Chapter 6


Ever since Marsh Silas had taken the Whiteshields under his wing, he took the advice of his commanding officer to devote a session to one specific weapon, item, or duty of the Cadian Shock Troops. This in-depth lecture was to be conducted every other day and always cover something different to keep them sharp. Hyram left this at the platoon sergeant's discretion and Marsh thought very hard over what to go over. To keep his Whiteshields from becoming complacent, he made sure they would discuss even the most mundane aspects or tools. On this particular morning, four days after Yeardley 'won,' the daily footrace, Marsh Silas decided he would go over one of the most useful yet innocuous of a Cadian's possessions.

All ten Whiteshields were sitting cross-legged in a semicircle at the top of the hill. Some appeared very reserved in their composure, doing their best to be professional. Others, like Yeardley and Rowley were barely containing their excitement. Without a doubt, they were very hopeful they would be going over something exotic and compelling. Perhaps they would go over different kinds of grenades other than the standard fragmentation types they utilized. Anti-armour Krak grenades were very alluring, not just for their different explosive potential but it means of its delivery. Or maybe Marsh Silas would have some volunteers from the Special Weapons Squads to go over their fabled plasma guns or even Yoxall's powerful meltagun.

Even those who were well composed could not high their bafflement and disappointment when a smiling Marsh Silas arrived holding an entrenchment tool in both hands.

"Subject for today!" he chimed and then held it high up in the air. "Can any of you tell me what this instrument is?"

Their faces fell, their mouths twisted in unamused smiles, and some bounced their eyebrows upwards as if they thought their erstwhile teacher had taken leave of his senses. Marsh lowered it as if he believed they couldn't see it and swept it slowly from left to right. "Come on now, then!"

Rayden held up his hand slowly. "Yes, then?"

"It's...it's a shovel," he said gingerly.

"You'll be taking an extra lap up and down Army's Meadow, son, because you are incorrect." Rayden groaned and his head dropped. Beaming smugly, Marsh displayed the tool again. "Another guess, if you please!"

Confused, the Whiteshields exchanged a series of glances and spoke in low tones with one another. Once again, Marsh was glad they were working as a team to solve what could barely be described as a riddle. He waited eagerly for them to come to answer. When they finally did, Clivvy raised her hand. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Sir, it's an entrenchment tool, sir," she answered proudly. Clivvy smiled wide and folded her arms across her chest, nodding.

"Do you know what Whiteshields earn for providing half-answers? An extra lap up and down Army's Meadow! We shall progress only if you state its full name!" Clivvy's eyes popped and her mouth dropped, aghast that she hadn't succeeded. Leander and Tattersall each patted her on the back. Again, they erupted into whispers and leaned into one another. Some debated that Marsh Silas was throwing them for a loop and they should stick to their answers. Others discussed there was no use for stating the full title of the tool as nobody referred to it as such. A few were keen to play the platoon sergeant's little game. Finally, it was Yeardley who raised his hand.

"Sir, what you be holdin' in your hands thar be the Type 9-70 Entrenchment Tool, sir."

"The young man from Polaris is quite correct. You earn yourself another ration of choco-paste for dinner." Yeardley cheered and clapped his hands together. The others groaned but were swift to congratulate their comrade. Again, their camaraderie pleased Marsh Silas. "This is one of the most useful tools in a Shock Trooper's arsenal. It is excellent for digging entrenchments, fighting holes, and as we've learned, for scraping the refuse of tunnelworks projects. With it you can fill sandbags, conceal mines, and cut false paths onto trails. As well, the bottom of the spade is very sturdy so you can use it as a hammer for numerous tasks. Here, you see the tip is thin and pointed. You might think this makes it weak and prone to bend. Don't be fooled! Not only is it good for breaking into earth, you can pry open doors and hatches with it!"

Marsh flipped the weapon around and then ran his hand down the right side of the spade portion. "You'll notice here, young ones, that this side has been sharpened. Now, this makes it the best side to dump soil out of especially if you're filling sandbags. But this also turned the 9-70 into a powerful weapon."

He pointed at Rowley. "On your feet, if ya please."

Rowley popped onto her feet and rushed up to Marsh Silas, keeping her chin raised. He appreciated her enthusiasm even if she sometimes came across as a little nervous. Tugging her beside him, he turned her again to face him. "When you strike with the 9-70, do so with this sharpened edge and bring it here, at the base of the neck."

Unwilling to frighten the poor girl, he merely lowered and held it over the indicated spot. "You will cut through flesh and break bone, separating the shoulder. Or, if you be pressed for time like so many o' us are under combat conditions, use the sturdy underside and make a great blow to the top of their head or to their face." Again, he made a mock swing that was very slow and deliberate. Rowley still flinched when the bottom nearly touched her nose. "Cultists and heretics be maddened, filthy creatures. Many times I've seen them discard their weapons just so they can rip you to pieces with their bare hands. So they make great lunges at you. If they do so, cause a blow like this."

Marsh took a step back, leveled the 9-70 so the flat of the spade was angled just under Rowley's jaw. Putting his palm on top of the handle, he thrust it forward but stopped short. "That is a blow the enemy shall never recover from. You'll probably take their head off with it. Sit down, Rowley, good show."

The platoon sergeant flexed with the 9-70 and then laid it across his shoulder. He flashed his pupils a big smile. "Now, you might be wonderin' about sumthin'. 'Marsh Silas,' you be sayin', 'why you be showin' us how a damned old shovel works for for killing when we has lasguns and grenades and trench knives?' Because, my dear Whiteshields, this is an effective tool and weapon with many uses. The versatility of it is something that should never be undervalued by soldiers like yerselves. You may lose your knife, your bayonet might break, and Emperor forbid, your M36 charge packs might run dry. When it comes to that, this is something you may always rely upon. Understood?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas!"

"Very good! Now, on yer feet, it's time for a run! Clivvy, Rayden, remember now: an extra lap!"

The Whiteshields dispersed and hurried to collect their wargear, for they were only dressed in their khaki winter fatigues and Flak Armour. Marsh Silas balanced the 9-70 on his shoulder and began walking after them. Jumping into the trench, he rounded the corner of the trenchworks and whistled to the tune of 'The Kasr Maiden.' But before he reached the barracks, he heard Hyram's voice in one of the observation posts down the line. He was speaking in a heated tone to someone.

Marsh Silas was not a gossip but he was, after all, a platoon sergeant. It was his business to know what was going in throughout the platoon as any impact on morale or relations between the men could have a dramatic impact when they were engaged. Even if it was the platoon leader, he needed to be aware. As such, he did not shy away from eavesdropping. While he did not enjoy it, he tolerated it as a grim necessity as his duty. After all, as the senior NCO in the platoon, it was his duty to know everything and act as if he didn't. That made it easier to confront troopers who were lagging behind in their work. Granted, Bloody Platoon did not have those kinds of men as they were all veterans save for their new arrivals. So instead of following his students, he quietly made his way down the trench, following the sound of Hyram's agitated voice.

Eventually, he came to an edge of the parapet wall and carefully peeked around the corner. Lieutenant Hyram was standing in the center of one of their camouflage observation posts. He was dappled with pockets of shade and brilliant white winter sunlight. Across from him was Captain Giles, the former intelligence officer turned company commander. Although a tall man and wide in his chest, he made a point of appearing amicable. Boisterous, talkative, intelligent, and genuinely kind, he was well-liked throughout the entire regiment and everyone in First Company was glad to have him as their new officer after Captain Murga's death. He wore a pair of long sideburns, mirroring Hyram's, although the latter's were less bushy.

Beside him was his dependable assistant and the new First Company executive officer, Lieutenant Eastoft. She was a trim woman with years of experience in multiple regiments, from infantry to artillery. Like Giles, her commission as an officer was not purchased or awarded through schooling. Rather, she earned it by working her way up the ranks from a common trooper. Some of the best and most famous Cadian officers came up in the Shock Troopers that way. Unlike her commanding officer, she was taciturn, curt, and reserved. However, she was an expert in everything she did and Bloody Platoon hadn't forgotten her leadership and bravery during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. She wore her blonde locks into a large bun and had a thin, pale face.

Hyram gestured with both arms as he spoke.

"Sir, I've spoken with Colonel Isaev. We are not the only platoon and not the only regiment to have suffered from these ambushes. They become more intense, more common, and more daring. Armored convoys, tanks, are being ambushed. Heretics and cultists are throwing themselves at us."

"Yes, Cadian High Command is very much aware of the situation and have ordered us to be on high alert," Giles assured him. Hyram was about to continue but the company commander held up his hand. "And I agree with you, Lieutenant, that it is not enough. These are clear signs of a buildup. I trust yours, Marsh Silas's, and Junior Commissar Carstensen's judgment on this matter. But do try not to be angry with Colonel Isaev. He answers to a higher authority."

"I'm aware and I've tried to reason with him. I grow weary of the policy lines he delivers. I want to take my men out into that hinterland, range it, and see where the enemy's strongholds are. If we can eliminate them now we can even the odds when the eventual attack comes."

"Believe you me, Lieutenant, I would love nothing more than to unleash you into the countryside. If I could, I would take the whole company."

First Lieutenant Eastoft, clearly worried her commanding officer would get a foolish idea in his head, stepped forward. Always seen with a Data-slate, he lowered it so she could speak to Hyam.

"The Colonel has explicitly forbidden any reconnaissance missions at this present time. We shall conduct patrols on the roads and exercises in designated training grounds. No more. His words, not mine."

"But they attack us in our training grounds. Patrolling leaves us vulnerable to ambush." He turned back to Giles. "I implore you, sir, let me take my men out. We shall be swift, silent, and unseen! We will reconnoiter the surrounding countryside and with the Emperor's blessing, we may very well ambush the ambushers!"

Marsh Silas wanted to give a little cheer. How he adored his friend and platoon leader's growing aggressiveness. He knew most of it was born from his concern of the overall tactical situation. Hyram possessed a unique tendency for a junior company grade officer for seeing things bigger than the platoon. It made him all the more ferocious. Giles and Eastoft shared a knowing smile, obviously pleased the man once thought to be the least promising officer in the entire 1333rd Regiment shaping up to be one of the best. Yet, their faces fell and all they could offer were their sympathetic violet gazes.

Giles reached forward and squeezed Hyram's shoulder.

"You're a good officer and a better man. I thank the Emperor for having you, but you'll have to come up with something else if you want to get out there. I haven't a clue what could convince the old man and furthermore..."

Marsh jumped as he felt a hand on his back. He whirled around, nearly hitting Sergeant Honeycutt in the face with his 9-70. The medic, dispassionate, merely recoiled to avoid it before coming back to standing straight up. He looked rather annoyed by the encounter and waited for Marsh to calm down and utter his apologies before speaking.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to the Whiteshields before their little stroll."

Marsh glanced at his wrist watch. They were ahead of schedule as the subject matter lesson for the day had gone quickly despite the little game he played on the Whiteshields. Whatever Honeycutt had in store for them would not put them behind, so he agreed. Honeycutt departed to gather whatever materials he needed. Eagerly, Marsh turned back to finish listening to the remainder of the conversation but found it was already over. Hyram, Eastoft, and Giles exchanged their salutes and the latter two departed. Both walked by Marsh Silas and he stood aside, saluting professionally. Both returned it and Giles added a friendly smile. Eastoft did not but offered a respectful nod instead.

Stepping around the corner, the platoon sergeant continued observing his commanding officer. Hyram's head hung low and his shoulders sagged. He looked very unsoldierly at that moment and rather than upsetting Marsh, this made him very sad. An officer in low spirits was just as bad a platoon suffering from low morale. As well, he didn't like to see his good friend disappointed in such a way. Making the sight even more pitiful, Hyram went over to the front of the observation post, took off his helmet, sighed, and set it down on top of the sandbags. Then, he braced his hands atop the sandbags, leaned on them for support, and lowered himself. He began shaking his hand and muttering to himself. Unable to make out what he was saying, Marsh thought about getting closer. Although, he already knew Hyram was admonishing himself. The man was harder on nobody than himself and often he didn't need to do such silly things. Rarely, he committed grievances meriting such self-deprecation.

Before Marsh could do anything, Hyram put his helmet on, took a breath, and turned around. The platoon sergeant ducked back around the corner and pretended he was walking in the opposite direction. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Lieutenant stop to look at him. They both smiled.

"Sir."

"Staff Sergeant, how goes the training?"

He asked in his usual tone; absorbed, well-spoken, and kindly. When he spoke, one could tell he received a thorough education. That was not difficult for a worldly sort like Marsh Silas and many of his fellow Shock Troopers to pick up. But with many, there was a condescending attitude in their voice, an expression of being better than whoever they were speaking with. One never experienced that with Lieutenant Hyram. He never talked down to anyone and never made them feel inferior by any means.

Of course, while he may not have been forcing it, Marsh knew he was putting on a face to disguise his frustration and worries. It was not because he was a self-conscious sort who needed to hide his feelings. Rather, as the platoon leader, he felt it was his duty to make sure his Guardsmen didn't have to worry about him. The veteran platoon sergeant appreciated that and often did the same among the men as well. It was a sad necessity of command.

"Splendid, sir. They keep asking me to take them out for a patrol."
"My orders stand: those Whiteshields shan't cross the bridge until I say so."

"Oh, they mean well, sir. They're eager to prove themselves."

"And so they shall but when we decide they are ready. That eagerness may get them killed. No patrols."

Hyram marched down the trench, away from Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant lingered for a moment. While he agreed the Whiteshields were not quite ready, he believed it would not be long until they were prepared to head out for some actual experience. Taking them out to find a little trouble was just as exciting for him as it was for them. But he would not disobey his orders. Quickly, he went to the barracks, donned his wargear for the run, and rushed to rejoin his pupils. When he found them at the top of the hill, Honeycutt had them lined up in a row. In their left hand they each held a small brush not unlike the one they used to clean their weapons and apply cleaning fluid.

The medic strolled back and forth, rigidly holding his own brush.

"This instrument is extremely important to your well-being as a Guardsman. Each day, you will apply the cleansing paste from this tube," he dug into his pocket and produced the tube which was wrinkled at the ends. "To the brush and then you will spend one minute brushing your upper teeth, and then another minute brushing your lower teeth, in a circular motion like this."

He demonstrated with his brush. Soames scoffed and Honeycutt immediately stopped. He stormed over and stooped over the Whiteshield. "Do you have something to say, young man!?" he barked. Not cowed by the veteran's toughness, Soames shrugged.

"We be warriors! Why we gotta mind our teeth so much?"

This earned him a heavy-handed slap across the cheek that sent him staggering. Holding his cheek, he stood back up but froze when he saw Honeycutt with his hand raised again.

"Dolt! You cannot be a warrior if you are sick! If your teeth rot or decays, so too will your gums, and then the infection will spread and I assure you the treatment is more painful than using this paste and this brush!" He held up both items. "Before breakfast and after dinner, you will brush and I will watch. Failure to do so will earn you a lickin' I shan't quickly repair."

Honeycutt looked down at Soames feet and saw he dropped his toothbrush. He picked up and whipped into the young man's face. "Clean it, you fucking miserable excuse of a soldier, and learn some damn respect! Or I'll learn ya some, how about that?"

The medic stormed towards Marsh Silas. At once, his posture relaxed and he turned on his heel, standing shoulder to shoulder with the platoon sergeant. "What a pack of young fools."

"They mean well and they are good learners."

"That does not mean they are absolute dullards," Honeycutt growled. "We can impart only so much wisdom upon them. In the end, whether they live or die will be up to themselves and how well they listened." He chuckled a little. "And if the Emperor is smiling on them. I pray He keeps their ears open as well as their eyes."

"I'm quite confident they shall perform admirably under fire, old friend," Marsh Silas assured him. Honeycutt gazed at him, unconvinced. After a few silent moments, he shook his head and returned to the barracks.

"Try not to get too attached to them, if ya can," he said as he left. Marsh Silas seethed at the comment but chose not to respond. The Whiteshields, who either didn't hear or were pretending they didn't hear the exchange, waited patiently but excitedly some paces away. Upon seeing their eager expressions for something so grueling as a run in heavy packs, Marsh was instantly cheered. Still, he put on his best 'sergeant face,' and roared at them.

"Onwards, ye dogs! There shalt be no loafers in my platoon!"

###

Having so carefully constructed a training and work schedule for the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas was also keen to surprise them by breaking it up. Sometimes, they went to the range before they performed their first run of the day. On other occasions, more intensive digging occurred before Hyram and Carstensen's lessons. To further add to the confusion, Marsh sometimes conducted the Heavy Weapons drills without the men from the appropriate squads. This tested the Whiteshields' recall and much to his delight they proved to have good memories. As well, he was beginning to punctuate their days not with the digging but with small unit tactics in the fields.

That night, the moon was out as they maneuvered through the flowers. The wind was calm and the ocean waves gently lapped the shore. Marsh Silas was in the rear while the squad was divided into two teams. Both were in wedge formations; Clivvy, in charge of the first team, was on point. In typical doctrine, command of the second team fell to the squad leader's assistant. Webley was still shaping up for a promotion to corporal and was on point as well. The formations were abreast of one another and moved slowly, carefully.

The key to night maneuvers was movement. A Guardsman needed to move deliberately and quietly, but still keep in mind their formation. Already, they were making marked improvements. Before, they tripped on stones, cracked the stems of flowers, and allowed their wargear to rustle. Now, they were very quiet and knew where to step to minimize their noise output. Everyone relied on hand signals; Clivvy and Webley were quite adept at this. In truth, they all were, although Soames tended to be lazy regarding them and Graeme struggled to remember each code. It was not for lack of trying. Yeardley, on the other hand, took the opportunity to make jokes as he liked to make the others laugh. If he was on point, he would raise his fist and bring everyone to a stop. Then he would begin making little walking motions with his fingers, outline someone who was rotund, and then smack his bottom. No one quite understood what he was trying to convey but they still snickered at his silliness. Marsh Silas couldn't help but be amused himself. He chose not to discipline him because he only ever did it once or twice and was quick to resume his duties.

But the platoon sergeant was already grinning because he had something special planned for them tonight. The entire squad was on the right side of the road and were monitoring their surroundings. Clivvy's hand snapped up and curled into a fist. Two figures came patrolling down the road. That had never occurred before. Now, Marsh Silas was well aware these two men were the patrol that tramped up and down the Meadow Road every two hours just to have a look at the ground outside the perimeter. If heretic attackers were crossing the bridge for another probing attack, they were not to engage but retreat to the base. The alarm would be raised and a defense mustered. Surprisingly, ever since Colonel Isaev ordered the new watch, the heretics made no attempt on the base.

Marsh Silas closed in on the Whiteshields. "Potential hostiles. Course of action, quickly now!"

"Open fire?" Leander whispered cautiously.

"Concealment!" Clivvy hissed and they all went to ground, except for Marsh Silas. He walked among them, observing them, ensuring they all stayed quiet and kept their heads down. When he found Yeardley, the young man was laying on his back instead of his stomach, twiddling his thumbs, and mouth a little tune. It looked as if he was just having a lazy lay in the sun! Marsh playfully booted him in the side to make him roll over. Graeme and Rowley were too close to each other and shaking. He split them up and whispered low enough for only them to hear that there was nothing to be afraid of. Soames was trying to open a small ration packet which was promptly confiscated by Marsh Silas.

The two patrolling Guardsmen walked by. Upon seeing Marsh Silas standing in the flowers, they both saluted. He turned it.

"A good night to you both," he said in a clear voice.

"And to you, Marsh Silas," one of them said kindly. "Take care until the morrow."

They continued on their walk to the camp. Some of the Whiteshields began to get up. Marsh turned around and quickly shunted them back down by pressing on their helmets.

"You do not move until your squad leader tells you, too." He went to Clivvy's position. "As the squad leader, you must use your best judgement to gauge whether or not the way is clear. Only then can ya expose yerselves."

Clivvy thought for a moment. Once the sound of the patrol's feet on the pavement drifted away, she poked her head up and made a full scan of the area. When she finished, she tentatively stood up but kept hunched over, as if ready to dive back onto her belly. Then, she finally stood up straight and pulled her hand upwards, beckoning the others to rise. Everyone did except for Merton who apparently was paying attention. A boot in the pants from Marsh Silas got him scrambling, though.

Once they were formed up and Clivvy began walking again, Marsh Silas strode confidently between the two formations. "Very good," he told her, then began walking backwards to face the others. "At night, rely on your senses no matter how full the moon. Reserve communications using your micro-bead until you're really, really, really sure the enemy is not close by. The same goes for speaking aloud. On a darker night, you must be even more careful with how you move and communicate."

The patrol continued until they reached the bridge. Each Whiteshields ceremoniously tapped the stubby anchor column and then assembled in a line for Marsh's final words of the evening. "You're doing very well. Be sure to focus and don't act rashly. Obey your squad leaders but never be afraid to pitch an idea or relay vital intelligence. If you have an idea, share it, it may be o' use. That'll make you a better soldier and who wouldn't want to be more than they already are? We should strive to become more, should we not?" I daresay, Silvanus, you are certainly unoriginal. Marsh Silas just smiled and then nodded towards the camp. "Off you go, hit them thar showers and then its to bed with ya."

He didn't see the use of ordering them to patrol the way they had just come like other nights. Besides, he needed to speak to a few of them. "Rowley, Graeme, hang back a moment."

The squad seemed reluctant to let their two friends stay behind, perhaps fearing they were going to be reprimanded for something. Both Whiteshields exchanged a skittish glance but marched up to Marsh Silas and stood at attention. He smiled at them. "At ease, you two. I saw you two were shakin'. No shame, no shame. No Cadian goes into battle without fear. You must learn to conquer it on your own. An officer or sergeant or, Emperor forbid, a Commissar may not always be there to press you. You best pray it'll never be a Commissar, too. Jus' remember, you ain't ever gonna be alone out there. You'll have Bloody Platoon at your backs. Run along, now."

Both said their goodbyes and hurried back to their squad. Ever loyal, the others waited nearby, not quite out of earshot. The platoon sergeant knew they overheard and was glad; it was meant for all of them, really. Marsh sat on the anchor for a few moments, lit his pipe, and breathed in the salty night air. He gazed at the moon as he puffed away and found it quite beautiful. There was no need to admonish young Rowley and little Graeme. Most NCOs would have scared their Whiteshields, telling them that if they didn't sharpen up while they could their deaths would be swift. That kind of tactic could only go so far, though. He believed it would be better to encourage them and assuage their worries rather than terrify them.

Are you sure, Silvanus? Perhaps that fear might motivate them better than their 'Platoon Papa,' nursing their feelings. Marsh chuckled. "My dear man," he said, "I ain't ever deigned to tell ya how to be an Inquisitor. I ask for the courtesy that you don't tell me how to train my Guardsmen." Barlocke scoffed and it echoed within Marsh's skull. You received a great deal of training from those whose stylings you abandon and you still live. Could we not attribute your continued survival to their lessons? "I'm alive because o' the Emperor, my good friends, and by being a mean fuckin' bastard of o' Shock Trooper," Marsh said confidently.

Barlocke was silent for a time. Eventually, he sighed and it washed over Marsh's mind like cool water. He shivered from the tingling sensation. I trust you, Silvanus, but do be careful; you carry me with you and I do not wish to follow my mortal self into the great unknown just yet. "Worry not. I suspect your mortal self still draws breath." He looked up at the moon again and sighed. "Somewhere."

Having grown a bit sad, he decided not to wallow and returned to the camp. At the communal showers, he found the Whiteshields finishing up. Their faces were tanned from so much sun but their bodies remained very pale. Everyone dried off, donned their uniforms, and returned to the barracks. Marsh decided to take one for himself once they were gone.

There were two shower units in the base and could house about sixty men. Each one was located inside a wide then filled with pipeworks stemming from large, cylindrical water tanks outside. Attached to wooden timbers and beams, the pipes ran the length of the massive row of showers. The row ran down the center of the tent on a wooden platform. Each stall was about waist high with a showerhead directly above it; the tray of the actual stall was metal with wooden trim. A Guardsman could place his grooming kit on a short shelf on the right side of the stall, just out of the water's reach. Uniforms and other wargear were stashed on a wooden bench a meter or so outside of the stall.

Normally, Guardsmen did not wash themselves every day and depending on the post, a shower could be a true luxury. But the base on Army's Meadow was well fortified and supplied, allowing it to expand its infrastructure. Even with showers readily available, enlisted men could not take without permission from their immediate superiors, that being their platoon leader or the senior NCO in their outfit. Marsh Silas, being an NCO, did not have to ask for permission so long as his duties for the day were complete, which they were.

He undressed and shivered. The tents were not heated at all and even with the flaps closed, the winter cold got in. Thankfully, the water was heated and he was glad to be under it swiftly. A sigh passed his lips as his blonde hair was matted down and the water coursed over his muscular frame. His dog tags jingled against his chest with each step he took, feeling the water pool on the metalled floor of the stall. Taking his time, he scrubbed his hair and enjoyed the suds sliding down his chest. After rinsing, he reached into his kit and produced a palm-mirror. Propping it against the post of the stall, which ran all the way to the overarching beam, he drew his razor and shaved his stubble.

When he finished, he washed his face again and set the razor down. Turning to grab his bar of soap, he found Junior Commissar Carstensen leaning on the wall of the stall beside his own. "Ah, evening ma'am," he greeted with a smile. He closed his eyes, pressed the soap to his chest, and then his eyes popped up. Recoiling a little, he just barely kept from dropping the soap and looked back at Carstensen. "Lilias, by the Emperor!"

"Silas," she greeted. Her arms were folded one on top of the other, resting on the wall. Dangling from her lips was his pipe, a thin trail of wispy gray smoke wafting out the bowl. Her high-peaked cap was tipped back on her head, exposing her orange-haired head. "You were not in the barracks upon your Whiteshields return, so I thought it best to search for you. I see you take pleasures in lonely, evening showers."

She was correct in that. Marsh loved his comrades and living among the platoon. Even so, a man needed to have some time to himself and waiting until the coldest part of the night for a shower guaranteed such time. Having been found out, Marsh Silas could not help but blush as Carstensen continued to stare at him. She smiled a real smile, not the kind of upwards line that usually tugged at her lips. "Don't let me stop you. Take your time, please."

Warily, Marsh began running the soap over his chest. He looked away from her for a time. When she said nothing, he looked back. She was still gazing at him.

"Is there something you wanted to talk with me about?" he asked after a polite cough. Carstensen eyed him from head to toe.

"I just wanted to be sure you are well. Suppose I stay just for some company."

Marsh Silas, forgetting that he was with a Junior Commissar, laughed and held out his soap.

"Then make yerself useful and get my back!"

Carstensen frowned at the soap. Marsh turned bright red. Awkwardly, he released a nervous bout of laughter and retracted his arm. He prepared to offer sincere, rapid-fire apologies so as not to offend her. Instead, her gaze softened.

"Don't tempt me," she said. This made the platoon sergeant blush again, for he could not tell if she was joking or earnest. Regardless of how she meant it, he began scrubbing himself all over again. Carstensen remained, smoking Marsh's ebony pipe and watching him bathe. He was inclined to go about it in a hasty fashion yet he did not want to speed up this time he indulged so rarely. Hot water, peace, quiet; even with Carstensen present, he had that. Well, perhaps not peace of mind.

Before he finished washing his abdomen, the drenched hair covering his pronounced muscles, he faced her again.

"Junior Commissar—"

"If my presence so bothers you simply ask and I shall depart," she said in a curt tone. Marsh Silas was not taken aback by her tone but found it stumped by the statement. Carstensen's posture hadn't changed and something flickered in her ocean blue-green eyes. He tried to decipher it, that brief flash of light. Perhaps it was that natural fire in her heart, sparking in indignation. Yet she did not seem overly angry or put out. Could it be that she did not want to leave and would instead be chagrined if asked? Carstensen didn't give him time to finish his line of thought. "Well, does my presence bother you?"

"No," Marsh Silas answered earnestly, his voice barely above a whisper. Carstensen nodded, puffed on the pipe with some concentration, and then blew a smoke ring. Marsh smiled as the ring rose into the air and then faded into the steam hanging over their heads. "Marvelous!"

Carstensen just laughed in a humble fashion. The platoon sergeant looked back at her, a starry gaze in his violet eyes. He laughed a little and rolled his shoulders. "I can't figure it, Lilias. Why ain't you like them other Commissars? Beg pardon, but it doth seem like they be a harder bunch. And I don't mean to say you are needing an edge, your valor and bravery is known by all and especially me! But you be far kinder than many I've known, and I've known a-plenty."

The Junior Commissar studied him for a few moments. Then, she reached over and picked up the palm-mirror, still balanced against the post. Inquisitively, she looked into it as if she was searching for something. All that was shown was her own face; pale cheeks, scars, the puggish nose, her gleaming eyes like the surf in daylight. So enraptured by her intense stare Marsh forgot that he himself was without any clothes and standing under hot water. Never before had he wanted to know so badly what another person was thinking. He wanted to understand just what she was looking for in the mirror, in herself. It was as if the answer was a mystery to her too and a part of him wanted to aid her in its discovery. How he wanted to say something but no words came to mind!

Do you wish for my aid in this matter? Fragment I may be, but this fragment is in possession of some power, I assure you.

Please, thought Marsh Silas and thus speaking to Barlocke, let me have this moment to myself. Saying nothing more, Barlocke acquiesced to the platoon sergeant's plea. Eventually, Carstensen set the mirror down on the shelf.

"I was blessed by the Emperor when the Officio Prefectus sent me to Cadia. I wanted to go to the toughest front in the Imperium there was and made that quite clear to my superiors. To me, there was no better way to earn one's rank in this most hallowed profession." She spoke almost as if she was sad. It was so foreign to her speech that even Marsh Silas was surprised. "I got what I wanted. My prayers were answered. I have no regrets."

At some point, she had taken off her gloves. Her strong, bare finger began running back and forth across the divider between the two stalls. "A Commissar must be passionate, pious, zealous, and inspirational. Yet they must be ready to punish and even slaughter. Both are quite difficult to do, more than you may think, although that may be dependent on the person. I am capable of both but war, in all its sirens, alarms, blasts, tragedies and horrors, glory and honors, has the most peculiar effect of dampening the soul."

She narrowed her eyes. "You can both wash and listen. Dawdle no longer, Silas."

"Oh, yes, quite right, Lilias!" Marsh hastily began washing again. He kept looking up at her as she continued speaking.

"I brought with me the gusto Commissars are expected off. During those early days, plunging into battle, I believed I could keep up that bombastic zeal until the day the Emperor requires me to join him. But those days folded into months and then into years. I have been at war a long time, Silas, as have you. My spirit is unbowed and I will give everything for this holy Imperium, whether that be in battle or in garrison. But, there is that dampening. I do not know where and when, but in me there was a change. The fire still burns but perhaps not as ferociously. I learned that my energies needn't all be spent at one time or another and there are some things a Commissar ought not to do, no matter how many times they've been told they ought to. Do you understand me, Silas?"

"I believe so," was the response. Marsh was fairly certain he understood but not entirely. Carstensen had spoken earnestly but with an element of vagueness. While not confused, he was curious as to just what a Commissar oughtn't and ought to do. He hoped, one day soon, it would be revealed to him. But what was quite clear was that she was definitely not like any other Commissar he met before, not even like the mean old Commissar Ghent.

Carstensen said nothing more and stood by while Marsh turned off the water, dried off, and put his uniform back on. He packed up his grooming kit, stuffed into his kit bag, and collected the rest of his wargear. Instead of putting on his helmet, he clipped it to his cartridge belt and walked out shoulder to shoulder with the Junior Commissar. They walked slowly through the cool night, the wind tugged at their hair.

Suddenly, she stopped. Marsh did too and before he could react, she put the neck of the pipe to his lips. "I have not told anyone that. I thank you. But I also trust you shall tell no others."

"I would not dare," Marsh said with an amicable grin. Carstensen nodded.

"I am most glad the Whiteshields have you to look after them," she said suddenly. "But try not to fill their heads with dreams. You are no Barlocke, after all."

"Oh, they have enough dreams already, lemme tell ya. We all do, don't we?"

Carstensen looked at him queerly. Marsh shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I can't say for sure. But right now, this certainly feels like a dream."

The Junior Commissar smiled softly.

"Yes, it does." And they walked slowly up the hill, bathed in moonlight.


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