Chapter 4


Marsh Silas strolled down the stuffy tunnels that made up the honeycombed complex of the under-barracks. The musty smell of soil and dank odor of wood from so many support beams permeated the air, as well as the smells from purification and cleaning oils, body odor, armour and boot polish, lho-sticks, and cooking meat. Ducking into the center communal area, he found Drummer Boy by the stove and sliding two skillets on the heated top. Around him were Foley, Logue, Mottershead, Hitch, Tatum, and Fleming Everyone was sitting at the tables, leaning against the tunnel timbers, or hunched over in one of the bunk cuttings in the wall. Guardsmen talked in low tones as they played a hand of Black Five, smoked, or ate dry and cold portions from their rations. Some who opened up the sealed packages were greeted with the rotten scent of spoiled foodstuffs there were supposed to be preserved Promptly tossed into one of the waste basins they kept around, they angrily opened another ration in the hopes of finding something better or at least fresher. Contents that proved to be edible and desirable were placed on the table among some golden Thrones as part of the bets for Black Five. Others were more stingy and didn't wager them.

"How's the game going?" Marsh asked, poking his head in. Everyone looked up at him.

"Hey, Marsh Silas."

"How goes it, Marsh Silas?"

"This here grenade thumpin' son of a bitch has got every card in the deck."

"If you be accusing me o' cheatin' you'll be eating my knuckles for supper."

"Try not to kill each other over a game," Marsh ordered, smiling. "Drummer Boy, whatcha got for us."

Drummer Boy turned around with an unsatisfied expression. With a wave of his arm, he motioned to the dark meat sizzling on the pan.

"I ain't got any idea as to what this meat here is. It ain't Grox that's for sure. Might be better in a stew, methinks."

"Whatever you gotta do so that we ain't eatin' cold tonight, do it," Marsh ordered.

Marsh Silas departed and went to Third Squad's section of the barracks. While many had doffed their Flak Armour and helmets, they were still dressed in their winter uniforms. Walking in, he found Sergeant Queshire crouched on the floor facing his bunk. His rucksack was on the floor and against the wall, and he was rummaging through. Coming up behind him, the platoon sergeant tapped him on the shoulder. "I need your boys on first watch."

Queshire sighed, clearly disappointed at the prospect of standing guard in the cold for several hours. Marsh understood and didn't hold it against him or anyone else. Just because it was their duty didn't mean they had to like it. Just as long as they performed it ably, they could complain about it all they wanted.

The squad leader picked up his Flak Armour and began to put it on. As he put his helmet on, he turned back to Marsh.

"Any reason in particular why you be choosin' me first?"

"Because I like you the least," Marsh joked as he marched out. Queshire waved him off dismissively but still smiled. Weaving through the tunnels, he checked on every single group of Guardsmen until he ended up in his section. There he found Arnold Yoxall already laying in his own bunk polishing his trench knife with a clean rag. Across the room was Sergeant Babcock who was leaning against the wall as he spoke to Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor, who were sitting shoulder to shoulder on a lower bunk.

Upon seeing the platoon sergeant, everyone greeted him with a hearty, 'Marsh Silas!' He returned the greeting as he put his soft-cover NCO cap, cartridge belt, and his brown leather holster on his bunk. "Get yourselves to the communal comb, Drummer Boy be whippin' something up for us."

"Hopefully it tastes as good as it smells," Babcock remarked. He made a fist and gently tapped Marsh's shoulder with it as he passed. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor clapped him on top of his shoulder as well. It was a familiar greeting between Cadian Guardsmen, one of many greetings to denote respect and comradeship. But when Yoxall got up, he didn't make such a gesture. Instead, he smiled softly, raised his arm so that his elbow was parallel to his waist, and cocked his forearm up and out slightly. His fingers curled into a fist. He held the gesture even after he passed through the entrance and followed the others down the hall. Blinking, Marsh Silas walked back through and watched his friend, disappearing and reappearing in the alternating lights of the tunnel, until he was out of his sight.

Such a salute was only shared within Bloody Platoon, adopted from the signature of the Inquisitor who fought with them so long ago. From him, Marsh Silas adopted it, and over the months the men of the platoon had as well. Some days, when Marsh gave and received it, he didn't pay it much mind. On rare occasions, he was struck by images of his long lost friend drifting through the camp at night, disappearing into the shadows while maintaining it. Such a sight used to fill him with suspicion, wonder, and even dread. Now, such memories brought about a melancholy that was not easily shaken.

Leaning against the timber support beam of the entrance, he stared down the tunnel for a long time. He didn't move, speak, and hardly blinked. His violet eyes sustained a hopeful but firm expression.

I shan't be coming down the tunnel, Silvanus.

Marsh leaned his head against the wood, his smoothed hair ruffling somewhat, Sighing, he looked down at his boots and his hands fiddled with his belt buckle, having nothing else to occupy them.

"I know," the platoon sergeant whispered and turned around. He went to the curtain which separated Lieutenant Hyram's chamber from the rest of the platoon's. Reaching in, he drummed his fingers against the wooden trim outlining the entrance. "Staff Sergeant Cross requesting permission to enter, sir."

"Granted."

He found the platoon leader hunched over the table he used as a desk. Before him was his Data-slate as well as a number of documents and a large map he brought with him during their forays into the Cadian hinterland. Much of the paperwork were copies of the after action reports he sent up to company headquarters and then passed up to the Regiment. Lines of text were circled in red field-quill ink or underlined. On the map, a number of spots were circled and had small notes written beside them. Hyram himself was scribbling some notes on a palm-sized pad of parchment he kept with him at all times. Leaning over the desk, he propped his left arm on the edge and rested his forehead against his palm. His fingers clutched a bundle of locks from his bright blonde hair. Beside him was a tin mug of untouched recaf. It was still hot and steam rose from it, drifting upwards in the glow of the yellow lamp pack on the far corner.

For a time, Hyram didn't speak or even look at Marsh Silas. Eventually, the platoon sergeant walked over, pulled up a makeshift stool, and sat beside him. He began looking over the documents; many of the circled or underlined segments denoted locations. The southern coastal road, northern coastal road, the northern supply route, several of the western trails used to break into the countryside or traverse the coast adjacent to Army's Meadow and Kasr Fortis. Eastern mountain auxiliary pass, eastern main route, and the northern supply route again. Words like 'ambush,' 'large heretical force,' 'well-armed cultists,' 'no enemy camp sites found,' 'outside artillery range,' and, 'reliant on air support,' appeared multiple times. The more he examined them, the more he found these were not just Hyram's after action reports; there were reports from Second and Third Platoons as well. Then, he found more reports from Second and Third Companies. More surprisingly were documents from units outside of the 1333rd Regiment; tactical squadrons from the Navis Imperialis, convoys conveying personnel from the Departmento Munitorum's Engineer and Labour Corps, Interior Guard units, supply convoys, and other Cadian regiments. Similar language was circled and underlined throughout all the paperwork.

Tidying up the desk somewhat but carefully not to bump into his commanding officer, Marsh stacked the paperwork and slid it next to the map. He then brought the map closer to him, carefully but ensuring that it made a slight rasping sound. A teasing smile tugged at his lips at the obnoxious sound and he glanced at Hyram from the corner of his eye. But the platoon leader continued to take notes, his brow furrowed over his violet eyes and his mouth pressed into a tight line. Disappointed, Marsh's smile fell and he gazed at the map. At first, there appeared to be no correlation between the circled locations. After a few moments of studying, Marsh realized these were all the spots in which Bloody Platoon were ambushed, as well as other units from within the Regiment.

Hyram suddenly slammed his finger down on the greatest density of red circles. It was a spot Marsh Silas was well aware of. The northern coastal road merged into the northern supply route, which continued running to the far north. Adjacent to the countryside ridges and hills and just north of Bloody Platoon's latest ambush site was the eastern main route. Branching off it were many of the auxiliary paths, winding their way through the mountains. Both the auxiliary paths and the main route led through the Dagger Mountains—named so for its similar shape to the weapon—then to the highest peak, known as the Cross-Guard, where Kasr Sonnen sat.

Kasr Sonnen was in an advantageous position, with natural defenses all around it. Most of the Dagger Mountains were woven with deep entrenchments, tunnelworks, bunks, and other Militarum installations and garrisons. It was more of a mammoth fortress than a simple mountain range. But a few months ago, there was no way to reach these fortifications or Kasr Sonnen from the west. Any friendly forces had to travel southeast, loop around the bottom of the low mountain range to the eastern side, proceed north past the range's continuation, Locket Mountain, and then proceed up the only road to Kasr Sonnen. Dubbed the southeastern road, it was naturally defended by a series of ridges which split the road up. These were known as the gaps, named after the famous Cadian generals Aust, Gallus, and Piscator. It was the shortest route from Army's Meadow and proved to be a laborious journey even for mounted troops. Another option was to proceed along the northern coastal and supply route, hugging the valleys at the base of the mountain range, and then loop around the top and go south. While generally flatter, this was a much longer route that still ended up taking troops through the gaps.

Because Army's Meadow had become a busier sector, Cadian High Command recognized the need for it to have a more direct route to the closest Kasr, that being Kasr Sonnen. Relying on air support was a brittle option, so a joint effort between the Engineer Corps, Labour Corps, and the Adeptus Mechanicus was ordered to make a new route. It took a few months of blasting, tunneling, paving, and fortifying, but eventually the eastern main route and the complementing auxiliary paths. This route halved the journey from Army's Meadow to Kasr Sonnen and facilitated more troop movements and supply convoys in the region. Mimicking the jagged roadways within a Kasr, it was defended by extensive bunker networks and automated defenses. More artillery and anti-air defenses were installed as well. Two regiments from the Interior Guard garrisoned the road.

Hyram tapped the spot where the northern and eastern roads merged. It was dubbed the Murga Junction, after their deceased company commander who gave up his life during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. "They're concentrating their efforts here. The heretics are planning something. I just know it."

"Where did you get all this?" Marsh asked, jerking his thumb towards the moderate stack of paperwork.

"Captain Giles is still very much an intelligence officer and has his connection within surrounding units," Hyram replied. "I've worked with such officers before I assure you they have more contact outside a regiment than you might imagine."

After Murga's death, Captain Giles took command of the First Company instead of resuming his duties as the Regimental Intelligence Officer. He hand-picked his replacement from another unit, ensuring the 1333rd would have an able officer. With him, he took First Lieutenant Eastoft, who was now First Company's executive officer. Many were satisfied with the transition of command, especially Bloody Platoon who had served with both Cadians during the fighting on Kasr Fortis. While Giles was somewhat more relaxed than Murga, he was a Cadian through-and-through.

Hyram sighed, pushed his Data-slate out of the way, and pulled the map closer to him. "We're not the only ones getting hit. It seemed like every time a unit goes out, they're ambushed. Probing attacks against the eastern road have occurred just like here on Army's Meadow. They've even spotted heretics attempting to push up the auxiliary roads. Can you believe that, Marsh Silas?"

He reached under the table and pulled out a secure carrier bag. Opening it, he pulled out another map. It portrayed the same geographic region as the first map but there were more Astra Militarum installations noted on this one. All of the tunnel networks, bunker systems, and other fortifications along the Dagger Mountains were revealed. A heavier concentration was at Locket Mountain. "Junior Commissar Carstensen is correct in believing there is a push coming. Colonel Isaev may not believe there's a push coming, but Cadian High Command certainly does. And according to these reports, they think it's coming from the east and not the west." He slammed his hand on the table, sending some looser documents on his side into the air.

"It can't be that much of o' buildup, can it?" Marsh asked. "All these ambushes have failed. We've musta put a dent in their forces if they're around so much."

"Considering that the ambushes are intensifying rather than declining, I believe we've only begun to chip at them." Hyram rested his cheek against his hand and exhaled irritably. "I fear the worst, Marsh Silas. That if the enemy does come, and they certainly shall at this rate, they will attempt to attack Kasr Sonnen from both sides."

Marsh looked at the maps again. He began to nod. "Aye, and if they're smart about it they would cut Army's Meadow off from the mainland so we couldn't reinforce the Kasr. Shit."

"And if they seized the crosswords, then they would prevent reinforcements from coming down from the north." Hyram pulled the map closed and loomed over it. "Where are they?" he seethed, his fingers tracing patterns along the many ridges, hills, bluffs, and flatlands that made up the hinterland north of Army's Meadow. Marsh watched for a time as his commanding officer continued to search the map, as if the evidence he was searching for was there somehow. All the while, he continued to mutter to himself. Eventually, Marsh gently clutched the Lieutenant's hand. But that didn't make Hyram stop. "There must be some campsite. If neither air nor ground assets have found them, they must be moving—"

"Sir."

"—but if they're moving, how could we possibly find them?"

"Sir."

"There's just so much ground. Where are they getting their supplies? It must be near the ambush sites!"

"Alright, that's enough sir," Marsh said, letting go of Hyram's wrist and picking up the maps. He folded everything and then tucked them into the leather carrier bag. Then, he collected all the documents and put them inside a pocket of the bag. Strapping it and locking it, he tucked it under the table and turned around. Picking up the tin mug, he forced into Hyram's hand. "Drink."

"And the Colonel won't let me take us out based on my suspicions."

"Drink."

Reluctantly, Hyram took a long sip. Leaning back in the chair, he ran his hand through his hair until it became a wild mess. Groaning, he took another drink, sighed, and sank in the chair.

"I've got to figure it out otherwise a lot of good Cadians might get killed."

"Well, methinks ol' Cadia will still be standing on the morrow, so why don't rest while we can?"

He expected that would elicit a chuckle or at least a chuckle. Instead, Hyram planted his hand over his face, draped his head back over the backrest of the chair, and groaned very loudly. "What? What I say?"

Hyram spread his fingers and looked at Marsh Silas between his middle and ring fingers.

"I just remembered the Whiteshields are coming tomorrow. Just what we need, fresh troops." Hyram lowered his hand, shook his head, and sat back up. Leaning forward, he held the tin mug with both hands. The stream continued to rise, coursing around his cheeks. In a moment, he seemed more exhausted than he already was. Marsh standing further in his room, leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. He was careful that his elbow wouldn't knock over any of the framed pict-captures of his commanding officer's family. For a moment he glanced at them and smiled fondly. Nobody else possessed any pict-captures and the regimental pict-capturer, Valens, was forbidden to share them. According to him, once they were developed the picts were then sent to Cadian High Command for various uses. Although Marsh couldn't quite place it, the sight of Hyram's picts made him more cheerful.

Hyram set the mug down on the table, catching Marsh's attention. The platoon leader vigorously rubbed his temples.

"Worry not, sir. I assure you, Cadian Whiteshields aren't hapless soldiers. We spend our lives learning to be Guardsmen so they'll already be decent marksmen. And they'll be itching to earn their place, so they'll be highly motivated. We veterans are wiser...well, somewhat, if you talk to some o' those blokes out there you might think otherwise. But it's because we're wiser we tend not to be so fiery. But maybe we could make good use of the young ones' fire."

The Lieutenant looked up, his eyes fatigued and depressed.

"They'll be but children. And it is because of that their bravery will verge on foolishness. They do not know of life's accidents."

It was not so much the words themselves as it was Hyram's morose tone. He was an incredibly articulate, well-thought man, and compared to his old-self, he was highly motivated. But it was the smiling face of his young son and that of his beautiful wife in the pict-captures beside Marsh's elbows, that brought about his weaknesses. After giving the pictures a backward glance, Marsh went over to his friend and knelt in front of him. For a moment, he made no expression as his platoon leader gazed at him. Then, he smiled a little.

"You know, I think some folks in this life are meant to be parents. My mama and papa, they loved me so, but I doubt they were meant to become a family. Like them, mine is a soldier's life. I suppose one day, Cadia will have to issue me a wife." This made him chuckle and Hyram, who at first tried to resist, broke into a smile as well. Reaching up, he grasped the junior officer by his shoulder. "The Emperor saw it fit to make you the rare man who has that kind of love in your heart. Your heart o' hearts, like Junior Commissar Carstensen is fond o' sayin'. One day, when yer demobilized, you'll be goin' back to that family o' yours. But right now, you're Shock Trooper, a regular ol' gunman. That's what Bloody Platoon needs you to be and what these Whiteshields need."

For a time, they stayed that way: Hyram hunched in his chair and Marsh kneeling before him. Then, the Lieutenant laughed, much to Marsh's surprise. He stood up and Marsh joined him. Patting Marsh on the shoulder, he smiled handsomely at him.

"You're a true tonic, my friend," he said. "I know not if they need me, but I'll tell you what those Whiteshields will get: Marsh Silas."

###

The next day, the 1333rd Cadian Regiment stood in their morning formation. After finishing the roll call and the Regimental morning prayer, the convoy conveying their new additions arrived right on schedule. The Chimeras rolled into a line formation on the widest area of the parade grounds, turned one hundred eighty degrees, and dropped their ramps. This was the cue for dozens of platoon sergeant, including Marsh Silas, to storm forward and start screaming at them. He was visibly excited as he rarely got to act that way with disciplined troops.

"Line up right now you scrawny bootlicks!"

"Move it you dogs or else you'll get a lickin'!"

"How the fuck are you expected to charge the enemy if you move that slow!?"

"Two lines, right here, right now, or you'll be getting the boot!"

"Not fast enough! Shall we fire upon your feet to make you move!?"
The NCOs plowed through the crowd of Whiteshields, pushing, shoving, sometimes dragging them, tripping them, throwing their massive shoulder bags on the ground and making them pick it back up. Stomping around, they screamed right in their faces, hurling insults, and knocking their soft-cover caps off. Marsh grabbed one young man by the back of his collar when he began walking in the wrong direction and threw him on the ground, sending him skidding across the snowy pavement. One he already ordered to lift his heavy bag over his head dropped it. Storming over, grabbed him by his winter coat's collar, jostled him heavily, shoved him, grabbed him before he stumbled, stood him up, and then ordered him to pick his bag back up. All around them, the veterans smiled and did their best not to laugh. Some of their expressions were sweet, as the memories of their time as Whiteshields were pleasant now despite such treatment and terrible battles.

The Whiteshield Sergeants who were with them were not spared. Each one had a document showing who was in which squad as well as the platoon they were to be assigned to. These manifests were promptly seized by the veteran NCOs, some of whom had to go by the pictorial supplements as they couldn't read the text, and began to purposefully organize them into the wrong unit. Just when the Whiteshields thought it was over, the veterans blamed them for the mistake and the confusion began again.

Passing another one, he tugged on the short braid her hair was in, forcing her to stop, and then shoved her into another line. Another bumbling Whiteshield came by and he went out of his way to trip him. "Get back into that line! You must have Grox shit instead of a brain!" Wheeling around, he got right in the face of third Whiteshield. "If you're the best that Cadia has got to offer, I'm finding myself another Fortress World to serve on. You'd like that, wouldn't ya you fucking meatsack! By the Throne, you insult the Emperor just by drawing breath! Oh, we'll have to do something about that, won't we!? What the hell's your name, anyways!?"

"It's—"

"I just remembered I don't give a shit!" Marsh hollered. "Move it or I'll thump ya!" Glancing over at Bloody Platoon, he saw the faces of his friends. Each one was perfectly delighted. Hyram was amused and did his best not to show it. Carstensen was openly smiling and that made Marsh work even harder.

But it was over all too soon. Soon, the Whiteshields were organized into cohorts of ten soldiers each and were made to stand in two lines of five. A perfect meter of space separated each squad. Each of the veterans found the group assigned to their platoon and stood in front of them at attention. A tense silence dawned over the entire 1333rd as Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, and a menacing staff of officers approached. Folding his hands behind his back, he puffed out his chest and raised his chin so he was looking down at them past his gnarled nose. Everyone, including the more experienced men in front of the new arrivals, saluted.

"My name is Colonel Isaev. Beside me is Regimental Commissar Ghent. Cadian High Command has seen it fit to send you here. Forget what you might have heard. This is by no means a quiet, cushy sector. Out here, you'll be patrolling, training, and be ever vigilant in your hunt for the heretic, the cultist, the mutant, and the xeno. Failure in this duty will be cause for visitation from Commissar Ghent."

He began pacing up and down the line. "Failure to uphold the tenets of the Imperial Creed, failure to obey an order, failure to make the Sign of the Aquila in front of appropriate idols, shrines, officials, and the like shall also result in such a visitation. All of this you are certainly aware of or, by the Emperor, I hope so. I remind you for you are young yet. I can see a light in your eyes that you want to fight. That is good. The greatest service we could ever perform for the Imperium is dying for our cause."

He stopped at the center of the line and surveyed them. "You shall now be assigned to your platoons. Obey your NCOs and officers to the letter, prove that you are worth the wargear you have been supplied with, and maybe one day you will have earned the right to call yourself Shock Troopers. You have a long four years ahead of you. Dismissed."

The entire 1333rd Regiment dispersed. Isaev and his staff returned to Regimental Headquarters and the bulk of the assembled veterans drifted back to their barracks. Some found out of the way locations among crates or the parked Chimeras, lit their lho-sticks, and began watching. Marsh Silas waited for Hyram and Carstensen to come over before he addressed them. Maintaining an impressive stance, the Lieutenant mimicked the Colonel's posture save for the condescending stare down his nose.

"At ease. I'm Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram. This is Junior Commissar Carstensen and this is your new platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas. You are now a part of First Platoon, First Company, the most distinguished element within the 1333rd Regiment."

"We have the wounds and the medals to prove it, too," Marsh added, wearing a kind grin. Carstensen nodded in agreement while Hyram closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, shook his head, and then looked back at the Whiteshields. "In garrison, we maintain a constant state of readiness. You are never to be without some manner of armament on your person or within your reach. If it is not, you are expected to be able to reach and don your wargear within a minute. Your M36 will always be loaded. Your bayonets and trench knives shall always be sharp."

Many similar conversations were taking place up and down the line. Each of the fourteen-year old Whiteshields, having calmed down from the excitement from earlier, listened diligently. Once each of the officers finished their lecture they began reading the names from the manifest. Marsh Silas took a small amount of pride in being able to read the list himself.

The first name called out belonged to the Whiteshield Sergeant, Clivvy. She was a stout, muscular young woman who kept her hair short instead of in a burn or braid like the two other women in the squad. Out of all the blonde heads in the squad, hers verged on a redder shade. Marsh was instantly impressed by her steadfast tone as she answered, 'sir,' when he called her name. He surmised she took the duty of a Whiteshield Sergeant seriously. Then there was Graeme, the shortest of the Whiteshields. Pale and slender, he stood on the tips of his toes in an attempt to exaggerate his height. Leander came next, slender bout ultimately strong looking fellow. His lips formed a natural smile and he had a curious gaze to his bright violet eyes. Merton was broad-chested and strong his arms, but despite his heavy uniform Marsh could see his legs were on the thinner side. The lad was buck toothed but he seemed to be serious enough. Rayden did not seem to possess the quiet excitement or the stoic professionalism of the others. He seemed more brooding, but the moment Marsh walked in front of him he tried to stand straighter than he already was. Complementing the dark shade of his violet eyes was his very dark blonde hair.

In the second line was Rowley. She was slimmer than Clivvy and had a field of freckles across her cheeks. Although her blonde hair was drawn into a tight knot, a few locks fell over her brow and when Marsh walked by her she tried to blow them to the side. She seemed kind and energetic, the latter impressing the platoon sergeant. Soames came next and he was a cocky looking one. He wore his hat to one side of his head and kept it tipped up slightly. The expression on his square face was one of pure confidence. Tattersall was after him and he did his best not to appear timid. There was nothing truly remarkable about him other than his comely gaze and the jagged scar on the left side of his face. Webley was the tallest and although not skinny, she was not robust in her stature either. She instinctively saluted when Marsh walked in front of her and that assured him she was eager to make a good impression. Lastly, there was Yeardley, who wore spectacles like the ones Hyram sometimes wore. His nose was running from the cold air.

"Going to do something about that?" Marsh asked, pointing at his nose with the field-quill.

"Sir, yes, sir!" Yeardley raised his arm as if he was a machine and then wiped his nose on his forearm. When he finished, there was a dark stain on his sleeve and the snot had spread over his lips. "Sir, I think I made it worse, sir!" Marsh's lips twitched into a smile. Upon seeing that, Yeardley smiled too. He was especially youthful and spry, with a particular boyishness roundness to his face. While the others were clearly shaving, there was one hint of stubble on his cheeks. For some reason, Marsh already liked the lad.

After handing the manifest over, Hyram studied it for a few moments. Then, he slipped into his document carrier bag and they led the detachment back to the barracks. After a brief tour of the trenchworks and the central bunker, they descended into Bloody Platoon's home. Most of the men were already there and Marsh could tell they had arrayed themselves to some degree to make an impression on the rookies. Logue and Foley were hunched over the communal table, each tinkering with an autopistol. Babcock, standing with his shirt off and a khaki neck cover on, tossed a combat knife from one hand to the other and then quickly threw it toward the Whiteshields. All of the newcomers flinched as the knife embedded into the wooden trim of the entrance.

They walked by more entrances to the other comb-like rooms. Drummer Boy popped out holding two tin mugs filled with recaf. He stopped the detachment.

"Fresh brew for fresh faces," he chimed. Rowley was closest; after taking a glance at her comrades, she gingerly reached out for it. Sneering, Drummer Boy upended the mug and contents splashed onto her new boots. Gasping, Rowley stepped back and then scowled at him. The Voxman laughed and then looked at Yeardley. "Here, I shan't do the same to you. Welcome to Bloody Platoon."

Yeardley cautiously took the mug, nearly bouncing on his feet to dart away in case Drummer Boy pulled the same trick. Instead, the mug was handed over without incident. Smiling at Marsh Silas, Yeardley took such a big gulp that his cheeks puffed out slightly. Then his eyes bulged and he spit the recaf onto the floor. This made Drummer Boy chortle loudly and slap his knee. Yeardley dropped the mug and spit several more times.

"Was there piss in that!?"

"Mighta done."

"You said you wouldn't do anything to me!"

"That's where yer wrong, boy, I said I wouldn't do the same to you." Drummer Boy departed then. When they began to pass the next barracks room, the Walmsley brothers came out. Respectfully standing aside for Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and Marsh Silas, they then barged right into the Whiteshields. Shouldering, biffing, and pushing their way through, they ended up knocking over a number of their olive drab Militarum-issue travel bags. Graeme, Metro, and even Clivvy were shunted aside so hard they were forced momentarily against the walls. After the two brothers passed by, the Whiteshields began to pick themselves up. Just as they had, Sergeant Stainthorpe and Arnold Yoxall came out and repeated what the tormenting, all the while having an unconcerned conversation over the concept of the Meltagun. This act was repeated a third time when Tatum, Foster, and Fleming stepped out and went out of their way to knock the newcomers over.

"Now, now," Marsh Silas began when he noticed their riled expressions. "You ought to have been expecting somethin' like this. They're a merry bunch, to be sure."

They ended up in the area right outside Hyram's dwelling. Marsh Silas ordered them to throw their bags onto the ground. Confused, the fresh troopers looked around. Finally, Clivvy stepped forward.

"Are we to cut our bunks into the walls above your own? We shall require ladders, then."

"Absolutely not," Marsh Silas replied with a generous smile. "You be digging a new section of the barracks. For now, you'll be sleepin' on the floor where's I can see ya. Get them kits out."

The Whiteshields, tested in everything but battle, swiftly set up their quarters. To minimize the amount of room they took up, Clivvy ordered them to split into pairs and hug certain sections of the wall. In a matter of minutes, their sleeping bags were neatly placed and their wargear arrayed immaculately.

Nodding, Marsh began putting on his Flak Armour. When the Whiteshields looked at him in confusion again, he nodded at their armour pieces on the floor. "Get'em on."

"What for?" Merton asked, clearly put out with his treatment so far. Marsh put on his helmet, picked up his loaded rucksack, swung it over his shoulders, and then picked up his M36. He smiled at them. "Training begins now."

When they reached the surface again, the Whiteshields were in full kit. Marsh Silas led them back down the hill and onto the parade grounds. Many other platoon sergeants had taken their complement of Whiteshields to the firing range and were evaluating their marksmanship. Others were practicing with mock grenades or going through bayonet drills. A few, waiting for their turn to see what their fresh troops could do, circled them up and began lecturing them over certain pieces of wargear. Instead of leading them towards the training grounds, Marsh continued going to the main gate.

"Staff Sergeant, aren't we going to the range?" Clivvy asked, pushing her helmet up slightly as it was sagging low over her brow.

"Later. For now, I want to see what yer really made of and there ain't no better way of finding out then a good run. Up and down the entire cape ought to do it." He could hear them grumble and that was to be expected. Cadians enjoyed marching, at least those who survived to become Shock Troopers. Less found enjoyment from heavily-ladened physical exercise. Turning and walking backwards, he observed the Whiteshields. Their uniforms and wargear were all fresh and clearly just given to them on a whim. Uniforms were either too big and baggy or too small and tight on the wrong body region. Webbing couldn't be properly secured, belts, clips, and buckles would catch, and more than one helmet slipped down over their eyes.

Seeing it all again brought Marsh Silas back to his youth and he laughed. "Somethin' wrong there?" he asked Tattersall. His helmet fell over his eyes again and he pushed it back up.

"Staff Sergeant, this helmet is too big."

"No, it ain't."

"But Sergeant—"

"Now there ain't nothing wrong with that helmet," Marsh said, pointing at him. "Ain't too big, your head is too small." Looking over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn't walk into anything, he soon spotted a pile of rocks. He grinned. "And seein' as how we had to take our your sleeping bags, you ain't exactly at full kit. Load up one of them rocks into the bag, that ought to do the trick!"

All the Whiteshields groaned apprehensively. Marsh Silas just laughed.


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