Chapter 7


You weren't wearing any clothes during the entire affair. Does that not bother you?

Marsh didn't think this was the time to be chatting with Barlocke's fragment and refused to respond. He continued trudging down the slope towards the training grounds. Below, the Whiteshields were all waiting for him, wondering what his lesson for the day would be. But Barlocke proved unwilling to let go of the topic. It is very unusual, at least let me say that.

"Barlocke," Marsh muttered under his breath. "I'm busy."

My goodness, you sure are prickly when it comes to Lilias. Marsh shook his head. "Carstensen to you. She is Lilias to me."

Barlocke laughed and the warmth spread throughout the platoon sergeant's mind, although he was more annoyed than comforted by it. But he finally let the subject go as Marsh Silas gathered up his trainees. "Alright welps, make a half-circle. That's it. Subject for today: weapon maintenance."

Everyone groaned in disappointment. Marsh narrowed his eyes. "Stop that, now. Being a Shock Trooper isn't all glory and battles. There is much that you must do to prepare for those things, from digging latrines and slit trenches to making sure your weapon is correctly cleaned and purified. A Cadian can do many things with and without his weapon, but I assure you that the M36 is the most efficient tool at your disposal. So let's get to it, get those kits out and start cleaning!"

Marsh Silas did not sit idly while the Whiteshields carried out extensive maintenance. He took a seat on a nearby crate, laid his M36 across his knees, and began to scrub the interior of the barrel with a metal-wire brush. After cleaning the mouth, he took a much longer road with a wider brush, and ran it down the barrel several times. With the smaller brush, he also cleaned the chamber for the charge pack, ensuring it was clear of dirt and dust. Common practice was to insert one of the magazines after cleaning to see if it snapped into place correctly. When he tested it, it worked perfectly. Next came the optics; the rail on top supported one, low-profile, elongated scope. Although the M36 was a hardy weapon which could take a great deal of physical abuse, its weakest feature was the scope. Carefully, Marsh dabbed the lens on both ends with a soft white cloth doused in a cleaning solution the men dubbed 'spit,' because it was clear and smelled like an unwashed mouth. The next step, which many Whiteshields forgot about, was applying anti-rust solutions to certain parts of the weapon. Just inside the barrel, around the charge pack chamber, the trigger guard, the butt-plate, and the metal hinges for the leather carry strap were the targets. This was a different solution which the Shock Troopers, at least the ones in Bloody Platoon, referred to as 'drool.' It was distinct from spit because it was more vicious, gluey, and descended slowly from the bottle. Many compared it to the streams and gobs of saliva leaking from an Ogryn's open mouth when listening to a superior officer.

Melee weapons were the next items to service and this was never a prolonged task. Many Guardsmen carried at least three; a bayonet, combat knife, and their 9-70 entrenchment tool. Some veterans among the Shock Troopers tended to carry four, usually some manner of club they acquired, bought, or even built, and often swapped their standard issue knives for trench knives. These were distinct weapons, with fighting knuckles built into the grip which were made various, dense alloys. As well, the pommel bore a dull alloy point which could crack open an enemy's skull. Not only did the blade need sharpening on the standard-issue whetstone, drool had to be applied to the metal knuckles and the crusher. Bayonets also needed sharpening and a little bit of the solution for maintenance and the 9-70 required less so. It was a durable tool and weapon, so one only needed to service the point of the shovel and sharpened edge. While 9-70's tended to be in surplus, Shock Troopers held onto their wargear for as long as possible. Stretching supplies as far as they went meant there would be more in dire circumstances. Besides, if they broke a piece of wargear, they knew they would have some of their wage docked to pay for a replacement in some dismal armoury. A more ruthless officer or Commissar would inflict corporal punishment and that was to be avoided at all costs.

Finally, the sidearm was serviced. These varied among the veteran Shock Troopers. Some carried laspistols while others elected to carry autopistols for their rapid automatic fire and stopping power against unarmoured targets at close range. Whiteshields were issued surplus autopistols by default and they usually weren't of the highest quality. But Barlocke bestowed Marsh Silas with the gift of a Ripper Pistol, a ferocious weapon with armour-piercing rounds woven with a poisonous substance that could immobilize and shortly kill the target if wounded. In a strange way, it was like a fire-and-forget weapon. Before the Inquisitor came to the 1333rd Cadian Regiment and led Bloody Platoon on their adventures, Marsh Silas never saw one up close. He thanked the Emperor for Barlocke's fragment to coach him on its maintenance. Much like the M36, it revolved cleaning the barrel, magazine chamber, ejection port, trigger guard, and the iron sights. Although it had a rail feature, Marsh Silas still hadn't found a scope in the armoury that would fit it. The suppressor required to be cleaned with the rod as well.

After the weapon was cleaned with both solutions, Marsh Silas grinned as they approached the time to enact his little plan. Having finished ahead of the Whiteshields, he stood up and looked down at the Whiteshields who were just wiping down their autopistols. Making a show of examining his wrist watch, he shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Now, now, that won't do. Y'all ain't fast enough!"

"But we're almost done, Staff Sergeant," whined Soames, who was the most put out with having to do something as droll as weapon maintenance.

"Might be fast for Whiteshields but it ain't fast enough for the Emperor's Shock Troops! All of you, select one of your autopistol magazines and hold it up." Each of the Whiteshields complied and met his violet gaze with confusion. "Now, eject all them bullets from the magazine into your hand. That's it, that's it...now polish'em individually."

"Every single one!?" Soames whined.

"But there's twenty of'em in mine," Yeardley moaned.

"Oh, quit whining!" Graeme huffed. "I have twenty-five but I'll be able to clean'em twice over before you finish yours!" He quickly set to his task, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on cleaning them with a cloth.

"This seems more like a punishment than a training exercise," Rayden muttered as he lazily set about to the task.

"Indeed!" added Merton. "When are we going to go on a real combat patrol? Let's find some heretics to kill! We're all weary of sitting in camp! We want to fight!"

Clivvy, sitting beside him, shouldered him.

"Enough whining. Pick it up, soldier." It was enough to spur him and Rayden both. Marsh Silas grinned, happy with their eagerness.

"Believe you me, I've been talkin' with the Lieutenant to try and get you out there. But if says we ain't gonna go, then we ain't gonna go. Orders are orders."

For a few minutes, the squad worked silently. Cleaning autopistol slugs was not an overly difficult task but it was certainly tedious. They were small, easily dropped if one wasn't careful, and they were often in excess of fifteen rounds per magazine. When they finished, they grudging held up the shining brass cartridges. Marsh Silas nodded and ordered them to reload the bullets into the magazine. When they finished, he inspected each one and smiled proudly. "Good work. Next magazine." Everyone groaned again but complied.

"This is simply cruel, Staff Sergeant," Rowley murmured.

"It builds character!" Leander boomed, clapping her on the back affectionately. But it was such a heavy hit Rowley nearly lost all the bullets in her palm. Beside her, Webley paused and looked up in a tired manner.

"Do we have to do this with all our magazines, Staff Sergeant?" she asked. Marsh nodded in response. She seemed to deflate a little. "I thought you liked us."
"Trust me, I do!" Marsh laughed, folding his arms across his chest. "But from time to time you gotta do the hard stuff, just like I did."

"Did your instructors make you do this too?" Yeardley asked, clearly interested enough that he stopped working. Gesturing for him to continue, Marsh began pacing in front of them.

"Nay, twas not the drill sergeants or my other teachers. No, it was not until I became a Whiteshields that I was forced to partake in this bothersome endeavor. And the man who did it is still with us this day!" He laughed dryly and shook his head. "The 540th Youth Corps was...blessed, we'll say to remain polite, by the presence of Commissar Ghent. Not only did he see fit to keep us in the highest moral and religious standards, he made sure to make our days in garrison a living hell. Grueling runs, heavy work details, constant practice at the range, punishment for the slightest infractions."

Marsh turned around, untucked his jacket, shirt, and thermal layer, and lifted them to expose his lower back. Everyone leaned forward and marveled at the faded scars that criss-crossed his back. "See those? That was a cat-o-nine tails Ghent took to me one day for my boot laces comin' undone during a march. Tied me right up to a tree and gave me ten licks fer it."

This he said trying to sound jovial but it was difficult to mask his bitterness over the affair. He had never forgotten it and was often reminded of it when Ghent looked his way. "Nasty stuff," he breathed, then resumed his more bombastic, storytelling voice. "And o' course, he made us take them rounds out and clean'em up. Again and again and again. Our fingers were numb by the time he'd make us stop! That's what ya get when you have a Cadian Commissar in your midst, I suppose."

Everyone exchanged a glance and looked back at him. Eventually, Tattersall cleared his throat.

"Beggin' your pardon, Staff Sergeant, but if you disparaged at suffering at such a task, would you not see it in your heart to do us a kindness and spare us from it?"

Marsh chuckled and waggled his finger at him.

"Don't be playin' with my heart there, boy."

"It seems futile," Yeardley said, pausing again while Graeme already finished his second magazine and started the third. "What could possibly be taught from this affair?"

"He wudn't tryin' to show us a damned thing! Ghent just didn't like us; he's a hateful fellow." The Whiteshields eyes began to widen and their faces became plastered with fear. Marsh waved it off. "You best never cross him or you'll be wishin' for cleaning these here bullets. If that man gets you in his crosshairs, you'll be the subject of all that hate. Doesn't matter if you did wrong or not, that man will drive you into the ground." Suddenly, everyone stood up. Marsh Silas blinked. "Now what are you all after? I didn't order you to stand up."

Nobody spoke and stood at attention. Marsh continued to gaze at them in confusion. Then, he blinked and turned around. Standing before him was Commissar Ghent. The imposing, violet-eyed officer loomed over him. His piercing violet eyes bore through the platoon sergeant. Both hands were in his coat pockets instead of folded behind his back; one might have seen this as a more casual manner but it made him look all the more menacing. Worse still was the unamused line his mouth was pursed into.

For a few, tense moments, all Marsh could do was stare back at him, wide-eyed. Already, he envisioned every punishment that the Commissar could inflict upon him. Another flogging, heavy work, a forfeiture of pay, loss of a finger, an official reprimand that would go all the way up to the Regiment, or maybe even a summary bolt-shell to the forehead. It took every fiber and muscle in his body to not tremble with fear.

Ghent remained silent and unreadable. Marsh Silas knew there was nothing he could say to get out of the situation. No amount of words or pleading or excuses would spare him from some kind of punishment. Still, he had to act. So he pulled his Ripper Pistol out of the leather holster on his hip, sat back down, ejected the magazine, removed all the bullets from it, and began polishing them. Only then did Ghent look away; he turned his attention on the Whiteshields who immediately resumed their postures and began cleaning their bullets diligently.

Marsh hoped this would make him go away. But when he glanced to his left, he found Ghent still standing over him. When he did, though, he thought he found salvation. Junior Commissar Carstensen was walking by and took notice of the situation. Her gait slowed for just a moment and then she immediately marched over.

"Commissar Ghent, sir!" she reported, saluting. He did not return it. Carstensen didn't waste a moment. "Sir, has any one of these troops committed an infraction? If so, I am the Junior Commissar of their platoon and I shall carry out their punishment."

It may not have sounded like salvation to the Whiteshields but Marsh saw her ocean blue and green eyes briefly flit in his direction. She was going to try and get him out of this without being punished severely or worse. But Ghent continued to ignore her. Instead, he walked around in front of Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant didn't want to look up but it was impossible not to. Ghent leered at him for a few more moments.

"I never knew what Lieutenant Overton ever saw in you," he said in a cold, calculated tone. "You have always been somebody who has been unable to find the deeper meaning behind things. If you haven't figured out why I forced you to polish those bullets, I doubt you ever will." He looked over his shoulder at the Whiteshields and shook his head. "Understand something ye Whiteshields, this Staff Sergeant has earned the right to call himself a Shock Trooper but he has been given everything else. He's soft and such leaders forge softer soldiers. You best pray for the Emperor's protection in the days to come."

With that, the Regimental Commissar turned around sharply. The bottom of his coat swirled around his legs and he stomped off. Marsh Silas watched him go and sank a little in his seat. Embarrassed, he looked up at Carstensen. She was still looking at Ghent leave. When she finally met his eyes, her face was expressionless but her eyes said everything. They were kind and sympathetic, and he found reassurances in them. Nodding, she left before the Whiteshields could suspect anything. Marsh smiled after her and then resumed his duties.

###

That night, the Whiteshields finally finished constructing the latest addition to the underground barracks. Their comb, as these sections were called, was instead shaped like a square rather than a hexagon. The far wall was the longest and accommodated six bunks in two horizontal rows of three. Either side had two bunks dug into the wall, one right above the other. Wooden beams and trim outlined the doorway, corners, and ceiling, providing extra support. In the center was a table, a couple crates, a few chests, and a chair. Their wargear was arrayed very neatly by the corresponding bunks. It was a fine piece of engineering both Arnold Yoxall and Sergeant Stainthorpe were satisfied with its construction after a length inspection.

The Whiteshields' reward was a quiet walk outside the wire with Marsh Silas. Its purpose was leisurely rather than martial. For the occasion, Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen joined them. Marsh and Hyram walked ahead of the little column, their M36's slung over their shoulders.

"Carstensen told me about what happened," Hyram said kindly. "That was very much inappropriate. I'll speak to Captain Giles about it and he'll take it up the chain of command."

"Oh, don't trouble yerself on my account, sir," Marsh assured him. "Ain't no use makin' a fuss over it. Ghent's always been that way and he ain't ever gonna change. I've just learned to accept it. Serve with somebody that long, that's about all you can do." He snorted. "To think I've fought o'longside him longer than some of these gunmen."

"I think you're doing a fine job of teaching the young ones," Hyram said, changing the subject. "But Ghent is right in a way; you need to be hard with them so they'll be prepared for when the action finally hits us."

"I'm hard on'em enough, thank you," Marsh said rather defensively. "I think they're ready for more, sir. Why don't you let me take them out on a patrol? Nothing serious, just a few kilometers up and down the road."

Hyram immediately shook his head, his wrinkled nose and pursed lips visible in the moonlight.

"Absolutely not. Even if Regiment allowed for it, I would not consent. They're still too green."

"They can hack it, I've made sure o' that."

"It's too risky, even with their stalwart teacher," Hyram smiled and tapped Marsh amicably on his pauldron. "In due time, Silas, in due time. I have enough to deal with already."

The platoon sergeant was very much aware that Hyram was still pressuring Captain Giles to take his request for a reconnaissance mission up the chain of the command. Bloody Platoon, being the first platoon in the company, had a secondary duty of acting as scouts. They received extra training in navigation and traveling over long distances detached from their Regiment. Hyram wanted to capitalize on this training and experience to sweep the countryside for the heretics' bastion. He, like many others within the platoon, was quite convinced a big strike was coming. Marsh agreed with him. Anything they could do to weaken the current enemy presence would aid them in future battles. But Hyram and Giles were getting nowhere.

Offering a dejected sigh, Hyram shook his head. Marsh could read his face and knew he didn't want to talk about it. At least, not with the Whiteshields so close behind. Frustration with command was better discussed in privacy rather than in front of the enlisted men. Instead, the Lieutenant managed to smile and looked up at the moon. "This is a fair treat for their hard work. It is a good night."

Marsh breathed in the crisp, clear night air tinged with salt. Waves lazily lapped the shore, the white water running up and down the sand. All around them, the yellow flowers swayed in the lackadaisy breeze. But the platoon sergeant grinned as they approached the bridge.

"Oh, this ain't no treat."

Just as he finished, a dozen figures popped out of the flowers on either side of the road. All of them brandished 9-70s, screamed, and charged at the Whiteshields. The newcomers burst into a series of shouts and confused orders. Clivvy managed to divide the squad into two lines, arranged them back to back, and ordered them to fire. Everyone raised their M36's, squeezed the triggers, and nothing happened. Everyone shrieked as they noticed their weapons were unloaded. By then, the unknown assailants were upon them and a melee ensued. The Whiteshields grappled, kicked, punched, dodged, and blocked effectively and some even managed to throw back the attackers. But in a few minutes it all over; every single was subdued and pinned.

Laughing, Marsh Silas walked over to them, planted his hands on his knees, and bent over to look them in the eyes. "Splendid, well done, you all just killed. This is why you always check yer weapons before you pass beyond the wire and always go out expecting a fight. There ain't no leisure walks in war, children."

He stood up and gestured at the masked men. "Off'em, now, and reveal yourselves." The assailants backed off and removed their black tactical hoods. It was the men of First Squad; Sergeant Holmwood, Corporal Efflemen, Monty Peck, Battiste, Hoole, Marsden, and the others all grinned and laughed. They congratulated one another as they caught their break; there was much back-slapping, handshaking, and exchanges of the victory fist Bloody Platoon adopted from Barlocke. But they offered praise for the Whiteshields defense and embraced them warmly.

Marsh Silas dismissed First Squad and they made their way back to camp, laughing merrily all the way. The Whiteshields, their pride sore, nursed their bruises and gathered around their sergeant. In turn, Marsh looked at Hyram. "You're right, they've still got a way's to go, but their hearts are in the right place. A little more time, they'll be ready to go."

"I pray you are right," Hyram said, amused.

"How did you manage to unload our weapons?" Clivvy asked.

"Did you notice how I handed each one of you yer weapons before we left?" Marsh teased. Clivvy opened her mouth to speak, then looked down at her boots in aggravation. The platoon sergeant laughed. "Come, let's sit awhile. You have indeed earned the right to rest under the stars for a time."

Everyone doffed their rucksacks, using them as headrests or seats, and broke out dry rations. Others smoked lho-sticks and drank from their canteens. Marsh Silas contented himself with his pipe, sitting on the stone anchor to the bridge railing. There was enough space that Hyram could share it with him. Both men removed their helmets, letting the wind tug at their trim blonde locks. Carstensen did not sit but she did stand beside Marsh Silas, her hands folded behind her back as she periodically took a few puffs on his pipe.

After a time, she held onto it a little longer and ran her thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the bowl. Marsh could not help but stare at her; her skin was so pale it seemed to mirror the color of the moon. Her orange locks, loose from a bun, swayed across her shoulders. Careful, Silvanus, others might begin to notice your gaze. Marsh rolled his eyes. I care not if they catch me looking, he said to Barlocke.

When Carstensen finally handed it back, she looked at him curiously.

"Commissar Ghent does not speak to you often but when he does it comes off as particularly harsh," she remarked.

"He's always hated me," Marsh replied with a wave of his hand. "And he knows I hate'em right back. Beginnin' your pardon, Junior Commissar. Tis not his station I despise, that I respect. Tis the man and the man alone."

"Even during the Raid on Kasr Fortis he seemed ready to reprimand you even after our triumph," Hyram said. "Is it just that the bond between you is sour or is there more to it?"

Marsh stared at his friend for a few moments. He looked back at Carstensen, who seemed curious as well. When he looked at the Whiteshields, all of them had turned their attention and were eager to listen. I, too, am very interested in this tale. You ain't found it for yourself, rooting around in my head, Marsh Silas asked him in his mind's voice. Haven't you learned by now I don't like to pry too deeply? Life would be oh-so-boring if I couldn't indulge in conversation. Come, let's hear it!

Offering a sigh, Marsh ran his hand through his hair and then placed it on his knee. He took a quick puff on his pipe and then held it aside.

"I was born in Kasr Polaris," he smiled and pointed at Yeardley, "just like you, lad." Yeardley seemed to take a great deal of pride in coming from the place as his sergeant and beamed brightly. "I came up with two lads, Overton, who was our previous Lieutenant before Hyram joined us," he reached over and tapped the neck of his pipe against the platoon leader's chestplate. Slightly embarrassed, Hyram blushed and pushed it away. "The other was a boy named Clement. Funny lad, charming, and smart. He was Overton's comrade before he was mine, and we three became fast friends. Ghent was a young Commissar when we were boys and we took great delight in outwitting him, but we got caught most times. We trained together, slept side by side during exercises, and even went through the Month of Making together. By the Emperor, what a time that was! All they gave us were our Militarum coats and survival knives and we enjoyed ourselves capitally. But after that we was split up; they kept training here on Cadia while I was whisked to Macharia, that blasted Hive."

He ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem again. Nobody asked him why and he was very glad for it. "When I finally came back to Cadia a few years later, the Emperor saw fit to reunite us in the 540th Youth Corps. Overton was our squad leader and Clement our corporal. We were quite effective even with Ghent constantly pressuring and chastising us. Then one day, we got into a bad scrap with a large band of cultists. This was the Battle of Route 569, a supply road linking two bases that were operating at the time. We were ordered to retreat and I was caught on the backfoot; took two autogun slugs to my lower back."

Marsh Silas turned and tapped the lower left side. "I was still moving but they shot me again in my leg. Kept dragging myself on but finally a mortar shell came down and rolled me into a ditch. I was half-buried in earth and couldn't move. I thought I was done for an' said my final prayers to the Emperor. But do you know who He sent me? Clement. That boy fought his way back to me across three hundred meters of bad country, patched my wounds, threw me over his shoulders, and ran me outta there."

He laughed a little and shook his head. Handing his pipe to Carstensen, he leaned forward and pressed his palms together. "My word...what bravery. And his bravery was rewarded with..." Here, Marsh's voice flattered and his jaw clenched. To recollect the scene after so long made his heart swell. He thought it would burst and if it did, he would not be able to hold back the tears. Instead, he kept silent and set his teeth as if he was biting down a tough piece of meat. Everyone looked at him, not in confusion or concern, but in rapt understanding. Nobody spoke but they seemed to understand. Hyram especially; he leaned closer, allowing their shoulders to touch just a little bit, just to let Marsh know he was there. And the platoon sergeant loved him for that.

When he finally settled his wounded heart, he took a long breath. "Clement was tired by the time he got me back to our secondary line. I was hobbling beside him, filled with shrapnel and bullets. Overton was the first to greet us and he hugged us. By the Throne, I can see it now. He put his arm around me for support, but Ghent came out of the smoke and fog. Stopping us, he looked at me in disgust. Then, he looked at Clement. 'You were ordered to retreat. You have disobeyed that order.' Before myself or Overton could say anything, he raised a laspistol and shot Clement through the head."

Marsh wrapped his fingers around each other to keep his hands from trembling. "I felt the heat from the bolt, hear the sound as it broke his skull. His head snapped back and he just slipped off me. Executed the bravest boy I ever knew for rescuing his comrade. A Guardsman should be rewarded for such a feat, not killed. I've nevah forgiven Ghent for that, but I've never failed ta afford him the proper respect of his station. And neither should you, no matter what." He waved his finger at them and smiled as warmly as he could.

This lightened the mood somewhat but he could still see the awed expression in the Whiteshields' vibrant violet eyes. He was about to continue, force through his melancholy mood to brighten their spirits. Before he could, he felt Carstensen's hand on his shoulder. It was just as the base of his neck and she squeezed very gently. Her fingers moved a little, her thumb grazing the soft skin at the base of his neck. Marsh Silas could not help but blush as everyone stared at her. Even he looked back in disbelief. But she did not see their eyes, as they were only for him in that moment. In hers, he saw a deep sadness and understanding. He opened his mouth to say something to her and she did the same. But neither managed to speak, their lips slightly parted, waiting for words that did not dare rise.

Eventually, she closed her eyes, murmured something to herself, and then nodded. She gazed at the Whiteshields.

"Staff Sergeant Cross is correct. Commissars have a duty to perform just as you do. You must respect them at all times. If that discipline breaks down, it will trickle into your ranks and effect your—" She stopped short and looked over her shoulder. "What was that noise?"

Everyone looked down the bridge. The moonlight was fading slightly, obscured and broken up by clouds. All they could see at the other end of the bridge was pure darkness. All Marsh could hear were the waves breaking on the shore and the timid whistle of the wind. But then Hyram stood, putting his helmet on and taking his M36 into his hands.

"I hear it, too."

They're right, something is coming. I can sense it. Barlocke's voice was thick but did not waver.

Marsh Silas extinguished his pipe, tucked it into his webbing, and just when he went for his helmet, he heard it as well. A kind of beating and thudding and pounding on the pavement. There was a metallic rattle, like so many blades being drawn from scabbards and from arms being carried. Permeating it all was a choir of ragged, rabid, rapid, breathing. The platoon sergeant put on his helmet and grabbed his M36. Just then, the clouds moved on and moonlight illuminated the landscape. A horde of hooded heretics, clad in rags, were storming down the bridge.

"By the Emperor, fall back!" Marsh Silas shouted as he knelt, took aim, and began firing. But the Whiteshields didn't; instead, they began loading their M36's and began forming a firing line. While Carstensen and Hyram began firing, the platoon sergeant grabbed Clivvy's collar and jostled her. "Did you not hear me!? Fall back!"

Clivvy reluctantly recalled the squad, who were brandishing their bayonets as if they were about to charge, and began running back to base. Marsh grabbed Hyram. "Go with'em, make sure they don't come back! Raise the alarm would ya!?" Hyram didn't argue and went after them. Only Marsh and Carstensen remained. She was at the left anchor of the bridge and Marsh at the right. While he crouched and fired, she stood and cycled her Bolt Pistol. The rounds struck the heretics in the front ranks, blowing open their chests, severing arms and legs, cutting them in half, and decapiating them. Switching his M36's power outage, his red lasbolts turned to gold and began slicing the heretics apart. But they came in their hundreds, leaping over the bodies and streaming down the bridge. When they were three-quarters of the way across, Marsh ran over to Carstensen. "Lilias, let's go!"

"I'll cover you!"

"I shan't leave you!"

Carstensen expended the last of her magazine, reloaded, and then joined Marsh Silas as they sprinted down the road. Behind them, heretics began firing their autoguns wildly. Bullets snapped on the pavement, cracked through the air, and sliced through the flowers on either side of the pair. Carstensen kept turning around halfway to fire a few shells from her Bolt Pistol but Marsh just kept running. Ahead, he watched all the lights in the camp turn and the alarm began blaring. He saw figures emerging from trenches, barracks, and even Regimental Headquarters. Hyram was standing at the gate, waving at them in a hurry. Bloody Platoon stream the camp, running as one cohesive mass, flowing around obstacles like a river to come to their comrades' aid.

Marsh and Carstensen were side by side and running as fast as they could. His helmet's micro-bead crackled to life.

"You best not look behind you!" Hyram shouted over the link. They were about thirty meters from the gate when the Lieutenant screamed, "Get down!"

Marsh and Carstensen grabbed one another and dove onto the pavement. The former landed on his elbows and pain shot up through his elbows. But he kept his head down as a fusillade of lasgun and Heavy Bolter fire flew over their heads. Behind him, he heard heretics screaming as they were cut and blasted to pieces by the incoming fire. Some were struck by some bolt shells and lasbolts they turned into mist or tumbled into pieces.

After a few moments, Marsh felt a hand tugged at his chin strap. Carstensen was saying something at him but he couldn't hear over the noise. Not until she pointed with her other hand toward the gate did he understand. Together, they began crawling their way back into the perimeter. When they passed through the gate and approached the sandbag checkpoint surrounding the gatehouse, Hyram and several of the Whiteshields raced out to pull them behind cover. Once there, Marsh and Hyram began going up and down the platoon.

"Mark your targets before ya fire!" Marsh shouted. "Maintain your base o' fire! Let'em have it!"

"That's it, men!" Hyram screamed. "That's the style! Pour it on'em! Show them what the Emperor's warriors are made of!" He was marching back and forth without a care to the bullets flying over his head. Some landed right next to his boots and he didn't even seem to notice. It was an inspiring display of courage, so much so Marsh wanted to sit back and watch him in action. Knowing the platoon was in good hands, he went over to the Whiteshields and began observing them.

"Rowley, you're aiming too high! Yeardley, fire discipline, switch to semi-automatic! Soames, you halfwit, ya don't yank the trigger, ya squeeze it! Yes, that's the way! Cycle that weapon properly, you have it, excellent work Webley! Tattersall, shift your fire right, they need you on the right! Come on, come on, give it to'em! They ain't getting inside the base tonight!"

Marsh paused briefly to fire a few shots. The enemy was coming on in great numbers and their bodies were beginning to pile up in the streets. Others stormed through the flower fields, sprinting, ducking, firing a few shots, and then repeating. Although they were provided with concealment, there was no cover for them. Gunners lowered their weapons' elevations and sprayed the fields. Cries rose up from among the flowers. Behind them, the mortar teams began assembling and the shells rained down on the enemy. Large columns of dark earth and torn flowers flew upwards. Some stalwart groups of heretics pressed close to the wire but were driven off with grenades.

An engine rumbled to life and Master Sergeant Tindall steered his Chimera to the gate. Making a roadblock of his vehicle, the IFV's Multilaser began opening up. Streams of red rocketed from the barrel, obliterating heretic squads. The hull-mounted Heavy Bolter and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter also added their might to the action. Some of the assaulters managed to close and lobbed grenades at the Chimera, but the armor withstood the blasts. After one explosion, however, the Storm Bolter stopped firing. Marsh looked over just in time to see the gunner fall into the turret.

Despite the massive amount of firepower directed on them, the heretics were clinging to their foothold. More and more seemed to be adding their weight to the fight. The velocity of their fire was increasing. But Marsh Silas got out of cover anyways, sprinted to the Chimera, and clambered up. Bullets pinged off the hull as he descended into the turret. Instead, he found Tindall tending to his wounded gunner. The Master Sergeant glanced at Marsh and pointed at the turret.

"Get that fucking gun up right now!"

Marsh Silas got back into the turret, cycled the bolt, and began firing. The weapon made his arms shudder as he raked the enemy lines with automatic fire. Muzzle flashes, tracer rounds, red, blue, and golden lasbolts, and the white flashes of explosions lit up the night. More grenades were thrown at their line; some blew up the coils of barbed wire and knocked over sandbag positions. But the Cadians returned to their posts each time and poured fire onto the enemy. It was a dazzling display of firepower.

Suddenly, the enemy stopped firing. The Cadians' own fire dwindled. It went from a barrage to a sprinkling and then ceased entirely. After a few moments of quiet, Guardsmen whooped, cheered, and gave thanks to the Emperor for another successful firefight. It stopped a few minutes later when they heard noise coming down the road. At first, some speculated it as friendly reinforcements. But Marsh Silas heard the combined breathing, the rattling weapons, and the thudding feet. Raising the magnoculars strung around his neck, he gazed down the road using the night vision feature. Another horde, even greater in number, was storming towards their camp. He dropped the scope and took hold of the weapon.

"Enemy contact! Open fire!" he yelled and the line exploded with another fusillade. It was going to be another long night.


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