Chapter 5
Marsh Silas was not sure if the Whiteshields hated him or loved him. From dawn to dusk, he had them working. He woke them up before roll call to take them on a run up and down the entire peninsula. Each time, they were in full wargear. When they returned to the base, huffing and puffing under their combat loads, they were just in time for the roll. After the entire platoon stood-to in their trenchworks, they sat down for breakfast. Marsh afforded the newcomers only five minutes to scarf down their meals before putting them to work inside the barracks. He set them to the task of digging out the new area for their quarters. With Yoxall and Stainthorpe, both combat engineers in their own right, supervising the construction, the platoon sergeant led the fresh troopers in song as their Type 9-70 entrenchment tools scraped against the brown earth. For three hours they worked in shifts of five, standing shoulder to shoulder as they attacked the soil. By the time they were finished, they were stripped down to their undergarments and bare chests, their skin slick with sweat and covered in a layer of dirt.
When the allotted time was up, Marsh Silas gave them twenty minutes of rest and five minutes to clean up. Then it was time for another rull in full wargear, this time making two laps of the entire peninsula from their trenchworks on the cliff, down through the base, out the gate, and all the way to Mason Bridge, and back again. Again, they returned to the camp red in their faces and out of breath. From there, they went to the firing range where they practiced with various weapons from their basic M36 Kantrael pattern lasguns and autopistols to Heavy Bolters. After their time on the range was up, they practiced lobbing dummy grenades at targets dispersed at different distances.
Bayonet training was next on the list. Fixing up targets tied to posts, he instructed them on posture, poise, and aggressiveness, as well as the best spots and ways to strike. He took great delight in watching the young ones scream at the top of their lungs as they charged the cylindrical bags stuffed with various fibers. Many bore hundreds of marks from previous practice thrusts. The platoon sergeant worked with them individually at first, adjusting how they held their weapons, how to place their feet, and what kind of war face to wear to terrify their foes. Then, they worked as a group, performing mock bayonet charges at the targets.
Hand to hand combat training was next and Marsh drew on a number of volunteers from Bloody Platoon for assistance. Here, the veterans also derived a great deal of pleasure from knocking, tripping, grappling, and otherwise pummeling the new recruits onto the ground. Marsh merely observed during this portion, providing input when a particular Whiteshield was struggling. Each of the volunteers provided them with enough instruction regarding wielding a combat knife or other melee weapon.
Once they finished their hand to hand combat drills, they rested for about half an hour and took their afternoon meal. Afterwards, Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen got involved. The former gave them advanced lessons in various leadership capacities, walking them through the usage of items such as the Data-slate, Vox-caster, and hard copy maps. While they already had a basic understanding of land navigation, Hyram enhanced their knowledge by studying topography, local routes which offered safer travel, how to interpret various elements on the map for more information, and how to utilize the map and the Data-slate overview as a single entity rather than separate tools. Of course, he was also teaching them to read and write. Many other members of Bloody Platoon joined the lecture for this portion. Hyram seemed to be making it his mission to impart his 'letter lessons,' as he took to calling them onto the men. Some were more enthusiastic for it, like Drummer Boy, Queshire, and the Walmsley brothers, while others, like Babcock, were not quite as enthralled. 'I be killing heretics,' he said, 'I ain't going ta do it with letters, sir!' Meanwhile, Carstensen educated them in their faith. As if she was most pious priestess, she educated them in their daily rituals of prayer, how to apply the various oils and ointments to their weapons, at what times of the day during their watch shifts could they pray, and tested their knowledge by flashing cards bearing symbols they were to always salute and others that did not require such action.
She was a very different kind of teacher than Hyram. As always, he took on the role of the father, speaking in soft, gentle, but informative tones. He was quick to smile and earnest in his laughter, allowing the Whiteshields to speak up now and again. When he engaged them with a question, he was very encouraging and did not admonish them for answering incorrectly. In fact, they seemed to rather excel at his lessons and took to them rather quickly. On the other hand, Carstensen played the part of the Commissar very well. She was not harsh but definitely firm to a point that concerned Marsh Silas. The veteran Cadians of Bloody Platoon not only respected her, but they liked and admired her. Their relationship to her was solidified by the fires of war, the proximity of their cramped quarters and tent-to-tent living in the field, and the necessity of relying on one another for survival. These Whiteshields did not have the same introduction to her and he worried that they would eventually not see her more than anything than the black and crimson uniform she wore. Bloody Platoon was a successful unit because of its cohesion and trust; if they didn't trust her that could quickly lead to problems in the field.
He was comforted only by Carstensen's refusal to be outwardly or overly harsh on the young ones. When they made a mistake, she ensured they understood that but did not admonish them to any lasting degree. As for the Whiteshields, they took it in stride having been around far more brutal instructors, officers, NCOs, and of course, Commissars their entire lives. But their true feelings remained dormant and unknown to the platoon sergeant.
Once their lectures were over, Marsh led them back out into the camp for more weapon drills and instruction. These lessons were imbued with more finger points in the care for their wargear and again, the veterans of Bloody Platoon played a vital role by imparting their collective decades of experience onto the Whiteshields. Certain aspects of their equipment were noted for being quite useless and it was better to go on operations without them. Different configurations for their webbing, bandoleers, cartridge belt pouches, grenades, scabbards, and sidearms were discussed in relation to different missions. How to keep equipment from making noise during a silent march was a vital lesson the veterans went over many, many times.
As the sun began to set, Marsh Silas loaded his trainees up and ran them up and down Army's Meadow for a third time. This time, they would complete three laps and upon the final one, he ordered the Whiteshields to race one another. Also being a participant of the race, he would keep pace with the fastest of the lot which tended to be Yeardley and Rowley, but during the final burst would beat them both. All the Whiteshields voiced their displeasure at having lost again. Marsh Silas was glad that they did not view Rowley and Yeardley as separate individuals but rather representatives of the entire squad. If they one, the victory would be everyone's. When they lost, they cheered their comrades on for a good show and assured them they would soon overcome their platoon sergeant. By giving them someone to compete against as a group, Marsh Silas knew their bonds would only tighten in the days to come. Forcing them to compete against one another risked fraying those affections.
Again, they broke for the evening meal which they scarfed down intensely. But the training was not over yet. Marsh Silas would order them into their wargear again and take them into the flower fields. Here, they honed their skills as light infantry; moving slowly, methodically, and aggressively through the flowers. Together, they practiced maneuvers and combat patrolling, hand signals, and moving without any running lights. Despite the physical demands of their training, this proved to be one of the most challenging aspects of their daily regime. The 1333ed was at its heart an infantry regiment and only possessed light and support vehicles. Their artillery and armoured support was limited to attachments from other regiments and to those survivors from battered units they absorbed over the years. In such a regiment, Guardsmen needed to be advanced in infantry tactics and skills as they were not dependent on the heavy support more robust regiments were capable of. Any dereliction of duty or mistake was swiftly discovered for Marsh Silas possessed a keen eye in these affairs. Here, he made himself firm, the only time during the entire training day he was so. But he was careful to impart this was not because he was angry at them, that he wanted them to be Guardsmen not only capable of completing their mission but also surviving it.
When the small unit tactics portion of their training was over, they returned to camp and once again worked in shifts of five constructing their new quarters. They would spend the balance of the remaining hours on this task until the majority of the base was ordered to stand down and rest. Marsh Silas finally permitted the Whiteshields to vacate the barracks, breathe in some of the cool night air, and wash in the communal showers down by the Medicae center. By the time the Whiteshields returned to their sleeping bags, they could not so much walk as they could shuffle along. Marsh Silas would congratulate them on completing another day of hard work. Most didn't hear it as the moment their heads touched the ground they fell asleep. The entire squad of newcomers slept so soundly and deeply he worried each night they would not be able to go through it again. But much to his amazement, they were bright and chipper in the morning. Not only were they prepared for the training, they were eager for it. Perhaps not so much eager as begrudgingly accepting of the taxing runs up and down the peninsula, however.
It was because of their spirit each morning he wondered if they despised him or not. Any clique of untested troops tended to dislike those who were hard on them. Back when he was a Whiteshield, he and his comrades were hateful of their instructors and their barbaric punishments. They learned more from the veterans and survivors rather than the NCOs and other personnel assigned to be their teachers. At most, the relationship evolved to a grudging respect rather than any kind of kinship. He wanted to be better than those instructors even if he couldn't match Hyram's fatherly attribute or the rigid instruction of Carstensen. At most, he strived to create for himself something in between so that he could balance them out for the young ones.
One day, not quite two weeks later, Marsh Silas organized the first work shift of the Whiteshields. Clivvy, as usual, volunteered. Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall made up the rest. Each one wore their khaki fatigue trousers and black boots as well as a standard issue tank top. Marsh Silas, on the other hand, was shirtless as the heat of the underground barracks was already getting to him. His well-built upper body, rippling with well-defined muscle, was already covered in a sheen of sweat. An olive drab bandana was wrapped around his head, keeping his blonde locks from matting to his forehead.
"Come on now, Whiteshields," he encouraged. "Hard work is good work, and good work is hard work." Besides the running, it seemed this task the Whiteshields found distasteful as well. By the time they were done, everyone had to wear a cloth over their mouths because of all the dust. The work was difficult because all they had available were the Type 9-70 tools which were good for digging but not so much for breaking through thick soil. Since their arrival, the sappers and engineers attached to the regiment were using their stock of pickaxes to extend the perimeter and create foundations for new installations. Infantry platoons were ordered to give up the vast majority of their tools. However, today was going to be different or at least Marsh Silas hoped it would be. With the work along the perimeter drawing a close Bloody Platoon was able to get their tools back. Cutting into the wall would be a far simpler and quicker task with the right instruments.
Marsh spit into hands and then rubbed some of the loose brown soil onto his palms. Standing on the left end of their work party, he decided to sing a work cadence. These were of a different pace than the marching songs Bloody Platoon was used. Work songs were faster, more repetitive, and required the men to tap out a beat or rhythm. So Marsh instructed them on how to do it, for they were only used to the typical Cadian marching tunes taught during their formative years. "Take the sharp end and cut a scratch into the wall like so. Yes, that's the way to do it. Now, begin tapping into that cut with the edge like I'm doing now." Marsh demonstrated, tapping a quick tempo. "Do so together on my mark...mark! Yes, that's the way. Good show! Now I shall sing a verse and then we begin. Match my pace, now. Are you ready?"
"We're ready, Marsh Silas!" the five Whiteshields declared, picking up on Bloody Platoon's enthusiastic response to the question. Marsh joined their quick tempo and soon there was a rhythmic, scratchy, tapping into the dirt. And then he began to sing:
"Ohhhhh-woahhhh...ohhhhhh-whoa!
Ain't been to Terra but I been told,
the streets is gold
and the Emperor glows,
work on down-a line,
work on down-a line,
work on down a liiiiine!"
Marsh swung his pickaxe and the others copied him. Soon they began digging quickly into the walls, all the while he continued to repeat the final lines:
"Work on down-a line,
Work on down-a line,
Work on down-a liiiiine!"
Soon, Marsh and his five trainees disappeared into a cloud of brown dust. Clivvy, Yeardley, Rowley, Graeme, and Tattersall, picking up the lyrics, joined in quickly. Behind them, to keep up the beat, the other five began clapping out the rhythm. Broken soil fell at the diggers' feet, piling up and up. The second team quit clapping and soon began filling up sandbags with the soil which were then passed along a lazy line of veterans. It ran all the way to the barracks ladder where a convenient, scratch-made pulley system, devised by Yoxall, Stainthorpe, and Hitch, quickly winched up the sandbag and then it was passed off to another line of men. Cadian Guardsmen were practical fellows who did not let anything, even soil, go to waste.
When he finally ordered them to stop so the shifts could rotate, a dirty, dusty, sweating Marsh Silas was confronted by the sight of his platoon leader. Hyram was leaning against a timber puffing on the platoon sergeant's pipe. If any other man had done so, Marsh would have thumped them over their head. But he respected Hyram and considered him to be a friend, and friends had a license to smoke his pipe without authorization.
Walking over, he took the pipe from Hyram and took a few puffs on it as well. He pointed it at the work crew behind him. "Good workers, ain't they, sir?"
"Indeed. Staff Sergeant, might I have a word with you in my quarters?"
"Right away, sir. Clivvy, keep'em working. No slacking."
While Clivvy began singing to keep the next shift working fast, Marsh followed Hyram through the tunnels and rooms of the barracks until they were behind the curtain of his room. The platoon leader sat down at his desk with a field quill and parchment. Before he took up the quill, he pushed over a tin mug full of water to Marsh. The platoon sergeant nodded his thanks, took a small swig, swished, and spit onto a pot on the floor. Then he took a greedy drink and sighed happily.
"What do you make of these Whiteshields?" he asked, picking up the quill and lowering it over the parchment. "Spare not a single detail, Silas. I must evaluate them before we next tramp through the hinterland."
Marsh obeyed. All of them were very good shots. It was a simple thing to say but it was actually high praise among Cadians. Advanced marksmanship was highly common among the Cadian population so it was hardly noteworthy when someone proved on the firing range they were a decent shooter. Snipers tended to be the only ones to receive high praise because their skills were so proficient they qualified for the unique training to handle a weapon as powerful and articulate as the Long-Las. But they stood out among the other Whiteshields and walked away from the range with the highest scores. As for grenades, they were decent, bayonets, passable, and for hand to hand combat, there was much room for improvement.
As to their characters, they were all hard workers. Even Rayden, whom Marsh Silas believed to be a laggart upon setting eyes upon, proved to be diligent. Out of all of them, it was their sergeant who seemed very promising. Cliffy was reliable, dedicated, and took her stripes very seriously. She sought to cement her place not only as their squad leader but as a member of Bloody Platoon. Responsible and trustworthy, she was already being relied upon by Marsh Silas as a second in the training process. Rowley seemed very interested in the Vox-caster and was working very hard with the Voxmen in the platoon to learn their trade. Already, she memorized the majority of the codes, clearances, and stations throughout the regiment. Marsh and Hyram agreed she would be the Whiteshields' Vox-caster. Leander, Merton, and Tattersall were solid team members. Tattersall proved to be tight-lipped but a hard worker. Leander was naturally curious and absorbed everything very quickly. Some members of Bloody Platoon found him annoying as he pestered them with questions about nearly every aspect of a soldier's life, but they gave him all the information he asked for. Hyram already appreciated his studious nature. Merton was reliable but Tattersall needed to open more.
Soames was confident, perhaps too confident, but that could be reigned in. Marsh wanted them to be capable and brave, but not stupid. Out of all of them, Soames was inclined to making those kinds of decisions. The Whiteshields were extremely zealous and itching to get in the field, but Soames was boastful. That could be bad for morale. Webley was a fine shot and reliable; Clivvy seemed to rely on her as her number two. She was a flexible soldier, disciplined, knowledgeable, and took to small unit tactics very well. Her one fault was her height; she was slow and surprisingly uncoordinated. On more than one occasion, Marsh saw her trip over nothing but her own two feet. Once, she even stumbled while practicing a bayonet charge. Her squad mates were very supportive but it wasn't enough. Remedial training was going to be required. Still, she was strong and very much a rock. Out of the Whiteshields she was the hardest throw to the ground or grapple with. If she ever got into a hand to hand scenario, she would have a distinct advantage.
Graeme and Yeardley were both short fellows and not the strongest, but they were dedicated chaps. The former was keen to make an impression and was constantly going out of his way to endeavor. It was hard not to appreciate his spirit. On the other hand, Yeardley too wanted to make a good show but he was quite effortless in this regard. The young man was proving to be the heart of the squad as he was quite charming and made everyone, including the brooding Rayden, smile and laugh with his antics. He presented himself as uncoordinated and easily tripped, bouncing off walls and floors as if he was made of rubber. This made not only his friends chortle but the old hands of Bloody Platoon as well.
"You should see the boy," Marsh chuckled, leaning back on the stool. "I say, even our Drummer Boy can't elicit such laughter."
"Focus, Silas."
"Yes sir, sorry sir. Well, they're both short, small lads. They can carry their wargear but they need to build up their weight. I'll get to work on that."
"See to it quickly. They need to be strong enough to carry a wound comrade. If they can't do that, I don't want them in this platoon."
It was a ruthless statement made all the more cutthroat by the quiet, gentle tone he said it in. Marsh was taken aback for a few moments and blinked at his commanding officer. He regained his composure.
"Indeed sir, but it's not like we can just send'em back from whence they came."
"I'm aware. I've spoken to Captain Giles. We both agree that Bloody Platoon, being the First Platoon of the First Company, must have at its disposal the best men for the job. If we have laggards in our midst, they shall be transferred to another platoon."
"You would split them from their friends?"
Hyram was busily writing but at that comment his hand froze. Taking off his spectacles, he scratched the side of his trim blonde hair with his free hand and set the quill down with the other. Folding them together, he turned to face Marsh and rested his hands on the edge of the table. Pursing his lips, he appeared thoughtful but also grim. Eventually, he opened his mouth and sighed.
"You like these young men and women, do you not?"
Whether or not they disliked him, Marsh Silas could not deny he was growing very fond of them. They were but lads and lasses of fourteen. Among them, Yeardley was the youngest, just having struck the number. All were fresh, youthful, enthusiastic, energetic, hard working, and they tried their best and more in everything they did. When he looked upon them, he could not help and remember his days with Overton and their good friend Clement coming up in Kasr Polaris. While he counted all the men and women of their Whiteshield squad comrades, those two were his friends. Only he and Overton survived among many others from the 540th Youth Corps and more than a few were in Bloody Platoon and in the 1333rd Regiment. Those days on the training grounds, tending their M36 lasguns in a big circle, catching fish and what few land animals were on the Caducades Sea Isles during the Month of Making, and reuniting after he arrived on Cadia from Macharia. Those were good days, when Guardsmen seemed invincible. Experiencing it all again brought great cheer to his heart and he hoped all ten of the Whiteshields would soon form a squad of their own right. It did not seem necessary to wait all four years to remove those white stripes.
Marsh Silas smiled earnestly and nodded. That made Hyram smile. "Well, I am certainly glad they meet your approval. But we must not forget we are at war and you are charged with making soldiers of them. Cadians they may be but they are wet behind their ears still, and young yet. Tis a disadvantage towards our efficiency and survival as a platoon. Make sure they are up to the task or I shall split them."
He did not speak unkindly but it was very firm. In a way, Marsh Silas was proud of Hyram at this moment. Over the months, he not only developed the courage to lead men into battle, earned the respect of the veterans, and his studious nature lent to a superior understanding of tactics. But an officer needed an edge, an uncanny ability to not only be loved by his men but also be obeyed. Officers need that ruthlessness or else their commands would never be obeyed. It was the sad state of leadership that brave, courageous men needed to be sent into do hellish things and often do so with their lives. The Whiteshields, Marsh Silas was swiftly reminded, were of no exception.
The platoon sergeant nodded gravely, indicating he understood. At heart, though, Hyram was a kindly man and offered a small smile. He leaned forward, reached out, and grasped Marsh by his bare shoulder. "Do try and make it as difficult as possible for them so that fighting the foe might seem to be trivial. They will live longer and thank you for it in the end."
"Indeed, sir," Marsh said with a grin, splitting his filthy face. Hyram let go and looked at his dust covered hand. Clicking his tongue, he wiped his hand over his knee.
"Alright then. Get. I must prepare for them their letters! Off with ya, man, off with ya!"
Marsh made a show of taking his time and Hyram playfully booted him on the rear end. Cackling, Marsh hurried out to rejoin the Whiteshields and finish their work detail.
###
After they washed, the Whiteshields prepared for their second run of the day. Everyone was in full gear as they marched towards the front gate. Marsh Silas did not lead this time. Instead, Clivvy was at the front and he was at the rear of their short column. Just as they came to the gate and were about to load their rucksacks with an extra rock, the platoon sergeant felt a hand tap the back of his helmet. He found Drummer Boy standing before him.
"Marsh Silas, Junior Commissar Carstensen sent for you. She's at the observation post. It's urgent."
"I'll be there right away!" Marsh replied and took off bounding. He raced up the slope, leaped into the trenches, and weaved his way through the men until he found her. She was standing with her back to the trench and was gazing at Kasr Fortis through a pair of magnoculars. Her orange hair swept back and forth across her shoulders in the sea breeze. Her high-peaked cap sat on the sandbag wall to her right.
Stepping into the post, Marsh saluted and she returned it. Carstensen regarded him for a moment. She then glanced over her shoulder and saw none of the men were paying attention or were out of earshot.
"Silas, is there something you require of me?"
"Junior Comm...Lilias, Drummer Boy said you sent for me."
"I did no such thing," Carstensen said, wrinkling her nose. "Either Drummer Boy has gone soft in his head, in which case I should bring him to Commissar Ghent, or he is playing you for a fool. The Lieutenant forbids from taking action, saying we can afford at least one prankster. But I tell you, Silas, a platoon such as ours should afford no pranksters at all. Are you listening to me?"
Marsh wasn't, for he was gazing at nothing in particular as he wracked his mind. Just what kind of joke could Drummer Boy be playing now? Then he realized he had no left orders for the Whiteshields, an oversight he could have kicked himself for. He slapped the front of his helmet so hard the sound of the smack made Carstensen look at him sharply. "Are you well, Silas?"
"You're right, I am a fool!" Marsh cried and took off running. Clambering out of the trenches, he catapulted himself down the hill and back towards the gate.
She called you Silas. Isn't that just the sweetest thing? Barlocke followed it up with a delighted bout of laughter that echoed and bounced off the inside of Marsh's skull, filling it with warmth. The platoon sergeant just growled. "Now is not the time!" he hissed as he ran. But Silvanus, does that not make you happy? "Very much so but I'm working right now!" Oh lest I interrupt the important business of soldiering, yes indeed. They've gone, by the way. "What!?"
Marsh slowed to a jog as he approached the gate. All of his Whiteshields were gone. Drummer Boy sat on top of the pile of rocks, cooly smoking a lho-stick. Gritting his teeth, the platoon sergeant put on his meanest face and approached the Voxman. "Just what have you done with my Whiteshields, Drummer Boy!? If you have done wrong by them, then I swear by the God-Emperor I'll have you digging for old mines with nothing but your mess kit spoon!"
Drummer Boy just laughed. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he offered Marsh a very handsome smile. Perplexed, Marsh just stared at him as he caught his breath. Oh my, why don't you look down the road?
Raising his gaze, he saw some specs coming back down the road towards the camp. As they drew nearer, he realized they were the Whiteshields. But each of them looked peculiar, as if their shoulders had grown two sizes. Walking just out of the perimeter with Drummer Boy, he realized each one had their M36 lasgun across their shoulders. Tied to both the stock and the barrel were haversacks and in each sack was a large rock instead of the usual load of one rock in their rucksack.
Each one passed by, jogging as fast as they could, sweating and straining under the weight. When they came level with Marsh Silas, they each offered a wink, a smile, and a respectful, 'Staff Sergeant.' Yeardley was bringing up the rear. His cheeks were bright red and the heat coming off his brow caused his spectacles to fog over. But he smiled at Marsh all the same.
"Methinks you have some catching up to do," he chimed, "but if thou cannot bear the load it's best if you sit on this one, Platoon Papa!"
The ten Whiteshields tramped up the slope of the barracks, looped around, and began their second lap. Marsh's lips twisted in a wry smile. Drummer Boy stubbed out his lho-sticks.
"These would-be gunmen here got somethin' to prove to ya, Marsh Silas," he said respectfully, "they ask me to help them do so. I hope my smokescreen did not see your meeting with the Junior Commissar go badly."
"On the contrary, it went well, or at least something close to well," Marsh said, his focus on the Whiteshields. After a moment, he shook his head and released a little laugh. "Well that ain't just gonna cut it! By the Emperor, load me up Drummer Boy!"
Marsh Silas swung his M36 across his shoulder. Laughing, Drummer Boy tied Marsh's own kit bag to the stock and then his own haversack to the barrel. He hefted a rock into each one and then the platoon sergeant took off as fast as he could. On either side of him, the swaying flower fields were bright yellow blurs. The salty ocean air stung his cheeks and brow. Sweat ran down his temples. Before long, he caught up with the others. It was a difficult run under the weight and his shoulders throbbed intensely. But years at war and in the heavy work of a Guardsman, his body was in its prime. While the others labored, he pressed on. As the troop came to the bridge, each one slapped the waist-high stone column that punctuated the ends of the bridge's guard rails. It was their custom upon completing half of the lap.
Upon seeing their platoon sergeant catching up easily, they all began to increase their pace.
"Come on, come on, let's go!" Clivvy cried. "Be you Cadians or be you some back alley Hiver scum impressed into the ranks!? Prove you're Cadians this day! Onward, onward!"
Everyone began huffing, puffing, groaning, snorting, and panting as they put every ounce of energy they had into their run. Marsh Silas was determined not to let them win. He was going to obey his orders and make life hard for them. That didn't mean he wasn't enjoying himself, he was smiling from ear to ear and could not help but laugh at the chase. As he closed in on the gate, victory seemed assured. But the tramping of feet around him seemed louder and very close. Turning, he realized they were around him in a semicircle. Before he could react, Clivvy grinned. "Upon him then!"
Marsh yelped as nearly every member of the entire squad dropped their M36's in the dirt with their heavy loads and tackled him. Buried underneath them, Marsh attempted to force his way out, kicking and wriggling as best he could. Reaching out, he tried to drag himself forward.
"Go Yeardley, go! Now's yer chance!" Rayden shouted. Marsh looked up from under his helmet, watched young Yeardley dump his load, and began racing for the barracks. Everyone began cheering him on. Unwilling to lose, Marsh took the opportunity of their exaltation to elbow and pry them off. Bursting out, he dropped his rucksack and took off after Yeardley. He covered the ground quickly, pumping his arms and legs so hard he thought the tendons in his ankle would burst. Go, Silvanus, go! Like the wind! Oh, good show! Yeardley was at the bottom of the slope. Above, Bloody Platoon whistled, cheered, and waved at Marsh Silas. Behind them, the Whiteshields encouraged their comrade.
Putting everything he had into the run, Marsh bounded up the slope and found himself parallel with Yeardley. Grinning, he began to overtake him. Glancing over at the other Kasr Polaris youth, he saw the strain in his temples, how his teeth were set, and how hungry his violet eyes were for victory. In him, Marsh saw himself, younger, eager to prove himself, and become the Shock Trooper he always wanted to be. His heart throbbed with the memories and it swelled. Marsh was almost at the top, Yeardley was right behind. There was a rock in the slope and the platoon sergeant steered towards it. His foot caught, he stumbled, but didn't fall. Yeardley took the opportunity, surged forward, and cheered as he made it to the top. Below, the Whiteshields erupted into a chorus of ecstatic shouting. Charging up the slope, they crowded around Yeardley, picked him up, and began parading him around.
Marsh caught his breath and wiped his brow. Yoxall handed him a canteen.
"Good show, Marsh Silas, good show. I guess they're a bit more promising than we gave them credit for," the demolition expert stated. "I thought for sure you had'em whipped though."
Marsh looked over at the Whiteshields who were still celebrating. Barlocke chuckled, the trickling water feeling routined. You let them win, didn't you. Marsh didn't dignify it was a response, but grinned. As Bloody Platoon began to disperse, they put down Yeardley, stormed towards Marsh Silas, and congratulated him as well. Before he knew it, he was hoisted on their shoulders as well.
"Marsh Silas, the Platoon Papa!" they cried jovially. "We'll follow you anywhere!"
"Oh, put me down, would ya?" Marsh laughed. Once he was on his feet again, he put his hands on Clivvy and Yeardley's shoulders. "Good work. Even if you did fight dirty. But one day you shall be Shock Troopers and when it comes to battling the foe, you have to fight dirty. Honor is reserved for your comrades and faith for the Emperor. Upon the enemy, unleash your training, your fury, everything you have. No mercy, you understand?"
The Whiteshields pumped their fists into the air and started cheering.
"No mercy! No mercy! No mercy for the foe!"
Marsh Silas beamed with pride. Even as Lieutenant Hyram's orders rang in his ears, the delighted cries of his pupils began to ring louder.
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