Once upon a time, there was a little choo-choo train on a lonely world named simply FMP-3G5-194. This world was one of the last to fall to the Nietzschean hordes, and one of the planets designated as a fleet post-combat muster point. If the Niets could only capture this world, they could prey upon dozens of crippled ships, heavy with wounded, limping home from any of the hundreds of engagements fought across nine sectors of the galactic-east front.

This little choo-choo had a very important mission. This little train was hauling seventy tons of food, medical supplies, and ammunition, as well as rounds for an "Burpy Baby" 50cm mortar to a besieged High Guard outpost. Nobody thought the little train could, but the last Lancer regiment had already made contact in the Valley of Death and the jungle was dense with surface-air/space missile drones.

So, with four antiquated flat-bed rail cars in tow, the little train that could set out, though it knew full well that the 100 miles to Perimeter-12 were infested with Nietzschean skirmishers and the base could only provide fire support for the first thirty miles. Withal, each man stepped up, and together said, "We shall."

With Fire Base 2 available, the crew simply locked themselves into the cabin of the little train that could, and then the sergeant got on the radio and he said, "Antipersonnel canister in sector a-3," or whatever area he saw the ubers, "please," and down would rain a kilo of fiery and swift death in ten-gram fletchettes. Pretty soon, the little train was covered with little pieces of uber, some of them still screaming.

The only problem was that all those little bloody bits were covering the cameras and the windows!

"Private," said the sergeant sadly, "we're blind. I wish I didn't have to do this."

The private saluted and bravely stepped out. He'd not taken two steps up the ladder when a bloody uber grabbed him. "Contact, sir!"

The sergeant led his men out with forcelances blazing and effectors flying, but they couldn't do it. The Niets were coming in fast and furious, and soon the sergeant could only cry, "Private! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" and get on his radio again.

But soon even the radio was useless. They'd passed from range. Now the little train let blaze with its own canister and lasers, and one brave fellow ran out and managed to plant four forcelances in anti-artillery mode before he too fell, but it wasn't enough. Slowly but surely the Nietzscheans were winning. Some lucky uber had shot through the seals of the last linkage and released it. Forty rounds, and twenty tons of of supplies were lost. Another silenced one of the forcelances.

The Lancers moved between the three remaining cars, fighting an endless holding action. One fell, then another, but for each the Niets paid dearly, and so soon the dust was wetted down with the fluids of Nietzschean raiders and churned to mire by the treads of Nietzschean vehicles, and finally covered by the bodies of Nietzschean dead, for such was how the Lancer sold his life, for a price paid in blood and naught else. As even amidst this horror, each believed in his heart and in his Corps, and each knew, "We can."

And after three desperate hours, with sudden, breathtaking beauty, the proud, tattered banner of Perimeter-12 sprang into view. Only one more hill!

"We have!" erupted from seven throats as over the crest of the hill the little train charged—

and into view of the blasted remnants of Perimeter-12, crumpled buildings and shattered bodies littering the base of the single mast upon which still flapped the proud, tattered banner of the 14th Lancer.

This Little Train drew two full regiments of Nietzschean raiders on its journey to P-12, and slaughtered one there behind ramparts of their fallen, allowing Central to launch the Burnt Earth campaign that ultimately freed FMP-3G5-194. Each of the little train's company is estimated to have taken the lives of twenty Nietzscheans, with Sergeant Morris, who took with him into the Nietzschean dropship a round of 18in mortar-fired canister, credited with 122. All seventeen were awarded the Star of Vedra with four halos, and buried with full honors and over eighteen thousand in attendance.

If we do not live another day,
say this over our byre:
They died like High Guard Lancers
with their faces to the fire.