Chapter 16


"Stand firm, Guardsmen, stand firm!"

Marsh Silas threw himself down on a little rise of land in between two trees. Balancing the barrel on the lip of earth, he took aim and began firing at the approaching enemy. Another wave of screaming, ragged, autogun-toting heretics were charging their position. Leaping over and stepping on the corpses of their dead comrades, they barreled towards the Imperial position in the woods. From the left flank, the combined might of First Company's Heavy Weapons Squads opened up on the enemy. Streams of Heavy Bolter rounds cut down entire lines of the attackers, blowing open their stomachs, decapitating them, and blasting their legs into pieces. Bits of flesh, sprays of blood, and scraps of clothing went everywhere. Salvos of mortars fell on them; airbursting shells rained hot shrapnel on the enemy. From where he was, Marsh could not see the shrapnel as it flew. But the round would explode a few meters off the ground in a grayish-brown cloud and all the heretics underneath would crumple over.

Despite the ferocity of the enfilading fire, the heretics were too numerous to wipe out before they reached the wood. All around him, Guardsmen loaded fresh charge packs and fixed bayonets. Others lobbed hand grenades at them creating a line of dull, dirty explosions that knocked many of the front ranks down. As they closed the distance, the Cadians began bellowing.

One came at Marsh with a makeshift spear. Dropping his M36 and drawing his Power Sword in the same instant, he sidestepped the enemy's thrust and grabbed the spear shaft. Then, he thrust his blade through the heretic's stomach so fiercely the tip came out his back. Kicking the heretic off and dropping the spear, he blocked a hatchet blow from a second opponent. When he swung again, the platoon sergeant ducked, rotating as he did, and sliced the man's gut open. Despite the wound, the savage came on. Dropping the hatch, he lunged at him with bloody hands. But Marsh reached out, snatched him by the throat, and with great strength shoved him against the closest tree. Then, he pierced the heretic's chest with the blade.

Before he could extract it, someone tore into his right side. Tumbling and rolling, he ended up on his back. A hooded heretic, his grisly, blackened mouth visible through a slit, shrieked at him. He drew a dull, rusty dagger and tried to bring it down on Marsh's face. But he caught his wrist and held it back. He possessed the advantage of pure strength but the heretic had leverage. He couldn't let go of the heretic's throat for fear of letting him come down on him. Meanwhile, the vile being's free hand searched Marsh's person for a weapon he could use against him.

Just as he began tugging at the Ripper Pistol in his holster, an olive drab helmet came into view behind the heretic followed by a Type 9-70 entrenchment tool. With a metallic gong it came down on the heretic's head. Paralyzed from the blow, he fell over to the side. Lieutenant Eastoft stood over the stunned heretic for a moment before flipping her tool to the sharpened edge. Then, she brought it down on the enemy's neck, nearly decapitating him. Turning to Marsh, she offered him a hand and helped him to his feet.

"We're still in this fight, Shock Trooper!" she shouted.

More heretics came charging through the hedges in between the two trees the pair defended. She knocked one over with the flat side of the tool and then rammed the point into his throat. When another came bursting through the hedge, Eastoft hit him in the face with her fist, grabbed him by the shoulder, and then shoved the point of the shovel directly through his neck. It practically the heretic's head off.

As she fought, Marsh returned to his M36 just as two heretics rushed him. He was able to shoot one down and then pierced the second with his bayonet. Roaring, he shoved him to the ground with the weapon, withdrew the blade, and then thrust into the enemy's throat. Three more were coming at him. A burst of automatic laser fire cut them down, splitting open their torsos and severing limbs. Captain Giles approached on the right, having appropriated an M36 in lieu of his Defender Pattern Service laspistol.

Hyram, Carstensen, and the rest of the Platoon Command Squad were also nearby. Forming a knot of firepower, they poured relentless volleys of fire into the enemy. But the heretics gained the momentum and began to press against the Cadian line. Hyram let his M36 hang by the sling, drew his Power Sword and laspistol, and began cutting down foes. Deftly, he swiped enemies off their feet or severed them at the knee before delivering the killing blow with his laspistol. Carstensen rushed to counter the charge, blasting heretics to pieces and breaking others with her Power Fist. One dramatic blow sent one flying against a tree. When his back struck, it made an audible crack that rose about the battle din. She struck another, sending every single tooth in his mouth flying into the air. Drummer Boy lost his M36 in a grapple and Hyram tossed him his sword. The Voxman's swordsmanship improved greatly since the days of training with Marsh and Barlocke. Parrying a sword thrust with his heavy gauntlet, he thrust his blade through the throat of the attacking heretic. Babcock, who was thoroughly enjoying himself, laughed pleasantly as he shot down the enemy. When his charge pack was depleted, he simply dropped it and held the platoon's standard with both hands. An enemy thrust an autogun equipped with a bayonet at him. Smacking the barrel away with the bottom of the flag, he threw his heavy shoulder against him. Ill-prepared for the blow, the heretic fell onto his back. With a deep war cry, the color sergeant pierced the heretic's heart with the flag pole. Laughing, he left the standard in the corpse and drew his 9-70. Tossing the entrenchment tool between both hands, he smiled as a heretic came rushing at him. Leaning forward, he practically invited him to attack. Clutching the 9-70 with both hands, he hefted it backwards and then swung it forward, cleaving the heretic's face.

First Lieutenant Haupt was fighting with them once more instead of overseeing his engineers. Despite losing his helmet during the melee, he feverishly fired an M36 and bayoneted any enemy combatant who drew too close. When his weapon was empty and the bayonet got caught in a heretic's rib cage, he wrenched it free and began swinging the weapon like a club. Bringing it down on the top of an attacker's head, he split his skull open. Then, he bashed the buttstock against another's face, caving it in.

Even Valens was fighting. Crouching, he took deliberate aim and quickly cut down those who approached. The imagifier's long-eroded combat skills were finally coming back to him after so many ambushes and skirmishes in the hinterland. Gone was the young man who stumbled and tripped in the ruins of Kasr Fortis. Now, he was throwing lasbolts down range and suppressing the renegades' advance. Of course, his bravery was getting the better of him. More than once, he dropped his M36 to snap a pict of the Cadians fighting on either side of him. When the heretics came close, he picked up his weapon and blasted them to pieces.

Still, the heretics flooded into the woods. Captain Giles began waving his hand towards the rear.

"Ease! Ease!" he shouted. It was a command during a heavy enemy assault when the first line of defense was becoming tenuous. Troops manning the perimeter would slowly fall back, fighting as they did, giving the enemy some ground but making him pay for it dearly. Marsh pressed the buttstock of his M36 into his shoulder and began firing as the enemy stormed the woods. Beside him, Eastoft knocked an enemy off his feet with the 9-70 and then shot him dead with her laspistol. Finally, she began falling back, shooting as she did.

On his right, Giles closed ranks. Firing until the charge pack went dry, he swapped it for his sidearm. Before he could get it out, a heretic Marsh and other troops weren't able to shoot attacked him. Giles wrestled with his opponent for a moment, both grappling and growling as one another. But the Captain was able to trip him and throw him on the ground. "For the Emperor!" the company commander shouted as he tore off his helmet, turned it over, and smashed it on the heretic's face. After several bashes, nothing was left of the enemy's face but bloody pulp. Dropping his helmet, Giles finally drew his laspistol and began firing.

As Marsh kept up a steady rate of fire, he could see the lines forming. Hyram was bringing up the rest of Bloody Platoon to reinforce them. More Cadians fell in until he was shoulder to shoulder with his Whiteshield. Sergeant Clivvy was on his left and Yeardley was on his right. Both of them kept up a tremendous rate of fire, killing countless heretics. All the Whiteshields did, efficiently blunting the heretical assault flowing towards them.

"That's it! Keep it up! Pour it on'em!" Marsh encouraged them. "That's the style! The Cadian style! Don't let up! For the Emperor!"

"For the Emperor!" came the resounding chorus.

Then, Marsh spotted something crimson on his right flank. At first, he thought it was Carstensen bravely attacking the enemy. But when he looked, he was astonished to see Regimental Commissar Ghent. He was walking with his chin raised, his high-peaked cap high on his head, and his hands folded behind his back. In his right hand he clutched his Bolt Pistol. But he strolled along as if he was making an inspection on the parade grounds.

"What is this?" he finally said, his voice firm and loud over the cacophony of blasting lasguns and rattling autoguns. "Easing for this pathetic rabble? I thought I served with Cadian Shock Troops, not a pathetic tithed regiment. If ye lack resolve, draw it from me, for mine is bottomless!"

With that, he raised his Bolt Pistol. A heretic came running at him with a pair of daggers. Calmly, as if he was lining up his sights on a target at the firing range, Ghent shot him down. Another came rushing at him from the right. Without looking, he snapped his Bolst Pistol at the heretic and struck him down with a single shot. When a third charged from his left, he tossed his weapon to his other hand, raised it, fired, and dropped him. Another came at him, sprinting towards a rock, leaping off it, and bringing his sword down on the Commissar. Raising the Bolt Pistol, he fired two shots. The first Bolt shell blasted open his stomach and the next severed his bottom half from his top.

Walking past the bodies, he encountered an entire squad of hostile attackers. His stride never breaking, he loped towards them and blew them all to pieces. Ejecting the empty magazine, he slid a full one in, and killed another rabble of heretics. Ahead of the firing line by twenty meters, he left a wake of fresh blood and broken corpses. He was nearly at the edge of the wood.

"Come on, let's show'em who we are!" Giles shouted. "For Emperor and Imperium, advance!"

Roaring, First Company of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment closed the distance. Shooting, bayoneting, slashing, stabbing, clubbing, and bashing their way through the heretics and the woods, jumping and marching over the courses, vaulting over fallen logs and rocks, weaving between trees, they retook the ground they gave up. So great was their courage and zeal many broke through the edge and crossed into open ground for a better shot at the retreating enemy. Officers and NCOs grabbed them by their webbing and collars, hauling them back into the trees. Marsh had to grab Rowley, Yeardley, Tattersall, and even Corporal Webley. Pushing and dragging them back, he joined the firing line.

"Control your fire!" he shouted to the troopers around him. "Aim low! Mark your targets before ya fire!"

"Let'em have it!" Hyram cried, waving his fist in the air. "Show them who we are!"

Babcock retrieved the flag and began waving it. Nearby, Commissar Ghent stood in the open and casually picked off targets with his weapon. Even as they drew out of range, he kept on firing. Everyone else was prone or found cover behind a tree trunk or a rock except for him. Even as withering fire from the heretic's position hit them, the rounds smacking into the trees, snapping through the air, or thudding into the ground, he did not move at all.

"Look, there goes Second Company!" someone yelled.

Sure enough, the brave men of Second Company were rushing across the ground adjacent to the Heavy Weapons Squads' position. Today, they were assaulting the final heretic hive which was across from the wood. All the others were secured except for this one. Marsh raised his magnoculars and watched them push up the slope. Surprised by the attack, the heretics barely returned fire. Many began to retreat through the countless trap doors, spider holes, and mine shafts over the mound of earth. Swarming over the low hill like insects, Second Company secured all the entrances. Then, they began lobbing fragmentation grenades and satchel charges inside. A series of detonations rocked the mound as First Company ceased firing.

"Gather up the wounded and the dead," Giles ordered. "Third Platoon, hold here. Second Platoon, shift to the north. First Platoon, retire to the rear."

###

Bloody Platoon lost two men and another five were wounded. Those two men were Corporal Second Class Eadwig and Corporal First Class Millard. Cadians possessed a byzantine structure of ranks to take into account different pay grades, variance of responsibilities, and to fulfill the myriad roles necessary to keep the basic building blocks of a Shock Trooper Regiment functional. To accommodate longer serving enlisted men who cemented themselves as Veterans, multiple ranks in the 'Corporal,' grade were authorized. While they didn't have the responsibilities of full corporals, men like Eadwig and Millard were in charge of smaller sections of men, oversaw small work details, and could sometimes hold a small watch known as a Corporal's Guard. Almost nobody in Bloody Platoon possessed a rank lower than Corporal Third Class.

Eadwig was from Kasr Oskari, renamed for the great Cadian general who successfully defended the Wyot Plains during the First Battle of Cadia at the cost of his own life. He was a brave trooper in line to become a corporal once a promotion was available and distinguished himself in countless battles. During the Raid on Kasr Fortis, his daring action in the destruction of a Heavy Stubber nest earned him the Eagle Ordinary and he was wounded during the escape from the dead Kasr. For this, he was awarded his sixth Vulnerati Medal, a unique Cadian award for Shock Troopers who sustained wounds in combat. This was a great source of amusement and jeering because Cadians were wounded very often and with so many millions of troops on and off world, the orders for these decorations could sometimes be lost. Many Guardsmen in Bloody Platoon hadn't received enough medals for all their wounds. Marsh Silas, despite bearing many wounds, hadn't received a single Vulnerati. Friends joked Eadwig knew somebody in Cadian High Command or the Departmento Munitorum and bribed them to get his medals on time.

Millard was from Kasr Uthric, a distinguished bastion seated on a strip of land in the far east that was often targeted by warbands for its strategic staging grounds. Ever since he was a Whiteshield, Millard fought in defense of his home and the entire region. Thus, when he finally was transferred to the Shock Troops, he was already a battle-tested soldier with seven Eagle Ordinary's on his chest as well as the Medallion Crimson which he earned during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. While the majority of Blood Platoon went to destroy the factory, he remained at the casualty collection point. Despite grevious wounds to his chest and stomach, he still manned a firing position when the position came under attack while the bulk of the platoon was absent. He braved heavy fire to bring ammunition to the Heavy Bolter and then tossed out two grenades which were tossed into the building. Always humble despite his proud Cadian heritage, he did not report his actions. Thankfully, a month after the raid, one of NCOs reported it to Hyram and Millard was awarded the Cadian Cross, a high honor reserved for heroic acts committed by Cadians, those adopted into Cadian culture, or to deserving off-worlders on rare occasions.

The pair both served in Third Squad; where Millard was reserved and taciturn, Eadwig was loud, joking, and boisterous. Yet, they were brothers in arms and fought well together. During the last action, Eadwig was riddled with shrapnel from an enemy grenade. According to Honeycutt, this severed several arteries, including one in his leg. He bled out before anyone could really tend to him. Millard died while dragging a wounded Corporal Efflemen out of the line of fire. First, his knees were shot out. When he stopped and covered Efflemen, he was shot in the face and throat. His death was quite instant, Honeycutt assured Marsh Silas.

But the platoon sergeant stood over the two bodies, now covered with their olive drab blankets. Their booted feet stuck out from underneath the blankets, as did their hands. Although their faces were covered, the blankets folded around their heads and he could make out the vague shapes of their noses and mouths. Next to each of them was their helmet. All their other wargear was appropriated and distributed among the survivors.

Crouching, he removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. Then, he clasped his hands together and pressed his mouth against them. Breathing in, he shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his hands.

"My Emperor above, I ask Thee to cloak and veil these souls in honor for their sacrifice. I pray You keep them by Your side, so they may serve you in that life which comes after death, the everlasting glory beside You and the Golden Throne. I already ask too much, my Emperor, but if at all possible..." he finally looked up at the sky and offered a faint smile. "...could You allow them a good, long rest before You send'em on their next mission? I think they earned it. Thank you, my Lord high above."

Marsh Silas made the sign of the Aquila, hooking his hands together, before reading into his pocket. Retrieving his prayer beads, he ran his thumb over the Gothic cross, kissed it, nodded, and tucked it away. Crossing to the other side of the two bodies, he first rested his palm on top of the blanket over Eadwig's forehead, and then Millard's.

"It seems you are out of uniform, Silas." He looked up to see Carstensen walking towards him. She was carrying his Power Sword. Leveling the weapon, the blade still slick with disgustingly dark heretical blood, she held it out to him. "I found this strange branch jutting out from a tree trunk. It looked rather familiar."

Smiling, he stood and took it from her. Unwilling to wash the tainted blood near the bodies of the honored dead, he stepped some distance away before he sank to his knees. Carstensen stood beside him as he took the cleansing oil out from his kit bag. Popping the cap, he slowly poured the oil over the tarnished part of the blade. Then, he yanked a clean white cloth out from the pack and carefully wiped the blood off. In a few swipes, the metal was clear of the heretic's ilk.

Burning the cloth with his lighter, he sheathed his Power Sword and stood back up. He cast a look back towards the two bodies. Beyond them were more covered corpses, all from other platoons as well as various workers constructing the road. Preachers walked solemnly among the bodies, burning incense in small golden pots suspended on silver chains around their necks. Bowing their heads, they recited quiet prayers and sprinkled holy water onto the blankets.

Carstensen touched his shoulder. "Take heart, Silas, for they have died for a most righteous cause."

"Aye, they have, but my heart shall remain heavy for a time, methinks," Marsh said quietly. Carstensen took him by the elbow and turned him away.

"Come, let us away from this spot. Why not set eyes on this wooden road of Haupt's?"

Marsh allowed her to lead him away. As they walked, he adjusted the strap of his M36 as well as that of his shotgun.

"I've gotten used to loss over these long years," Marsh said to Carstensen. "I like to think myself a strong man, with a fortitude akin to that of my old friend." He ignored that satisfied chuckle uttered by Barlocke's fragment. "But it still makes my soul very sad to see friends go. How do you keep your strength about it, Lilias?"

She folded her hands behind her back and thought for a moment. Eventually, her expression becoming one of resignation, she looked down a little.

"When I was among the Progena, the Drill Abbots instructed us to act without any feeling save for our love of the Emperor and the Imperium. Sadness, joy, these were not to be entertained. For some time, I clung to such lessons. But a true warrior learns and adapts. I have found it is better to indulge sadness for a time, to let yourself feel it, and then press onward from that state. I know, a Preacher might disagree, but a soldier with a clear mind is an effective one. To resist feelings is to make them all the more powerful. Indulge and move forward. That is how I accept loss."

Marsh Silas smiled the entire time she spoke. She was so wise. Her tone was not grave or stately, but with a humble profundity. She knew what she said was important to him and to herself, but she was not pretending to be a scholar. What she said came from both the heart and the mind, weaving together into something tangible for the platoon sergeant.

The back of his hand brushed against her Power Fist. Despite the durable material covering her hand, she noticed and he saw a vague pinkness decorate her pale cheeks.

"Thank ya, Lilias" Marsh said quietly.

"Tis nothing, Silas," she said, doing her best to sound official now. It was a deflecting sort of tone, one she assumed only when he spoke tenderly and she did not want to show her embarrassment towards it. Marsh enjoyed it thoroughly. "The Drill Abbots would be aghast to hear me say such a thing. I tell you, if I ever met them again they would be disappointed in me. No Commissar are you, they would say."

"How can ya say such a silly thing? You're the bravest o' the whole lot."

"Only Ghent can lay claim to the title of the bravest."

Marsh scoffed and waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't be confusing bravery with stupidity. I can admire a fella who puts himself in danger for his comrades, but making yourself a ripe target for the enemy like that? Now I don't profess to be a learned man by any means but it seems to me a Commissar is more useful alive than dead."

"Sacrifice comes with its usefulness, my dear Silas," Carstensen said. She flashed him a kind smile, one that made her blue-green eyes squint a little. "We should all hope to be so brave. I know you have grievances against Ghent but surely you can admire him for what he has accomplished."

The two stepped out of what was left of the wood. Most of it was reduced to a field of tree stumps leaking sap. From the east, dipping into depressions and rising over hills, was a long, winding, brown, tightly built wooden road. At the front, hordes of servitors guided by Enginseers as well as work gangs consisting of indentured laborers drawn from all over the sector, lowered long, thick, angular, sturdy wooden blankets onto the ground. Diggers got out of the way and then assisted the others in seating the plank into the earth they carved out. Using large drills, workers fastened them to the previous plank. Then, they went about caulking the seams and reinforcing the edges with longer planks on the border.

After about half a week's worth of work, vehicles were already trundling down the completed sections. The 95th 'Blazers,' were already on site and helped take out some of the renegade hives. As well, the 217th Mechanized Regiment was already on the road and deployed some of its infantry to the area. Everywhere along the road were sawmills, work stations, camps, heavy cranes, and stacks of trees felled from the woods. In the remnants of the little forest, men armed with axes and servitors equipped with saws cut down trees. Every so often a cry of 'timber,' rose up and a tree came crashing down. A flurry of men hurried over and they began dragging it away. Overseers began whipping and flogging those who lagged behind.

After a few moments, Marsh sighed and kicked at the dirt a little.

"I've known that man longer than I knew my father," he muttered. "He's always been hard on me and others. When other training cadres turned in for the evenin', he kept us out drillin'. When others were at mess, we were out drillin'. And do ya know what we were doing when the others were sitting down for lectures? Drillin'."

Junior Commissar Carstensen began to chuckle. It was pleasant, almost musical, and enough to make Marsh cease his tirade. In fact, she hand to cover her mouth with her other hand to make herself stop. When she finished, she gazed at him tenderly.

"I seem to recall a platoon sergeant I'm quite fond of training his Whiteshields all day and all night, too. It seems Ghent's student has drawn on his master's ways to teach his own pupils."

"How dare ya," Marsh said, wagging his finger at her. Lilias snorted.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

From behind them, Haupt came up behind them. Both of them saluted and he swiftly returned the gesture. The engineer walked between and then halted in front of them. Arms akimbo, he surveyed his work.

"Sure is, sir, mighty fine example o' construction."

"Hm? Oh no, not that. I'm quite aware of that. I'm talking of the fighting. It's been too long since I've been in a good brawl like that. I say, they seem to just be throwing themselves at us. The heretic is as stupid as he is evil, but you would think they would have some tactical acumen."

"If anything, sir, this Smith they've spoken of might not be a fool. A wise commander blunts his enemy's advance with weaker, less disciplined units," Carstensen offered. "Trash, as it were, to soak up our lasers and bleed us. His more disciplined troops will be in reserve."

"Then the final battle will be a very good fight," Haupt said. "I hope to join you in it. Oh, I've nearly forgotten. Lieutenant Hyram asked me to send you two along, your presence is requested."

Marsh and Carstensen barely exchanged a glance before they saluted the officer and headed back into the woods. As they began passing through the trees, they could see Bloody Platoon was already mobilized. Gathered in a semicircle, they found Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, First Lieutenant Eastoft, and Lieutenant Hyram standing together. Beside them, Sergeant Clivvy and the rest of the Whiteshields were lined up and standing at the position of attention. All the men of Bloody Platoon looked grim.

"...with all due respect, Colonel, this is a task any other squad in my platoon is fit for. The Whiteshields are down three men and they have received limited training in this regard."

"Limited? I thought the whole purpose of your field exercise was to drill them in long range fieldcraft and scouting."

Marsh noticed a flash of anxiety pass over Hyram's face. But the platoon leader recovered quickly.

"Indeed. But with the discovery of countless heretics, our priority shifted from a training mission to a combat one."

"Well, I am quite certain your Veterans' talents have been passed onto the Whiteshields." Isaev finally noticed Marsh Silas and Carstensen standing to the side. Both saluted when he looked at them. "Ah, Staff Sergeant, just the man I wanted to see. Your platoon has done very well and I'm told your Whiteshields are fierce fighters. While they still have a long way to go before becoming Shock Troopers, this is a chance for them to really prove themselves. I'm sending them on a special reconnaissance mission. With the perimeter around the damnable traitors' coven secured, we shall begin our assault soon. Unfortunately, aerial reconnaissance is tied down in other sectors."

Isaev turned and pointed at the seven Whiteshields. "When night falls, they shall go out, get as close as they can to the enemy base, and report any visible strong points or noteworthy characteristics the maps can't tell us. This is a dangerous and daring mission and its success will be cause for mentions in despatches. Are you up to the task?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" the Whiteshields cried.

Marsh's stomach sank. He looked at Hyram who seemed very uneasy. His violet eyes pleaded with him, asking him to do something to prevent this from happening. Quickly, he tried to think of some excuse to get the Whiteshields out of such a perilous task. Every idea he formulated soon began unfeasible. Think of something, quickly now, or they shall pay the price!

"Sir, I'll go on my own. I've got more years of scoutin' and reconnaissance than all o' them put together. I'll move faster and be back sooner if I go solo."

Nobody spoke. Marsh stood awkwardly under their combined gaze. Soon, he felt himself getting a little hot under the helmet. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and disappeared into his sideburns despite the biting cold air.

"I agree, sir," Commissar Ghent said suddenly. "Even a squad-sized unit will be easily detected. Send him, but not alone. I shall go also.

Marsh Silas was stunned that he volunteered. Ghent shifted his gaze from Isaev to him. His scarred face was solid as a rock but he offered a small nod. The platoon sergeant simply didn't know what to make of that.

Isaev mulled over this for a few moments. He looked annoyed and rightly so, his orders being contradicted by those junior to him. First, he looked at Marsh, then at Ghent, back to the Whiteshields, and then held his chin while looking at the ground. Eventually, he sighed and raised his chin.

"Utter nonsense. The Whiteshields are ready. But if you two wish to join them, I shall allow it. You will leave after nightfall. Make whatever preparations you deem necessary."

Isaev left them and Hyram ordered Bloody Platoon to disperse. The Whiteshields congratulated each other. Hyram and Carstensen looked at Marsh uneasily, but the platoon sergeant's eyes rested on Ghent. The Commissar, still frowning, marched over to him.

"We do this quietly and quickly. No funny business. We shall run this outfit together, agreed?"

"Yes, sir," Marsh said quietly.

"I'm going to find us more ammunition," the Commissar said. He tapped Marsh on the back as he passed him. The platoon sergeant still couldn't really speak as he turned his attention towards the Whiteshields. All of them were excited and were already heading back to their holes to police their wargear. Only Yeardley and Rowley seemed distant. Instead of following their comrades, they trundled away from the others to a tall, proud looking oak tree and sat against it.

As Hyram and Carstensen followed the rest of the young ones, Marsh went over to the pair. He couldn't find his voice as he stood over them silently. Yeardley pulled his knees up to his chest, took off his helmet, and looked off for a time. Rowley did the same. Then, the former reached into his pocket and pulled out a little notebook. It had leather covers and a rigid spine. The booklet couldn't have been thicker than the width of a grown man's hand. The Whiteshield began flipping through the pages. On each one was a little sketch drawn in black ink from a field quill.

Walking in between the two Whiteshields, Marsh slid down the trunk and sat with them. He took off his helmet and began looking at the pictures. One was a rough sketch of the beach at Army's Meadow, complete with the layers of barbed wire and trenchworks. Another was a drawing of the camp's flagpole, with the 1333rd's banner flapping in the breeze. The next sketch was of Rowley, her hair down to her shoulders and the Vox-caster handset pressed against her ear.

"I didn't know you had a talent for such things," Marsh said.

"I always liked it," he said, still flipping through it. "Only Rowley knows about it. I fear my mates may tease me about it. It's not a very Cadian thing to do, methinks." He flipped to the back of the book and handed it to Marsh Silas. Written on the final page was an address. "That's my family's home in Kasr Polaris."

Marsh handed it back and offered a reassuring smile. Yeardley looked at him then, tears in his eyes.

"I don't want to go this time, Marsh Silas!" he sniffed and broke into a sob. He threw himself against Marsh and cried against his chestplate. Surprised, he gingerly wrapped his arm around him. Rowley began sniffing too. Her big violet eyes brimmed with tears which soon slid down her dirty cheeks.

"I'm dead scared, Staff Sergeant. They killed Graeme and Rayden and Merton and now we're going to die too!" She also leaned against him and began to cry. The platoon sergeant put his arm around her two and brought both of them in close. For a few moments, he stared straight ahead, wide-eyed and sorrowful, as the two young ones sobbed and trembled against him. Their arms remained fastened around him so tightly it seemed like they might never let go.

Despite their past experiences, despite their comradeship, their bravery under fire in all these weeks, all their training, it was not enough. It had never been enough to prepare them for this one moment. Like a bullet, the thought struck him right in his heart. Tightening his grasp, he brought them in closely. What could be said to stir their Cadian spirit? Was there anything that could be said?

"Listen to me children," he said, "we must go out there tonight. Emperor give me strength, I'm going to get you out of it alive."

###

Only helmets and torso pieces were allowed for the scouting mission. Everything that could shine, from their belt buckles to the Aquila on Marsh's helmet, was dulled. It always pained him to blacken that wonderful, inspiring emblem. To wear it on his helmet, to see the gold gleam in the sunlight, made him so thankful to be a Cadian and a soldier for the Emperor. It symbolized everything he was fighting and dying for. Sometimes, in his moments of doubt, all he simply did was gaze upon the golden Aquila and everything made sense once again.

Everything but the bare essentials were discarded. Bayonets were taped to their lugs. Whispers of, 'hand me the drool,' and, 'give me the spit,' passed between the Whiteshields as they cleaned their weapons for the final time. Everyone rubbed charcoal on their cheeks and foreheads. As Marsh went around tugging, pulling, and securing the Whiteshields' webbing, he found Yeardley and Rowley helping one another blacken their faces. Even in the dark, he could see the young girl gently run her fingers across the boy's cheeks. When she finished, they smiled at one another. Then, he coated his own bare fingers with the stuff and stroked her cheeks with it.

"Ready, Staff Sergeant?"

Ghent came up beside Marsh. The Commissar left behind his cap and crismon coat, leaving him in a heavy black coat and dark field trousers.

"Yes, sir."

"One minute and we move out. You and I will be on point, Sergeant Clivvy in the rear."

He disappeared into the throng of Whiteshields. Marsh finished checking the rest and then spied Hyram and Carstensen standing at a nearby tree. Checking his wrist watch, he went over to them. Exhaling heavily, he smiled at them. Hyram returned it, Carstensen did not. It was a sad, quiet moment between the three friends. No words were necessary even if they could be offered. Eventually, the platoon sergeant sort of shrugged.

"I'll be back soon."

"You know as well as I do you may not come back from this one, Silas," Hyram said. This he said with an almost shy smile. All Marsh did was wink and grin.

"Got it, sir." The two friends embraced one another firmly, slapping one another on the back as they did. When they parted, Carstensen reached out and clasped the side of Marsh's collar. He could see the subdued anguish on her face, the wish she could do more than merely touch him, but knowing many eyes were on them, such a thing was impossible. Instead, her grip tightened on the collar and she shook him a little.

"I will see you...soon," she managed to say before she let go.

Marsh nodded and left to join his party. As he did, many of his friends tapped him on his shoulder or helmet. Babcock was more direct, gently butting his fist against his chestplate.

"Watch out for those Whiteshields."

"I shall wear them like my boots," Marsh said with a tip of his helm.

Walking to the head of the scouting party, he immediately set forward with Ghent at his side. Yeardley and Rowley were right behind him. As they walked, he winked at them over his shoulder. Both smiled nervously.

Fresh snow was falling and their boots crunched on the top layer. Snowflakes piled on their shoulders. Thick, gray clouds blotted out the moon but the occasional beam of pale light managed to light up the countryside. Between the crisp white of the snow and the moon's intermittent light, it gave the hinterland a purplish-blue color. If Marsh was not so alert for the enemy, he would have found the scene quite enchanting.

The party passed the blast remnants of the hive secured and cleared by Second Company earlier that day. During that time, it proved to be the most difficult to assault with three separate attacks repelled. But, enough foolhardy charges on their part depleted their garrison and the rest of the regiment systematically cleared the other strongholds, negating reinforcements. In an hour's time, it was finally overrun. And thanks to Haupt and the engineers, it was nothing but a giant crater in Cadia's soil.

Passing the scar of blackened earth, they ventured into no man's land. Marsh, Ghent, and the Whiteshields immediately hunched lower as they walked. Walking in parallel lines, they slowly shifted into a single, staggered line. The Commissar took the lead, as he possessed the map, with Marsh closely behind him. Every few minutes, the platoon sergeant glanced backwards to make sure they were all there. He trusted Clivvy to keep them in order but he just needed to see for himself so he would not get too rattled. Seeing them marching along and keeping pace reassured him.

They made good time, crossing a great deal of ground very quickly. But Marsh Silas did not seize onto hope just yet. Their party were still in enemy territory and they could spring from whatever hiding hole they possessed at any time. But the ground remained clear of any telling signs of tunnels or spider holes. This did little to assuage Marsh's unease.

Before long, the enemy's final bastion loomed in the distance. It was closer than he expected. At first, it seemed like the average hill jutting up from Cadia's crust. But as they drew nearer, he realized it was much taller and wider than it appeared. But the details were lost at this distance.

Ghent suddenly raised his fist and swept his arm to the side. Everyone crouched. He raised his own set of magnoculars. When he lowered them, he scurried back to Marsh Silas.

"There is some kind of ruin about a hundred meters in that direction," he said, pointing slightly past the target. "We can use it as an observation post. Move them out."

"On me, Whiteshields," Marsh hissed. The entire party shifted direction and closed ranks. Ghent led the way towards the remnants of an ancient Imperial blockhouse. It was a rectangular building without a roof and crumbling walls. Holes larger and small marked the walls. Piles of demolished rockcrete were all around it. Marsh stacked up next to the door behind Ghent. The Commissar flashed three fingers, lowered them one by one, and then slid in. Marsh was right behind him. Ghent went left, Marsh went right, and Yeardley took the center. There was nothing but more rockcrete ruin, weeds protruding through the cracks in the snow-covered flooring, and vines festooning what survived of the walls.

"Clear," Yeardley whispered. The rest of the squad flooded in and assembled on the side facing their target. Some shell or missile have stuck as they was a wide gaping hole in this face. Crouching behind the waist-high wall, they observed their destination. Even with his magnoculars and the fresh snowfall, Marsh still couldn't really make it out in the darkness.

"Here," Ghent said, handing over his set. "It has a night optic."

Marsh raised it to his eyes. He only ever used technology once before and was astonished to see the world defined in crisp green night vision. Overcoming his wonder, he studied the enemy bastion. It was actually an assortment of several hills and ridges. In the center was the tallest but it was joined on the left flank by a wide, rocky, vegetative ridge. In front of the ridge were some low bluffs with trees. In front of the central hilltop were two parallel hills smaller than it. These were also covered in rocks and vegetation. On the right was a singular hill which was higher than the other two but was flatter on the top. Zooming in, he realized there were logs arranged into barriers.

He scanned further. There were dark figures moving about. They were different from the ragged attackers harassing them for the past months. These heretics patrolled in formation and never left the range of the heavier gun positions Marsh spotted in the rocks. He could make out the profiles of various Heavy Stubber barrels and the gun shields of Autocannons. Diggers slaved away, shoring up a few mine shaft entrances at the bases of the two frontal hills. Others dug trenches weaving between the various strongpoints.

Marsh handed the magnoculars to Yeardley.

"Get out that booklet and draw what you can see." He cursed himself for not thinking to bring Valens. His picter could have been really useful in capturing images of the heretic's base. "Rowley, to me. Get me Regimental Headquarters." She quickly turned a few knobs on her Vox-caster, amplified the range, and then issued a hail through the handset. After a moment, she handed it to him. "Reporting; enemy position is heavily defended with trenchworks and gun positions. Count at least fifty hostiles and more. Enemy possesses the advantage of high ground. Correction, multiple high grounds. Requesting—"

He heard the hollow report of a firearm followed by the steady whoosh of a flare. Pop! Marsh looked up to see a white star cluster right above their position. His eyes widened. Bullets smashed into the rockcrete, casting shards of rockcrete everywhere. Autocannon shells rocked the exterior and Heavy Stubber rounds laced the openings. As Marsh flattened out on the ground, he saw Webley fall.

"Emperor, no!" Clivvy cried. She went to her corporal's side and lifted her up. Webley's face was gone. She dropped the body and went to the opening. "Return fire!"

Marsh slid up to the low wall next to Rowley. He grabbed her by the collar and yanked her towards him. "Where's our fire support!?" he shouted into her ear. Immediately, she grabbed the handset and began requesting artillery. Ghent calmly handed her the map before returning fire.

Poking his nose over the edge as tracers flew by and bullets hammered the walls, Marsh could see nearly a hundred separate approaching muzzle flashes. Behind them, hundreds more appeared all across the hills and ridges. Mortar shells began dropping nearby and a missile flew from the flat hill top. It crashed into the earth just in front of the bunker, showering them with dirt.

"Artillery will be falling in one minute!" Rowley cried. Bravely, she stood up and began returning fire. Red and blue lasbolts blazed through the night, lighting up the snowy ground as they traveled.

"When the shells fall, we shall fall back to our original position!" Ghent ordered. "Hold! The Emperor protects!"

Marsh stood up, fired, ducked, fired over his head, reloaded, and kept shooting. Nobody issued any commands, war cries, or exaltation's of the Emperor. They all knew what kind of situation they were in. All were focused on survival. The enemy began to close in. In response, the Cadians lobbed hand grenades to drive them back. It seemed like the shells would never fall. Suddenly, he her the whump of a Missile Launcher. A flaming object came whizzing at them.

"Get down!"

There was a terrific explosion and Marsh felt something smack into his chestplate. He was thrown backwards and he felt his helmet crack against the rockcrete. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears and feel the detonations of various explosions around him. Through the tracer lights, he observed the stunned Whiteshields attempt to fight. Most of them were able to stand back up and take cover as they fought. But Leander staggered to his feet. Blood poured from his eyes. Screaming, he covered his face and lurched back and forth. Rowley tried to grab him but couldn't move from her position. The others couldn't stop shooting, the enemy was getting too close. One fanatical heretic threw himself at their position. As he vaulted over the top, Clivvy gutted him with a bayonet. Tattersall grabbed him, dragged him into the blockhouse, threw him on the floor, and slashed his throat with his trench knife.

Leander reeled away from the squad towards an opening. Unable to get him, his head in great pain, Marsh reached for him weakly. Walking past a hole in the wall, a burst of Heavy Stubber fire riddled the position. Leander shuddered, his hands dropped, and he collapsed. Marsh looked back to the others. Rowley sat below the wall, covered her ears, and screamed. Clivvy kept shooting and falling to her knees next to her dead friend, briefly shaking her as if she was trying to wake her up. Then, she would rise back up and continue shooting. Tattersall exposed himself, firing his M36 in one hand and his autopistol in the other. Ghent was the calmest, firing through a small hole in the wall before retreating behind cover. Soames sobbed and laughed by turns as he fought. But Yeardley was the bravest. Poking his head up, he kept peering through the magnoculars and sketching the enemy position in his booklet. No matter how many autogun slugs flew over his head, he didn't recoil in the slightest.

Marsh's hearing began to return as he felt tremendous vibrations in the ground.

"That's it, let's move!" Ghent ordered. "Pick him up!" he shouted, pointing at Marsh. He kicked Rowley who rushed over to him. Yeardley came to, pocketing the magnoculars and his booklet.

"Rowley, take him by his legs! Further up then that! Yes, that's it!" the young man ordered. Rowley hooked her arms under Marsh's thighs. Yeardley stood over his head and thrust his arms under Marsh's armpits. "One, two, three, lift!"

Marsh rose and was soon ferried out. Clivvy followed, dragging Webley by one arm. Ghent came out and ripped the body from her hand.

"She's dead, Sergeant, leave her!"

"Leander's still alive!" Soames yelled. Out of the blockhouse came Soames and Clivvy, each of them supporting Leander between them. His head bobbed limply as blood from four bullet wounds in his stomach leaked. But his hands moved and his head kept listing from side to side. Tattersall came charging out and Ghent followed.

"Keep moving, keep moving!" the Commissar shouted. "Don't stop for anything!"

The party raced across the snow back towards the woods. Artillery shells soon engulfed what was left of the blockhouse. Marsh couldn't see the heretics coming after them except for their muzzle flashes. As he was carried along, he felt his senses coming back. Tattersall and Ghent kept stopping to fire back at the enemy. Bullets snapped and cut through the air and kicked up snow all around them. Bullets grazed and pinged off their Flak Armour. He heard little tuft sounds as rounds tore through their pant legs and sheared off layers of their heavy winter clothing.

Suddenly, Yeardley yelped and fell over. Marsh dropped and Rowley fell on top of him. In a flurry of limbs, they got back up and started running. He tried to help Yeardley but he pushed his hand away.

"Keep going, I'm alright!"

"Come on, move it!" Marsh shouted, turning and bringing his M36 to bear on the enemy. Just as he returned fire, bullets riddled Leander. The impact was so great he was ripped from Soames and Clivvy's grasp. "Keep moving!"

He ran with the party. Rowley was ahead of him, yelling into the handset. A burst of automatic struck her and her Vox-caster sparked. She screamed as the machine continued to pop and spark. Marsh and Clivvy both ripped the Vox-caster off her before it burned her. Thankfully, she was not shot. Grabbing her by the arm, they tossed her back onto her feet and pushed her forward. The others ran past them as they did. Tattersall whirled around, firing the last rounds of his autopistol. He dropped it, fired a few lasbolts from his M36 and kept running. Ghent wheeled halfway around, running forward but shooting backwards. Soames was next to him and a bullet slammed into his exposed lower back. Dropping to the ground, he clutched the wound and screamed. A moment later, a bullet tore his throat open and he fell over.

The woods were in sight. Heavy Bolter fired tore through the night from the ridge on their right. Lasbolts poured out of the woods. He heard screaming and shooting behind them. Clivvy was the first one who reached the safety of the trees, followed by Rowley, Ghent, Marsh, and then Tattersall. The platoon sergeant turned around. Yeardley was limping after them. He was well over two dozen meters behind them. He was clutching his bleeding leg.

"Come on, lad, move it!"

"Run, man, run!"

"To me, Yeardley, please!" Rowley screamed. Even though the firing between the two opposing forces was dying down, Marsh started running towards him. Someone snatched him by the collar so hard he fell backwards. Ghent held him back.

"What's the matter with you? Trying to get yourself killed? Hold position!"

Marsh freed himself but Ghent remained right beside him. Hunkering down beside a tree, the heavy fire from their supporting element died down. The last of the enemy's autoguns also faded. Yeardley was alone in the snowy field, hobbling as fast as he could towards the trees. He balanced his M36 in his left hand and continued to hold his wound with his right. From where he was, Marsh could hear his ragged panting.

Then, a shot rang out. Yeardley fell onto his other knee. Blood soaked his other leg but he stood back up. Another round struck him, this one piercing his lower right side below his chestplate. A third round followed near the same spot. This time he wailed pitifully, like a wounded dog. But he kept trying to move. Everyone began shouting encouragement or trying to spot the sniper. Hitch and Bullard were called for and the two began scanning the environment. Bullard sat down, wrapped his arm around himself, and balanced his long-las on it. When a fourth round hit Yeardley's lower left side, he dragged himself for a meter. Marsh tried to go out but Ghent held him back. The Whiteshield stood up, limped forward, and was struck by a fifth round. This time, his legs gave out when he was less than five meters from the tree line. Bullard fired and a long, red streak ripped through the night.

"I got him! I shot him right in the face!" the sniper hollered. Marsh raced over to him, grabbed him by his webbing, and dragged him back among the trees. He collapsed and brought the boy into his arms. Pushing off their helmets, he cradled his head. Yeardley's breathing was quick and ragged.

"I can't move my legs, Staff Sergeant," he whimpered. "Oh no, by the Throne, I can't move them at all." Weakly, he grasped Marsh. "I'm so scared."

"It'll be alright. The Emperor...protects..." Marsh's voice became choked and tears welled in his eyes. Yeardley was shaking terribly. Guardsmen began to gather behind Marsh. Rowley fell beside him and began to weep. She tried to speak and her voice faltered, so she just touched the boy's cheeks. At that moment, Yeardley reached into his pocket, pulled out the booklet, and placed it into Marsh's hand.

"I'm going to Kasr Polaris..." he said tiredly and closed his eyes. His head nodded to the side and a final breath washed over Marsh's neck. The platoon sergeant cradled his head, closed his eyes, and wept.


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