Chapter 17
Despite the bright morning sun, it was dark and dreary inside the medical tent. Marsh Silas sat on a camp stool between the flap of the entrance and an overturned ammunition can supporting a lamp pack. Its glow was more dull than warm. Wind made the canvas walls of the tent ripple and shake. Some managed to break through the slit in the flap or creep underneath some of the looser sections. Wounded and sick men, lying on field cots, shivered and drew their blankets tighter around them. Officio Medicae personnel patrolled the beds, administering medicine, switching out fluid bags, and changing dressings. Here and there, a man moaned and he was quickly attended by one of the medics. While Cadian medics did not have a gentle touch like a Sister Hospitaller, they were more kind than the Medicae doctors.
Honeycutt remained crouched in front of Marsh, holding him by the chin and tilting his head to the side. He was trying to get a good look at the graze on the platoon sergeant's temple. After a few moments, he let go of his chin and picked up his helmet from the stand. A large, deep cut ran horizontally along the entire length of the lower part. Scoffing, he set it down and met Marsh's somber, violet gaze.
"It's not ceramite, that's for sure, but it did save your life. If you weren't wearing your helmet, your head would have been cleaved open by shrapnel. It only touched you there," he said, pointing at the nick. "Not even deep enough for sutures, but you still should have come in last night.
Marsh just nodded and kept turning over Yeardley's small book in his hands. "Has the ringing in your ears stopped?"
"I'm fine."
"Sluggish? Having trouble focusing?"
"I'm fine."
"I'm sorry, you must have attended the solar year long Medicae training course since we last spoke. Have you earned your wings?" Honeycutt asked dryly and firmly. The 'wings' he referred to were the angelic-appearing wings sewn onto his rank insignia, denoting his status as a medic and not a mere field chirurgeon. On the left sleeve of his tunic where his three stripes pointed upwards, there was a wing on either side. Some medics chose to conceal them in case enemy sharpshooters attempted to pick them off. But the veteran Honeycutt was too brave to do such a thing.
Marsh looked down at his boots. Honeycutt snorted. "That's what I thought. I'm the one who says if you're fine or not. Now, is the answer to all those questions a, 'no,' or not?"
"It's no."
"Then, you're fine. Now, get. I'll see you out there."
Marsh Silas stood up then, took his damaged helmet, ran his thumb over the silver Aquila on the front, put it on, and stepped out into the daylight. Immediately, his nose was assaulted by the familiar stench of decomposing bodies. Looking left, he saw the rows of dead Guardsmen covered in canvas tarps. There were four rows in total with about twenty men in each. These were an accumulation of dead from various platoons through the regiment and even a few from the 95th and the 217th. Most were from the 1333rd's Second Company who died assaulting the last satellite hive. The rest were slain during patrols to fill gaps in the encirclement around the enemy position or during probing attacks conducted throughout the previous day.
Some of the corpses were older than others. With nearly all the troops undergoing final preparations, nobody was spared to bury them. Each one was covered from the head all the way down to their ankles. None of the tarps were long enough to cover their feet. Like their Flak Armour, the black leather boots and winter socks were seized. So dozens upon dozens of pale feet, tinted blue from the late winter cold, protruded out from the sheets.
The platoon sergeant walked up to the first and newest row. One hand rested on his belt, the other clutched the strap of his M36, slung over his shoulder. Walking to the end, he crouched in front of the four smaller bodies. Raising the booklet, he turned through the pages again. There was a sketch of the entire squad standing in formation, their arms pressed rigidly against their sides, their thumbs pressed against the first knuckle of their forefingers, and their chins raised high. On the next page was a rough drawing of Yeardley himself. Next was a depiction of their quarters back at Army's Meadow. Each bunk was depicted with a little note indicating who slept where. Finally, there was a larger image, so big he had to turn the booklet so the page was horizontal, not vertical. It showed the 1333rd mobilizing in the shadow of the enemy hill they infiltrated. It was a martial scene, filled with flags, tents, and hordes of Guardsmen. Scribbled in the upper right corner of the page were the words, 'Glory to the Imperium!'
He believed in the Imperium, Silvanus, and upheld those values which you would call Cadian. You should be proud. Barlocke's voice was tender and soothing. Immediately, it had the effect of staving off Marsh's tears and his aching heart. Still, the sadness persisted, like a bad winter's cold which lingered in the chest.
"He still died," Marsh muttered as he stood up and readjusted his helmet. "Whimpering and cryin' his last on the edge o' some battlefield that don't even got a name. And it's my fault."
You are being too hard on yourself. The enemy is at fault and I think we can both agree the Colonel—
Marsh squeezed his eyes shut. "Enough," he growled. "Just...enough, already." Barlocke said nothing more and he found himself in the remnants of the woods. There was nothing left of the wood except a thin line of trees facing the enemy's position and a field of brown stumps in the thin snow. Beyond it, Haupt's wooden road stretched all the way to the flat ground leading to the enemy's final bastion. There was even enough wood left over for another path to be built to the north so the 217th's various armored vehicles could further support the infantry. Despite its simplicity, it was a feat of engineering to be proud of.
A small ceremony was taking place among a cadre of officers. Colonel Isaev, Captain Giles, First Lieutenant Eastoft, and Lieutenant Hyram were among them. In the center of them, Haupt raised his chin as he was awarded the Order of St. Amata by Colonel Isaev. The ribbon consisted of a wide, purple center column, flanked by thin maroon columns, and ended by medium-sized golden trim. On the circular, golden medal, five-pointed stars lined the rim and within that border was a hand clasping a builder's hammer. It was a prestigious order created five hundred years ago to honor Major Amata, a Cadian engineering officer who personally led the construction effort of a replacement bridge under heavy fire to allow several imperiled regiments to escape. In the course of the three day battle, it was rebuilt nine times. When the last troops were across, she sacrificed herself and her creation to stall the Chaos warband. Now, any engineer who led a vital project that contributed to the success of a Cadian operation or aided it in some way was eligible. It was the third time Haupt received it.
Isaev and Haupt shook hands, the latter smiling, and then saluted. As they did, Valens snapped a pict with his recorder. The gathered officers applauded him. Marsh Silas stood on the periphery, one hand grasping the sling of his M36, the other of his shotgun which hung on his right shoulder. The courtly conversation went on for some time until Isaev dismissed the party. Hyram and Haupt walked towards Marsh. Immediately, the platoon sergeant stood at attention and saluted.
"Congratulations, First Lieutenant," he said. Haupt returned the gesture and then shook his hand.
"I appreciate that, Staff Sergeant, although it's Lieutenant-Praecept, now." Lieutenant-Praecept was another authorized rank in Cadia's sprawling military hierarchy. It conferred greater administrative responsibility as well as being an honorific. Lieutenants needed to earn the rank before they could be promoted to the rank of Sub-Captain.
Before Marsh Silas could apologize, Haupt clapped him on the shoulder. "No trouble. It'll be some time before I grow accustomed to it."
"Will you be returning to the Administratum offices now, sir?"
"And miss this battle? By the Throne!" Haupt laughed and then went on his way. Hyram stepped forward, clinging to the sling of his own M36. His smile was knowing and concerned. For a time, the two friends stood in front of one another and maintained a steady gaze.
"That sketch Yeardley drew has done a lot of good up at Regiment. He circled over two dozen different gun positions, as well as various defenses and obstacles all in that little drawing. While under fire, no less. What he did will save lives."
Marsh just nodded and joined the Lieutenant as they went to join the rest of the platoon. They walked very close together, their pauldrons sometimes knocking together a little bit. Despite Marsh's somber expression, Hyram continued to smile sadly.
"What were you going to say to me the day we found poor Rayden?" Marsh asked. He stopped and faced his commanding officer. Surprised, Hyram stopped short and opened his mouth to speak. Perhaps it was a protestation or an excuse he couldn't remember. But the platoon sergeant wore a face, not one of anger or demand. In fact, he wasn't quite sure how he looked at that moment. However, it was enough to make Hyram sigh and resign.
"I was going to ask you what you thought you were teaching them because...because a boy who neglects his watch and another who disobeys an order reflect more on the teacher than themselves." He spoke as if the words hurt him. "I was angry, Silas. That was something to be said in private, not in front of the platoon. In a way, I'm glad that battle—"
"You were right." Marsh turned his shoulder towards him and looked at Bloody Platoon. They were under the trees in their fighting holes, awaiting orders to cross the hill and enter the assault trenches. Three smaller helmets sat together in a hole next to a tree. "I've spent my life in the Guard. I love it, no matter how scary an' tough the goin' gets. I thought I was teachin' the right things but it wasn't enough."
He looked up at Hyram when the Lieutenant didn't say anything. His friend offered another smile.
"I wasn't a very good soldier for a time. I doubt I'm much of a soldier even now. I was scared, weak, and more than a little drunk. It took a tough fellow to put me into shape and I got about the roughest training a man could ask for. Even though it was one hard lesson after another, I'm grateful for it all, for it shaped me as I am this day. Do you know who that man was?"
Marsh Silas's lips twitched into a nostalgic smile. When Hyram saw Marsh understood, he nodded. "It's not that it wasn't enough. I think those Whiteshields needed somebody like that. Someone who was disciplined but fair, who taught them glory has its place but duty comes first, and treated them like junior soldiers instead of children. Someone who wasn't trying to be Barlocke."
The platoon sergeant swiftly met his gaze, his violet eyes wide and surprised. Hyram raised his hand, ushering him to stay calm. "Barlocke was a warrior, but he was also wise and kind. He was a man of dreams and ideals, who aspired to better our Imperium."
Well now, don't I sound simply wonderful?
Hyram stepped forward and took Marsh by the shoulder. "But he was not a soldier. Our hearts must be stout if we are to enact the Emperor's will. You hardened mine at a time when it was soft. Children they are, but these Whiteshields need to grow up fast. And they need experienced soldiers who won't tap into their youth and fill their heads with alluring, strange ideas. They don't need someone like Barlocke." He thought for a moment and nodded his head to the side. "Perhaps, not yet. If life was fair, there could be someone in between. But I meant what I said: those Whiteshields need Marsh Silas. Not Barlocke."
And I thought Hyram and I were friends. 'Hush,' Marsh Silas thought. Oh, fine. Hyram pointed to the small helmets. "They still need him. And after last night and what's coming today, they'll need him now more than ever." The lesson was clear: Marsh Silas couldn't delay it any longer. In some way, it was an order, and in another, it was not. A commanding officer telling his subordinate to resume his duties; one friend asking another to make it right. Marsh Silas saw it plainly.
Hyram said no more. He passed by Marsh and affectionately jabbed him with elbow. Marsh Silas followed him into the platoon's position. Many of them stood up or tipped their helmets, uttering a respectful, 'Marsh Silas.' Usually, he would have stopped to ask after them; made sure they said their prayers, had enough to eat, were in good health, and were keeping their wargear in order. But he didn't need to do that. Each of these veteran knew what was about to happen. Whetstones were run across bayonets. Hand grenades were attached to the webbing by their pins rather than their clips. Trench knife scabbards and autopistol holders were placed in easy to reach areas on the chest or hips. Those who were prepared kissed their prayer beads or ran their thumbs across their Gothic cross. Men began to huddle together in and out of their holes, locking hands, pressing heads together, and uttered prayers for the Emperor's protection. Some knelt in front of a preacher as he recited passages from various parchment pennants on his brown robes.
All around, platoons formed into companies and began their march over the hill to fill the assault trenches. Marsh checked his wrist-watch. Twenty minutes separated Bloody Platoon from another attack. Glancing back at Hyram, he saw the him stopping Carstensen. She had climbed out of her hole and seemed to be walking towards him. But the platoon leader held up his hand, said something to her, and she looked at Marsh worriedly. Still, she obeyed whatever he said and returned to her duties.
Taking one last look at him and the platoon, Marsh knew they didn't need him right then. He veered towards the Whiteshields. Sliding into their hole, he found the three teenagers sitting shoulder to shoulder. Each of them looked exhausted and heartbroken. Rowley seemed worse than Clivvy and Tattersall.
"Whiteshields, look at me." He waited until all three met his eyes. "Beyond that hill lies the assault trenches. And beyond them, the enemy's lair. This day, we are to storm it. You will advance, you will not retreat, and you will survive. Move quickly on open ground, utilize cover once you're at the objective, be aggressive but methodical. Victory needs a great o'mount o' courage, but it also needs ya to be smart." He pressed his finger to the side of his helmet briefly. "Now you three ain't that smart, cos' I ain't educated you yet. No reckless charging and no disobeying orders or you'll get my boot."
He picked up Clivvy's helmet, which was resting on the ground, and put it on her head. Giving it a tap on the side, he got in her face. "You lost friends. It hurts, I know. Put that aside for now because you need to keep your heads clear. Understand?" He tapped her on the helmet again, heavily this time. "Understand?"
"Heads clear, Staff Sergeant," she said, meekly.
"I can't hear ya."
"Heads clear, Staff Sergeant!" she said loudly and Tattersall joined in.
"So stand up, load yer weapons, and at least look like Cadians for Throne's sake!"
Clivvy stood up first, then Tattersall. They dropped their rucksacks, policed their wargear just like the veterans showed them, and then stood by for inspection. Rowley was slower, but she still obeyed. Marsh Silas checked them one by one, tugging and pulling at their webbing. When he finished, he bent low so he could meet their gazes. "Subject for the day: we're goin' into something worse than you've ever seen. Worse than all them tidy little ambushes we pulled off. Even worse than last night.. Accept it, and accept that the Emperor will do everything in His power to aid us."
He grabbed his own M36 by the barrel and held it up. "But the Emperor also gave us these so you've got a little power o' your own, too. Now, who do we serve?"
Clivvy and Tattersall smiled. They were energetic and shaking. Life was returning to them quickly. Rowley was still dragging beyond but her breathing was picking up, she was steeling herself what was coming.
"The Emperor, sir!"
"Who are we?"
"Cadians, sir!"
"Who are we!?"
"Cadians, sir!"
"Then move like Cadians and join your mates!" Marsh hollered, pointing at Bloody Platoon as they began advancing over the hill in a column. Already, the big guns in the rear were firing. Shells whistled overhead and thundered on the enemy positions. Great masses of Shock Troopers marched over the hills on either flank, their boots crunching loudly in the snow. Chimera and Hellhound treads were grinding on the wooden road or across the dirt paths the engineers were digging or them over rough terrain. One by one, they slipped over the ridges and the hills onto the other side.
Clivvy and Tattersall moved off. Marsh planted his hand on Rowley's breastplate and held her in place. She looked at him, confused. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out Yeardley's booklet and held it in front of her. "Your head must be clear, do you understand?"
"Yes, Staff Sergeant," she said quietly.
"Make your peace with the Emperor and with him, and then go."
Gingerly, she plucked the booklet from his hand. Her hands shook as she opened it. She turned to the page with the portrait of her on it. For a brief moment, Marsh thought she would cry again. But then she flipped to the page containing his visage. After a moment, her shaking stopped. Closing it, she slid into her own pocket and set off after the others. Marsh Silas was right behind her.
###
Assault trenches were simple constructs and came in many varieties. Today, the 1333rd, 95th, and the 217th were using the basic 'I-Format.' A horizontal trench bordering the staging area or camp made up the bottom. This was a wide trench with entrances at both ends and one to three along its length depending on the size. One or more vertical communication trenches ran up from it and connected to the forward horizontal area. Unlike the typical parapet, it did not have a firing step, bulwards, or cuts in the walls. Many ladders or earthen ramps led onto the ground in front of them. While designed for movement rather than committed defense, these trenches were very deep, reinforced with sandbags, and double-layers of lumber along the walls.
Chimeras, Hellhounds, a few Leman Russ Main Battle Ranks, and Sentinels rolled alongside the countless assault trenches. Lines of Quartermaster-Sergeants held crates of charge packs or grenades near the corners leading to the communication trenches. Shock Troopers passed by them, stuffing every pouch, pocket, musette bag, and haversack they carried with as much ammunition as possible. Preachers stood with them holding chalices filled with burning incense. Swinging them gently back and forth, they uttered blessings as the Guardsmen passed through the thin gray smoke. Marsh breathed in deeply, catching both sweet and earthy scents.
Bloody Platoon advanced to the far right flank of the forward trench, colloquially known as the 'jump-off trench.' Marsh found the three Whiteshields crouched near the Platoon Command Squad. He tapped each one on the top of their helmets and then joined the latter group. Someone left a few empty crates nearby and he found Hyram and Carstensen standing on top of them. Both were peering over the lip of the trench. Balancing his feet on one of the crates, he squeezed between them and rested the barrel of his M36 on the top of the sandbags. Hyram was gazing at the objective through his magnoculars. Carstensen reached over, took the magnoculars from around Marsh's neck, and peered through them. Sighing, the platoon sergeant waited for his turn. Then, he remembered he still carried Ghent's sophisticated magnoculars. Digging the set out of his kit bag, he looked at the objective.
The ridges and hill's that made up the heretics' final bastion were under immense fire. Artillery shells screamed overhead and rained down on the terrain. Columns of earth were repeatedly flung into the air. Huge chunks were blasted from mammoth rocks. Cliffs were sheared off of bluffs, hillsides collapsed, and some ridgelines broke into rockslides. It was a terrific display of firepower and Marsh couldn't help marveling at it.
"Are they ready?"
Marsh felt a hand on his back. Looking back, he was surprised to see Ghent's stern, violet gaze. The Commissar motioned towards the Whiteshields. Upon seeing Clivvy's determined expression and bright violet eyes, Marsh Silas smiled.
"Sir, yes, sir," he said firmly. Ghent nodded and turned to leave. "Sir, your magnoculars."
He held them to the Commissar but Ghent's hands remained by his sides.
"Keep it." Before Marsh could protest, the officer began strutting down the line. "Have faith in the Emperor, Guardsmen, for He has placed His trust in us! Do not falter on this day and He shall reward you with victory!"
Marsh looked at Carsensen on his right. She just smiled as she returned his own pair and then looked forward. The platoon sergeant glanced at his commanding officer. Lieutenant Hyram tucked his away, pulled up his M36, and met his gaze. Both smiled at one another briefly; one final look, a silent farewell.
"Keep moving, stay aggressive, and for the Emperor's sake, listen to your officers!" Giles shouted as he went up the line.
"Make sure you have a full charge pack loaded," Eastoft commanded, patrolling in the opposite direction. "Packs and frags where you can reach them! Do not stop for anything!"
Hyram turned around and faced the men.
"Bloody Platoon, listen up!" he yelled as the artillery barrage intensified. "Maintain your intervals, keep plenty of space between men. We've got four hundred meters to cross. We're going to hit the hill on the far right, linking up with Second Platoon, Third Company of the 217th's infantry as we do. Then we'll seize the hill behind it."
Suddenly, the barrage's sharpness ceased. A few minutes later, more rounds came. These landed in the center of the field in front of the jump-off trench. Instead of exploding, clouds of thick white smoke began rising and rolling across the ground. "There's the smoke!" Behind them, they heard a deep, rhythmic beat. Men from the regimental bands pounded on the Gothic drums, steadily filling the air with an intense battle song.
"Get ready!"
Men kissed their beads and took final puffs on their lho-sticks before flicking them away. A series of clicks resounded among the men as they disengaged the safeties on their weapons. Soldiers took out their trench knives and clenched them between their teeth. Some took hand grenades off their chests and held them. Marsh shut his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. You'll make it, Silvanus.
"We'll make it," he said aloud.
Whistles blew all along the line.
"Chaaarge!"
Hyram heaved himself over the top and waved his arm.
"Follow me!" he cried.
"Bloody Platoon, let's go, go, go!" Marsh screamed.
Throwing up a great roar, thousands of Guardsmen sprinted from the trenches and began racing across the field. Bayonets glinted in sunlight. Chimeras, Hellhounds, Leman Russ MBTs, and Sentinels tore across the level ground. Marsh Silas held his M36 under the barrel as he ran. Looking left, he saw thousands of troops and dozens of vehicles. To his right, he saw the very same. The display of Imperial might was awesome to behold. But his throat remained terribly dry, more from fear than fatigue. His heart pounded within his chest. Behind him, the sounds of the Gothic drums faded. The clouds of smoke drew nearer. Zealous troopers rushed in front of him, the ranks and lines of the formation bleeding into one another. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and Bloody Platoon charged through the smoke.
Heavy Stubber rounds tore through the air, snapping and zipping by their heads. Bullets riddled the ground, creating a rapid, almost wet-sounding thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. Dirt and snow flew everywhere. Men slumped and crumpled to the ground. Others collapsed, screamed, and clutched their wounds. Mortars began falling, showering chunks of earth and dust over them. Hot shrapnel whizzed through the air, slicing men's hands, arms, and legs off. Blood was everywhere.
"Keep going! Come on! Stay with me!" Hyram yelled, grabbing Babcock by the shoulder. The Color Sergeant held the standard high so the men could rally on him. Men swarmed in and out of shell craters left by the bombardment. Heavy Weapons troops struggled to move quickly with their combat loads. Up and down the charging line, vehicles began returning fire. Red and blue Multi-Lasers streaked out. Sentinel Autocannons slammed away, the spent shells clattering to the ground. Boom! A Leman Russ Tank blasted at one of the forward enemy positions, blasting the occupants out.
White and yellow muzzle flashes erupted all over the ridges and hills. In front of them all, the enemy's trenches were alive with automatic weapons and lasgun. Missiles soared from them and struck some of the vehicles. One nearby APC caught a missile right in the bow, blowing it open. Shrapnel from its armour leveled entire squads of mechanized infantry. Immediately, it caught fire. Screaming crew members struggled out of the hatch, their uniforms aflame. Nobody stopped to help them. A Sentinel on the right was struck center mass. The armored, enclosed cockpit could not withstand it. The heat set off the Autocannon ammunition, causing a massive secondary explosion that tore in half. Separated, the two legs crashed to the ground, crushing a few unfortunate souls.
Marsh weaved around shell craters and leaped over wounded men. People screamed for the Emperor's aid, wailed for their mothers, or called out the names of their home Kasrs. Officers waved their swords and pistols in the air. Standard-bearers waved the flags. NCOs pushed and prodded hesitant troops out of their cover.
"Move it, move it! If you stay here, you'll die!" they said. Gripping his M36 with both hands now, Marsh pumped his legs as hard as he could. The enemy's positions loomed closer than before but it still seemed like he'd been running for hours. Around him, Shock Troopers continued their war cries, drowning out the desperate calling of the wounded. Commissars barked and brandished their Bolt Pistols, threatening some unfortunate men they found hesitating or hiding behind vehicles for cover. Preachers ran carrying their holy tomes and Chainswords, reciting more prayers.
Spotting a group of Shock Troopers from Bloody Platoon and other platoons ahead of him in a crater, he dove in and crawled up to them. As he came up to them, Sergeant Stainthorpe also launched himself in. Grabbing one crouching trooper by the arm, he shook him.
"Come on Guardsmen, move it out!" But the trooper fell backwards, both eyes shot out and a massive entry wound in the middle of his forehead. The body tumbled over Marsh Silas, getting blood on the back of his Flak Armour.
"Keep it moving, we're halfway there!" Marsh said. "You'll make it, the Emperor protects! We're taking that damned hill this day!"
And like that, the Guardsmen found their courage once more and ran out. Marsh started to follow but noticed one small form among them. Grabbing the soldier by the arm, he pulled them onto their back. It was Rowley, her shut tightly. "Get yourself movin', Whiteshield!"
"I'm sorry, I'm trying to be brave! My legs won't move! I'm sorry, Marsh Silas!" she blubbered.
"Don't be sorry, just fucking move!"
"I can't, I can't!"
"You have to keep moving! No hesitation, Whiteshield!" came Carstensen's voice. The Junior Commissar came up behind them, her high-peaked cap gone. Her eyes were filled with absolute determination. When Marsh saw her Bolt Pistol, he reached out and clutched her wrist.
"No, wait—"
Carstensen shook her hand free. Marsh's heart nearly seized as he waited for her to execute poor, young Rowley. But the Junior Commissar reached down, cupped her cheek, and turned her face towards her own.
"Come on, lass, get up. Your friends have gone on ahead. What will you think of yourself tomorrow when they kept fighting and you stayed here?"
Rowley's eyes opened and widened. A light seemed to fill it. A small gasp passed between her lips. Looking over the lip of the crater, she watched the mass of Shock Troopers continue running. Her trembling lips tightened into a line, then a snarl, and her brow furrowed over her burning violet eyes. Belting out a war cry, she grabbed her M36 and charged out of the hole.
Astounded, Marsh looked and smiled at Carstensen. But she grabbed him by his webbing. "Let's go, Silas!"
Together, they struggled to catch up with Bloody Platoon. All around them, mortar shells rained down and Heavy Stubber rounds chewed up the ground. They passed by Master Sergeant Tindall's Chimera; he was up in the turret firing the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter.
"By the Throne, you will die under these treads, heretics!" he screamed in between bursts.
Marsh could see the Guardsmen in the front ranks already engaging the heretics. On the left flank, men from the 1333rd and 217th stormed the enemy's trenches. At first, the melee was chaotic. There were bayonet thrusts, dagger swipes, buttstock blows, fists, kicks, and grapples. But more Shock Troopers added their weight to the battle. Heretics began to give up, trying to escape by climbing out or going down their communication trenches. Motivated, determined Imperial hands caught them and dragged them back in.
Marsh and Carstensen threw themselves down as a concealed Heavy Stubber opened fire on the platoon. Crawling forward, they began to slither their way up the hill. Heretics popped in and out of spider holes. Some lobbed hand grenades down at the men. But the veterans were ready; they snatched up the grenades or caught them before they hit the ground and tossed them back. Derryhouse threw himself into a spider hole, rooted out the heretic within, and stabbed him to death with his trench knife. At point blank range, Bullard shot a heretic in the head; the lasbolt cleaved open the top of his skull. Then, the sniper jumped into a fighting hole, struck the second heretic with the barrel of his weapon, turned it around, and started to beat him with the butt of his Long-las.
Slowly but surely, they were taking ground. But their momentum was stalling. They needed to get up the hill fast before they lost the initiative. At the top, Marsh could see heretics moving their heavier weapons around to counter them. Brave Guardsmen crouched or even stood up, risking the enfilading fire on their left flank, to suppress them.
Bullets struck right near his face, spraying Marsh's cheeks with dirt. The rounds snapped right over his head; that Heavy Stubber gunner was shooting right at him. Carstensen was behind him, periodically rising to fire off Bolt shells at likely locations, before ducking down as bullets sliced by. Jupp was ahead of the platoon sergeant. The Guardsmen stood up, raced along the side of the hill, going from rock to rock. At the base of the massive center hill, he approached a pile of rocks. A muzzle flash appeared within. Bypassing numerous enemy positions he assaulted it by himself. Pulling the pin on the grenade, he took a running start, leaped a little, and lobbed it. It landed right in the rocks and exploded. The Heavy Stubber ceased firing.
"Covering fire!" Marsh ordered as Jupp ran back. First Squad shifted fire and began suppressing the enemy positions Jupp bypassed. It was not enough. Heretics rose, leveled their autoguns, and riddled him with bullets. While his Flak Armour held, his kneecaps were blast opened. He collapsed, attempted to raise his M36 to return fire, and then was shot through the head.
Marsh rose to a crouch, picking off a few heretics through his scope. Suddenly, Carstensen threw herself on top of him.
"Get down!"
To their left, two Hellhounds rapidly approached. Bullets pinged off their armour. Rolling right up to the enemy positions, fire erupted from their Inferno Cannons and drenched the enemy positions. A great chorus of screams filled the air. Melting men staggered and stumbled about. Heretics rolled on the dirt to try and extinguish the flames. It was so hot all the snow around the positions melted. Marsh could feel the heat on his face.
Like water filling a hole, the flames raced through the trenches, detonating ammunition caches and grenades. Just as the Hellhounds finished firing, Tindall's Chimera rolled up and cut down swathes of reinforcing heretics emerging from tunnels in the base of the hill. Other APCs contributed to the fire and soon the position was seized by troopers.
Marsh and Carstensen continued with Bloody Platoon. Men cleared one enemy position after another through bayonet rushes and hand grenade assaults. He saw the Whiteshields take down an enemy Heavy Stubber position together. Clivvy kicked the gunner in the face before bayoneting the loader. When the gunner attempted to attack her, Tattersall grabbed him, wrestled him down, and turned him over. Rowley perfectly bayoneted the heretic, turning the blade to gore him.
"Marsh Silas! Marsh Silas!"
The platoon sergeant looked up. Hyram was waving at him. With Carstensen in tow, he hurried over to his commanding officer. Hyram grabbed him by the collar of his Flak Armour. "Our link-up isn't here! Look!" He pointed with the flat of his hand back towards the assault trenches. Squinting, Marsh could see the Guardsmen's olive drab helmets below the edge. "Their platoon leader and sergeant were both killed and they retreated! We need them if we're to take this damn hill!"
Hyram grabbed him by the cheek. "I need you to go back out there and get them."
Marsh looked back out the field filled with corpses and burning vehicles. The last of the troops were still coming in and were still under heavy fire. He looked back at Hyram, his violet eyes shocked. Hyram's expression was grim but his eyes were set.
Sliding down to Carstensen, he handed her his shotgun and some of his spare grenades. If he was going to do this, he needed to be as light as possible.
"The Emperor protects. The Emperor will be with you," she said. He smiled gratefully.
"I'll make it," he told her. Will we!? Barlocke sounded distressed for the first time. Marsh began crawling by Hyram. The Lieutenant's hand shot out and grabbed him by the pauldron.
"Silas, you may not be coming back from this." His mantra, the final words he shared, letting the chosen man know he did not give his order lightly, a final shard of truth acknowledging the peril, a token of respect from commander to subordinate.
"Got it, sir," Marsh said, winking and smiling. Hefting his M36 under his arm, turned towards the rear, and caught his breath. "The Emperor is with me." I am one with the Emperor, the Emperor is with me. Barlocke's prayers were mystical, filling Marsh's soul with a sense of wonder. It was as if all his faculties were charged. At that moment, the strategic situation melded with his own feelings of duty. Everything—the battle, the danger, the necessity—just made sense. Was this the deeper meaning behind all things Ghent spoke of long before? Faces and images flashed through his mind; his mother and father embracing by the firelight, the warm lamp pack glow as Overton and Clement laughed over a joke, the big, trusting eyes of his Whiteshields, Hyram's fatherly stare as he struggled with his letters, Carstensen's oceanic gaze he became so lost in, and all the smiles Bloody Platoon ever shared with him. He closed his eyes, breathed in the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning earth and tasted that cold Cadian air he loved so much.
He exhaled, jumped to his feet, and charged back onto the field.
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Author's Note: The rank of Lieutenant-Praecept (derived from the Latin 'praeceptor,') is a non-canon rank created by myself, as well as Chapter 16's addition of various 'Corporal,' grade ranks, and the mentioned medals of Order of St. Amata and Chapter 16's Vulnerati Medal. I came up with these ranks/medals as an interpretation of Cadia's vast military cultural-society and wanted to expand in some ways I thought friendly to lore. Hey, if this story could ever be published by Black Library, these could become canon! But alas, that's just a dream.
