a display of bravery worthy of a place by the throne, the captain had taken advantage of Alek's intervention to… crawl away.
The wounded man had made its all of 5 feet throughout the course of the fight and was still going, unaware of his apparent salvation. It seems the idea that Alek would win had never crossed the man's shock-riddled brain; instead, he had pushed all his effort into a final attempt at flight. Alek stopped, nestling his lasgun into the crook of his elbow as he watched his superior's futile attempts at escape. It was a little amusing, given that the fellow had been ready to abandon him to fate. The trooper cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had overcome their little patch of forest. The captain ceased his futile attempts at escape to look back over his shoulder. His expression turned from one of gibbering terror to one of shocked surprise, which lasted only a second before flashing to an authoritative scowl. Alek paced towards him, taking care to place his feet carefully. If he just rushed to the officers' aid, then there was a good chance the older man would take it to mean Alek cared. Instead, he let him sweat a little, his slow pace letting on his knowledge of the captains' intentions up until moments ago, using Alek to save his own hide. The captain managed to flip himself over onto his back as the trooper approached. His scowl softened a little as he realized his saviour was no easy mark swayed by an angry look and a fancy uniform. Alek got a proper look at his features for the first time, his vision no longer hindered by distance and darkness. The first hints of light had begun to stream through the trees from the planet's unseen sun. He was definitely Aleks senior by at least two decades; his tawny hair bore the first signs of grey creeping through the swept-back locks. His eyes were cold and judging, the colour of weak ale. His features were regal, in a sort of 'I'm an insufferable bastard who has never worked for anything in my life" sort of way. He had the look of someone who got a commission based on his breeding, not talent. The two men stared at each other for a moment before the captain broke the silence.
"Well, aren't you going to help me up, Trooper?" he spat the final word as if it left a poor taste in his mouth. Alek's disdain for the man grew. For a second, he considered leaving the officer for whatever marauding heretics that chanced upon him. No one would know; the officer would take Aleks insubordination to his grave after all. He pushed the thought down into the darker vestibules of his mind and extended an arm towards the prostrate commander. The captain took it, almost heaving Alek over as he pulled himself up. The scrawny trooper managed to keep his balance, only barely, and threw the other man's arm around his shoulder, propping him up the best he could. The captain, thoroughly unhappy about the situation, grumbled about the manhandling but said nothing.
"Now," the captain paused to spit out a glob of phlegm and blood, "get me to our lines. I don't plan of dying on a Throne-forgotten backwater like this."
Alek rolled his eyes, cursing whatever shred of kindness he had that told him to save the man's life. He suppressed the urge to point out that the officer would have been a slowly drying mess of gore by now if not for him. A forgotten death among hundreds, but he decided better of it. The pair limped off towards the south, where the imperial line had reorganized after the ill-fated battle of the day before. Alek didn't like the idea of leaving any other wounded men, but he knew he had to get moving soon. If other heretics were attracted by the sounds of his desperate fight, he needed to not be there when they came bursting through the trees looking for the nearest loyalist to disembowel.
It was slow going dragging the captain, whose name turned out to be Beckendorff. He seemed in no hurry to start a conversation, and Alek was more than happy with that. Officers were funny like that, ready to order their men to die, but if they needed to treat their troops like people, they fell flat. Willing to let him drag him to safety, but never even thinking to ask the lad's name. The sun kept rising as they walked, bathing the greens and browns of the forest in a sickly orange light. Alek's uniform was thoroughly drenched with sweat when they reached the forest's southern edge, having had to basically drag Beckendorff the last kilo. The older man had collapsed, the blood loss forcing him in and out of consciousness. He was met by the sight of a zigzag of imperial trenchworks, stretching off into the distance to the east and west of the woods. Disturbed earth and piled sandbags lay everywhere, the imperial position slashing through the open field like a gaping wound, fresh and unbound. The open space between the trees and the new fortifications was littered with corpses, both friend and foe. It was a quagmire of blood and detriment with each man, or once-man, laying where they had fallen. Alek managed to sling Beckendorff over his shoulders with a final burst of energy, almost poking the unconscious man's eye out with the barrel of his shoulders lasgun on the first attempt. Stepping carefully, he wove a path through the killing field towards the trench in front of him, praying silently that the area wasn't mined. The men in the trenched were shouting, alerted by the trooper's sudden appearance. Hands poked out from behind parapets, waving him to come towards them. Alek couldn't make out their words, but the message was implied: Get out of the open, you mad bastard! He was happy to oblige and forced his aching legs forward, his last gasp of energy keeping him from collapsing under the weight of his superior.
Next time I'm saving some scrawny Lieutenant, at least they'd be easier to lift, unlike this rear-echelon flesh-lump. Alek thought, cursing the captain's gut for hopefully the final time that day. With one last grunt, the trooper thumped down into the first trench, sliding down the earthen side and coming to a stop on the firing step below. He was met by a collection of dirty faces, their wide eyes boring into him. They wore loose khaki uniforms under light-green flak armour, a little more protection than the bare-bones vest he wore, but not by much. Instead of the drab soft covers his regiment wore, they had actual helmets, each emblazoned with an Aquila. The Cadian's eyed the wiry medic with suspicion but said nothing. Alek slumped down, dropping Beckendorff in a heap before collapsing onto the firing step, panting and mumbling profanities.
"Doctor," he muttered, the words coming out hoarse, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own, "the captain needs a doctor." At the mention of Beckendorff rank, the gawking troopers jumped into action, sending one of their number off to find whatever butcher passed for front line medical personal here. A thick-set corporal with a mustache like the end of a broom handed Alek a canteen, which he gulped down thirstily, the lukewarm water as sweet as the finest amasec against his parched throat. His thirst quenched; Alek passed the container back to its owner. The NCO seemed poised to speak before a commotion from the rear of the congregation distracted him. The assembled soldiers parted, making way for whoever was barking commands, chastising the men for laziness in an oddly pitched and heavily accented voice. He hoped it was the doctor if Beckendorff dies after all that effort… Well, it was out of his hands now; after all, he was just a field medic. Mostly he just helped with flesh wounds or comforted the dying. Finally, a gaggle of people surged forth out of the crowd. Two seemed to be the aids of the other two; they appeared to be normal sycophantic hangers-on that every regiment seemed to have. The tallest of the group was a dashing young man with the air of importance, his expression one of relaxed confidence. His epaulets marked him as a colonel, but his body language was that of a man on the fast track to higher things. He held himself well, like an aristocrat, but was managing to hide his disdain for being so close to the front well. Alek only just picked up on it, you could see it in his eyes, the way he never really looked at anything specific. Instead, he kept his gaze moving, never settling on any one thing for too long. The final figure was a commissar, and although she stood a full head shorter than the other officers, she radiated an energy of grim authority. Her expression was stern, with bright blue eyes glowering under the peaked cap of her office. Unlike the rank and file around them, all of them seemed impeccably clean, unmarred by the muck and grime of the battlefield. The commissar looked at the slumped figure of Beckendorff before locking her gaze on Alek, her eyes giving him the same feeling of discomfort as the heretics he'd fought the night before. He felt as if his heart had fallen down into his intestines as she turned and paced deliberately towards him, with one hand resting on the butt of her bolt pistol.
"Ah, Frak." He muttered.