Chapter 3
After removing his Flak Armour and scarfing down a quick meal of porridge, made kindly by Drummer Boy, and reconstituted meatstuffs, Marsh Silas went topside again. Donning his soft-cover, low-peaked NCO cover, he waited in one of the observation pots dug into the trench. He took out his pipe, lit the contents, and began smoking. After taking a few puffs, he sighed and smiled a little.
"How do you fare, old friend?"
I'd like to say sifting through your memories and thoughts tends to be entertaining but you wouldn't believe the monotony. Even a Shock Trooper's life appears droll. But I'm as content as I can be, Silvanus.
Losing Barlocke at Kasr Fortis just moments away from rescue was still an open wound. Often, Marsh Silas's meandering dreams fell upon the scene. The brave Inquisitor standing firm with sword and pistol against the foe. Bullets sparking against his armor, daggers glancing off. Bodies piling up at his feet, hands trying to pull him down, arms trying to wrap around him. In that way he disappeared, with the dark blue wreath of his Power Sword and bright yellow Ripper Pistol muzzle flash proving he was still among their throngs. No trace of him was ever discovered by recovery teams. Day by day, hope dwindled away.
Marsh's belief that his friend still drew breath continued to smolder like hot embers after a blaze. When his fragment made himself known, the seasoned platoon sergeant was overjoyed to not only hear the Inquisitor's voice but feel it as he had so many times before. For many days afterward, Marsh would remove himself to a reserved, quiet place in camp and talk with him. But as time passed, the enormity of this condition began to sink in. Inside him was a fragment of another human being's soul and mind. Their thoughts, feelings, personality, beliefs, and experiences now all existed within him. In some regard, he felt a great responsibility as the carrier and caregiver of this fragment. But he also felt a burden, more so than the task his friend had set him on. More than anything, he felt a great sense of sadness. While the fragment gave him hope, his presence also fostered a growing resignation in the Staff Sergeant that Barlocke truly was gone.
He was fairly certain the fragment was well aware of this but they never spoke about it. Always, they spoke like they had before. It gladdened his heart. Barlocke, teasing and cheeky as ever, often infiltrated at the worst opportunities. In these instances, he made it difficult to focus on what Marsh was actually doing and it took a silent reprimand to make him relent. Occasionally, a quip or a joke was shared and members of Bloody Platoon would look upon their platoon sergeant with confusion when he laughed seemingly at random. Whenever Marsh went to sleep, they often spoke before he closed his eyes. If they were alone or removed, they talked as well. In these ways, the loss and mystery of his old friend were quite alleviated.
"Find anythin' interesting while you been pokin' around in there?" Marsh asked as he lowered his pipe.
A minor noble's son you are, or rather were. Stripped of your right to familial titles when your father was killed, I wonder, does that ever bother you?
Marsh Silas tapped his bottom lip with the pipe's neck, closed one eye as he gazed up at the sky, and hummed a little. Eventually, he nodded his head to the side and shrugged.
"Sometimes?"
What an unattractive answer.
"Whatcha want from me, Barlocke? It's only by the Emperor's blessing I was allowed to keep my name. I ain't ever getting those titles back and why would I want'em? I got my own titles: Staff Sergeant, platoon sergeant, an' Marsh Silas, and that's good enough for me."
If you say so, Shock Trooper. Ah, stand fast! She approaches!
Marsh Silas quirked an eyebrow and turned around. Trudging down the trench was Junior Commissar Carstensen. She was far enough away that she wasn't in earshot. As always, her hands remained folded behind her back, her black and crimson overcoat now buttoned that she was out of her Flak Armour. Her orange locks were tied back into a bun that sat just underneath the rim of her high-peaked cap bearing a golden Aquila. Without a word she traversed the steps and stood beside Marsh Silas. Although he was standing at attention, she did not dismiss him. Marsh remained stiff and still, facing her with his chest puffed out, chin up, arms flat by his side, and heels pressed together.
Sea winds blew over them, rippling the mess camouflage netting that covered the top of the fortified rooftop and draped over its sides. Carstensen closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and let out a satisfied breath. Without looking, she reached over and plucked Marsh's pipe from his lips. Turning it over in her hands, careful not to upend the contents from the bowl, she seemingly studied. Marsh continued to stare straight ahead, hsi eyes locked on the tight orange locks that showed from underneath her hat.
Eventually, she looked back up and gazed at the sea.
"I have the pleasure to inform you that Lieutenant Hyram has cited you for bravery under fire. You will receive another Eagle Ordinary for attacking the enemy position alone, as well as the Crimson Skull for treating a man in combat."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," Marsh replied. Carstensen looked at him from the corner of her eyes. She seemed to be in a low mood—not angry, but depressed. It was uncommon for her to entertain such emotions. Bloody Platoon, Marsh Silas among them, had come to rely on her steadfast devotion to duty and incredible bravery upon engaging the enemy. To hear her bellowing commands, belting out both prayers and orders, and ushering the men on to fight brought great resolve to a Guardsman's heart. Now, alone with him, she seemed to lack the fire she displayed elsewhere.
Marsh Silas was more than surprised, he was concerned. When she finally turned, her blue-green eyes were level with his. She lifted the pipe, took a few puffs on it, and then put it to Marsh's lips.
"At ease, Staff Sergeant."
"Yes, ma'am." Marsh raised the pipe slightly with his lips and then hooked his thumbs on the belt loops of his trousers. He expected they would begin their inspection of the line. Instead, she turned back and continued gazing at the sea. Unsure of what to say or do, Marsh did the same. It was turning out to be a beautiful day. The sun was at its apex and the light shone unabated on the deep, blue waters of the channel between Army's Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Wind whipped the waves, causing them to break and smash into one another. White crests and spray appeared everywhere. Every so often, the wind would drop and the waves would become more peaceful. Without the roiling water, the sun was reflected on the surface and thousands of individual pockets of golden light appeared. This would last only for a few moments before the wind returned and the sea grew mad again.
Across the channel, Kasr Fortis was alive with activity. Having long since been cleared of heretics and any corrupting presences, legions of Astra Militarum engineers, auxiliary Kasr workers, Adeptus Mechanicus Tech-Priests, Enginseers, servitors, and menials, were busy building a new bastion on the island. Much of the ancient city was already cleared away, with aircraft and maritime ships hauling the debris away to be dumped into a crag in a deeper part of the sea. The foot soldiers of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment were not privy to the full details of the reconstruction. As a result, a betting pool was started within Bloody Platoon over whether it would be a permanent base of operations or a new Kasr. Most bets were leaning towards the former but a few believed the latter option was truer. The pool was getting close to one hundred and fifty Thrones. Marsh tossed a few of in there himself and was prepared to add a few more when he caught sight of camp towers instead of Kasr spires.
Again, he found his eyes drawn to Carstensen. Her lips were tightly pursed and she seemed almost hesitant. Unable to deny his concern any longer, he cleared his throat and lowered his pipe. "Ma'am? Are you well?" Carstensen's gaze turned sharply and her eyes seemed a bit brighter.
"A non-commissioned officer need not concern himself with the affairs of Officio Prefectus personnel," she replied hastily before looking ahead once more.
"Apologies, ma'am," Marsh said. He chuckled a little. "I suppose I've gotten quite used to ya, so sometimes I end up speaking like you're one o' my comrades." The words were out before he properly thought about them. His breathing hitching and a startled cough passed between his lips. He nearly dropped his pipe as he turned to face her. "I don't mean no disrespect to your authority, Junior Commissar!"
Carstensen's lips twisted into a wry sort of grin.
"Calm down," she ordered. "We've shared much blood together and I shan't punish you for speaking out of turn." Turning, she offered him a lightened expression. "Some would not consider such an affirmation of comradeship to be speaking of turn, anyways."
"Thank you, ma'am," Marsh replied, relieved.
"Ma'am," she echoed, as if she was in disgust. "Come, let us begin our tour."
Bloody Platoon's section of the perimeter was seated on the cliff in front of their barracks. Structured in the Cadian style of trenching, there were several series of zigzagging trenches. The nucleus was their infantry barracks, which had secondary firing pits, a mortar pit, and other fortifications adjacent to it. Behind it was a small support trench which housed a dugout designed to be an aid station as well as two supply rooms. These two networks were connected to one another by communication trenches, facilitating the transfer of troops from emplacement to emplacement. Another set of communication trenches from these positions and the barracks itself went to the parapet, or the 'fire trench,' as the Guardsman referred to it. This trench had a raised rear lip for protection from bombardment as well as a firing step that allowed the Guardsman to stand up and engage targets. Firing bays were also included, going about a meter out from the trench itself. Thick layers of sandbags and coils of barbed wire lined the edges of the trenches, ensuring the men had extra cover and didn't allow enemies to pass over them. Only a few wooden planks acted as bridges and these could be easily collapsed by the men inside the trenches thanks to a primitive drawbridge system devised by Sergeant Stainthrope and Arnold Yoxall.
Within the parapet and the communication trenches were different kinds of dugouts. Bloody Platoon lived mostly in their barracks, so these dugouts were more or less shelters rather than spaces to dwell in. However, they were not weak. Each one was made of reinforced rockcrete, covered with a heavy layer of earth, and then sandbags. Most had a metal stovepipe that allowed men to brew recaf and cook meals when they were on watch or during protracted sieges. Others had cuttings in the walls similar to that in the underground portion of the barracks that could facilitate a sleeping bag. Cadian doctrine dictated most of these dugouts were to be around three meters deep and six meters wide. Almost all the dugouts in the parapet were designed for combat rather than providing a means of extra cover. Many were reinforced, three by five meter rockcrete bastions and were utilized as gun positions for the Heavy Weapons Squads. Observation posts were smaller, only being around two by two meters, and relied more on sandbags for defense and camouflage netting for concealment. But a few Guardsmen could turn it into an excellent hardpoint during a battle; a reliable tactic was to have three to four troopers armed with lasguns and then a grenadier to provide heavy support.
Some parts of the parapet were also reinforced for the infantry. Instead of just providing a firing step, the left flank which overlooked the path leading down to the beach had metal loopholes and slits in the sandbag walls for men to fire out of. Both flanks ran down and merged into the parapets of other platoons' trenches. First and Second Platoons on their company were on the left flank, their defense joining Second Company's station along the beach. On the right were men from Third Company. In some sections, there were single-man firing pits designated for marksmen like Bullard or good shots like Cuyper and Foley. These were considered the weakest points in the line as they were extended by a meter from the main trench and could only hold one man reliably. Barbed wire was erected here as well as sandbags, but they were never more than a few meters away from a dugout or firing bay.
Having had the benefit of many months to work on their line of trenches and repairing them after the Battle of Army's Meadow, the trench floor was made of wood. These floorboards were raised to prevent flooding and facilitated draining in the rare occurrences it rained. As well, there were many little tools and nooks designed by the men to make their life in the trenches easier. Ammunition boxes and supply crates were often slid into cuts made into the communication trenches. During a battle, a man running to the parapet could simply grab a box without breaking stride and bring it to the Guardsmen already there. Because of the long winters in their sector, there were special collectors in the support trench that collected snow. Beneath the bowl was a candle, protected from the wind by a few small metal disc-shaped shields, which could be lit. The flame would heat the pan and melt the contents. The water would then drain through a pipe resting on an earthen shelf in the trench proper and fill up a homemade trough, which had a faucet at both ends. If a Guardsmen wanted water, all he had to do was turn the palm-sized valve on the faucet, fill up his canteen or tig mug, and then turn the valve back. This was used more for filling up pots to brew recaf or for shaving than for drinking. If a man did want a drink, he had to leave his canteen or mug on the shelf for a few minutes waiting for the warm water to cool off. Sometimes, the trough would be almost full to the brim and if it wasn't regularly trained the water would free. If the men assigned to a night watch filled the trough, the morning watch had to break the ice with a trench knife.
Besides sandbags and barbed wire, mesh netting covered with brown strips of felt or cloth were a common feature. These provided concealment for the troops in the trenches and were found most commonly over the forward dugouts and firing bays. In the secondary trench, the mortar pit and other firing bays had similar coverings. In some locations, the netting stretched over intersections, junctions, and entrances to the shelters. While they provided no protection from the wind, the sun could be overbearing even in winter so shifts were taken in the dugouts or under the nets to prevent snow blindness.
Cadian Shock Troops were excellent on both the offense and defense and Bloody Platoon was no exception. Although the strongest aspect of a defense were the men in the trenches, they had taken time to finely design their section. Already, there were double layers of barbed wire coils and fencing in front of the parapet and lining the communication trenches. Every bunker was reinforced with extra sandbags as well as wooden planks leftover from the shipments to make the floorboards. While the planks couldn't stop a heavy caliber round or explosive on their own, in bundles strapped and tied to the exterior walls could mitigate the velocity and thus the munition's ability to penetrate. After the Battle of Army's Meadow and the onslaught of the undead, Bloody Platoon installed new mines in the small space between the cliff's edge and the parapet. These were anti-personnel mines designed to explode upwards rather than outwards, sparing the men from the terrible threat of shrapnel. Rough, yellow, straw-like grass grew in patches along the cliff edge, so the men marked the locations of mines by covering them with a thin layer of soil topped by the grass. A Cadian practice were a styling called 'quick barricades,' which were spiked barriers slotted into a trench wall adjacent to intersection. If forced to give ground, retreating troops yanked the barricade out and could slow down pursuers or make a strong stand.
As well, Stainthorpe and Yoxall devised another strategy in case heretics or, Emperor forbid, the undead ever attempted to scale the cliff. With an abundance of barbed wire coils on site, they decided to rig a delivery system that could drape the wire over the edge. Spring-loaded systems made of square wooden boards and metal coils were laden with square-shaped sections they cut, reattached, and folded on top of each one another. At the end of the final section were ropes which were tied to anchors. The anchors themselves were metal spikes with looped ends encased in rockcrete pooled in the ground. A pull of the lever would activate the spring-trape, launching the blanket of barbed wire out over the cliff. When the ropes went taught, the barbed wire descended and fell onto the cliff face in a vertical column. Anybody caught under it would be entangled and cut to pieces. Enemies who attempted to climb with have the skin on their hands and fingers sliced open and their clothes caught in the barbs. What was most ingenious about the design was the pulley system incorporated into the spring-launched; the barbed wire could be retracted and reloaded. The only negative aspect is that they would have to be folded over one another again in the proper order. Broken strands would have to be repaired but this was an easy job for the likes of veteran Guardsmen. Both Yoxall and Stainthrope were quite proud of the design.
As for a warning system of climbers, the design was more rudimentary. Twine was tied between small wooden stakes driven into the ground along the edge of the cliff. At first, spent ration tins were hung from the twine but the wind often jostled them. The clanging would rouse Bloody Platoon unnecessarily, so Yoxall and Stainthorpe came up with a solution. Instead, the twine was left bare and followed a discrete series of secondary lines into the parapet's sentry posts and observation points. When a hand or a foot fell on the twine, the pressure sent vibrations along the string. These vibrations then resonated into an empty ration tin can which trembled audibly, thus allowing the lookouts to raise the alarm. Although still prone to issues from the wind, generally the twine and string was low enough to the ground and taught between the wooden stakes it had ceased to be an issue.
Walking through the trenches, Carstensen took meticulous notes on her data-slate. They would inspect a section of trench, take note of its qualities and fortifications, come to a conclusion, and then she would log the information in her device. It was a slow process but with a fully belly and agreeable company, Marsh did not mind so much.
"I should think a third layer of barbed wire should be added. Perhaps not as thickly as the first two," Carstensen recommended.
"Ol' Arnie Yoxall there made sure the mines was all planted in patterns to funnel the enemy into the big guns' crossfire. Maybe we could set'em something to keep the enemy bottled up and guide'em into where we can kill'em."
"A tad complex for such a little ground," Carstensen said. A moment later, she typed it into her data-slate. "But a sound strategy nonetheless."
"It doesn't have to be wire, either," Marsh said as they walked into an OP and leaned out to get a better look at their defenses. "Maybe low stakes. No, no...how about them caltrops? Low profile and liable to put a hole in a heretic's foot. Even if they don't go over'em, that'll give them less room to move around."
Carstensen nodded and recorded the information. By this time, she had taken off her cap and her orange locks shone in the sun. Marsh had taken off his own and secured it under the loop on his shoulder. He watched the Junior Commissar while he waited for her to finish. Her green-blue eyes were focused as they ran across the screen. She was a skilled typist, her thumbs tapping on the keypad quickly. The only one who could type faster than her was Hyram, although Marsh surmised an Adeptus Administratum scribe could out-pace them both. Although, he would never tell them that no matter how much it made him grin.
She noticed him staring and looked up. Marsh found that whenever a superior officer began looking his way, he had one of two options. In his presence was not noted before, he went to attention and saluted. But if he was already in their presence, he would look away and attempt to appear preoccupied. Instead, he maintained her gaze. He was not sure what compelled him to do such a thing. Yet, he was not scared of rebuke or a reprimand. Perhaps, he was consoled by her neutral expression rather than one of annoyance or threat.
Eventually, she glanced at her data-slate.
"How go your lessons with Hyram?"
Marsh smiled.
"Do you know High Gothic, ma'am?"
"Some."
"Hyram does too and he showed me how to write my name in it the other day." He reached into his kit-bag, produced a parchment scrap, and a field pen. Eagerly, he went to the sandbag wall, set the parchment down, and wrote down his name in passably neat letters: Silvanus Crux. His pen strokes were steady but slow; it took him nearly a minute to finish. When he did, he beamed with pride as he handed over the parchment. "See? Pretty good isn't it, ma'am?"
"You've come a long way, although your penmanship still needs work."
"Don't I know it!" Marsh chuckled as he took it back. Putting it back into his kit bag along with the pen, he shrugged a little. "Ever since you said it after the first assault during the Battle o' the Cove, I wanted to figure out how to write it down. Hyram sure made me work for it. We be entering what he calls 'proficiency tests.' I tell ya, ma'am, a marksmanship evaluation is easier than those."
"You remember what I said in the tent that night?"
"O' course, ma'am!"
Junior Commissar Carstensen lowered her data-slate and looked away slightly. She smiled, truly smiled, not the ghostly upturn at the corners of her mouth that baffled the men of Bloody Platoon. Small as it was, it was clear and Marsh Silas found himself surprised. It changed her pale face, providing an element of warmth that seemed so out of place. Even her eyes, so constantly resolute, proved to take on a softer appearance and the glint of her colorful irises seemed warmer.
An enlisted man was never supposed to gawk at an officer or any individual above his station ranging from the Commissars to the priests. But he found he couldn't look away. It was not so much the rarity of her smile as the smile itself that was so captivating to him. She was so pale-faced her lips barely stood out from the skin on her cheeks. Now that she was smiling, the natural pink hue became perfectly visible.
Carstensen looked back at him.
"I did not think you remembered."
"How could I forget?" was all Marsh could think to say. Carstensen held up the data-slate.
"Come and look."
Doing his best not to appear timid, Marsh Silas approached her. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they looked at the data-slate together. The screen was a deep green with the letters appearing a lighter, yellow shade. The Junior Commissar tapped the beginning of the bottom paragraph at the end of many blocks of text. Marsh Silas gazed at it for a few moments.
"You want that I should read this when you've just written it, ma'am?"
"A Guardsman should ever and always be eager for a chance to prove himself and his training in front of his officer," she replied. Marsh let out a breath-like sort of laugh, leaned forward, and held the other side of the data-slate with his gloved hand. The khaki fingertips almost touched the black leather of Carstensen's glove on the opposite side. Clearing his throat, the platoon sergeant mouthed a few of the words at first, nodded, and began to read aloud.
"It is of the opinion of Staff Sergeant Cross that the trenchworks should be a...afforded a third line of ob-stac...obstacles. Barbed wire eeeen...ah, entanglements have been considered, although this already being in great use it is his recommendation that caltrops be installed. Caltrops offer a tactical ad-van-tage to defenders as it slows down troops and forces them to find clearer ground. This clearer ground can then be swept by heavy fire, dividing sections of the line into kill zones."
As he read, he became acutely aware of how close Carstensen was. He equated it to the small screen of the data-slate. For them to both read it, they needed to bring it close to their faces. As such, they were almost cheek to cheek. Their shoulders were pressed together. Carstensen, seemingly focused as she followed along, didn't glance at him. Marsh hoped she didn't smell the porridge and meat on his breath. Quite naturally, she nodded when he succeeded in pronouncing or sounding out a larger word. Apparently so transfixed on the impromptu lessons, she naturally raised her hand and placed it on his back. To feel her hand's weight on the middle of his back made the platoon sergeant anxious but not in a way he found altogether disagreeable.
When he finished, they both stood back up and faced each other. Her hand fell from his back quickly.
"You've improved greatly, Staff Sergeant. Be wary, though; Hyram's a pen-pusher in his heart of hearts. He may have you writing his reports when this is all said and done."
Marsh blinked and looked over at her. Carstensen glanced at him and he could the corner of her mouth twitch into a half-smile. He chuckled politely.
"I sure hope not. I may be a lowly sort but I like to think the Emperor made me for fighting."
"You are not so lowly to the likes of these men or to the Lieutenant or even myself," Carstensen assured him as they walked back to the front of the OP. Together, they looked out over the channel again. A flight of Valkyries swept low over the water as they flew towards Kasr Fortis. Gigantic cranes were all over the rockcrete foundations of many buildings and military structures. Slowly, they turned, their cables hefting huge blocks of rockcrete or bundles of metal timbers.
Before long, Carstensen tucked her data-slate away. "And the Inquisitor saw much in you as well."
"We was certainly close," Marsh sighed. "He wanted me to come with him after our mission to Kasr Fortis."
"It is an honor to have one's abilities assessed sufficient to join the ranks of the Inquisition."
Marsh Silas chuckled sadly.
"I doubt it. 'You're the only one I like,' he said to me before the mission jumped off."
"He held a great deal of affection for you?"
"Methinks, at times, it was more than what I bore for him. He became a brother-soldier to me and a good friend."
"It..." Carstensen began. She pursed her lips and then released a slightly annoyed breath. Marsh Silas was somewhat surprised. He never saw her frustrated even in small ways. Eventually, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. "...you could have gone with the Lord Inquisitor even without Barlocke. What you were offered was an opportunity few would refuse. I like to think that if I were in your boots, I would have the strength to decline and remain with the platoon. But I am not sure. Regardless, I think it is a...very good thing you stayed. The platoon needs you."
Her eyes quickly flitted back towards the sea. Marsh smiled a little and without looking held the pipe over to her. A moment passed and he felt the pipe plucked from his fingertips. While he listened to her puff quietly on the pipe, he folded his arms across his chest and continued smiling. He felt very comfortable beside her then and although they had come to the end of their task, did not want to return to the barracks just yet. The hour was just passing and the sun was still high in the sky. If the wind was absent, it would have been warm enough to take off his coat.
Past Kasr Fortis he could see a weather front approaching. Gray clouds began to fill up the sky and slide in front of the sun. Intermittent shadows crossed over their OP, briefly bathing them in darkness. The air grew colder and the wind became stronger. Before long, the wind carried the first snowflakes down to Cadian earth.
When he finally looked back at Carstensen, she was holding the pipe out to him. But when he reached for it, she drew it away. Marsh lowered his hand and raised his eyebrows. Slyly, she looked at him sideways and then held it back at. Tentatively, he grasped for it but again she took it from his reach. Smiling now, he began to reach across her to get it. Instead, she held it out farther with her other hand.
"You are too cruel, Junior Commissar," Marsh teased.
"Cruelty would be tossing this pipe into the minefield," she remarked smartly as she finally returned. "I would not do such a thing to an heirloom so precious."
"I thank you," he said, pretending to sound relieved. "Aye, it was my father's. About all his family let me keep of him. He went everywhere with it. I never saw my mother smoke by herself. No lho-sticks or stubs, no tabac, nothing until my father came back from his duty stations. It seemed all she ever smoked was his pipe and only if they were together." He laughed. "When he was at his desk filling our reports, she would come up behind him and steal it when he was looking. Or she would take it right from his mouth and make him chase her."
He turned the pipe in his hands several times, running his thumb over the golden Aquila and tracing the neck with his forefinger. "Whenever it snowed, they would go to the window together. They wouldn't say a word, just stare out at the snow and pass the pipe between them. I suppose when you're that close to someone, words ain't entirely necessary."
Carstensen peered at him curiously for a time before directing her gaze to the gray clouds overhead. The snow was falling steadily and a thin layer of white dust now covered the sandbags. Eventually, she sighed.
"Tis no wind, but a view nonetheless."
"Indeed, ma'am," Marsh Silas replied. The two looked at each other for a time before the platoon sergeant smiled at her. Carstensen didn't and offered an expectant expression, as if she was waiting for him to come to an understanding. It took Marsh Silas a few minutes to understand the scenario he just described and how similar it was to the very one he and the Junior Commissar now occupied. Clearing his throat, he shrugged shyly and leaned out, knocking his pipe against one of the wooden stakes holding up the roof of the OP. The ashes fell into the snow and he returned his pipe to his kit bag.
"I think it is time I go and make my report to Lieutenant Hyram," Carstensen finally said. "Proceed to the barracks at your leisure and then send up the first watch. We do not want the platoon to become complacent, now do we?"
"Be most shameful, ma'am," Marsh said, trying to sound as professional as possible. Carstensen sighed.
"Ma'am," she echoed distastefully. Facing him entirely, she let her hands fall from behind her back and hang by her sides. Her expression was not quite urgent or pleading, but Marsh Silas was savvy enough to know when someone wanted to say something but couldn't. Her green-blue eyes fell from his, her mouth moved slightly, and more than once it appeared she was about to speak only for her to stop herself and recede slightly.
Eventually, seemingly put out by the endeavor, she stood squarely and narrowed her brow. "We are bound by the hierarchy of the Astra Militarum, Staff Sergeant Cross. To afford appropriate respect from every rank to every station is to keep in its traditions as well as the will of the Emperor. To breach these honorable formalities and gestures of respect is an offense deemed punishable by the inconvenienced ranking officer or individual. However, nothing is written regarding a higher ranking officer or individual taking no offense at a breach of this doctrine. When one encounters these gaps, they must rely on their best judgement to come to a decision of taking action or taking none at all. In such a way, we see fellow Guardsmen, despite ranks, refer to each other by given or family names, or by any number of stylization's. Often, their experiences and survival through countless tumultuous battles foster these monikers and brotherly affections. It does not impair their ability to wage war against the Imperium's many foes and draws them closer together as comrades. Nor does it affect the hierarchy within their unit, such as a platoon, and in fact strengthens it. So, these acts might be of service to the Imperium and thus are acceptable by the standards of the Astra Militarum. Within reason."
Carstensen took a step closer to him and opened a palm. Again, she opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself short. Instead, she just sighed. "Thank your aid in this matter, Staff Sergeant. I am most appreciative. I shall see you at the evening mess."
"Yes, Junior Commissar," Marsh Silas said. She walked out of the OP and began to go up the trench. Marsh walked out as well but lingered by the OP entrance. "Ma'am?" Carstensen stopped and looked back at him. He smiled at her. "You know, most o' these gunmen round' these parts call me Marsh Silas. A few call me by the name my mother gave me, like the Lieutenant, although he is quite fatherly about it. That's to be expected of a good man like him. But my rank? When mean First Sergeant Hayhurst tears into me or one o' the staff or senior officers has words with me, that's when they bring up my stripes."
He leaned against the post of the OP cover and looked down at his boots. "But you ain't any o' them to me and you certainly ain't sharing them harsh words. If it it ain't too much o' a hassle for ya, I think I should prefer if you be callin' me Silas from now on." Marsh followed it up with an affable shrug. "When it's just us two, o' course."
Carstensen stared at him for a long time as snow began to collect on her shoulders and the black bill of her cap. Then she smiled warmly once more.
"I should find that...most agreeable, but only under the condition that you should call me Lilias."
"Agreed," Marsh said. He walked forward, took off his glove, and extended his hand. Carstensen removed her own and slid her hand into his. Their palms were warm together. Without another word, the Junior Commissar put her glove back on and departed.
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