Chapter 8
When dawn arrived, the fields in front of the base were strewn with corpses. Rigid, their arms were twisted upwards, as if reaching for the sky, or their legs were twisted in terrible directions. Grisly piles of bodies were on either side of the road, some so high a man could have waded waist-deep into them. Severed body parts littered the pavement and dark, dried blood stained both road and flower petals. Much of the flowers closest to the perimeter were shredded or burned away. Shallow craters marked every mortar shell that landed on the enemy. Here and there were a few bones stripped of flesh or a small collection of putrid intestines spilled from their owner. In a few places, the heretics managed to breach the outer wire by throwing themselves on the fencing. Such gaps were filled with the bodies, many still clinging or strung across the barbed wire. Some even lay at the foot of Master Sergeant Tindall's Chimera, still parked in the main gate. But the turret was empty and the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter was in the hands of another crewman.
Marsh Silas was over at the right flank with some members of Bloody Platoon. With their M36's slung over their shoulders, they watched the morning waves wash up on the beach. Sunk into the damp sand were the bodies of countless heretics who attempted a flanking maneuver during the middle of the night. Over the course of the battle, the ocean dragged away some of the dead while the remainder sank into the sand. Now all that was visible were the heads and shoulders of the dead, turned halfway towards the base as if they were breasting a rainstorm. Most of the equipment they dropped was taken by the sea as well, but a few primitive and shoddily-constructed autoguns were stuck into the sand like grave markers. Fat beach flies buzzed in sable clouds above the bodies, burrowing into their open mouths, eye sockets, and ears for their feasts. Above, seabirds circled and occasionally descended to tear away strips of flesh.
Upon observing this, Caferro, the grenadier of Second Squad, flicked his lho-stick onto the ground and stubbedit out.
"Guessin' them birds care not if they feast upon holy Cadian flesh or the corrupted skin of the enemy. Do you think they even care?"
"Like them awful black bugs," Jupp began, still smoking his own lho-stick, "they're impartial as to who they devour." At this, he shook his head, took a final drag on his smoke, and then flicked it away. Despite being ordered to recuperate from his wounds several weeks earlier, Jupp considered himself healed enough and joined the fray during the night. Marsh Silas was proud of him for that. He was proud of the entire platoon; they accounted themselves well during the battle. It was not the heaviest nor most terrible skirmish they ever fought; while it seemed harrowing, they sustained a number of such attacks before and all agreed the heretics' moves were folly. As insignificant as a battle could be, Marsh did not think it fair or wise to pass up on the bravery of warriors. Not only were they courageous, Bloody Platoon fought keenly and in tandem with the rest of the regiment. It was all he could ever ask of them. Even the Whiteshields did well.
Deciding he should check on them, Marsh turned on his heel and tramped back towards the front gate. Along the way, he passed many Shock Troopers from all the companies in various states of ease or rest. Some cobbled together enough sticks and wood to make a few morning campfires. A few used the opportunity to roast a few dried meat strips or brew recaf. Others drew a heavy coat or poncho over themselves as a blanket, lay by the flames, and slept. More than a few did not rest, either keeping watch, policing their wargear, collecting ejected charge packs littered on the ground, or checking on the men under their command. Medics and field chirurgeons plied their trade, treating the worst cases at a temporary aid station close to the perimeter. Other, less serious cases were marked with triage tags that had all but the green, category-three strip torn away. Some Enginseers were prowling around, servicing heavy weapons and vehicles that were engaged in the fighting.
Marsh Silas spotted the Whiteshields, still holding ground within the sandbag bastion surrounding the gatehouse. Clivvy, Webley, Tattersall, and Leander were all keeping watch. Graeme was too but he was struggling to stay away and his head continued to droop, rise, droop, and rise. Yeardley and Rowley were dead tired; they sat on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, and with their backs against the sandbags. Both had removed their helmets and Yeardley's head was resting on Rowley's shoulder. Their breathing was gentle and steady. Across from them, Soames was laying on his back with one leg over the other and his arms folded behind his head. He wore an unconcerned, disinterested expression. The remainder, Merton, Rayden, were both awake but were at rest.
Joining them, he wordlessly knelt in front of Yeardley and Rowley. For a few moments, he regarded them with a sweet smile. But upon seeing Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, First Lieutenant Eastoft, and Captain Giles nearby, he decided it would not make a good show if two of the Whiteshields were found cuddled up together. It pained him together, but he reached over and shook Yeardley. The lad looked upon him with glossy, sleepy eyes.
"Keep restin', but put some space between ya," he whispered.
"Oh, Staff Sergeant, must I? I was dreamin' of things so sweet and woke only to find them true," Yeardley said in a voice thick with fatigue. His gaze fell on Rowley who had not stirred. He did not seem eager to part from his friend's warmth. Marsh nodded, waited for him to move over, and then joined Clivvy. She continued to gaze at the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses in the fields.
"Your first combat action," Marsh Silas remarked with a wry, crooked grin, "you must be proud."
"Have we done well?" was all Clivvy asked.
They had. Despite their initial zealousness, bordering on foolishness, which nearly saw them charge the enemy at the bridge, they obeyed subsequent orders to the letter. Everybody, even Graeme who seemed jittery and Soames whose overconfidence continued to be an issue, kept up the fire and did not flee. Although, Marsh Silas knew he made it easy for them. The squad remained in a fixed, prepared position with greater advantages of cover and overwhelming fire support from the rest of the 1333rd. Without having to maneuver or act on their own, their fight was very simple. Hold position, aim, and fire. That was not always the case in the field when they would be fighting platoon or company actions. Defense often proved a more tenable strategy than an assault and Marsh Silas was concerned this victory would characterize their expectations for fights to come. What was more, it was but one fight. That did not make them Shock Troopers yet; they still had four more years of fighting to go before they earned that designation.
But this was not the right time for a lecture. All ten Whiteshields were tired but he could see a proud satisfaction on their faces, even the ones who were asleep. Even Soames, who attempted to veil his pride behind an aloof and uncaring smile, was visibly happy with their performance. Not only had they fought their first action, they survived and attained victory. Many Whiteshields were not as fortunate as they. Some did not even survive their first actions, going right from the Kasr to the graveyard. Such was the fate of many young Cadians and while it was a bitter pill for Marsh to swallow, he knew it forged stronger Shock Troopers like him and the veterans. At that moment, he supposed Clivvy and her compatriots were thinking the same thing and counted themselves among the strong. Very badly, Marsh Silas wanted to count them in that number. Knowing he couldn't, and unwilling to sharply remind them of hard days ahead, he simply tapped the side of her helmet. This made Clivvy look at him.
"You did the best you could and that is absolutely enough," he said. "Keep trainin', keep workin', and keep fightin' like this, and you're gonna go very far. I'm proud o' ya." Those who were awake all turned and smiled at Marsh Silas. It did the platoon sergeant a lot of good to see them so happy. If they could grin like that after a fight, he was confident they would become Shock Troopers with ease.
Some hushed, heated words behind him caught Marsh's attention. Hyram was standing in front of Captain Giles; the former was talking rapidly and his violet gaze was drawn in a narrow glare. Taking off his helmet, he ran his fingers through his sweaty, blonde locks and then clutched some. Looking exasperated, he continued to speak and gesture towards the perimeter. Giles kept raising one hand and spoke in a calming tone. Nothing soothed the Lieutenant who seemed to be getting angrier. Finally, Eastoft approached and offered a quiet but nonetheless sharp reprimand. Silenced, Hyram lowered his head and then seemed to mumble an apology. Accepting it, Giles placed a reassuring hand on the platoon leader's shoulder. Then, he turned his attention to Eastoft and said something firm. His executive officer betrayed no emotion and simply nodded.
Marsh Silas knew what just happened despite not making out most of the words. Once again, Hyram was furious at the heretics being able to move across the sector unmolested and having free-reign to attack their base. He wanted to take Bloody Platoon out to ambush one of their parties and gather intelligence. If he could do that, then they might discover where the traitors, cultists, and heretics were all hiding. A punitive mission could wipe them out. But once again, the company commander's hands were tied by the regimental commander's standing orders: no missions outside without strong reasons to do so. Suspected heretic hideouts were not acceptable reasons. Giles wanted to get out there too but he had orders too; disobeying them was an impossibility. So both officers were stuck; neither of them liked it but there was nothing they could do.
Lieutenant Hyram was left standing alone after Giles and Eastoft left him. Taking his leave of the Whiteshields, Marsh Silas decided to join his comrade and cheer his spirits with good news. "Sir," he greeted him, "my report on the Whiteshields?"
"Go ahead," Hyram said, sounding somewhat distant but not entirely disinterested.
"The young ones be tough; some are still pullin' watch. Fought well in the night and racked up a mighty kill count, if that pile o' bodies in front of their position counts for anything. Clivvy held'em together real good. Kept up the pressure and now they be sitting by their empty charge packs."
"Well, it can be expected they performed well by the nature of this battle," Hyram remarked after a few moments. He took out a handkerchief and began wiping the black soot and dust from his cheeks. Marsh was worried the Lieutenant would say that and attribute it to reasons other than their personal bravery. But after he cleaned his face, he smiled. "And their training, no doubt." Marsh brightened up, then. "Tis but one fight. Keep training them, Silas, and they should do just fine."
"Aye, sir, o' course, but a few patrols off the peninsula might rack up their experience."
"Even if I could order such an action, I would not. They are not ready to operate it as a lone squad and barely so for the entire platoon. Silas, those young ones nearly charged an overwhelming enemy force. Clearly, their heads are still very full of the foolishness their teachers taught them."
At that, Marsh frowned.
"Myself and some o' these here gunmen went to war with some of that same foolishness."
"And do you know why you're still alive?" Hyram asked. "Because you wised up. Make sure this lot does the same or the only thing they'll ever be is a corpse."
Master Sergeant Tindall's Chimera rumbled to life. With the treads grinding on the pavement, he reversed the IFV, made a one-hundred eighty degree turn, and drove his vehicle to the motor pool. With the gate cleared, some platoons were ordered back to their original positions and to their barracks. After watching the Chimera drive away, Hyram sighed and looked back. "Apologies, Silas, I do not mean to be harsh with you. I have much to think about including those Whiteshields. They seem like a very good bunch and in you they have an excellent teacher. I just don't want to see them perish so quickly because we pushed them on too fast."
"Don't worry, sir, I ain't coddling them," Marsh assured him with a smile. "Come now, why don't we get some recaf in ya and then you can bemoan to your sergeant about how much Regiment bothers ya."
"Oh, how alluring," Hyram said sarcastically.
"Movement!" somebody shouted.
Marsh and Hyram turned sharply towards the gate. They became aware of a steady hum of distant engines. The former raised his magnoculars and gazed down the road. He knew vehicles were approaching but because of the pavement, there was no dust cloud. After a few minutes searching, he spotted a series of single headlights coming through the early morning murk.
Hyram took the magnoculars from Marsh's hand; the cord was still around the platoon sergeant's neck and he was yanked over slightly. Carstensen joined them, reached across Marsh to take the scope from the Lieutenant's hand and jerked him in that direction too.
"You could just ask for'em!" Marsh croaked as he loosened the cord from around his neck.
"Could they be reinforcements?" Carstensen asked.
"If so, they are very late," Hyram said, taking the magnoculars back.
"Ain't ya got yer own!?" Marsh groaned. Grunting, he took them back and looked through. "I ain't heard anybody put out a call for reinforcements. Why would they send for'em now?"
He observed dozens upon dozens of olive drab Astra Militarum motor bikes. Recounting, he hit thirty of them but he knew more were crossing the bridge. Suddenly, figures wearing sack hoods and masks rose from the rear of the bikes. These balanced autoguns and other weapons on the shoulders of the drivers. Others popped out of sidecars and loaded mounted Heavy Stubbers. Some carried bottles of liquor with rags stuffed into the neck. Taking matches to them, the rags began to burn. Then, the cavalcade let out a great screeching cheer and opened fire on the perimeter.
"Take cover!" Hyram shouted as bullets flew through his pant legs and ricocheted on the pavement. "Find cover, get down, move!" He guided countless Guardsmen to various spots, pushing and shoving them out of the line of fire. Marsh was already halfway to a sandbag redoubt when he turned around, took his platoon leader by the wrist, and led him into cover. Both of them dove down just in time. One of the leading heretic bikers swept by and the passenger swung a sword at them. It missed the pair only by a hair.
Sitting up, Marsh took aim, led the target, and fired several lastbolts. Three missed but the fourth struck the sword-bearer right in the back. It blew open his coat, burned and blasted away his flesh, and exposed his broken spine. Another shot hit the tire, tearing it apart. Shaking and then falling over, the driver slid across the pavement from the bike. Before the heretic could stand, Sergeant Queshire rushed him, drew his trench knife, and punched him across the jaw with the steel knuckles. Pouncing on him, the leader of Third Squad proceeded to beat the attackers face in.
Many Guardsmen stood back up and fired at the attackers as they flooded into the base. Some of those who rode in dismounted from the bikes while they were still moving. Most were quickly cut down but a few succeeded in engaging the Shock Troopers in hand to hand combat. Some brave Cadians were gutted or had their throats slit, but comrades avenged them swiftly.
Holding position, Marsh kept low and picked off targets as they came in. To his right, he noticed some troopers rushing out. To his horror, he realized they were the Whiteshields. Jumping onto his feet, he ran in front of them with outstretched arms.
"Back to your positions, now!" he hollered.
"Let us fight them!" Clivvy insisted. "We're ready!"
"No, return to your position and provide covering fire!"
"Marsh Silas, look out!"
Marsh turned to see a bike coming right at him. Before he could wheel around to fire, somebody dove into him. They were a mess of flailing limbs and tumbling frames. When the platoon sergeant collected himself, he realized it was Arnold Yoxall who saved him. The demolition expert rose, picked up a discarded M36, held it by the barrel, swung, and smacked an enemy driver right off his back. This promptly sent him into the path of Tatum who had just finished refueling his Flamer tank. Roaring, Tatum set the heretic on fire, then turned the barrel, and engulfed three of the bikes in flame. When they came out of the fire cloud, the heretics leaped off their vehicles, screamed, and pranced around as they attempted to extinguish themselves.
Turning back to the Whiteshields, he saw they still hadn't turned back to their positions. All were standing in the open firing bravely at the attacking enemy. Hyram ran among them as well as several of the enlisted men of Bloody Platoon, pushing, pulling, and prodding them back to their positions. Only Carstensen, threatening them with her Bolt Pistol, forced them back. Before they all returned, Rowley was struck in her chestplate by an autogun round. It didn't penetrate but the impact sent her on her back. All the Whiteshields attempted to charge out to defend her, but Hyram kept them back. Only Yeardly managed to break through. He stood in front of her with his teeth bared, as if he was a loyal hound protecting its master. A pair of dismounted heretics came at him; he shot one down but the other knocked the barrel of his M36 aside.
His feet moved on their own. Marsh drew his power sword, hit the activation key on the hilt, and just as blue energy wreathed the blade, he beheaded the heretic. Drummer Boy was nearby and he tossed his sword to him. He caught it, rotated, and buried the blade in the side of another enemy. Then, he slashed another down and drove it through the chest of a third. Meanwhile, Marsh grabbed both Yeardley and Rowley, and dragged them back into cover. Shoving them into the sandbag bastion, he pointed at each of them.
"Stay down!" he ordered and ran back out.
The battle proved chaotic. While the heretics were being massacred, they had disrupted the perimeter. Pockets of Shock Troopers made separate stands together, parrying the assault as best they could. More of the fire bombs were tossed, setting stalwart men on fire or spreading flames to nearby facilities. Brave Guardsmen threw blankets over the flames or removed fuel canisters and ammo crates away from them, taking the risk to ensure their supplies did blow up. Bikers were bayoneted and shot off their vehicles. Lasbolts and bullets filled the air.
Then, they began to retreat. It seemed sudden and arbitrary. But Marsh Silas saw what they were after. Throngs of heretics were rushing the motor pool. Those who attempted to steal into the Chimeras were slaughtered by their infuriated crews. The Chimera jockeys fended them off with knives, autopistols, and even wrenches. Master Sergeant Tindall stood with one foot in the turret and the other on the rim. In his hands was a semi-automatic shotgun and he killed one after the other.
"Try to take my Chimera!?" he screamed furiously at a heretic clambering up with a knife. He fired a slug into him, tearing part of his shoulder away. He swept the barrel on another and blew the heretic's head open. "The Emperor has the Imperium but this is my Chimera!"
The heretics failed to take any of the heavy vehicles. But a number stormed into a shed and drove off with nearly all of their motor bikes. Marsh Silas narrowed his eyes. Spotting one bike they failed to capture, he jumped on, and turned on the engine. Are you sure you remember how to drive one of these? It has been some time since you've taken one out.
"Faith is reserved for the Emperor," Marsh said aloud as he tested the handles and pedals. "But have a little trust in me, would ya?"
Tearing out of the shed, he fishtailed onto the main road, and sped to the gate. Hitting the brakes, he brought himself abreast of Lieutenant Hyram. "I'm goin' after them! They ain't gettin' away with the Emperor's materials so easily!"
Much to his surprise, Hyram didn't protest.
"Then you better get moving!" he hollered.
"I'm coming with you!" Carstensen shouted, jogging over and mounted the back of the bike. She attacked the safety straps to her belt and loaded a fresh magazine into her Bolt Pistol. Fleming, who was a short distance away, drew nearer.
"Junior Commissar, you may need this!" He tossed her his grenade launcher, which she caught with one hand, and then managed to catch the belt of shells he threw after it. Throwing the belt over her, she checked the cylinder of the grenade launcher and then snapped it shut.
"Drive on!" she ordered.
Marsh tore through the gate. The heretics were just across the bridge and turned onto the northern road. Rumbling over the bridge, he turned the bike sharply and chased them. He felt Carstensen move around behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched as she stood up, balancing her feet on the paneling that ran on either side of the passenger seat, and raised the grenade launcher. Her crimson coat billowed in the wind and her high-peaked cap was blown away. Orange locks spilled across her forehead and were sept backwards. Carstensen's ocean green-blue eyes were blazing and her teeth were gritted.
Now that is a warrior! Barlocke followed it up with crisp, delighted laughter which filled Marsh's chest with a similar feeling. His heart fluttering, he grinned confidently and pressed on. They were soon upon the fleeing enemy. As they closed in, the heretics looked over their shoulders and did their best to turn their guns on them. But Carstensen took aim, led the targets, and squeezed the trigger. Grenades arced towards the enemy, landing in their midst. The impacts sent some of the enemy bikes off course, careening into ditches and breaking the necks of their riders. Relying on the concussion, she picked off targets one by one. Shrapnel impaled countless heretics, others were thrown off and died as their bodies broke against the pavement.
Carstensen opened the cylinder, letting the spent shell casings spill out, and then reloaded. When she fired again, she scored a direct hit on the nearest bike. The engine exploded and the heretics were reduced to bloody hunks. Marsh Silas and Carstensen both cheered. "Did you see that!?" Carstensen cried gleefully.
"Wonderful shooting, Lilias!" Marsh encouraged her. She was able to destroy several more. But then the enemy changed tactics, reduced speed, and were soon around and behind them. One fired an autopistol at Carstensen. The rounds missed her flesh but the impact against her chestplate staggered her; the grenade launcher fell from her grasp. A bike on the left side closed in and the heretic riding it attempted to grab her. Instead, she turned, snatched its arm, and then planted the barrel of her Bolt Pistol against his chest. The shell tore right through him and the bike slammed into an embankment. Turning again, she shot the heretics on their right and several that had drawn behind them before they could bring their blades down on the pair.
More dropped back. Carstensen was still engaging targets to the right and rear. Marsh found himself eye to eye with an enemy driver. Digging into his holster, he brought his Ripper Pistol to bear and riddled him with armour-piercing rounds. The bike and its driver fell into a ditch. Aiming forward, he expended the rest of the magazine into the rear of the motorbike in front of them. Shooting out the wheel, the vehicle became unsteady and the occupant fell off. As he bounced by, Carstensen shot him with her sidearm.
"I'm out!" she yelled as they drew close to the few remaining bikes. All the others that had attempted to surround them were dead. Dozens of burning and destroyed bikes littered the road behind them as did countless bodies. But there were still five more to go. Marsh knew Lilias did not want them to escape; he didn't want to let them go either.
He felt Cartensen's arm wrap around his chest. She pointed forward. "Get me closer!"
Marsh didn't need to ask why. She activated her Power Fist and the weapon began to glow with blue energy. Drawing beside the nearest motorbike, Carstensen gave a cry, raised her Power Fist, and then brought it down on the head of the enemy bike. The impact crushed the front, forced it down onto the road in a shower of sparks, and created cracks in the pavement. Both the driver and the rider were flung forwards, flailing through the air. Both landed hard and broke their necks on the pavement.
The next two thought they would fight back. One drew back to Marsh and Carstensens' left and the other on their right. Marsh tossed his Ripper Pistol back to Carstensen; she nimbled dodged a sword thrust, took a magazine out of Marsh's pouch, and loaded the weapon. Leaning back to dodge another swipe, she flipped the Ripper Pistol back into Marsh's hand. Leveling it, Marsh blasted the attacks on their right and killed them both. A single rider on the left attempted to attack with a sword, but Carstensen reared her Power Fist back and hit him square in the face. The heretic's faceplate was crushed and he flew off from the bike into a ditch.
Carstensen reloaded for Marsh again and gave him back his weapon. Coming up to the second to last bike, she instead brought her Power Fist down on the rear wheel. The bike reared backwards; just as the occupants tumbled back, Marsh turned in the seat and fired a burst into both driver and rider. "One more, Silas, one more!" Carstensen cheered. "Let's finish this!"
They came upon the final one. The rider leaned back and attempted to shoot Marsh in the face with an autopistol. Carstensen was too fast and struck him in the arm with her Power Fist. This tore off his forearm, leaving a bloody stump at the elbow. Wailing, the rider clutched his wounded arm. Marsh took the opportunity to shoot him in the chest, knocking him off the bike. The driver hunched forward, putting all his wait on the handles and pedals in the vain hope of escape. How badly Marsh wanted to see the heretic's terrified face!
Instead of simply knocking him over, Carstensen hand shot out and she wrapped her fingers around the heretic's throat. Using the advanced strength of the Power Fist, she lifted him slightly off the seat. Shrieking, the heretic attempted to hang onto the bike as it began to totter. Carstensen's hand slipped around Marsh again and took his Ripper Pistol. Pressing the barrel against the enemy's head, she grinned. "Emperor's blessings, heretic!" she shouted and squeezed the trigger. Throwing the body away, the bike teetered down the road for a few meters before flopping over.
Marsh slowed the bike down and caught his breath over the humming engine. Looking over his shoulder, he found Carstensen doing the same. For a few moments, neither spoke, merely gazing into one another's eyes. At the same time, they both smiled and began to laugh.
###
After collecting the grenade launcher, the drive back to camp proved far more leisurely. Marsh sat half-hunched at the controls as he gently followed the southern road back to the bridge. Along the way, they observed their carnage; smoldering wrecks and many broken bodies. It was a very satisfying sight. Chuckling as he weaved through the debris, Marsh glanced over his shoulder.
"I think the Emperor is very happy with us this day, Lilias," he said loudly.
"Very happy indeed," she replied. She was sitting down and had her arms wrapped around Marsh's middle. She was not leaning against him, merely keeping herself steady.
"They was making for the northern road. No doubt that's where one of their hiding holes is. Hyram would love ta get at'em. I wonder...ah, yesh, I think I might have an idea that could serve both his and my purposes very well!"
"Twas the Inquisitor who taught you to drive this? I knew you were capable but not so skilled!" Carstensen said, changing the subject. It surprised the platoon sergeant but he was glad to speak of other things for a time.
"He was a good teacher," Marsh replied. He grinned at her. "Soon as I was able to, I attended the course for it and got my Militarum license for it. Tindall might be permitted to pilot a Chimera but at least I have this machine!"
For a brief time afterwards, they didn't speak to one another. Marsh didn't mind at all. He was content with the morning's affair; they deflected another heretic attack and were able to wipe out their final assault wave. Now, the mist was gone and the morning sun was shining very brightly over the coastal road. The blue waters sparkled in the sunlight, the air was crisp and clean, and soon the road was clear. It was proving to be a smooth, enjoyable ride. Although, he did feel a little sad, remember those days he spent with Barlocke, driving out into the countryside for the scouting runs. How enjoyable it was to have space and freedom from the camp and to be in the company of one he held so dear. It was all the more enjoyable when Drummer Boy joined them. He wondered if the Voxman missed the Inquisitor as much as he did.
Carstensen said something but it was drowned out by the engine. "What was that?"
"I said I apologize for the other night!" Carstensen said. Marsh blinked and looked back momentarily.
"Of all things, that's on yer mind, Lilias? Apologize and for what?"
"It was inappropriate of me to speak to you while you were in such a...bare state!" she said. Marsh didn't know if she was trying to be funny but it made him snort a little. "I should have chosen a better time to speak with you!"
"I've been out of my uniform in front of others for many years, Lilias, doesn't bother me a bit!" Marsh said with a cheerful smile. "But if I can ask, I've been wondering' why you came ta see me then!"
Carstensen didn't respond. Marsh tried to be patient, but he was a little concerned he asked too personal a question, and looked over his shoulder. The Junior Commissar didn't look troubled but she seemed somewhat hesitant.
"Tis a larger base and a bigger Regiment," she said. "You may think there are many places to go where there are no extra ears or eyes, but it is very hard to be private! You and I are afforded few occasions to speak plainly, just us two, and I have been hoping for more of those occasions."
Marsh Silas blinked and then smiled softly.
"I'd like more o' those occasions too, Lilias!" He said. "Hey, maybe we'll get two days leave in Kasr Sonnen. We'll have plenty o' time to talk then."
Carstensen rolled her eyes.
"Hopefulness is a dangerous thing, Silas!"
"Better than not hopin' at all!" Marsh said lightly, then spied something on the road. "Look there, it's your cap!"
Marsh braked gently and brought the bike to a stop a couple meters away from her crimson hat. Kicking the prop into place so it wouldn't fall over, Marsh took off his helmet, hooked it on the handle, took off the safety belts, and retrieved the hat. Brushing the dust and grit off it, he turned to give it back. Carstensen was already off the bike and reached out for it. But the platoon sergeant remembered how she had playfully kept his pipe from his hands some days ago. Just as her fingers were about to wrap around the brim, he pulled it away.
Grinning playfully, he began to hand it back. Immediately, Carstensen knew what he was doing and frowned.
"Revenge does not become you, Silas." She reached for it but he drew it away again. She frowned. "Come now."
"Oh, I see how it is," he said, stretching his arms out. "You can have a little fun with me but I can't have any with ya."
Lilias sighed irritably but then she smiled. She made one more attempt for it and missed terribly. This made her giggle—not laugh, giggle. It was a sound Marsh never heard her make before and not one he thought she'd ever emit. He found it sweet to his ears and he smiled wide. Unable to resist himself, he pulled it back again. This time, she lunged for it, catching both his arms. Laughing, Marsh gave it up and let her take it. Still chuckling, Lilias stepped away and held it up.
"Victory," she said confidently.
"I must concede defeat," Marsh said, bowing briefly. When he stood up, he found her turning the camp over and over in her hands. He chuckled and shrugged. "Apologies, Lilias. I can't help myself, I suppose. I'm very...I'm...well, you..." the words halted in his throat. He knew what he was going to say and suddenly found himself unable to speak it. Carstensen looked at him curiously and then her eyes widened. Turning slightly, she looked out to sea.
"Yes," she stammered a little, "I am as well. I mean, I am fond of you too. You are a good soldier but you are a better man. And these feelings in me are not for the soldiers."
Marsh felt his face heat up. Carstensen looked up quickly and soon there was a dusting of pink on her cheeks. Quickly, she looked back at the sea. "It would be very nice if you said something now," she blurted. Some wind hit them then, spilling her orange hair back. Marsh's blonde hair was matted slightly but a few locks were turned over. Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, he laughed a little.
"I feel close to ya, Lilias," he said. "We've shared many battlefields together and have been through some hard treks. You have been there for me many a time. And I for you, it seems. We are good soldiers together, but that ain't just what we are. Ah, maybe it'd be better to say that's not just what we want to be. Sorry, I don't mean to speak for ya."
"You do no such thing," Carstensen said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked up at him but didn't smile. "We are bound by rank, duty, and honor, set by the God-Emperor Himself. But the Emperor holds sway in all things, larger and small. And if the Inquisitor you speak so much about is to be believed, then the Emperor granted us agency. Then, perhaps, these feelings we have are justified by the Emperor's laws, and the Emperor's laws come before all else, even before our duty, and what we said that night, about dreams, perhaps that's all this could ever be, but...but..."
Carstensen's voice faltered. Marsh didn't know what to say. For a few, quiet moments, they stared at one another. Then, Carstensen's hat fell from her grasp. Although he was not close enough to catch, Marsh instinctively opened his hand. When he did that, Carstensen slid her into it. It was difficult, for her left hand was clad in the deactivated Power Fist. Marsh looked up, felt her gloved hand on his cheek, and then her lips upon his own. He blinked in surprise, then squeezed his eyes shut, embraced her, and pressed himself deeper into the kiss. In that moment, which seemed to last for millennia, Marsh didn't feel the biting wind or smell the salty sea. He didn't feel the weight of his M36 on his shoulder or the awkward metal of her Power Fist in his hand. All Marsh could feel was her body against his own, her warmth, the sweet taste of her lips, how soft they were, and how tenderly she cupped his cheek.
When they finally parted, Marsh and Carstensen stared at one another with almost sleepy gazes.
"...the dream might be worth living," Marsh said. Carstensen nodded and then looked away.
"A good Commissar would regret such an act," she breathed, then nodded her head to the side. "I suppose I am not a very good one, then."
"You're the best one I've ever met, and I ain't just sayin' that," Marsh said with a beaming smile. "As long as it doesn't keep us from doin' our duties, I think we have the Emperor's blessing. Without Him, we would not have these swelling hearts, would we?"
"We best hide this," Carstensen said. "They will not understand."
Marsh agreed with a nod and lifted his head; his nose grazed her own.
"We should return, now. Fleming will be missin' that weapon o' his."
"Pah, he may not get it back. I should have been a grenadier."
###
Marsh Silas and Carstensen returned to a chorus of cheers, whistles, and applause. Shock Troopers swarmed them; for the platoon sergeant, they had many back-slaps and playful punches. For the Junior Commissar, there were salutes, handshakes, and polite congratulations. The pair smiled as they progressed through the crowd. Eventually, they wormed their way out and found Lieutenant Hyram with the Whiteshields.
"You do not argue with a superior in the middle of a firefight," he scolded, waving his finger at them. "When myself, the Staff Sergeant, Junior Commissar, or anyone who is senior to you gives you an order, you follow it! Understand!?"
"Yes, sir," the Whiteshields replied meekly.
"Standing dumbly and disobeying orders will not only get yourselves killed it will get the people around you killed. Do not let it happen again or I shall be driven to harsher means! Now, get! Not you Rowley, see Sergeant Honeycutt for your bruising. Do not argue, myself and none of these fellows care for displays of strength. Get treated this instant, young lady."
As Bloody Platoon began drifting back to the barracks, Hyram turned around and gazed at the pair. Carstensen took a brief moment to throw Fleming his grenade launcher and remaining ammunition. Both exchanged soldierly salutes before the latter departed. Marsh smiled at Carstensen who nodded back at him with a knowing gaze. Both then turned to face the Lieutenant who was gazing at them curiously. "Are you two...well?"
"O' course, sir!" Marsh replied.
"In good health and spirits, Lieutenant," Carstensen assured him.
"I ask because you two seem particularly..." he looked them up and down as if he hadn't met them before. "...well, happy. Nearly glowing, I daresay."
Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a brief glance. The former offered a confident but carefree smile.
"How could you not be happy after dealing a blow like that to the enemy?" Marsh said, then quickly changed the topic before Hyram could ask another question. "We chased'em north, sir. We suspect that's where they might have a station o' some kind. Now, I know yer hands be tied but I got me an idea, sir. Colonel Isaev don't want no platoons going out there for reasons he don't approve of. Scouting and ambushing missions ain't something he want right now. But, we got this mess o' Whiteshields with us and they sorely need some experience. What if we suggest a platoon training exercise for fieldcraft and patrolling to Captain Giles? Then he can take it up the chain. And maybe that training mission will just happen to involve some scouting and ambushing. It'll just, you know, turn out that way cos' o' the circumstances, see?"
Hyram shook his head.
"Staff Sergeant, I told you. The Whiteshields aren't ready for that, they need more practice."
"But sir, ain't there more important things to worry about? We all got the notion a big push is coming and it'll be all the worse if the heretics are free to slash are roads, flanks, and even our base. I think them Whiteshields is ready, and even if ya don't, this may be our only chance to get out there, find the enemy, and destroy them before they can strike us decisively."
Hyram chewed his bottom lip and continually shook his head. Eventually, he looked over at Captain Giles, standing a short distance away conferring with other company commanders. After a few moments of staring, the Lieutenant shook his head.
"There is no way the Captain will go for this," he said wearily.
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