Chapter 10


In the field, whether it was during a battle, training exercise, or a long range patrol, Cadian Shock Troopers constantly sought two crucial elements: cover and concealment. Cover could be as simple as a hefty boulder to crouch behind, a low wall, or the side of a rockcrete building. More often than not, it provided both aspects as it protected a Guardsmen from being shot from most standard weaponry and kept him out of sight. Concealment ranged from anything to a clump of scrub bushes to a sheet metal fence. Anyone hiding among or behind such features would stay out of sight but they would not have the benefit of protection. Even autogun slugs could punch right through metal and most weaponry could gnaw vegetation apart. But it was crucial during any extended period in the field for troops to maintain and capitalize upon both facets to the best of their abilities.

By the Emperor's will, Cadia's topography and climates varied widely and this was a boon for the planet's defenders. In the hinterland north of Army's Meadow, the land was characterized by ridges, hills, bluffs, crags, ravines, rocks, scrub bushes which survived through the extended winter months, and short stretches of low-standing, gnarled trees. A rapidly changing environment was difficult for enemies to traverse while the Cadians, who trained in these different settings since they were children, knew how to utilize the terrain effectively.

Bloody Platoon hunkered down in a draw for their daytime rest. Two rocky, tree-studded ridges which ran straight for about three hundred meters and curved to the northwest at the end, provided both cover and concealment for the Shock Troopers. Most of the trees were pines with bushy branches, shielding the men from sight and from the sun. On either side, the ridges were high and difficult to cross which would make it difficult for an attack to climb up and shoot down into them. Still, sentries were placed at either end of the column as well as the ridges. Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor erected their Heavy Bolter at the northern side while Albert and Brownlow established their position between two trees at the south. On the western ride, Bullard and Hitch concealed themselves with cloaks and lay prone in high grass. Jupp and Hoole took the eastern side. Each of the ridge sentries would be relieved after two hours by other men in the platoon while the Heavy Weapons squads would alternate on the Heavy Bolters; while the other teams specialized in their specific weapon, they were qualified to fire the storied weapon of the Astartes.

Marsh Silas bunked down on a patch of earth in between two rocks on the western side of the ridge. A tall, full, ancient tree stood between the two rocks and the fallen pine needles made a pleasant cushion underneath his sleeping bag. From this spot, he could see the rest of the platoon. Like him, some of the troopers were choosing to camp under trees or against boulders and slabs of stone in the bottom of the draw. Others embedded themselves on the sides of the rick, digging fighting holes in soil for better cover and concealment. Although the dirt was filled with pebbles, nobody ever dug there before so the earth was easily removed. A few chose elevated spots on the ridges so their holes looked like the mouths to tunnels leading deeper into the ridge. It was easy to laugh at those few Guardsmen because they seemed to be sideways. Others chose natural crevices to bed down in, disappearing from view.

Everyone took the time to conceal and protect their positions. Those who dug holes mounded the disturbed earth around the rims. Others took heavy rocks, rolling or carrying them to spots which they deemed vulnerable. Fallen branches, particularly those thick with pine needles, were gathered up and used to camouflage their positions. Some skirted up the slopes and hacked away some of the high scrub grass that coated the top of the ridges. These could be used for cushions but a sprinkling on branches or rocks helped them appear more natural. A few small campfires were burning so men could heat up their rations or brew a quick cup of recaf.

Before dawn even broke, Bloody Platoon was entrenched so well some of the men couldn't even see each other. Marsh Silas could not help but smile proudly at how hard the Guardsmen worked. Even the Whiteshields were diligent, composed, and adept at preparing their positions. More encouraging was how the veterans took the time to assist them, offering advice, helping them collect resources, or even bunking down near them. Conversation, although hushed, was generally amiable.

It was an incredible relief. One of his fears was Bloody Platoon's own veteran status; they were a loyal, tight-knit group. Newcomers were very hard to take in sometimes. If presented with other veterans, as they had before, the initial challenge was swiftly overcome. In some cases, there was no choice and they were forced to accept the newcomer. Such was the case with Junior Commissar Carstensen, although she proved herself both in combat and in garrison to be fair as well as brave. An assignee like that was to be welcomed. Whiteshields tended not to survive for too long and nobody wanted to get attached. Not to mention there was a subtle arrogance in the Cadian Shock Troopers; although they were Whiteshields once they did not have much sympathy for the inexperienced soldiers. Not only had these men earned their rights as Shock Troopers they survived enough battles to become veterans holding an esteemed position with their regiment. As for the rookies, they needed to prove themselves and in doing so they did not last for long. Nobody wanted to befriend them because a Whiteshield overzealousness and lack of experience would get them killed. Losing friends was difficult, no matter how experienced or inexperienced a Guardsman was. If it could be avoided, then it was.

But the acknowledgement of the Whiteshields' presence, the very fact they were talking with them and working alongside them, showed Marsh Silas his men possessed hope for them. They believed they were sufficiently trained and smart enough not to get killed in a random skirmish or by upsetting a Commissar. What's more, their willingness to contribute to their training showed they were invested in their success. Or maybe it was just pragmatism; by strengthening their weakest link their overall chances of survival were better. Either way, Marsh Silas took it as a good sign and sat back with a happy smile. The only thing that could have made it better was a long smoke on his pipe.

But Drummer Boy appeared with something just as good: cooked rice with strips of Grox meat laid on the top. Stream rose and wafted in the cold air from the warm mess tin. The Voxman knelt in front of him and passed it over.

"How kind o' ya," Marsh said, nodding. Drummer Boy grinned in a childish sort of way.

"Jus' how ya like it!" he said and then returned to his fire.

Even with his gloves on, the platoon sergeant's hands were cold and he was grateful to hold the hot tin. But he took out his own mess kit, offered a prayer and thanks for the food, and began shoveling the rice into his mouth. He always ate half the rice first, just to enjoy it on its own, before mixing it with the meat. After finishing his meal, he decided to take a walk through the draw to see how the platoon was settling in. First, he was going to give Drummer Boy the mess tin back. The Platoon Command Squad was mostly settled in a semicircle of rocks which had a fallen log in front of it, linking end to end. Babcock, having planted the flag into the dirt, took up a hatch and began to hack it in half. When he finished, he pushed the two halves slightly out, making a little path in between them. Then, the Color Sergeant covered them with pine needles. When he finished, he stood with his arms akimbo and nodded in a satisfied manner.

Within this little circle, Hyram against a rock with Drummer Boy's Vox-caster. He was holding the handset to his ear and bouncing his leg. Meanwhile, the Voxman tended a very small fire in a pit. Above it was a cooking grate with the pot filled with rice on top of it. Next to it was the skillet cooking the meat. Filling another mess tin with rice and laying the cooked strips on top, Drummer Boy took it over to Hyram. The Lieutenant nodded as he took it. With one hand, he began taking conservative spoonful's and kept the handset against his ear with the other. Across from him, Carstensen furnished her sleeping bag against the stump from which the log fell. Having brought a spare blanket, she folded it up and used it as a pillow. Honeycutt was not with them; he was on the other side of the draw within a circle of fallen stones. It was a makeshift aid station; he and the field chirurgeons were tending the few rolled ankles the men suffered during the hard march.

Hyram's position offered a commanding view of Bloody Platoon. As he sat down beside his platoon leader, Marsh could not only see their high spirits but also feel it. Those who weren't already asleep were chatting amiably in hushed tones as if they hadn't been hard marching for several nights and sleeping in the rough. Everyone was very dirty, their faces and uniforms stained with mud, dust, and snow. Most of the men were already growing beards, including Marsh Silas. His stubble was very thick and was more brownish than blonde. Hyram was also growing a great deal of scruff; stubble coated his cheeks but his goatee was very thick. Nobody washed since before they left camp so everybody bore an amalgamated scent of body stench and the odor of the landscape. A lack of hygiene was important during prolonged field missions; many smells carried on the wind or if an enemy was close they could sniff out something like sterile cleansing powder or shaving cream. None of the men were allowed to smoke, wash, clean their teeth, or use any kind of substance with a strong scent. Even the cooking fires were kept low to minimize the smoke trail's profile and scent.

The Guardsmen did not go out missions like these too often and relished the opportunity. Everyone understood the necessity for stealth and how precarious they were because of their lack of support. Although it was never too far away, as Cadia was a living, breathing fortress, it made the stakes feel much higher. All prayed to the Emperor for success; Marsh Silas could hear them murmuring as they prayed over their meals or before they went to sleep for the day. But all were eager for the challenge and glad for another opportunity to better serve the Emperor.

But there was one Guardsman who was struggling. Unbeknownst to Marsh Silas, the regimental pict-capturer, Valens, had requested to tag along during the mission at the last moment. Colonel Isaev approved it and Hyram accepted. Although the Lieutenant ordered the platoon sergeant to be informed, the word was never passed along. It wasn't until the first morning they made camp that Marsh Silas discovered the out of place trooper.

Valens was a decent soldier and Bloody Platoon possessed a modicum of respect for him. During the Raid on Kasr Fortis, Valens was separated from the Regimental Command Platoon. While he could have sat at the casualty collection point, he came along instead. He fought just as hard and bravely as any line Guardsman did that night. For his actions, he received the Eagle Ordinary and every agreed he earned it. But that was his first time in combat for almost a year and now, months later, this was Valens' first time on a mission. Like any Cadian, he possessed all the necessary training. But because his duty required him to snap picts instead of fight, some of his infantry skills atrophied. Just as Marsh looked his way, the man tried to sheer off the edge of his fighting hole and instead got the blade of his 9-70 stuck in an exposed root. Somehow, it was stuck so deeply that when he yanked on it he instead fell back into his hole. When the fellow appeared again, he was rubbing the back of his head and his hair was filled with dirt. Embarrassed, he averted Marsh's gaze and freed his entrenchment tool.

Hyram put down the handset, sighed, and took up his mess tine.

"I knew I shouldn't have agreed."

"Rest o' the platoon is doin' just fine, sir. Their confidence gives great cheer ta me, sir."

"To me as well," Hyram said, his mouth full of food. A few bits of rice fell from his lips and caught his beard. Marsh chuckled; the platoon leader tended to be a prim and proper sort of fellow. When he put aside manners and acted like a tough old soldier, it always made Marsh feel very glad. "I'm confident we shall find something soon."

"Woe to whatever we find, we shall make swift, bloody work outta it!" Marsh said, elbowing his friend. Hyram grinned confidently as he finished his meal. The platoon sergeant looked across him at Carstensen, who was making the sign of the Aquila. Laced between her fingers was a string of prayer beads, although their colors were not as muted as the beads Cadians usually carried. They alternated between red, gold, blue, and green beads. Even as she made the sign of the Aquila, she seemed to squeeze these beads with a particular intensity. It was unmatched by her expression which was calm. Her eyelids fluttered a little, almost as if she was about to fall asleep. Both lips moved ever so slightly as she recited the words. When she finished, she put the beads away in a meticulous, regimented way and sat back robotically. Every movement she made was so articulated and precise. Marsh became lost in that for a time, admiring Carstensen's training but also her drive to live so rigorously.

Hyram leaned into view, his brows drawn curiously.

"I said have you been to see the Whiteshields this morn?"

"Huh? Oh, no, sir. I'll do so immediately."

"See that you do. They pull watch just like the rest of us, but ensure whenever one of them does you are with them. Just because we are on a working mission does not mean they are not being mentored."

"Aye, sir."

Marsh left his empty tin beside Drummer Boy and found the Whiteshields were not too far from his own space. Having claimed a patch of bare earth with some decent protection from rocks to their south, they dug a series of fighting holes that could be easily accessed from one another and interlocking fields of fire towards the southern half of the draw. When he stepped up to the first hole, he found everybody was asleep except for Sergeant Clivvy, Rowley, and Yeardley. Rowley was fiddling with her Vox-caster with a great deal of enthusiasm. Checking the handset, she grinned and looked at Marsh Silas.

"Staff Sergeant, I'm listening to after-action reports from the far northern front!"

Marsh knelt at the edge of her hole and rested his arms on his knees.

"I pray it is good news."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Keep your voice down, now," he said with an earnest chuckle. Rowley's eyes popped a little, clapped her hand over her mouth, then removed it to hold one finger up to her lips.

"Yes, sir," she said, her finger still in front of her mouth. Marsh chuckled again and slid into Clivvy's hole.

"Staff Sergeant, we're in a good position to support the second Heavy Bolter team," she said as she moved to the side of the hole. "Our visibility regarding the southern approach is very good."

"Good work, although don't neglect the verticality of your position."

Clivvy blinked a little.

"Verticality, sir?"

"Up and down, you see," Marsh said, masking his excitement that he knew a word someone else didn't. Hyram's lessons were paying off after all! He pointed up the northern ridge. "You're in a good spot for a reverse-slope defense, but a couple o' enemy sharpshooters on the opposite ridge could fire down into ya quite easily. You may want to drag one o' them fallen logs over here and cover it up."

"Yes, sir!"

Clivvy scurried off. She was keen to follow orders but he was beginning to sense she was the kind of squad leader who would take on another burden instead of delegating it to a subordinate. That was both good and bad; a leader like that showed drive, initiative, and a refusal to abuse their limited authority. But, they were nine other individuals they needed to account for. Doing everything herself would leave them without enough work and they would miss out on lessons learned. A squad leader needed to command and they couldn't do that if they were busying themselves with every issue.

Instead of saying something, Marsh Silas let it go. The Whiteshields needed some sleep and it was not a big issue. His eyes settled on Yeardley who was looking at a pict-capture. He seemed troubled. Marsh slid into the hole beside him, pressing his shoulder against the teenager. Without saying a word, Yeardley held the pict in front of him. In it were two middle-aged Cadian officers, both of them wearing low-peaked soft-cover caps and dress uniforms. Both stood with their hands folded behind their backs but their smiles denoted a familiarity with one another.

"Yer mama and papa?" Marsh asked as Yeardley withdrew the pict.

"Aye, taken before they was sent off to some faraway world. Whether they live or not, I am unsure, but I pray to the Emperor they are." He sighed and tucked the pict into one of the box-pouches fastened to his belt. "I must say, Staff Sergeant, I'm a bit afraid out here. Does that make me a poor Guardsman?"

"I thought the same for a great deal of time. But a good friend o' mine taught me the ability to accept your fear and still act regardless o' it, makes a mighty fine Guardsman." Marsh chuckled, remembering Barlocke fondly. "Aye, any servant o' the Emperor can do good that way. It ain't easy. Nothin' ever is but if you can do it once, you can do it again, and again, until the mission is complete."

You've become rather sagely, Silvanus. Marsh grinned and thought some of Barlocke's wisdom had truly bit into his bones. Yeardley smiled a little and the platoon sergeant jostled the lad by his shoulder. "You fought well during the last firefight. Keep bringin' that spirit into battle and you'll be a Shock Trooper soon enough."

"Yes, Staff Sergeant."

In any other circumstance, Marsh Silas would have departed and made his report to Lieutenant Hyram. But seeing the lad so small in his hole, his knees pulled to his chest, his overcoat drawn over his legs, his single hand exposed and holding the pict, his crop of soft blonde hair falling down over his eyes, Marsh found he couldn't move.

For a long while, he simply stared at the boy soldier. He didn't quite look like a Guardsman or even a Whiteshield for that matter. Yeardley seemed too small both in height and weight. Even after all the physical exercise and strength training, he hadn't seemed to bulk up at all. Was it just because such little time passed since his arrival or was it merely his youth? Marsh began to wonder if he appeared in such a way to the old salts when he first arrived. Although, he didn't have the same opportunity as Yeardley and his compatriots. There were few veterans aside from the officers and senior NCOs in the 540th Youth Corps. Most of the older Whiteshields, men and women who were a year out from adulthood and entering the Shock Troops, were quite experienced too. All the older hands treated him as Bloody Platoon behaved when this batch joined the platoon. The opportunity to work alongside and train with veterans was great and dangerous. Just what did that do to a young man's mind?

"Tell me, lad, what is Kasr Polaris like these days?"

"You've not been back, Staff Sergeant?"

"I left but twice. Once for the Month of Making and the other was..." Marsh sighed and smiled. "Do the young ones still go out to fetch the seaweed from the sand when the tide rolls away?"

Yeardley beamed brightly. If he possessed any doubts about Marsh's home Kasr they were truly quashed then.

"Aye! But the factorum front has grown along the seaside so you have to walk further out than ever before. It is not so bad, though."

"We used ta have ours over rice."

"Us too!" Yeardley laughed. "Once our training period for the day ended all the boys in the barracks would rush to collect some. The cook was a lil' Ratling fellow and he used to give the boy who collected the most seaweed a block o' chocolate as a reward."

Marsh laughed. Scenes of his youth, of clinging to his mother's hand as they journeyed to the waterfront and bent over in the wet sand for seaweed, came flooding back. Many families or trainees from the barracks came out like that. Food was often so bland they searched for anything to add flavor to their meals. Even rice, a delicious rarity, sometimes needed an extra touch for flavor. Although Marsh's family came into some wealth before he was moved off-world, his mother insisted on collecting the seaweed rather than going to one of the local eateries to purchase food. Having lived a soldier's life, Marsh knew that was born from her experiences in the ranks. Guardsmen had few possessions and needed many things, some of which was not provided by the Astra Militarum. Whatever a soldier didn't have, he bought it, made it, found it, and occasionally, stole it. Such habits were difficult to shake. But his mother also said going out to find something built character and shaped one's resolve. Relying on 'establishments,' as she called them with a fair amount of disdain, did nothing to prepare a young soldier for the grim realities of war.
For a long while after the majority of Bloody Platoon fell asleep, Marsh stayed up and chatted with young Yeardley. The two shared many stories; avoiding Commissars while looking for extra rations, staying up after curfew to practice maintenance on an M36, successes and failures during war games, and the hard but happy life youths experienced in a place like Kasr Polaris.

"Each time my father returned home, he would blend in with a crowd of other officers. He would appear to pass by our home, one o' them big fortified mansions the nobility has, but stop just shy o' passin' by completely. Then he'd come runnin' up to the steps. Got me every single time. What about you lad, did you..." Marsh looked over at Yeardley. The Whiteshield had fallen asleep, his head leaning against the wall of the fighting hole. After regarding him for a moment, he smiled and tugged his overcoat over his chin.

Marsh Silas climbed out of the hole and surveyed the Whiteshields once again. All of them were sleeping. Even Clivvy, who completed her mission to fortify the position, was curled up in the bottom of her hole. There was nothing under her head; noticing her gloves were not on her hands, he took these, gently lifted her head, and slid them underneath. Somehow, Graeme removed his blanket while slumbering so the platoon sergeant put it back on. Tattersall, Leander, and Merton were sleeping in the same hole. Side by side, they looked like three wooden planks beside one another. Marsh adjusted the blanket over them so each one was covered equally. Rowley was still awake but just barely. Her head drooped as she continued to listen to the handset. Dropping down into her hole, he gently took it from her hand and hooked it back on the Vox-caster. "Get some sleep, lass."

"Yes, Staff Sergeant," she said sleepily, her eyelids fluttering. Marsh helped her lay down, took off, laid her head on her rucksack, and drew a blanket over her. Climbing out of the hole, he walked to the center of the draw and surveyed the entire position. Everyone was sleeping for the sentries. They were tucked away in their nooks, holes, between bushes, under trees, up among the rocks, or on the ground in camouflaged positions. A cool, gentle wind blew over the draw. Snowflakes began to flutter down. Hands on his hips, Marsh smiled and nodded.

He marched over to his own position, climbing onto his sleeping bag, and drew a blanket over him. Planting his large rucksack against the tree, he leaned back against it like it was a feather pillow. Already, the snow was beginning to accumulate in the spots uncovered by tree branches. He was still smiling. Being with the platoon on a mission in the grand landscape of Cadia made him very happy. Just as he began to close his eyes, he heard approaching feet. Carstensen appeared, her orange locks in disarray and her face still smudged. Without speaking, she came over and sat beside him. For a moment, their eyes locked pleasantly. Marsh lifted his blanket and she slid in beside him. He made room against the rucksack for her. After sharing a smile, the pair fell asleep.

###

Marsh felt something cool on his cheek. He opened his eyes partially and checked his wristwatch. It was around sunset. Looking up, the sky was a grayish-orange. Snow was still falling lightly but the wind shifted. A great deal swept underneath the branches and coated the blanket he and Carstensen were under. Despite the layer of snow, he felt comfortable and the Junior Commissar was very warm beside him. Turning to look at her, he found her nestled against the rucksack with her face against Marsh's shoulder. One hand was drawn near her cheek while the other was on the platoon sergeant's chest. Her mouth was open slightly and her breath came out in small white puffs. He smiled, blinked, and remembered somebody was standing at his feet.

As much as he wanted to stay, he knew he should take a look at the position again. Carefully, he extricated himself from her grasp and slid out from under the blanket. He tucked it back into place, put on his watch cap, collected his M36, and began wandering up the draw. Coming through the snowy murk was Lieutenant Hyram.

"Ah, I was just coming for you," he said, then looked around. "Where is the Junior Commissar?"

"My position," Marsh answered. "She came to...ask me a question and decided to stay there instead."

Hyram, wearing a donated watch cap, eyed him warily.

"Well, it's time for your watch. Choose two of the Whiteshields and relieve Northmore and Fleming up on the east ridge. We move out in one hour."

"Aye, sir."

Hyram turned on his heel and marched back into gray gloom. As Marsh watched him go, Barlocke's fragment hummed. A vibrating sensation passed through his mind. I think he knows. You're not a very good liar. Marsh grumbled as he turned around. "Hey, I convinced the Lord Inquisitor there was no letter, didn't I?" he hissed. Even though everyone around him was still asleep, he did his best to stay quiet. Hm, fair.

Marsh approached the Whiteshields and knelt next to Clivvy's hole. She was still curled up. He reached down and shook her gently. "Rouse yourself, troop. Grab Webley and let's go."

He waited a few paces away. A few minutes later the two Whiteshields appeared, groggy and dirty. Both of them donned black knit caps, tugged them low over their ears, and checked their weapons. The trio went to the softest slope leading up the eastern ridge and began climbing up. Some parts were steeper and they had to dig their heels in or grasp exposed roots to pull themselves upwards.

When Marsh finally scaled the top, he saw a blur of movement. Northmore spun around and brought his M36 to bear on him. "Easy, Shock Trooper," Marsh whispered.

"Sorry, Marsh Silas."

"No movement?"

"Aye, none."

"You're relieved."

Fleming and Northmore waited for the two Whiteshields to crawl to the top before descending themselves. The observation post was on the crest of the ridge along a row of scrub brushes, a fallen tree, and a larger boulder on the right flank. Marsh took the left while Clivvy slithered to the center and Webley planted herself on the right. Everyone lay prone and situated themselves as comfortably as they could on the uneven terrain, rocks, sticks, and snow.

Tugging out his magnoculars, Marsh scanned the landscape. The hinterland was covered with a blanket of snow. Even in the low light of the setting sun, the snowfall would provide a wonderful outline to anything or anyone moving across the countryside. After Marsh finished his initial scan, he lowered his scope and looked at the others. "Keep an eye out fer small movements; low crawling, folks ducking, moving quick-like from place to place. You see somethin', you call it. An' don't fall back ta sleep."

"Yes, sir," they both said.

Keeping watch was a boring detail but Marsh was used to it after so many years. It gave him some time away from the platoon which was very rare. He loved being among the men but like any person he enjoyed a moment alone. Like his late night showers, going on watch gave him some breathing room. Of course, with Clivvy and Webley present he didn't have it exactly but he didn't mind. After sleeping for so long with Carstensen beside him he was in a rather good mood.

But the two Whiteshields weren't. Each time he looked over at them, he found their expression tired and disinterested in their duty. Ten minutes dragged without any kind of movement. Not even the birds stirred from their perches in faraway trees.

"Is this to be a Guardsman's life?" Webley eventually asked. "Training, long marches, looking at nothing, and occasional combat?"

"Did yer insructors tell ya you'd be plunging into battle for the Imperium as soon as you left the barracks?" Marsh asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "They all say that because they want you to be ready for anything. Battle is always upon Cadia's shores but think o' it as the wind. Some days, the wind blows very hard and lasts from dawn til dusk. Other days, you might have some little winds all throughout the day. On some, the wind is terrific but doesn't last very long. Wind can be gentle, too, and sometimes a day comes when there ain't no wind at all."

Marsh looked over at the pair, who were looking back at him blankly. He smiled warmly. "You'll get another taste o' combat soon enough. You'll be ready for it. You'll learn to appreciate these quiet times, though. Look for a fight long enough and it'll find you."

Both of the Whiteshields nodded. Marsh did not want to lecture them for too long. He was like them once, wondering when he would have his chance. Granted, he and his friends didn't have to wait long before they were thrust in the fray. He wondered if he should tell them it was going to get bad, but upon seeing their refreshed faces he decided not to. He was confident they understood the coming battles were going to be glorious but gruesome affairs.

Just as he raised his magnoculars again, Webley faced him.

"Does the Lieutenant hate us?"

"Shush, Webley!" hissed Clivvy. Just from the Whiteshield Sergeant's urgent tone Marsh knew this was a conversation the rookies were having often. He was not surprised. Sighing, he set the magnoculars down and moved over so he was between the two. With a quick gesture, he ordered them to come closer. Both sat down on either side of him.

"Lieutenant Hyram has a lot on his shoulders. Comes with having such a big mind," he tapped the side of his head for emphasis. "I have a small one so I tend not to worry so much." Well, that's not strictly true. Marsh resisted the urge to tell Barlocke to shut his trap. "The platoon leader is trusted with the lives of many troops and he is expected to send those troops into battle. It is a burden all leaders bear although some more lightly than others. For Hyram, it is heavy, for he knows what must be done but he does not want to waste lives."

He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. "He doesn't hate you. He just doesn't want you to die, that's all. You're not as experienced as the others so he has to mind ya, just like I mind ya. Me and Hyram, you see, we're a couple o' minders."

"And the Junior Commissar, too?" Webley asked.

"Oh no, you best hope she never has to mind ya, for if she has to that means you've done somethin' wrong." This he said with a nervous, slightly exasperated chuckle.

Marsh put a hand on each of their shoulders and smiled kindly. "No, nobody here hates you. They just don't want anythin' bad to happen to you. You two have a lot in common with him, even if you are just the squad leader and the assistant. You've got people depending on ya for leadership and guidance. You can't just give that to them when times are easy. No matter how tough things get, stick with'em. Teach'em things."

He leaned back, his smile growing a little more somber. "And to teach folks things, you need to learn things yerself. My teacher bothered me to no end, talked me up until the late hours, and made answering questions difficult. Sometimes, he posed questions and ideas that simply didn't have answers, jus' ta get me thinking." He tilted his head back and looked up at the sky. Snowflakes landed on his brown, collected in his eye sockets, and clung to his beard. Behind the thick, gray clouds were swathes of pink-orange sunlight. "Maybe we don't exist..." he murmured, his violet eyes lost in the beauty above him.

When he looked back down at the pair, their faces were stoic but their eyes glittered resolutely. They understood.

"Marsh Silas," Bullard said over the micro-bead. "I've got movement, northwest."

Without thinking, the platoon sergeant slid down the ridge, ambled across the draw, and scurried up the opposite ridge. By the time he arrived, Hyram was already at Bullard and Hitch's position. Sliding in next to them, he raised his magnoculars. Bullard read off the bearing and soon he saw a dark little shape, then two, and then three. Eventually, he counted ten figures heading north. Their clothing was ragged but their movement was experienced; they knew the lay of the land and moved comfortably through it. Constantly, they turned their heads and looked around. Moving at a half-crouch, they used the terrain for cover as best they could but were forced into the open often. As they moved, their direction changed and once they were parallel with the draw they shifted directly north.

Hyram lowered his own magnoculars and jotted the notes down in his logbook.

"We've got them," he said with a rugged triumph in his voice. "Marsh Silas, get every ready to move. As soon as the hour is up, we're moving out."

"Sir, we might lose'em," Bullard said. "The trail might go cold, even with all this snow. Permission for Hitch and myself to tail'em? That way we can relay intelligence back to you and with just us two, we'll keep a very low profile."

Hyram considered it for a few moments. His violet eyes met Marsh's.

"You're going with them," he ordered. Marsh grinned; he hoped Hyram was going to say that. "You'll need a Voxman. Take your pick of the lot."

"The Whiteshields need experience. I'll take Rowley."

"No disrespect there, Marsh Silas," Hitch said in a chiding tone, "but even after so much training one Whiteshield only makes half a Shock trooper."

"Take two, then," Hyram said. "Be quick and safe about this. You have a map? Good. Take only what you need. One ration per. Go."

Marsh, Bullard, and Hitch hurried back into the draw. Each one of them deposited their excess wargear at their stations, and prepared to set out. Marsh fetched the two Whiteshields, who were both surprised but excited to be taken out. Some of the other Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon promised to carry their gear, a few quick goodbyes and standing orders were shared, and the five-man party set out. Bullard took point, followed by Rowley, Yeardley, Hitch, and Marsh took up the rearguard. As he ushered them out, he glanced back at his own position in the draw. Carstensen was just rising from the sleeping bag, still blinking sleep from her eyes. When he saw her, he paused involuntarily. His lips twitched into a smile and he waved a little bit. She did not smile or wave, only nodding.

Catching up to the team, Marsh exited the draw, labored up the slope, and was soon on level ground. Everyone kept very low and scurried to a berm. Bullard didn't immediately lead them north; instead, he led them west, gently changing direction the further they strayed from the camp. In case they were followed, he didn't want to leave a trail that led directly back to the others. Stopping to confer with Marsh Silas with the map, they were able to pick up the trail and travel parallel to it, staying within sight of the tracks but not treading on them directly.

Again, they pressed on but only for a short distance. Bullard flashed his hand, bringing them to a stop. Crawling to the top, he peered down his long-las scope and checked the area. With a wave, he led them on. They hurried over the berm, keeping low as they darted to the next hill. Booted feet thudded and crunched in the snow. Ragged breath passed through their lips, small puffs of white appearing in front of their tactical hoods.

It was a thrilling chase, a clandestine pursuit. Marsh enjoyed every second of it. Although Rowley was struggling under the weight of her Vox-caster, she kept pace and didn't complain. Yeardley pressed on doggedly, while the two marksmen handled themselves very well. Bullard and Hitch were attuned to moving through the land quietly and stealthily. Every movement they made was fluid and experienced. Marsh and his pupils emulated them in every way.

They couldn't see their prey but the trail they left behind was slowly disappearing in the snow. Fresh flakes were already filling the boot prints.

"We may have to pull back if we lose the trail," Marsh whispered when they stopped to ensure they weren't spotted again. Bullard was at the top of the rise, half his body over the crest and his legs back on their side. When he finished looking, he slithered down and shook his head.

"No, I got'em now. We ain't gonna lose'em."

Bullard and Hitch were excellent trackers on top of their primary duties. They could read the terrain far better than Marsh Silas or any other man in the platoon could. He trusted them and didn't dispute their claim. After crossing the rise, they proceeded for another five hundred meters, stopping only when they needed to check their surroundings. As quick as they were, night was beginning to fall quickly. Fresh, dark gray clouds filled the gaps and soon the fleeting sunlight was snuffed out. Plunged into darkness, the team pressed on.

Eventually, when the team was well over a kilometer away from the draw, Bullard halted them again. They came to a series of bluffs, one of which stretched in a semicircle to the front and right flanks. Bullard crawled to the crest, remained only for a moment, and then carefully crept halfway down. Marsh could just make him out. The sniper shouldered his long-las, then made a looping gesture with his hand, pointing up and over the crest of the bluff. Then, he used his two primary fingers to make a walking motion on his opposite palm. Finally, he began flashing all ten of his fingers, making a fist, then opening it, closing it, and opening it. He repeated it ten times.

Marsh's heart began beating faster. Pointing with the flat of his hand, he ordered every to the top. They crawled up, side by side, moving as quietly as he could. At the top, he gazed through his magnoculars. Across the bluff was a wide valley only marked by a few rocks and scrub bushes. Walking through it was a column of heretics, clad in the same apparel as the scouting party. That part was just joining the others, halting briefly at the head to confer with whoever was leading.

Taking the opportunity, Marsh counted them out for himself. He recounted again and then a third time. One hundred fifty heretics were heading to the southeast.

"Rowley, call it in," Marsh Silas ordered.


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