Announcement: Hello everyone, sorry for being absent for so long again. Unfortunately, I've been very busy, stressed, and tired lately and it's been a struggle to find time to really work on Marsh Silas. I do plan to continue working on the story, but I've really needed a rest and I'm due for a little more. For the next 2 weeks, I will be on vacation, March 6 - March 19, so I will not be posting any Marsh Silas chapters and probably very little to no writing on my DeviantArt. Even after I get back, it might be a few more days before you see an activity. This is the first real vacation I'll be going on in 4 years and I'm really looking forward to it. But I wanted to push and finish this chapter before I left, just to let you know that the story isn't dead and I have been working on it, it's just been tough because of timing and other factors. Alright, enjoy the chapter and I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Take care everyone and thanks for your patience.
Chapter 36
"Cross."
Marsh had nearly nodded off. He was sitting on a wooden crate someone left just outside a bay and his head was bowed. As his eyelids drooped, he watched the brown, muddy water in the trench swirl around his boots. Rainwater pattered on top of his helmet and soaked the khaki scarf he was wearing. It snuffed out the ash in the bowl of his pipe earlier but was still clutching it between his lips. It wasn't out of habit; he was so drowsy he was not sure if he put it away or was still holding it.
Looking up slowly, water running down his bearded cheeks, he looked at the rest of Bloody Platoon. Guardsmen were scattered everywhere. Some were huddled shoulder to shoulder and were holding tarps over their heads. Others were sitting with gray or black woolen watch caps which were rendered damp by the falling rain. In sections of the trench walls where there was no woodworking, they had made cuttings into the earth that were big enough for a man wearing Flak Armor to duck into sideways. Quite a few men who were not standing a post were in these cuts to get out of the rain, wrapped in water repellent canvas sheets. Those who didn't have a sheet just bundled up in their heavy raincoats. Water still slid down the embankment and fell into their holes despite the angles, so most weren't actually able to sleep.
Those who were standing watch hunched on the parapet, some using the mantles attached to their raincoats as head covers to keep the rain off their faces. They hugged the ground and kept their heads low. Mud smeared their helmets so as to help them blend in with the clots of wet earth which lined the trenches.
In between the cuts in the trench walls were a few bomb-proof shelters. Because it was daylight and smoke trails were highly visible to hostile artillery observers, no one was permitted to start a fire in the dugout stove. So, the men who were fortunate enough not to have to be posted in the trench on sentry or support duty were shivering in their bunks. Most of the platoon, having left the majority of their communal items back at Army's Meadow or in Kasr Sonnen, did not have more than their ruck blanket. It was thick enough but no one wanted to sully their only cover with their wet uniforms, so most cast it aside in favor of a thin canvas tarp over their sleeping bag. It was uncomfortable and miserably cold without a fire. No one could warm up their rations or cook what little food they could scavenge. Little foodstuff found its way to the men on the frontline, anyway.
"Cross," said the voice again. Marsh looked down the trench. Isenhour was standing at the fork. Despite the gray, overcast sky, the weak sunlight behind the clouds struck the Scout Sergeant's helmet and cast a shadow over his eyes. He was bundled up in his own poor-weather jacket and his boots were caked with mud. "It's time."
Groaning, Marsh Silas emptied his pipe, tucked it into his kit bag, and stood up. He felt sore and stiff from sitting for so long. There were sores on his back from all the rough sleep he'd done in the past month. The skin on his hands felt thin and tight. What skin didn't feel worn and shorn down felt moist and mushy from the near-constant rainfall. His first steps were slow, rigid, and almost pain. The cold lodged itself into his bones and the blood stirred by his movement slowly filled his limbs. Eventually, he managed to straighten himself and stood erect in front of Isenhour. The Scout Sergeant, looking quite fatigued himself, nodded and turned at the same time. "Let's go."
The long winter in the region was finally over. With the rising temperature came the wet season, a series of torrential rainstorms which inundated the entire region. It remained perpetually overcast, with days maintaining a general murk and nights becoming impenetrably dark. When the rains let up, there was naught but fog and mist which rolled across the land in same manner a wave washed upon a beach. On the coast, the sea was especially fierce. Huge waves crashed along the shore, driving up rocks and eroding earthen embankments.
During the last rainy season Marsh and his comrades endured in the succeeding months after Barlocke's disappearance, he'd seen many mudslides and floods. Sea levels rose very high and sometimes washed-out sections of the coastal road. Teams from the Engineer and Labor Corps went out to repair them and Bloody Platoon guarded them from marauding heretics while the work was done. Sometimes, the weather grew so bad Regiment ordered all foot patrols to cease; even Isaev was not so thick-headed to realize Guardsmen could disappear in such storms.
Life was spent underground during the short but tremendously difficult period. Those who journeyed to the surface to maintain watches were objects of pity. Wind whipped the rain so hard it felt as though the face was being bombarded with sharp stones. Waves that smashed against the cliff of Army's Meadow grew so high that their spray could blow over the edge. Sometimes, surf surges swept across the width of Army's Meadow, washing away flowers and soil. More than a few souls, mostly servitors and laborers, disappeared.
At first, it had all seemed to be great fun. Some equated it to the bad weather they survived during the Month of Making, remembering the pitiful shelters they erected against the elements and the enjoyment from their success. Men cheered when they saw the great waves collide and some, in the grip of boredom, placed bets on which one would win out. Many were mesmerized by the lightning strikes they saw in the distance, jagged, powerful, and blinding in a blink. When they bunked down for the night, rumbling thunder and battering surf reverberated through the rock walls of their underground home. It became a sort of lullaby for a little while.
Eventually, it subsided into routine and nobody paid the weather any mind. Then, the season became a point of contention; everyone was sick of the noise and the inability to stay dry for an entire day. This same apathy and the same problems they encountered at Army's Meadow were now befuddling the entire Imperial battlegroup outside Kasr Sonnen. Poor weather gear offered by the Departmento Munitorum was uniformly bad. Rain jackets were unnecessarily bulky and the material became even heavier when it was very wet. Dry liners for field trousers proved to be flimsy, the stitching easily ripping when a man had to run. The Primer stated that the shoe packs they wore in winter conditions were just as effective at plodding through mud during rain. This was entirely false; shoe packs did nothing but retain mud and a Guardsman felt as though he were walking around with rockcrete shoes. It was quite common to see refuse pits and small craters filled with discarded shoe packs. Although it was cold, everyone was wishing for snow again, as their winter coats and thermal layers were quite useful.
With the lines in a constant state of flux, it was impossible to maintain them properly. Trenches sometimes filled with water all the way to the waist of the average Cadian. Impact craters became muddy ponds of various depths. Men were now instructed not to take cover in new shell craters as they would quickly fill with water and wounded men, unable to remove themselves, could drown. Improperly braced earthen walls collapsed from the weight of moisture and men suffocated under the heavy mud. Vehicles became bogged down or stuck in ditches. In extreme weather conditions, lighter aircraft remained grounded and air support became an issue. And even though the camp's proximity to Kasr Sonnen was closer than ever, the washed-out roads, bad weather, and difficult terrain made the transfer of supplies and reinforcements very difficult.
Isenhour led Marsh Silas circuitously through a series of trenches manned by elements from the 1st Company. He talked over his shoulder as they walked. "There were some mudslides just before dawn and some trenches are under repair. We'll take the long way around through the 45th to avoid the water."
"Sun's barely up and we're already soaked through," Marsh complained. "What are we fixing to take this time?"
"Dry rations. Heard some scuttlebutt there's a few stores sitting around at the supply yard. And we're moving up to the forward trench this afternoon—"
"Oh Throne, not us again."
"—so we should try to find some fresh charge packs, too. I've seen too many fellers roasting their packs near the fire and ya can only do that so many times fore' the casing starts to crack. Last thing we need are bloody malfunctions in a firefight."
"We should wait for nightfall."
"To move forward?"
"No, for this damnable supply run. We'll be caught during daylight hours."
"The 0900 barrage will scatter'em. Those Departmento Munitorum fools will be so busy cowering in their pits they won't notice a couple o' gunmen raiding the pantry."
Supply problems were rampant in the trenches themselves, not just the tenuous lines between the surrounding fortresses and Kasr Sonnen. Units were constantly on the move so it was impossible to designate a proper billet for quartermasters to deliver supplies to. What's more, many of the Munitorum personnel were unwilling to leave the rear zone as they did not want to be far from their reinforced bunkers when the enemy's artillery shifted in their direction. As a result, the issue of resupply was trusted to the men themselves and they could not always make the runs. And of course, there was still the nightmare of paperwork. Despite the dire nature of the battle, the Munitorum still expected troops to fill out requisition forms, obtain signatures from commanding officers, and provide logistical ledgers showing they were not improperly distributing materials.
Relations between the Astra Militarum and their Departmento Munitorum colleagues were quite poor at the moment. So, many Shock Troopers resorted to scrounging which was the more polite word for stealing. Most Cadian Guardsmen had a knack for it; even on a well-supplied Fortress World, materials were sometimes stalled behind paperwork, communication and transportation problems, hoarding on the part of some officers, and the occasional scum the Munitorum produced who wanted to profit by making soldiers pay for supplies. No other Cadian Shock Trooper was more proficient at thievery, however, than Scout Sergeants. Their ability to clandestinely loot supply caches were one of the few reasons why common troopers respected them.
Isenhour was particularly good at it and, having been attached to Bloody Platoon indefinitely, was ensuring they received enough food to get by day-to-day. The last few times, he'd taken to bringing Marsh Silas with him. Despite having scrounged plenty of times before, the platoon sergeant didn't relish the task when all he wanted to do was rest.
"Meanwhile, we'll be running around like fools while the bombs fall. Brilliant indeed."
"You have a better plan, then by all means, share it."
"Why do you insist on bringing me? I'm tired and I've got over forty dogfaces to look after."
"It's important you know how to scrounge proper-like," Isenhour said over his shoulder as they waded through knee-deep water. Other men sloshed by, dirty and miserable. Those on watch were glad to stand on the parapet which was just above the water.
Marsh's boot became lodged and he stumbled. He managed to keep from falling but his foot was stuck. It felt like it was between two duckboards, sitting uselessly at the bottom. Isenhour noticed, came over, and started tugging on his leg. After a few pulls, they managed to free him. The Scout Sergeant tapped him on the shoulder and continued leading. "This won't be the last time we get stuck in a fight like this and I won't be around forever, so it'll be up to you to make sure these men stay fed."
"Won't be around, pah," Marsh scoffed.
"We're all gonna die sometime, Marsh Silas."
He didn't want to talk of the macabre, so the platoon sergeant kept silent. They entered the 45th Altridge Regiment's position. There were some familiar faces among the troops they passed, men who had shared in the 1333rd's many battles over the past few months. Courteous nods and quiet greetings were exchanged. At the plucking of a guitarran, Marsh lifted his head and smiled. Afdin was sitting cross-legged on the parapet so his boots stayed out of the water. He was wearing an NCO's watch cap, the bill pulled low over his eyes.
"Why don't ya play a jaunty tune fer once?" Marsh joked. When Afdin looked up, grinning, Marsh swept his arm to the side. "Read the room, why don't ya? Look at all these happy faces, eh?"
"You're as charming as ever, my friend."
Afdin set the instrument aside, stood up, and shook Marsh's hand. In the same moment, they drew each other close, touching shoulders, and clapping each other on the back. "Off on another—"
There were a few thuds in the bottom of the trench. Marsh looked down to see a pair of grenades near his feet. "Scatter!" Afdin screamed and dove to the side, taking Marsh with him. The detonations rocked the trench and hot shrapnel dug into the muddy soil.
"Contact front! Enemy raiders!"
"Back on the parapet!"
Men jumped back to their posts and started firing. Marsh briefly looked over to the top to see more Band of Dusk soldiers charging out of a series of craters strung along the open ground in front of the trench.
"Silas, hit the clacker!" Afdin yelled, pointing to a wounded man collapsing at their side. Marsh snatched it up and hit the trigger several times. Mines exploded in the earth right where the raiders were attempting to cross. Black mud sprayed in all direction and the firing ceased. When the mud finished falling and splattering, the raiding party was gone.
There were no triumphant shouts, just a series of aggravated complaints from the living and moans from the wounded. Field chirurgeons came by to evacuate the injured and troops who hadn't been standing a post returned to their dugouts. In a few moments, the tired air returned to the defenders as if there had been no attack.
Marsh felt Afdin's hands patting him down. "Good, you're alright then."
"Thanks for that. You didn't get hit yourself, did you?"
"No indeed, thank the Emperor. I was expecting that raiding party last night. They grow bolder and wiser, I fear." His gaze tore away from the battlefield and returned to Marsh Silas. "Are you off on another supply run?"
"That and I thought I'd enjoy the fine morning air, maybe partake in a firefight or two."
"Mind if I tag along? A lot of men in the 5th Company are sick; fever, trench foot, dysentery, gangrene. We haven't got any medicine left and all our requisitions have fallen on deaf ears. Can you help me?"
Marsh glanced at Isenhour, who was standing just ahead in the trench. His expression was indifferent. He was more concerned with their own objectives and that didn't include medicine. Many in Bloody Platoon were walking wounded but they were blessed not to be suffering from any illnesses. Honeycutt was also maintaining a clandestine supply of medicine in the event someone did get sick, so they were fairly stocked.
Looking at Isenhour, he could see the same concerns he was entertaining. Prolonged exposure meant increasing the risk of getting caught by Departmento Munitorum authorities as well as getting hit by enemy artillery. It was a risk the Scout Sergeant was willing to take for fellow Cadians but perhaps not one for off-worlders. Marsh Silas appreciated the 45th Altridge fellows, though, and his heart went out to the men he saw. Many of those who were standing guard were clearly ill, stifling their dry coughing, shivering badly, and looking quite pale. Despite how sick they were, they still managed to keep their posts. He admired them greatly, well-aware there was a time not long ago he would have been apathetic to their plight. How he had changed and he was quite glad for it. It all started within, that's what Barlocke told him. And so, he decided, it was time to dismiss all further notions of skepticism forever.
"Sure," he said with a smile, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder plate. "Come with us and we shall help you."
"Thank you, my friend! Let me collect my things and we'll be off."
Afdin disappeared into a dugout. Isenhour approached and leaned in.
"If we die or get caught, I blame you."
"Fair enough."
Afdin returned with his helmet, rucksack, and a pair of sacks. The trio set off, passing through the winding trenches without encountering anymore enemy raiders. Attacks made by smaller elements such as those were becoming a matter of routine and the Imperial Guardsmen, finding themselves more and more on the defensive, developed simple solutions to the problem. Overlapping fields of fire between gun positions and fields of mines or remote explosives caused great casualties and often blunted advances. Despite their growing numbers, the Black Legion and Iron Warriors were becoming very mindful of their casualty rates. That, and their armor was bogged down by the rain as well, and major actions were becoming difficult to coordinate because of the broken lines.
Bypassing a few flooded trenches and forced to detour down a fourth after finding their desired approach blocked by collapses, they reached the rear area. The concentration of bunkers and field manufactorums was greater here. But the great complex of the initial Imperial camp was gone. Every important structure was now moved to or around the single airfield that was left. Even the field headquarters was located there, the original command post having been lost halfway through the month. Bunkers, blockhouses, towers, and masses of tents, stretched across the ground. Trenches weaved between every structure. Barbed wire entanglements and tanks traps guarded sandbag fortifications.
Marsh Silas, Isenhour, and Afdin loitered near the entrance to the central supply yard. Located at the southern end of the airfield, it was a massive cache of fuel, ammunition reserves, and piles of artillery shells. Some of the material was stored underground for safety and reinforced rockcrete sheds housed a great deal more above ground. But the lack of building material and space meant some were stored in sheds of sheet metal or under canvas tents. It was incredibly unsafe but the poor nature of their position necessitated such risks.
The entrance was a pair of sandbag redoubts guarded by Heavy Bolter gun teams. These Guardsmen were just as tired of the whole affair and paid no attention to the three soldiers standing nearby.
Isenhour turned his back to them and glanced at his wristwatch, wiping rainwater from it with his thumb.
"Just a few more minutes," he whispered. "I'll get the rations. Marsh Silas, you know where the charge packs are. See if you can get your hands on grenades, too. Afdin, the medicine hut is next to the ration store, so you come with me. If there's time, we'll come help you get some Heavy Bolter belts."
"Mortar shells? Missiles for the launcher?"
"We can carry only so much." He checked his watch again, then cupped his hand around his ear. The enemy artillery barrage to the west was starting to come closer. Marsh looked past Isenhour in between two adjacent bunkers. Landing shells sent columns of mud skyward and then the barrage started creeping towards them. Each concussion was more thunderous and louder. In return, Imperial batteries increased their rate of fire. Basilisks went off all over the camp, the big guns recoiling. It was the appropriate and expected response. The constant artillery dueling between both sides had become very intimate over the months, so much so that everyone could predict the shells' movement.
Isenhour pulled his helmet lower over his brow. "Heads down, gentleman."
Marsh and Afdin did the same. The gun crews quickly ran for their bombproof shelters. Across the supply yard, Munitorum staff started scrambling. No one was above ground except for them. "Now!"
The trio sprinted through the gate. Isenhour and Afdin disappeared to the left and Marsh ducked to the right. He forced the door to one of the ammo sheds open; the walls were lined were shelves and crates of various sizes. He was fortunate; the Munitorum personnel had just been sorting the equipment so many of the lids were already removed from the cans and boxes. Digging his fists into one bin, he retrieved dozens upon dozens of charge packs. He stuffed the sack he brought with them, so many that he could see the packs pressing against the burlap.
When he estimated there would be about three or four extra packs for every man in the platoon, he switched to grenades. Outside, the shells were getting closer and the flimsy sheet metal walls of the huts were rattling. Marsh's hands moved on their own, delving into the open crates and dropping them one by one into the sack. As it grew heavier, he started placing them into his kit bag until he could hardly clip the flap over.
A shell landed closed by and rocked the hut. Small ammunition cans tumbled off the shelves.
"Are you done yet!?"
"The Heavy Bolter ammo! We'll need it!"
Isenhour groaned loudly but started to help. First, they laced some of the belts across their torsos and placed a few around their necks. Afdin came in next and filled his own rucksack with mortar shell cases. They placed missile cases in Marsh's pack. He was going for another case when Afdin grabbed him.
"No more! There's no time!"
A moment later, Marsh Silas found himself fleeing through the doorway. Isenhour was in the lead, Afdin was just in front of him. Shells exploded all around, hitting bunkers directly and caving in their rooftops. Basilisk positions were hit and their ammunition stores exploded in fiery mushroom clouds. Trenches were turned into craters, dugouts and shelters were reduced to rubble and splinters. The noise was absolutely deafening and so constant, Marsh couldn't even hear the whistling shells. There was just the cataclysmic, overwhelming, constant, thunderous noise of the detonating shells.
Just as they passed between the sandbag bastions, Marsh Silas felt a strange sensation. His feet were off the ground. Afdin was knocked over next and then Isenhour. All three men tumbled to the ground as a massive explosion ripped through the air behind them. Suddenly, it seemed like night had fallen. Acrid black smoke filled his lungs and he began to hack. Then, there was a dull orange glow.
Marsh rolled onto his back. He'd been thrown farther by the concussive blast and was in front of Afdin. The Altridge native was on his side and curled up, covering his head. Behind him, the entire fuel dump was burning. A cloud of fire rose and swirled over it. Shells continued falling, casting up oceans of mud and debris. Parked Valkyries on the airfield were hit and their engines detonated in spectacular sprays of electrical sparks and flame. Self-propelled artillery positions were also destroyed and their stores of ammunition exploded, casting fireballs into the air. Bunkers caved in, towers collapsed, vehicles were torn apart.
Afdin finally uncovered his head and scrambled up. He said something to Marsh Silas but the noise was so deafening he couldn't make it out. Together, they lifted themselves up and staggered after Isenhour who was groggily making his way back to the trench. The Scout Sergeant kept turning around to make sure they were following him and waved repeatedly, ushering them on.
One by one, they collapsed into the trench and slithered along to the nearest dugout. There, they found many other Guardsmen squeezing in for cover. They were bunched and balled up, many carrying sacks of 'liberated,' supplies from the yard as well. Shells fell so closely Marsh could feel the heat and the concussion. He pulled up his hood so as to protect his face from flash burns. Dirt sprayed his face and razor-sharp shrapnel pummeled the wooden reinforcements just inches away from him.
Marsh Silas slid his hands under his helmet and covered his ears. His helmet's ear protectors weren't enough. He wanted to close his eyes but the terrible shelling was too much to bear. If he closed his eyes, he felt like he was suspended, unable to see or save himself. So he forced himself to keep his bulging violet eyes open despite the horrifying sight of so many shells crashing into the earth around him. He felt so pathetically and pitifully small and desired nothing but home. Army's Meadow, Kasr Sonnen, Kasr Polaris, even that damnable cesspool of a Hive World, Macharia; anywhere but here!
He was still covering his ears when the barrage ceased. Afdin appeared in front of him and he started patting him down. After several checks, he nodded.
"You're alright, Silas."
"Come on, let's get back to our lines," Isenhour grunted.
"But all those wounded men—"
"There's nothing we can do here, Sergeant."
The trio trundled down the trenches, retracing their steps all the way back. Many of the trenches that were passable before were reduced to quagmires of slick mud, water-filled craters, and smashed supports, caved-in bunkers, and more than a few ripped up corpses. Already, Guardsmen were laboring to repair the damage and remove the dead. It was morose work but they tended to it as routine. Marsh Silas did his best not to gaze at the bodies.
When they finally returned to Afdin's trenchworks, they stayed until he was able to distribute the medicine among the medics and field chirurgeons. From within their makeshift infirmary, there were many relieved sighs and words of thanks. When Afdin returned, he bowed his head gratefully.
"Thank you for letting me come along. I appreciate the help, Scout Sergeant Isenhour."
"And thanks for helping with the ammunition," Marsh replied in kind.
"Tis not enough. If you are moving up the line today, I shall accompany you. My commanding officer has already cleared it."
"I'll never turn down an extra pair o' hands," Marsh said. "Come along."
Bloody Platoon was just as happy to have fresh rations and ammunition. Helmets were filled with the essentials and passed around. Gloved hands dipped into each other, plucking charge packs, fragmentation grenades, and dry rations out. Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Albert, and Brownlow were relieved to have a better store of ammunition for the Heavy Bolters. Equally enthused were Olhouser, Snyder, Knaggs, and Fletcher to have shells and missiles for their respective equipment. There was still time after the platoon reequipped itself, so everyone stopped to have a ration. While everyone else ate, Marsh Silas conferred with Hyram and Carstensen, who were both gazing at the former's map book.
"…call came in earlier that the Bingo Boulevard on the right flank has been rendered impassable because of the latest barrage. We'll have to take Assassin's Avenue if we want to move forward. We'll be relieving the 3rd Company of the 95th and they'll be taking up our positions here. No offensive action has been planned unless we see targets of opportunity. I doubt we will…"
Many of the trenches the troops passed through often bore little nicknames. Some were cheeky, others were named after Guardsmen who had given their lives, and some bore macabre titles.
Hyram looked over at Marsh Silas as he approached. "…I see you succeeded to resupply without getting your head blown off. Well done."
"Your proclivity for survival is noted, Guardsman," Carstensen jested.
"I have a keen interested in survival, madam Commissar," Marsh replied. His voice was shaking a little more than he would have liked.
The route was planned, the troops were assembled, and upon a communique from Captain Giles, Bloody Platoon set out. Hyram took point, Carstensen brought up the rear, and Marsh Silas placed himself in the center. Nobody spoke or sang. All one could hear was the steady thudding and squishing of their heavy boots in the muddy trenchworks. Behind them, the platoons of the 1st Company fell in one by one, forming a long line of filthy, fatigued Guardsmen.
At first, the men stood erect as they marched along. But as they left the safety of the Imperial lines and entered the maze of trenches crossing no man's land, they spread out and started crouching. Artillery shells continued to soar and whistle over their heads. Antimaterial rifles cracked and boomed. Mines exploded along the ridgebacks as the attackers and defenders attempted to dig each other out of their caverns.
Around a bend called Tanker's Rest for the destroyed Leman Russ tank which had fallen partially in a fork in the trench, its rear end sticking into the air, they spotted movement coming their way. But Bloody Platoon was only on guard for a few moments; it was the 3rd Company of their comrades, the 95th. These Shock Troopers looked particularly haggard from spending nearly a week in the forward trenches, repulsing direct assaults and raids. Their uniforms and Flak Armor were so besmirched with mud one could not make out any of the usual Militarum khaki and olive drab. Faces were smeared with soot and mud. Dirt clung and nestled in their blonde and brown beards. Every eye possessed a dark bag underneath it. So many were walking wounded, having lost an arm, a hand, or were limping along. Even those in decent condition were wrapped and laced in bandages.
Communication trenches widened at forks so there was enough space for the two units to pass one another. As they passed by, every man in Bloody Platoon reached out and tapped each 95th Regiment infantryman as they passed by. It was an admission of brotherhood, respect, and understand, bestowed onto the men relieved of their posts by the troops replacing them. Such a small gesture spoke hundreds of words in just a moment. Each pat on the shoulder said, 'rest easy, brother, you have done your duty.'
Marsh worked his way passed the opposing column, tapping them as they passed by. One man came by with dirty bandages wrapped around his eyes. From the blood trails left on his face, he knew what had befallen him. Just to walk, he had to grasp the trooper in front of him with one hand. When Marsh Silas reached over and touched his shoulder, the wounded man reached across and touched his shoulder back.
"It's quite bad up there, Sarge," he said in a quivering voice. "Protect yourself, for the Emperor cannot always be there."
The movement of the column tore them apart. Marsh tried to look ahead but many times glanced over his shoulder to try glimpsing the man one more time. The blinded man knew his rank. Marsh Silas was quite shaken until he felt Afdin tapped him on the back of his helmet.
"Poor fellow seems quite shellshocked," he said.
"I pray that won't be us in seven days," Marsh grunted.
"Rather be in Kasr Sonnen?"
"Anywhere but here, my friend."
The men of the 95th drew away and soon Bloody Platoon was alone again. Marsh Silas thought it would end there but Afdin spoke up again.
"I see you with that Commissar. Is she your wife?"
"One day, she shall be." Marsh looked at his boots. "Wouldn't be proper for a Commissar and a plain NCO."
"There are nobles and such-like on Altridge, but the classes all work hard and there is little distinction in the end. Poor men marry well-to-do ladies quite often. So long as we all do our duty to the Emperor, who cares of class?"
"Folk round' Cadia do, most o' the time," Marsh said. "There ain't time for that, anyway."
"On Altridge, we have a ceremony of bonding. A cultural tradition, although it does possess its legalities. It puts marriage in motion, though does not sanctify. Consider it a promise, that the party shall one day indeed become man and wife in front of the Emperor. I'd be honored to render the service."
"You ain't no priest!"
"As I said, it is a legal act as well! Any certified individual can bond the two and I am in possession of such a certificate."
"Nothin' like that will carry Cadia."
"And I pose to you once more, who cares? Not the Emperor, that's for sure."
Marsh Silas found himself smiling. Eventually, shaking his head at this nonsense, he looked over his shoulder.
"I just might have to take you up on such a—"
There was a deafening blast and Marsh's world became dark. In that instance, he felt himself tumbling, but then flattened and smothered out. A great weight was set upon him and he could not move. He was trapped under some heavy and wet. It was utterly impossible to move even his fingers or wiggle his feet. Whether he was upright, upside down, on his side, on his back, he could not tell. And he couldn't breathe. Dirt was in his mouth, nose, and even his ears. He couldn't hear, couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breathe! He felt his heart beating, the veins bulging in his neck, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Every attempt to extricate himself failed, piling in more earth and trapping himself further. He tried to scream but his mouth was clogged with foul tasting soil. Tears streamed down his cheeks and were absorbed into the damp earth. Tightening like a vise, the constriction in his chest grew. It seemed like his lungs would burst. Every vein swelled and throbbed so painfully he thought they were exploding. He asked for the Emperor, for his friends, for his mother, anyone to come and save him.
Something lightened on his legs. His leg was freed. Someone pulled on his boot. More earth was removed. Little by little, he felt the load lighten. And this was when he was most afraid, as he felt like the frayed end of a rope as it unraveled. He had no breath left and just when he was about to freed!
There was a great heave and someone rolled Marsh onto his back. He vomited; saliva, bile, and mud ran out of his mouth. Mud clods still covered his face and he frantically tried to remove them. Other hands ran over his face and fought to keep his hands down. All he could hear were muffled thuds, gunfire, and shouts. It all seemed so distant. Something scraped his inner ears and he was barraged with noise. Explosions, lasgun fire, bullets cracking through the air, and screaming soldiers.
"Stop moving!" he heard Afdin yelled.
"Bloody Platoon, stand fast!" Carstensen hollered. "Staaaaand! Staaaaaand!"
"Yoxall, plug the fucking holes!"
Finally, the mud was pulled from his face. Afdin filled his vision, his eyes appearing through a sheen of mud. It seemed like they were sitting in a misshapen crater, with many crevices and piles of earth. Trench walls were destroyed and there were wounded men everywhere. Troops from other platoons were present and even some men of the 95th were back.
At the top of the crater, heretics fired down from the edge but were quickly shot down. Others appearing through a gaping tunnel on the opposite end of the crater. Scores fell under concentrated volleys of lasbolts. But Traitor Marines began to appear. Men started slinging Krak Grenades, lobbed satchel charges, and erected heavy weapons at point blank range. Walmsley Major and Minor didn't even mount their weapon on the tripod. Utilizing the strength-enhancing servos of his mechanical rig, Walmsley Major held the Heavy Bolter by the hip while his twin fed it with a belt. Standing in full view of the tunnel, he squeezed the trigger and nearly stumbled back. The recoil from the weapon was so great Drummer Boy ran over to support his back. A stream of bolts poured into the tunnel, cutting down several heretics and Traitor Marines, practically slicing them in two.
Guardsmen streamed over, around, or into the crater. Shock Troops dueled with bayonets, trench knives, and swords over mounds of mud and piles of bodies with the foe. Hyram was standing on an embankment with Babcock and barking orders. Arnold Yoxall bravely ran forward and lobbed a satchel charge at the tunnel entrance, but it fell short. A shower of earth splashed into it, obstructing slightly. The blast killed a squad of heretics and demented cultists, but did not halt the flow entirely. To the left, Isenhour slid behind a length of blast trench wall just as a heretic began approaching to attack the center of the Imperial position. He grabbed the enemy's barrel, swung him around the corner against the earth wall, and sank his trench knife into his gullet.
"Get into the fight!"
Janus, the White Consuls Scout Marine, came into view firing his Boltgun. Several of his compatriots were with him and started advancing towards Hyram. Afdin, found Marsh's M36c and thrust it into his hands. He grabbed his webbing and tried to pull him. But Marsh Silas simply shook his head and fell back against the mud he was lying against.
"Come on, Silas! We need to fight!"
Marsh shook his head again. He was exhausted and he was terrified; he was shaking so hard his teeth were rattling. Both legs were trembling as if he was suffering from the cold of a great blizzard. Every attempt to put him on his feet was refused.
"That's it, Bloody Platoon! Hold your position! Give'em hell! They shan't take us this time!" Hyram roared over the noise. He was standing so bravely beside the standard, firing his laspistol now that his M36 was out of ammunition. It was like looking of a painting of a great battle scene from old.
But just after he spoke, the enemy's fire abated. Those in view fell out of sight. Marsh Silas felt great relief and let his head fall back against the mud.
"Is that you, Bloody Platoon?" called an eerily familiar voice.
Hyram quickly ordered everyone into cover and slid down the embankment he was standing on. Even from where he was sitting, the platoon sergeant could see the shock on his commanding officer's face.
"It is Bloody Platoon you face!" he finally shouted back. "And what does my determined enemy want with us?"
"Oh, a great many things!" came the delighted reply. "I have heard your name long before this day. You may have slain Drusus, but he hath left many a record of the Imperial scum who plagued him so: a band of Guardsmen hiding among the hinterland known only as Bloody Platoon. What a misfit bunch of fools, although Drusus was the greatest fool of all, to allow himself to be slain by mere mortals."
"He was the first and by the mountains of your own dead, we both know he won't be the last!" Hyram taunted.
There was booming laughter.
"I fought you at the Battle of the Spire, Bloody Platoon. And though you did not hear my voice, it was my armored column which drove you from the high ground at the Battle of Anchor Hill. And it was some of my personal guard you and the Loyalist Astartes slew during the Blood Raven's final raid. How I enjoy you!"
Before Hyram could reply, the voice boomed once more. "Know your days are numbered, Bloody Platoon. For I am the Warsmith Consus and before my time is up, Cadia will burn and you along with it!"
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