Chapter 11


Cadia was besieged by a myriad of foes. From the horrifying and abominable dregs the Eye of Terror produced to foul xeno war parties attempting to make their mark on the Imperium's Gate. In response, the Cadian Shock Troops not only had to be zealous in their faith, metered in their emotions, and courageous in their hearts, they needed a diverse array of combat qualifications. Laying an ambush was not how the average Cadian preferred to engage their foe but it was a skill they were taught nonetheless. While they would never be as proficient as other specialized regiments, they were capable enough against ragtag hinterland heretics.

The party of heretics was moving slowly across the land, allowing Marsh Silas and his small party to rejoin Bloody Platoon quickly. Everything was quiet but hurried as the Guardsmen moved into position along the path of the incoming enemies. Despite the darkness, Hyram chose the ground well: a shallow draw with a steep, extended ridge on the southern side and a crop of tightly packed jagged rocks on the north side. It was an advantageous position with two nearly impassable topographical entities funneling the heretics through the comparably passable draw. Although there were still boulders and vegetation within the draw, it was a far easier path than traversing the steeper obstacles.

Marsh Silas joined Hyram as he individually placed every soldier and team in the platoon. First, he ordered Walmsley Major and Minor, along with Third Squad, to take up a position fifty meters into the draw, which placed them about three-quarters of the way through. Forming a line behind a fallen log and some rocks, they camouflaged their position with bushes, crushed leaves, and branches covered in pine needles. The remainder of the platoon were placed along the top of the southern ridge overlooking the path. In the center, Sudworth and Lowe entrenched with their Autocannon while Albert and Brownlow erected their Heavy Bolter at the end of the ridge. This ensured automatic fire at the front, center, and rear of the enemy column. Corporal Olhouser and Snyder, having recovered from their wounds enough to rejoin Bloody Platoon, planted their mortar twenty meters back from the ridge. After gauging the distance, they zeroed in so they could drop shells directly into it.

Grenadiers were placed in decent perches so as to scatter the enemy and line Guardsmen were evenly displaced between them. Because the enemy lacked vehicles, Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher were forced to desert their own heavy weapons and join the line as regular Guardsmen. Of course, these men saw themselves as highly skilled and especially trained to operate such devastating and effective armaments. To be asked to pick up the standard M36 which they carried almost as a formality, a completion of their uniform as they liked to joke, was almost insulting. Such was the way of the little divisions within a platoon. But, they did not complain nor did they object. Like good Cadian soldiers, they joined their mates on the firing line and prepared to fight.

The long-las team, Bullard and Hitch, climbed to the highest point of the ridge. It was nothing more than a pile of stones, moved there by some great geographic cataclysm millennia ago. Forming a kind of peak, it provided a three-hundred sixty degree view of the landscape while still allowing them to look down into the draw. As well, they were able to maintain micro-bead range so they did not have to detach one of the Voxmen from their squads. With the advantage of high ground and long-range optics, the pair kept a lookout for the approaching enemy.

Sergeant Clivvy and the Whiteshields were placed at the western end of the line with Albert and Brownlow. In the event the enemy were not cut down in the initial fusillade and were able to escape, the Whiteshields were to rapidly descend the slope and cut them off. Such a position resulted in very close action, often coming down to hand to hand combat. It was a tremendously honorable task and Marsh Silas was very proud Hyram chose their squad for the duty. He could tell they were nervous but excited. All ten Whiteshields wanted to make their platoon leader proud and earn their place in the unit.

Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen went up and down the line multiple times to ensure everybody was in position. Such veterans did not require strict supervision; they were well-versed in their trade. Troopers placed fragmentation grenades and charge packs on top of rocks beside them or even on top of the ones they crouched behind. It made their ammunition and munitions much quicker to access than digging through their cartridge belts. Everyone fixed bayonets without orders, it being second nature to do so. Many took out their trench knives or fighting knives and planted them in the earth. It was a precaution in case it came down to hand to hand combat although everyone was confident it would not come down to that.

Although it was a hasty effort, Bloody Platoon was ready within minutes. Orders were given to remain silent. Hyram and Marsh Silas crawled to the center of the position near Sudworth and Lowe. Both men carefully inspected the Autocannon one last time before checking the feed. Marsh looked past them to see everyone ranging and zeroing their sights on the ground below. When they were finishing attuning their scopes, everyone dropped down.

Marsh rolled onto his back and looked at Hyram. The Lieutenant briefly inspected his Data-slate one more time before tucking into one of his pouches. He reached over and tapped Marsh on the shoulder.

"Get yourself over to the Whiteshields, I want you present so they don't do anything rash."

Hyram gave Sergeant Clivvy explicit orders not to make any kind of movement until she was ordered to. She agreed and passed this onto her squad but the Lieutenant was still concerned. Either he thought she was going to let her personal zeal overcome her and disobey his orders or she would be unable to prevent her squad from charging. Marsh was disappointed Hyram still didn't trust them entirely. He understood they were still very green on all accounts but he trusted him; he wanted that to be enough for the platoon leader. The fact it wasn't made him feel low, but he crushed such feelings for the sake of the mission.

"Yes sir."

Marsh Silas turned to leave but Hyram snatched his webbing, halting him in his tracks. The Lieutenant brought him close. The platoon sergeant expected his commanding officer to bequeath one final order. Instead, he smiled faintly.

"Be careful, my friend."

Instantly, Marsh Silas smiled and then tapped Hyram on the shoulder.

"Yes, sir."

He scurried down the line, passing many low, crouching forms. Walking past him was Junior Commissar Carstensen. It was dark but her imposing figure and commanding stride were quite noticeable. As they passed, right shoulder to right shoulder, Marsh reached out and took her unarmored hand. Luckily, she had not drawn her Bolt Pistol yet and thus his fingers slipped easily between hers. She stopped quickly and turned halfway. Knowing he couldn't speak aloud, Marsh raised her hand and kissed the back of it. Carstensen's face was barely visible and he wished it wasn't. All she did was squeeze his hand before slipping her hand out of his. And like that, Marsh was instantly focused on his task once more.

Sliding in among the Whiteshields, he found them evenly dispersed around the second Heavy Bolter Team. Five were on the left flank of the gun while the other five were on the right flank. All were dug in and kept the necessary wargear in arm's reach. Clivvy was the only one not behind a rock. She was darting between each of the Whiteshields and whispering directions in their ears. Marsh decided not to assist her and allowed the squad leader to conduct her own affairs. He settled next to Yeardley who was crouching on one knee behind a moderately sized rock. When he looked at Marsh, his child-like smile split his face.

The platoon sergeant reached over and grasped the young man's shoulder. "Let's make Kasr Polaris proud this night."

"For Kasr Polaris."

Marsh zeroed his own sights and then hunkered down. He did not like having to rely on another individual to keep lookout in these scenarios, but he trusted Bullard and Hitch. Watching for the enemy passed the time and made the waiting period far less tedious. Keeping oneself preoccupied kept the nerves suppressed. Despite his own experience, Marsh Silas was not immune to the natural fears of war. Such a reaction was physical and only the most devout and brave of the Astra Militarum could withstand it. How he wished he were a noble Astartes at times like these! The finest warriors of the Emperor and the Imperium felt no fear. What liberation it was to not be afraid. Although he was acquainted with such a freedom, it was rare and surfaced in the strangest circumstances.

Breathe, my dear Silvanus, breathe. Barlocke's voice was so soothing it felt like a warm hand passing across his forehead. The platoon sergeant shut his eyes and allowed the voice to flow through his mind, filling like water in a basin. You have fought before and bravely too. To your left and your right are comrades, stalwart and strong. Marsh looked to his right side and smiled sadly. For a brief moment, he thought he saw a shape kneel beside him. A long, flowing trench coat hung from their shoulders, a wide-brimmed hat was low on their brow, and an eager smile tugged at their lips. It lingered only for a moment, dissipating like warm breath on a cool morning. The wind seemed to carry the image away and Marsh felt a great longing.

"How I wish you were with us, old friend."

"Did you say something, Staff Sergeant?"

"Just uttering a prayer, in a certain fashion I suppose," Marsh whispered back to Yeardley with a chuckle. "Control your breathing, son, and don't fire too fast. Aim slow, aim true."

Marsh changed position so he was laying down with his shoulders and head against the rock. He held his M36 across his chest and steadily drummed his fingers against the side. Looking up, he managed to see a break in the clouds. Through it, white stars glimmered peaceably in the purple-black veil. A moment later, the wind blew and another cloud covered the break. It was well and good; ambushes tended to be more successful when there was no moon and no stars.

He waited as patiently as possible, forcing himself to stop tapping on the side of his weapon. This was no time for nervous tics. Each passing minute felt like a century. Time seemed to slow down, as if Cadia's own rotation was coming to a halt. Such a feeling was curiously alluring just as it was frustrating. No matter how many times Marsh waited to enter battle, he could not shake this state.

When Bullard's voice broke through his micro-bead, he jumped.

"I have eyes on the enemy. Approaching at the quick-step, over."

"All First Platoon stations," Hyram's voice followed, "hold fire until I fire the first shot. Then, show them the Emperor's fury."

Marsh Silas changed position, slowly turning over onto his stomach. Then, he rose to a crouch and peeked over the edge of the rock. Below, at the base of the ridge's slop, the heretics streamed into the draw. They move quickly although in an undisciplined, comfortable fashion. Nobody was expecting an ambush all the way here in the ground they considered their own. Skirmishers were not deployed on the flanks, there was no element of leadership at the head of the column, and no rearguard. With his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, Marsh could make out further details. Although the core shapes of the individual heretics remained naught but shadows, he could make out the worn edges of the ragged clothes they wore. Some wore boots ripped from the feet of dead Guardsmen, a sight which disgusted and infuriated Marsh Silas. Others were barefoot or bore makeshift shoes; some had tied strips of rubber to their feet.

None seemed to notice the cold or the snowflakes sprinkling from the sky. Each moved on in an aggressive, excitable way. Marsh looked both ways, up and down the line. He could see the shape of Guardsmen's shoulders rising as they brought their weapons to bear on the enemy. At the center, one form stood directly up. Hyram took the flag from Babcock, drove it into a crevice between two stones, and fired a single shot from his M36. The lasbolt struck a heretic at the edge of the column, blowing his arm off from the shoulder. "For the Emperor!" Hyram bellowed.

"Bloody Platoon!" the Guardsmen cheered.

Multicolored lasbots and tracer rounds lit up the night. Behind them, the mortar went off and a flare exploded in the sky. Three lights began to flutter down to Cadian soil. Below, the enemy were blinded. Heretics fanned out in every direction, running straight into the maw of the Walmsley brothers' Heavy Bolter. Streams of bolt shells swept back and forth across the draw. Heretics lost their legs and toppled over. Knee caps were blown out and feet were severed. Red, blue, and golden lasbots from the men on the ridge blew heads open, burst stomachs, and seared flesh. Below, heretics screamed in a rabid frenzy. Some threw themselves behind cover and began returning fire with their feeble autoguns. Others charged up the slope, a tactic the Cadians practiced in response to an ambush: break it. But the slope was too treacherous to climb quickly. Grenadiers fired straight down into the draw, blowing heretics to pieces and splintering their squads. Guardsmen lobbed grenades into the draw while others rolled them down the slope. Mortar shells dropped with extreme accuracy; rounds whistled, struck, and sent up columns of earth, snow, and body parts. Even after the flares went out, the mortar rounds kept falling precisely.

Guardsmen cheered and raised prayers to the Emperor. Whooping, roaring, shaking their fists, loading fresh charge packs, and hurling insults at the enemy, they poured on the fire. In a matter of moments, half the enemy column was wiped out. Bodies fell over and on top of one another. Some were struck by so many lasbolts they fell apart. But in the light of the lasbolts and the tracers, one could see their face. In acts of defiance, the heretics removed the sack hoods and masks they wore. Each was disformed, disheveled, inhuman in every regard. Violet eyes turned blood red, fangs jutted from their mouths, spikes were lodged in their brows, pustules and sores covered their cheeks. When they opened their mouths, they screamed and spewed a vile concoction of blood, mucus, pus, and bile. Such fluids splattered the ground hot, melting the snow and causing steam to rise. Some of what they vomited caused the scraggly bushes throughout the draw to wither and die. Even the stones seemed scorched by it, as if touched by flame.

None showed fear, just rage and hate towards the ambushers. Their red eyes seemed to glow brighter, like coals having completely ignited. Some threw down their weapons and just screamed. Their cries were piercing, rising above the battle din and searing Marsh's eardrums. But he kept firing no matter how terrifying their furious eyes and leaking faces were.

Unable to break the ambush or advance, the surviving heretics, numbering around thirty or so, began to retreat. "Clivvy! Now's your time!" Hyram shouted over the micro-bead.

"Whiteshields, with me!" Clivvy shouted. Marsh got to his feet but saw no one else was. Everyone remained behind their rocks, as if paralyzed. Some were still shooting but it was a desperate, frenzied kind of firing. When he saw their eyes in the muzzle flash of their muzzle flashes, he saw they wide and fearful. Clivvy, who ran ahead a few meters, doubled back and began racing among them. "What are you doing!? Get on your feet!"

"Move it, Whiteshields!" Marsh added, tugging Yeardley up. No sooner had the lad bounced onto his feet did he dive back behind his rock and cover his head. Webley was the only one to get up and she began to try and usher the other eight on.

"Get moving, Whiteshields!" she ordered. "Go, go, goooo!"

"Get them moving!" Hyram shouted over the micro-bead. "You need to move them now! Get in position, they're running, they're going to get away, you need to go!" The Lieutenant's blood was up, Marsh could hear it in his voice. It was more ferocious than ever before. So Marsh and Clivvy went among them, trying to pull them to their feet. He even began to kick them in their rear ends or stamped on their rucksacks.

When Marsh whirled around to see Clivvy throw her hat to the ground, turn around, and charge down the slope towards the enemy by herself. Upon seeing this, Webley raced after her. Marsh immediately pointed at them.

"Following your squad leader!"

Everyone looked to see the pair barreling down the slope. All the Whiteshields jumped to their feet and ran after them. They unleashed a shrill war cry. Marsh joined them, charging the enemy with his bayonet poised. Shooting as they ran, they cut down a number of the escaping heretics before engaging them hand to hand. Marsh bayoneted one in the belly, withdrew the blade, and then brought it across the heretic's throat. One who tried to rush him with a knife received a crack across the jaw with the buttstock of his M36. Before he could bring the bayonet down on him, someone ran into him and brought him to the ground. Losing his grip, Marsh tussled with the assailant, rolling over one another several times. He ended up on his back and locked his hands around the heretic's wrist. A rusty dagger was pointed directly at his throat. Above him, the heretic growled menacingly like a wild animal.

The blade drew closer. Marsh pushed back with all his might. He struggled to kick and flail his legs to try and throw the attacker off him. But the heretic adjusted, placing more of his weight on the platoon sergeant's legs. Snickering, the heretic smiled.

"Where is your Emperor now?" he screeched.

"I'm going to gouge out your eyes you fucking traitor," Marsh snarled back. A movement to his left caught his eye. Webley swung her leg back and kicked with all her might. The blow landed right in the heretic's ribs and knocked him off. Roaring, the Whiteshield leaped over Marsh and drove her bayonet into his mouth. When she withdrew the blade, she began beating him mercilessly over the head with the buttstock.

Before Marsh could draw his own trench knife someone grabbed him from behind. He raised his arm to protect his throat, expecting a knife. Instead, someone restrained him and kept him on his knees. Three heretics sprang from cover with knives and raced towards him. Marsh fought as hard as he could, cracking the back of his skull against the heretic's forehead but their grip was like a vise. When the enemy was almost upon him, the Whiteshields roared and charged. Clivvy, Graeme, Yeardley, Rowley, and Tattersall threw themselves on the three assailants. Beating them down with fists and M36 blows, they transitioned to their blades and ripped them apart. A few heretics, having finally broken, ran past them out of the draw.

Leander, Merton, Rayden, and Soames formed a line, raised their lasguns, and fired a crimson fusilade that lit up the night. The surviving heretics were quickly dispatched, falling into the snow. Behind them, the firing stopped. All was suddenly quiet save for the ragged panting of the Guardsmen. A head count was conducted; squad leaders policed their troopers and happily reported there were no casualties. The only wounds Guardsmen reported were grazes or a bit of shrapnel that sliced a shoulder. Everyone wanted to cheer but Hyram hushed them.

Half the platoon was put on watch while the other half descended into the draw. Lamp packs and flashlights were activated, illuminating the area. Around their feet were the grisly remains of the heretics. Blood splattered the disturbed snow and the rocks, spilled intestines and severed limbs littered the ground. Warm bodies emitted steam from their pulsing, sucking, leaking wounds. A few moans rose up and were silenced by a bayonet thrust.

The Whiteshields gathered up near Marsh Silas. Before he could speak, Hyram came marching down the draw with his head cocked and shoulders hunched. Growling as he approached, he came up to the closest Whiteshield, Leander, and kicked him in the chestplate. The Whiteshield fell back so hard he lost his breath.

"Lieutenant!" Marsh protested.

"Shut up!" Hyram barked, pointing in his face. He turned and faced the Whiteshields. "You fucking disgrace! What's wrong with you? First you are so eager for action you disobey my orders and then when I give you one to fight you cower! You shame this platoon!"

The members of Bloody Platoon amassed behind him watched anxiously. Rage did not come often to Lieutenant Hyram but when it did it was very jarring and unsettling. Nobody withdrew but they seemed to become smaller. Even though they were not the recipients of Hyram's anger, they bore the appearance of scolded children. The Whiteshields fared even worse. Everyone was red in the face and close to tears. Each one lowered their head, ashamed.

Yeardley cleared his throat, stepped forward, and raised his head.

"I'm sorry, sir, I just got such a fright and—"

Hyram slapped Yeardley across the face so hard the young man staggered back. Wide-eyed and holding his cheek, the Whiteshield looked back. A moment later, tears fell from his eyes. Hyram stormed forward and grabbed him by the collar of his Flak Armour.

"We're all scared out here, boy! But did you see these men hesitate!?" He tore Yeardley forward and made him look at the veterans. All looked down at him with frank, indifferent expressions. The Lieutenant shoved him back so hard he fell on his backside. Rowley knelt beside him and put her arm around him. "You plebians are more a threat to this platoon than the enemy! If you can't manage to keep up, I swear to the Emperor I will send you back to whichever Kasr you've come from and allow the Commissars to bestow whatever punishment they see fit upon you!"

Rowley helped Yeardley stand up and then she turned to face Hyram.

"Sir, please—"

Hyram slapped her as well. Rowley did not fall but she held her cheek and fought back tears. Towering over her, Hyram got right in her face, his violet eyes ablaze.

"Do your job!" Hyram hollered. He went to every single one of the Whiteshields except for Webley and Clivvy. Grabbing them by the collar or the side of their neck, he got in each of their faces and repeated the order. "Do your job! Do your job! Do your job!"

When he finished, he took a step back, closed his eyes, and inhaled sharply. Turning, he faced Clivvy and Webley. Both of them appeared apprehensive but waited for whatever words and blows he reserved for them. But to the shock of everyone gathered, Hyram suddenly smiled. "Sergeant Clivvy, Trooper Webley, you were both personally brave and proceeded to follow orders at great risk. You shall both be awarded the Eagle Ordinary and Webley, you are hereby promoted to corporal."

Both of them beamed and saluted.

"Thank you, sir!" they chimed in unison. Hyram's smile faded.

"But you have to control your Whiteshields. That does not just mean you must restrain, it also means you must force them sometimes. Do not let that kind of hesitation happen again among your squad or I shall have the Junior Commissar see to their remedial training."

Hyram turned around and faced the men. "Search the bodies for intelligence. Touch not their flesh, only their clothing. Cover your faces, utter cleansing prayers, and protect your hands. We move out in ten minutes."

The platoon leader pushed through the crowd and began walking back up the draw. Bloody Platoon's veterans watched him go, then looked back at the Whiteshields. Marsh followed their gaze. Gathered together, the Whiteshields did not move and bowed their heads. Graeme, Rowley, and Yeardley were outright crying. Others wiped their faces or tried to hide their shameful expression behind their tactical hoods. Nobody looked each other in the eye. Rowley buried her face in her hands while Yeardley kept his hands on her shoulders. Clivvy and Webley stepped in front of them.

"Dry your eyes and raise your heads," Clivvy said. "We have a duty to perform. What happened tonight will not happen again, I firmly believe that. Now come, Whiteshields, with me."

"Yes, Sergeant," they all said, their voices thick or choked.

Each one saluted, wiped their faces, and began searching the dead. Marsh stared, blinked, and then grimaced. Spinning around, he marched through the platoon as they picked at the corpses' clothing. At the end of the draw, he found Hyram overseeing Third Squad and the Walmsley brothers as they vacated their position. Marsh waited until the other Guardsmen passed by him to approach the platoon leader. He grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

Wait, think of what you do, Silvanus! You are angry and it is never good to speak to a friend in such a state. Don't say anything you may regret!

Marsh heard Barlocke's frantic voice but it did not register with him like it did before.

"Is that how you dealt with your boy when he misbehaved?"

"My son does not misbehave," Hyram said, pushing Marsh's hand away.

"They was scared, that's all, it happens to every Whiteshield once in a while!" Marsh protested. "It ain't worth hitting a girl in the face! By the Emperor, she's just a lass."

Hyram stepped closer and spoke in a hushed but urgent tone.

"That is not a girl, that is not a lass. That is a soldier, Silas. Soldiers follow orders. Soldiers overcome their fear. They are children no longer, they are warriors. If they cannot perform I do not want them in this platoon." He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, shook his head, and took a few stressed breaths. Finally, he prodded Marsh's chestplate with his finger. "It has been and still is your duty to train them. They will not learn, contribute, or survive if you continue to treat them like children. Stop acting like Barlocke and ensure they fulfill their fucking duties."

"Barlocke? I ain't tryin' ta be like Barlocke!"
"I know you were friends. I often sat with the Inquisitor and spoke to him as well. You were not the only one he sought to bestow his ideology. You were not the only one who grieved. His ideas, while admirable and attractive to mine-own ears, have no place in a Cadian platoon. Now, rejoin the men and get to work."

Hyram turned around and began tramping back up the ridge. Marsh balled his hands into fists, growled, and turned around. But he didn't immediately engage in the search. Squeezing his eyes shut, he controlled his breathing so he didn't lose his temper. That went better than expected. Hyram is upset, but don't hold it against him. You are friends after all and you've both got weight on your shoulders. You said it yourself, he's a worrier. He was just—"

"Leave me alone, Barlocke," Marsh hissed.

He didn't need nor want his friend's help in dealing with this. Marsh Silas butted heads with his platoon leader before; Good Ol' Overton was his best friend but even they argued sometimes. In such affairs, he learned they were not arguing as friends but as a superior to a subordinate. The platoon leader gave the platoon sergeant orders, which the latter believed he was carrying out those orders correctly, but the former disagreed. The Lieutenant and the Staff Sergeant agreed on a great deal but it seemed like they diverged when it came to training the Whiteshields. Considering it was he who trained Hyram, he was surprised by this. Perhaps he still considered them newcomers while Marsh saw them as regular hands in the platoon.

Calming down, he knew the Whiteshields failed in the effort that night. While they may have finally risen and attacked, their hesitation was inexcusable. He knew that and he would speak to them about it when the time was right. Hyram gave them too much of a whipping for him to feel comfortable dishing out another one. Of course, he would be lighter than his counterpart. Such was the balance of leadership; when one was tough, the other needed to be softer. A platoon needed to know their two commanders cared about them but still expected them to do their duty.

Resolving not to take it personally, Marsh walked down the draw, retrieved his weapon, and aided the search. He rifled through the coat and trouser pockets of numerous bodies. Sometimes all that was left were some scraps of clothing sitting in a pool of blood. As he worked, he offered up muffled prayers to keep his soul and flesh clean and pure. Everyone was murmuring for such protection, as if the words created a shield around them. With so many Guardsmen speaking the same words, the individual voices joined into a quiet, droning song.

Marsh was careful as he sifted through pockets and backpacks. He did not want to unwittingly touch some artifact or token of Chaos. All he managed to find were moldy chunks of bread, ancient Militarum dry rations, spoiled meat, and unfiltered water. Such water was carried not in canteens but in clear bags secured with rope or leather skins. Lifting one of the bags, Marsh turned his flashlight on it. Floating in the bags he could see what looked like sand collecting at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, the substances were not as fine as sand. Some glinted in the light, others didn't. What began to collect in the corners of the bag appeared as slick, gray sediment.

"Honeycutt?"

A moment later, the senior medic appeared and crouched beside him. "What do ya make o' this?"

Honeycutt's duties did not just extend to the immediate and long-term care of the fighting Guardsman. His responsibilities included ensuring they consumed enough food to maintain their strength, providing nutrition enhancers when he could when their rations lacked variety, and inspecting what foodstuffs and drink they carried for contamination. Such contamination didn't always come in the form of poisons or factorum runoff, but also from the planet itself.

Honeycutt took Marsh's lamp back and examined the bag from multiple sides. Then, he held up two fingers.

"There's two places where this water could be collected from. One, a collection of rainwater or some small surface pond in a rocky area. Second, from underground, and I'm partial to the second. See that gray goop there? That's clay. If you dig a deep enough fighting hole in land such as this, you're bound to hit some o' this. Lots of natural caves and old tunnel networks from deactivated bases in these lands."

"If their base is underground, it explains why aerial and ground patrols have been unable to find them," Marsh Silas remarked.

"Who is to say there is only one base?" Junior Commissar Carstensen asked, having joined the pair. She stooped over them, her hands on her knees. "We'll need more evidence before we can definitely declare the enemy is underground, but it is very likely."

Honeycutt walked off, called to attend to a bleeding graze wound. Marsh took his knife and pierced the bag, and let it drain onto the ground. It was unsafe for the men to drink it and he didn't want the heretics who would invariably arrive to use it either. He sheathed the knife and turned for the next body. Carstensen put a hand on his chestplate. "Are you well?"

"Nearly took a couple o' heretic daggers, but that's just another day, ain't it, ma'am?"

"I overheard your discussion with Lieutenant Hyram."

Marsh pursed his lips and averted his eyes from Carstensen. The Junior Commissar glanced around to make sure no one was especially close. Stepping closer, she turned halfway so it did not look as if they were leaning too close to one another. "Try to keep those kinds of disagreements behind closed doors, although it'll be hard to find one out here, so it may be better in future to keep your voices down."

A quiet attempt at humor was all Marsh Silas needed, much to his surprise. His lips tugged into a little smile and he eventually emitted a polite chuckle. Carstensen's own grin widened, apparently satisfied she was successful in her endeavor. Stepping closer, she nodded her head in his direction. "You must understand, it's not about them or even you. It's about him. He looks at those Whiteshields and he seems himself. It was not too long ago he was so scared he couldn't move either. He's trying to push you so you'll push them, like you did for him."

Her fingers touched his own. "Do what you can for them."

"Yes, Junior Commissar."

"I found something!"

Everyone turned and gathered around Drummer Boy. The senior Voxman was kneeling next to a corpse at the head of the column and was holding up a sheet of parchment. Multiple lamp backs illuminated it. It was a map. Hyram arrived, took it from Drummer Boy, and examined it under Marsh's light. Portrayed on the parchment was the entire hinterland, Kasr Sonnen, the entire road network, and Army's Meadow. Arrows indicated different movements across the ground, most of which were directed at the various outposts up and down the main road. Scribbles next to each arrow provided routes, dates, and from what they could understand, tactical designations for various war parties.

Of course, the true objective—the heretics' base or bases of operation—were not portrayed on the map. But all the arrows swept from the north towards the south and east. It was an indication they needed to push further north. Hyram's violet eyes sparkled and a grin split his face, excited to track down the elusive enemy.

"So whatcha thinkin' sir, head north or do ya want to hit these other raiding parties?" Marsh asked, pointing at some of the arrows. "We intercepted this one and if we move east, we can hit the next one. They ain't due for another hour if I'm readin' this right."

"You can read, Staff Sergeant?" somebody asked. It sounded like Jupp.

"Somebody smack whoever said that," Marsh said without looking up from the map. There was a distinctive slap sound behind him.

"Ow!"

"Thank you," Marsh said over his shoulder. Hyram scrutinized the map for another moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

"I can't in good conscience allow these enemy raids to commence uncontested. Cadian lives are at risk and we have the means to save them. We pursue these parties and eliminate as many as we can. If they are carrying similar intelligence we may be able to piece together the larger picture and, with the Emperor's blessing, destroy their main base." He checked his watch. "That's it then. Bloody Platoon, prepare to fall out! Yoxall, plant a few surprises for the heretics if they decide to come looking for their comrades."

"Yessir!"
"Marsh Silas, Babcock, with me."

Hyram led the pair towards the end of the draw. "Babcock, cut that heretic's head off. Marsh, find a stout branch." Marsh was able to hack a low-hanging branch off from one of the few trees in the draw and brought it back. When he returned, Babcock was standing with a hatchet in one hand and the hair of a severed head in the other. Upon the Lieutenant's instructions, the platoon sergeant planted the branch vertically in the dirt and Babcock drove it in with the flat side of the hatchet blade. With his trench knife, Marsh sharpened the end of the branch and Babcock planted the head on it.

Smiling, Hyram produced a piece of parchment and a long, honed piece of wood he worked on with his own knife. Using the back of the hatch, they hammered the parchment into the head's face. On the paper were the words, 'Bloody Platoon was here! All heretics will die!' The trio stepped back and regarded the totem proudly. "When they find the bodies, they will realize they are being hunted. It will be good to let them know who is coming for them."

Marsh Silas heartily agreed as he joined the rest of Bloody Platoon, melting away into the night.


Words: 6,183

Pages: 14

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Author's Note: Lol, thank you to the Guest who pointed out I uploaded the wrong Chapter 11 to this story. I need to trim my Doc Manager. Please, never be afraid to point out a mistake I've made or a discrepancy; this not only helps me and the story, it helps your fellow readers.