Chapter 37
Marsh struck a match and lit the wax candle sitting in a rusty tin pan. The worn-down candle was practically a stub. Black smoke wafted up from the oily wick but petered out once the flame settled. Waving out the match and dropping it on the dirt floor of the underground bunker, he pulled a palm mirror out from his pocket. It was cracked and had black spots on it. When he blew on it and wiped it with his last clean cloth, it made no difference. All the same, he set the glass on a wooden timber running along the wall just above the dingy bowl they were using as a wash basin.
He gripped the edges of the stand the bowl sat on and gazed at his reflection. A thick brown beard hung from his face, dark circles sagged under his muted violet eyes, dirt smudged both cheeks, and his blonde hair was growing past his ears. Everything about him seemed grayer. Perhaps, it was just the shadow cast by the candle.
Falling artillery shells made the stand tremble and the palm mirror made a kind of tinkling noise on the beam. Dust fell from the ceiling of the bunker. Marsh didn't really notice as he procured a pair of small scissors from his grooming kit. Slowly, carefully, he began to cut his hair back. Blonde locks rained down into the bottom of the basin.
Why had Consus let them go? The question dogged him since the ambush several weeks earlier. They were nearly boxed in, threatened on nearly three sides by Band of Dusk soldiers and Iron Warriors emerging from the tunnels they blasted. Holding poor ground like that would have been a death sentence no matter Hyram's determination and Bloody Platoon's grit. In less than an hour, they would have been killed without reinforcements.
And yet, the Warsmith withdrew his forces and retired from the battlefield. Did he truly want to face down Bloody Platoon in honorable battle rather than in an ambush? Or was he trying to needle his way into their minds and sap their morale with his little games. If that was the case, the Iron Warriors were even more terrifying than Marsh Silas gave them credit for. They were capable of cruel and brutal acts but there was a swiftness to them that quite nearly sanitized them in the eyes of a seasoned veteran. But knowing there was someone out there, hunting them once more, terrified Marsh.
He was beginning to recall what happened to the young Rayden, mutilated and hanged from a tree during at the very end of the Long Patrol. The strain of the noose, the corpse swinging in the cold breeze, his blued skin and bulging eyes, and the sign around his neck. 'Beware, Bloody Platoon,' it read. The image chilled him to his core and he felt the shivers run up and down his exposed back. Poor, poor Rayden; he was only a lad of fourteen. Now, it seemed that his comrades young and old would be following him to a similar grave.
Marsh ran his hands through his hair a few times, removing the excess in a blonde cloud. His hair was still on the thicker side but at least the sides were trimmed up and there were no more curls over his ears. He had cropped his beard as well and it seemed as though his face lost an inch or two. But he was not sorry to see it go.
He emptied one of the pails they used to collect rainwater and filled the basin. Wincing, cupped his hands in the water and splashed it on his cheeks. An involuntarily gasp passed between his lips as trails of chilling water rolled down his neck and onto his shoulders. Quickly, he swished his brush around in the water, covered it with shaving cream, and ran the rough hairs over his beard. Doing his best to keep his hands from shaking, he carefully ran the straight razor over his cheeks. After each stroke, he dipped it in the water and ran it over the cloth he left out. He exaggerated his lean over the bowl so he could properly see his face in the mirror. As the morning artillery exchange moved to the west, all he could hear was the steady scrape, scrape, scrape of the razor against his skin.
How much time could they hold out before having to retreat into Kasr Sonnen? Imperial forces were pushed back and back and back until they reached the Gaps, the formidable series of ridges which the only southern road leading to Kasr Sonnen's mountain perch. Naturally occurring, the ridges cut the road horizontally and ran parallel to one another, creating a magnificent natural barrier against assailants. The new frontline was entrenched in front of and on top of the forward ridge, Piscator. Forces who were not on watch were stationed in the middle ridge, Gallus. Most of their artillery was seated along the furthest ridge, Aust.
Although the underground fortresses that ran along the northerly mountain range Kasr Sonnen sat on were holding firm, the ridgebacks on the right side of the valley had all but fallen. A sizeable pocket of Imperial forces was holding out, absorbing attacks which could otherwise aim right for the Gaps. Despite holding out valiantly, their position was tenuous and difficult to both reinforce and resupply. Even with the added might of Kasr Sonnen's heavy artillery, the Black Legion, Iron Warriors, and the Band of Dusk were in control of the valley. It was only a matter of time before the defenders were forced up the mountain and into the city itself. Everyone knew the siege would become even bloodier there and the reports of relieving forces coming from the north and east did little to absolve their concern.
Wiping his blade for the final time, Marsh splashed more water on his bare face. It stung a little bit but the cool water was now a little refreshing. He cleaned his face and dumped the contents of the basin into another bucket sitting nearby.
Marsh Silas walked stiffly out of their small, makeshift washroom and went back to the barracks. Now, they didn't even have bunks. Bloody Platoon's bedrolls were arrayed in row after row, like caskets on a day of mass burial. Rucksacks were placed at the head of each one like pillows and a few stray kits sat between the bedrolls. He found his own at the Platoon Command Squad's cordon at the opposite end of the bunker. He was wearing only his field trousers and sweater, as he had woken up early to wash his uniform.
For today, under other circumstances, he would have liked to wear his dress uniform with all his medals. But that was still back in Kasr Sonnen. So, he doffed his sweater and replaced it with his tunic and last good pair of trousers. The only medals he had with him were the Militarum Palms bestowed by General Battye, the Order of the Seeker awarded by Captain Thule, and the unopened envelope sent to him by the White Consuls.
He'd been putting it off for some time. Sitting down on his roll, he tore it open and a gold medal fell into his hand. It was circular, suspended from tricolor ribbon—a thin golden column separating a white and dark blue column—and portrayed the image of a planet. On either side of the planet rose an eagle's head.
With it was a piece of parchment, thankfully penned in the Cadian dialect of Low Gothic. The White Consuls were very courteous.
"Upon the recommendation of several White Consuls, Captain Evander hereby awards the decoration known as the Golden Sabatine to Senior Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment for valor," he read aloud. "During the Battle of the Spire, he braved enemy fire, showed gallantry during the assault, and rendered aid to White Consuls during the tactical withdrawal. The Golden Sa…Saba…Sababatine is awarded to those Space Marines and other Imperial warriors of worth in the belief they have not only aided the White Consuls but have embodied the traditions of their Chapter Homeworld. Long live the Emperor and the Imperium."
He folded the note carefully and tucked it into a side pocket on his rucksack. He ran his thumb over the medal a few times and bowed his head in shame.
"Put it on." Marsh looked up to see Lieutenant Hyram walking into the bunker. "You earned it."
"More an' likely, they think otherwise after that ambush."
Hyram helped Marsh to his feet, swiped the medal from his hand, and pinned it to his tunic. As he fixed the other medals to his chest, he glared at him.
"I can send you back to Kasr Sonnen to rest. Get your bearings, clear your head." Marsh Silas found he could not respond to the offer. It was as alluring as an iced drink on a hot day. Thoughts of warm showers, hot food, and soft beds filled his thoughts. But his gaze eventually fell; his gut twisted with shame and guilt.
Hyram exhaled heavily as he adjusted the medal. "If you're going to stay, I can't have that happen again. I understand you were very nearly killed but a Cadian Shock Trooper never quits under fire. No matter what."
The Lieutenant fixed Marsh's collar and smoothed out the tunic before helping him tuck it in. "Every single one of us is exhausted and we're naught but fraying nerves. But the Emperor will keep us and if He will keep us, then by the Throne we must stand firm. Oh, Silas, your bootlaces aren't even tied."
"I hadn't gotten to that yet."
"You haven't been polishing your boots."
"I cleaned'em just yesterday. Don't see no reason why, they just get muddy all the same. Why, every man walks around with about three layers of mud caked onto their feet. Blast this damnable rain."
Hyram finished tying one then looked up at Marsh, resting his hand on his own knee.
"Speak that way only with me, you hear? I can't have that spreading to the men. Their spirits are low enough already. Part of your duty is to keep their morale up. If you can't keep your own up, you are a detriment to this platoon."
The Lieutenant's hands froze just before he tied a knot. Marsh Silas winced even though he didn't quite know what that word meant exactly. A sad breath passed between the officer's lips and he finished tying the laces. "I am sorry."
"I understand."
Hyram stood up, tightened the tunic's belt and he tugged at a few wrinkles. After looking him up and down, he nodded approvingly.
"Reinforcements are coming. We know this to be true. It's only a matter of time. Until then, with the Emperor's blessing, this little event today will relieve some of the tension in the company. It is good in such trying times to think ahead to the future, however near or distant. Spirits ought to be buoyed to carry us over. Oh, and do comb your hair before you don your cap. Captain Giles is going to be attending and a detachment of Space Marines moved into a nearby position. Who knows, they might be observing. More out of curiosity than anything else but nonetheless we should look the part, yes?"
This made Marsh Silas smile brightly and he nodded eagerly. By the time he was ready, Hyram cleaned up a little himself and put on his own low-peaked cap. Together, they walked out of the bunker, trundled down a communication trench leading to the rear, and came to a Basilisk battery. Their guns were trained high up in the air to fire over Piscator Ridge. Bloody Platoon, the rest of 1st Company, and Afdin's company from the 45th Altridge Regiment were assembled in front of the center cannon. Arranged on the sides of the battery were the gun crews, Guardsmen from other companies, and just as Hyram said, Space Marines of the White Consuls. The Guardsmen formations created two squares with wooden duckboards dividing them. At the very end stood Captain Giles, Eastoft, Afdin, who was holding a small leatherbound booklet, and even Commissar Ghent.
And of course, right in the center of that small crowd, dressed her last immaculate uniform, was Carstensen. Everything about her was perfect; her boots were gleaming with fresh polish, her olive drab trousers were neatly pressed, and the golden buttons on her black Commissariat coat shone in the pale sunlight. Several medals she earned throughout the campaign adorned the left side of her chest. Her high-peaked cap was repaired after suffering so much damage in the intervening months. She looked so very strong and proud, standing erect with her back to the formation. Long, orange hair spilled out from beneath her headwear and waved in the moist morning wind.
Nearly everyone turned at the same time, their boots shuffling on the boards. Carstensen was the last to look and when she did, her hair swayed again. Her pale skin had become weathered and tanned from so much exposure throughout the winter months. Yet, it heightened her beauty and made her resolve seem all the steelier. From where Marsh stood, he could see her twinkled oceanic eyes, a tumult of glassy green and bright blue.
His feet felt heavy all of a sudden. Feeling self-conscious under so many eyes, Marsh felt the urge to make himself small. But a smile which lit up Carstensen's drew him in and made his heart thump harder. If I can accept a damn Honorifica in front of all them eyes, he thought to himself, I can march up to my woman.
With Hyram beside him, he ambled down the aisle and walked right up to her. They stood face-to-face, gazing into one another. Gazes softened, smiles widened, and without much thought, they slipped their hands into one another's. Carstensen suddenly blinked and looked at Afdin.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"You sure we don't need no priest?" Marsh added.
"This is an approved tradition that does not require the presence of a priest, only that of an official who can render the service and one who can act as an official witness. Commissar Ghent's presence is sufficient enough."
Marsh looked over at the Commissar who offered only a small nod in return. Even in such an informal ceremony, there was little they could express. The platoon sergeant simply smiled at Ghent as warmly as he could.
"Now, let us begin!" Afdin quickly opened his booklet, ran his finger down the page, and nodded. "Today we stand before Him, the first of Man, the guidance and protector of our Imperium, the Emperor of Man. It is by His blessing we find ourselves drawn together, for it is the Emperor who allows our souls to seek out one another. And on this humble, modest day, two of His subjects have found one another."
Marsh felt Carstensen squeeze his hands at this very moment. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from hers, but he looked at Afdin who looked absolutely delighted to render the surface. He looked again at Hyram, who was so very proud, and to his dear friends in Bloody Platoon, all of whom wore faces of admiration and happiness. Every face seemed to carry a calm and cheer he'd not seen for many, many months. Even the noble Space Marines, standing outside the battery, seemed to be at the very least interested in the affairs of mortals.
Afdin turned the page. "In Altridge tradition, recognized and validated by the Ecclesiarchy, we shall bind these two together in faith. A faith born not just by love and worship of our Emperor, but a promise we extend to our fellow man. The promise that we shall always serve Him who is highest, that we shall labor for our beloved Imperium, and that through strife, through calm, through disaster, through triumph, through duty and through life, together. Today, Silas Thayer Cross and Lilias Juventas Carstensen, shall make such a pledge to serve, to live, to love, forever."
The Altridge sergeant closed the book, tucking it into his satchel, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Silas, do you intend to uphold this promise to this soul beside you?"
"I promise."
"Lilias, do you intend to uphold this promise to this soul beside you?"
"I promise."
Afdin lifted his hands up and motioned to the sky.
"Then, in the eyes of our Emperor, this gathering, and Commissar Ghent," Afdin briefly lowered an arm and motioned towards the political officer, "you are hereby promised, and thereby bonded, to each other. Seal this promise with a kiss."
When Marsh Silas and Carstensen's lips met, Bloody Platoon started cheering. A moment later, the rest of the Guardsmen broke out in applause, shouts, and whistles. When they separated, Captain Giles approached and shook their hands.
"Tis might unorthodox," he said happily, "but it is good to see so many happy, smiling faces. Congratulations, although you still have a long way to go before you earn any Paternity and Maternity Medals."
On any other day, this would have made the couple stiffen and blush. But they were so enthused with the moment, they just laughed. Commissar Ghent started to come forward but Bloody Platoon broke ranks and crowded in. Yoxall grabbed Marsh's wrist and held his hand in the air while the two Walmsley brothers placed Carstensen on their shoulders. This made the applause and whistling grow louder than before. Then, the whistling became longer, louder, and shriller. The troopers fell silent as eyes turned skyward; the whistling did not stop.
"Incoming!" a Scout Marine shouted.
"Hit the dirt!"
Everyone scattered and dove for cover. Shells crashed into the earth all around them. Mounds of earth burst, trench walls collapsed, and clots of men were tossed about. Soil sprayed Marsh in the face as he and Carstensen dove for a fighting hole. The bombardment intensified and shells landed with frightful rapidity. So many struck at once it seemed as though the ground was breaking apart in a quake. Wounded Guardsmen's screams were drowned out by the noise. Unfortunate souls who were immobilized by shrapnel or loss of limb disappeared in the sea of dirt. Marsh got as low as he could in the hole, curling up and covering his head. Carstensen was right beside him and he felt her arm wrap around him.
But the bombardment was sharp. A few minutes later, it ceased and the cacophony of pained moans and cries rose. Marsh Silas felt Carstensen raise herself up.
"Silas, there's wounded men out there. Come on."
But remained on his side, his hands over his ears and his face pressed into the side of the hole. Carstensen grabbed his shoulder and jostled. "Get up! We have to help them! Come on, Silas, get on your feet! Silas!"
She yanked him onto his back and straddled him. Her gaze was fiery. "You need to get on your feet and move!"
Carstensen pulled and heaved him against the lip of the fighting hole. Dead bodies and limbs were everywhere. Guardsmen were blown to pieces. In some spots, there was only a book or a helmet left. Mutilated men who lost legs or had their stomachs burst groaned and trembled as they died. Other men appeared and started rendering as much as they could. Cries for 'litter,' and 'stretcher-bearers,' rang out.
Hyram cut across his view. The Lieutenant slid up to Captain Giles, who was clutching a bleeding shrapnel wound in his stomach. Beside him, Eastoft was bleeding from her ears and vomiting blood. Honeycutt, who had a severe gash on his crown, wiped the blood from his eyes and opened his aid bag.
Marsh felt himself being pulled out and he found himself next to Hyram. Seeing a wound on his thigh, Marsh put pressure above it to staunch the bleeding. Despite his injuries, Giles was still able to speak grab the handset from his dead Voxman's equipment.
"Roger that, Primus Six out," he hissed through clenched teeth. Dropping the handset, he reached over and grabbed Hyram's collar. "The enemy is attacking and all units are requested upfront. Rally 1st Company and get them up there. You're in charge. Get on the net and let everyone know you're the Six."
Hyram exchanged a quick, shocked glance with Marsh. But his expression flashed over to determination, his brow furrowing and his violet eyes growing cold.
"Yes, sir! Drummer Boy, get that man's Vox-caster! Get his code book, too! Carstensen!?"
"Sir!?"
"Move 1st Company forward, collect wargear as you go! Anything you can, Flak Armor, charge packs, weapons, everything!"
"Yes, sir!"
Hyram jabbed his finger into Marsh's chest. "I'm giving you Bloody Platoon, understand? Get them moving!"
There was a massive explosion at Piscator Ridge. Marsh looked over his shoulder to see a massive dust cloud and chunks of earth flying through the sky. Another mine detonation, right on their frontline! It was so big, Valkyrie transports and Vulture Gunships providing close air support was caught in the radius. Many came tumbling out of the sky.
Marsh glanced back at Captain Giles. The Company Commander's hands were clutching his shrapnel wound. Blood leaked through his fingers and his face was lined with agony. The easygoing officer was clenching his teeth and his breathing was so heavy spittle flew out. Both eyes were bulging and tears slid down his temples. Then, Giles reached out with his hand towards Eastoft. All the blood coming down her ears was covering her hands and dripping down her neck. More came out of her nose and mouth. Vomiting again, she wailed terribly and gripped her sides.
Just as the litter-bearers came for the two officers, a hand pulled on Marsh's collar. "Get moving!" Hyram screamed.
Marsh tore himself away. He heard a voice calling for Bloody Platoon. It sounded like his own.
###
Back and forth, back and forth, the Second Battle of the Pendulums raged. Black Legion, Iron Warriors, and the Band of Dush fought through the newly blown gap in Piscator Ridge, smashing against Gallus Ridge like waves on Army's Meadow bluffs. They would start to claw and scramble there way up the second line's defenses, tried crawling on its flanks to envelope the position, but were driven off. Guardsmen called in artillery on their own positions, hurled grenades down the slopes, and countercharged. Astartes stood fast among the trenches, drawing their massive daggers when their Bolters ran out of ammunition. Bodies piled up on the slopes. Another month.
The Imperial Forces counterattacked. Armored convoys rumbled down the single road and thrust into the gap. Infantrymen singing prayer songs dismounted and fought their way up the remnants of the blasted ridge. Much of the ground was sundered and cracked. Whatever Consus and the deviant Summanus did to destroy the ridge had moved the earth around. Soil settled into huge mounds, creating low hills and rises among what remained of the ridge's flanks. Each one needed to be wrested back from the enemy. Scores upon scores of Guardsmen died. Waves of them fell on the slopes of Piscator. And for a time, they would hold that ground and even strike out back into the ground they once held. Each charge was a bloody folly and General Battye continued to lose men while waiting for reinforcements. Even as Aeronautica Imperialis carpet bombed the enemy's trenchworks, the enemy attacked once more. And so, the men and women who fought so hard to regain their ground and gave it up again. The long-awaited reinforcements arrived but simply could not press down the roads to the ridges. Another month.
Sometimes it was just a day or a night up at Piscator. When there was enough support, supplies, and personnel, the Astra Militarum could hold onto it for a few days at a time. Sometimes, even a week. 'You'll see all sorts of wonderous and beautiful sights at Piscator,' said the relieved troops when rested Guardsmen took their place. Like blood running through veins, the surviving companies of the remaining regiments trickled up and down the slopes. Side by side, passing one another at night, always at night, to avoid the daytime shelling. True comrades, the Guardsmen reached out, solemnly reaching to tap one another on the shoulder. Another month.
As a cold drizzle fell, pattering on his poncho and helmet, Marsh moved up the right side of Piscator. Guardsmen from the 95th Regiment came trundling down, weaving along the trail which cut through the rocks and overgrowth. He couldn't see their faces; many had pulled the chin of their tactical hoods over their nose, wore balaclavas, or wrapped scarves around their mouths. But their silhouettes were visible and their heads hung low, their shoulders sagged, and their feet dragged along. Some slumped along, dragging rucksacks and bandoleers with them. Other labored with wounded friends. All moved as if they were asleep.
Marsh watched them as he walked. It was like looking at a procession of undead—shambling, living corpses. He was reminded of those monsters Amilios unleashed against Army's Meadow well over a solar year ago. Out of their darkness came their arms, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Open-palmed, fingers skeletal, they did not so much as pat him as they did clutch him for a moment. In that instant, their grip was icy and tight.
Each hand that touched him sent a tremor down his back, carrying a horrible chill. And another swept down his throat and into his gut, creating a tension so terrible he wanted to vomit. Marsh forced himself to look up. They were getting close to the crest. Closer, closer, inching, stomping, crawling. Every so often, an autogun went off in the distance. Sometimes, there was the report of an M36. Occasionally, someone screamed in terror. Soon, Marsh Silas started to shake. Forward, far forward, errant mortar shells fell. He could feel the vibrations in the ground. Behind him, Basilisks fired and he could feel the concussion even from where he walked. It seemed like the whole world was shaking.
He remembered the mine that destroyed Piscator. He remembered Consus's smug voice on the day of the ambush. He remembered the foul taste of soil in his mouth. He remembered when Galen died and the Blood Ravens left. He remembered losing the hill after they fought so hard to take it. He remembered what it was like to hold Hyram when he was comatose. He remembered climbing this damnable ridge earlier in the week, the week before, last month, the month before!
Marsh felt hot tears stinging his eyes. He stifled a choked sob, covering his mouth as he staggered out of line. Where was he going? What was he doing? His feet slipped but he got right back up. There were footsteps behind him. Falling behind a rock, he shook off his rucksack, dropped his M36c, and cried into his hands.
"By the Emperor, what's wrong?" Hyram hissed. "You need to get back into line!"
"I can't, I can't…" Marsh whimpered. "No more. I don't want to go back up there."
Hyram walked around and knelt in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. Marsh could not bring himself to look up. He kept his face covered and his head down.
"None of us want to go. But we must. We…we simply must."
"I'm going to die. We are all going to die. I'm not ready. I can't go up there."
"What's the holdup?" It was Carstensen's voice. "Lieutenant, the company has to…oh, Silas, what is the matter?" Her hand rested on his back. "Silas, my love, I know. I understand."
"You don't! You're brave and strong! Both of you." Marsh wiped his face, dropped his hands, and stared at the ground. His chest stopped heaving and he caught his breath. "I'm not him. I'm not Barlocke, full of ideas and plans, moral yet strong. A balance of all things that make a man. How I wished to be like him, even when I chose not to follow the path he set for me. I thought I was forging my own path, derived from his vision. I realize it was cowardice alone that kept me in the Guard."
He trembled, shook his head, and the tears started to fall once more. His head dropped between his knees. "Here I am, the coward revealed. Oh, what did my old friend ever see in me?"
I still see much in you, dear friend.
Marsh gritted his teeth. "Shut up!"
"We said nothing," Hyram murmured.
"I feel naught but shame and yet I can't find strength to stand."
Hyram put his hand on the top of Marsh's helmet.
"Come now, it's your nerves. You're just tired. Why don't—"
But he stopped talking. Marsh looked up; in the time he'd been keeled over, the cloud layer had broken up and the rain moved off. Pale, bluish moonlight shone through the breaks. In that light, he found Carstensen kneeling in front of him. Hyram moved over to the side, his dirty, haggard face awash with concern. But the Commissar's gaze was more resolute than sympathetic. Slowly, she removed her cap and placed it on the ground next to her foot. Then, she took off the platoon sergeant's helmet.
There was mud on it. Taking out a rag, she wiped it off and explosed the silver Aquila on his helm. When she finished, Carstensen handed it back. Marsh Silas held it in his hands.
"Silas, we are all weary and weak. We are terrified, we're filthy, we're miserable, we want this battle to be over. It would all be so simple if our Emperor could but wave his hand and smite the foes before us. But if that were so, then this Imperium would have no need for soldiers. This soldier's life as you call it, is a hard one. We live one terrible day and horrible night at a time, fighting battles no one else can because it's worth it. And if we can live one more day, then we can live one more night, because it's worth it."
She took his cheek and helped him look up. "This will have an ending. Whether we see the morning or we all die, it will all be worth it. Barlocke the Inquisitor had dreams just as you have dreams. He had plans and certainly more than a few schemes to accomplish what he wished for the Imperium. But when he stood his ground and gave up his life, he did so knowing his sacrifice was worth something. To the Emperor and the Imperium yes, but to you as well, and to the rest of us. We were all worth it to him."
She stood up and put her cap back on at the same time. Carstensen smiled earnestly at Marsh and extended her hand. "Remember the chance he gave us, you, to do something worthwhile and meaningful. And you embraced this opportunity, make no mistake. You do not fear death, you fear futility. Do not give in. Because dawn is coming, just like when we fought at Kasr Fortis. Come with me and let's seize the dawn."
Marsh Silas stared at her hand for a long time. His gaze fell to his helmet and he ran his hand over the Aquila. Shutting his eyes and inhaling deeply, he placed his helm back on. With a swing of his arm, he grabbed her hand. She pulled him to his feet and touched his chestplate. "That's it, my love."
The pair followed Hyram back into line of marching troops. Bloody Platoon was up ahead, already traversing the crest of Piscator Ridge. Like insects spilling over a ledge, they disappeared over the rocks one by one. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen hurried after them, walking parallel to the line of other 1st Company troops.
More mortar shells fell as they clambered over the top. Most of the Shock Troopers around them didn't bother running as it was an uncoordinated bombardment. At the foot of the ridge, on the right side of the gap, were a series of new trenches, dugouts, and prefabricated bunkers. Shells hit among them, casting brief flashes. A larger dugout was hit at the center of the line; smoke and splinters flew skyward. As they entered the trench, the shattered wood clattered on their helmets.
The barrage continued. Clots of soil rained down over them and once in a while, hot shrapnel dug into the wood of a support beam. One bit into the wooden wall next to Scout Sergeant Isenhour, who had taken a seat on an ammunition crate. He glanced at it, then smirked at Marsh Silas as he walked by.
"Regularities in a life of peril, eh?"
"Noise discipline," someone hissed.
"The enemy knows where we are, fool," Isenhour snapped back.
Marsh arrived at the OP dugout which would serve as 1st Company's command post. Sandbags sat along the parapet and a mesh camouflage net was strung across the top. Waiting there were the other platoon leaders, both of whom were wounded but still combat effective. Drummer Boy was also there, monitoring the Vox-net with his equipment. All he was afforded was a folding canvas camp stool and a box for his communications set. He held his handset with one hand.
"SITREP?" Hyram asked he walked in, taking off his helmet.
"2nd Platoon is in position."
"3rd is, too. The fellas from the 95th left us some extra ammunition. Bless'em."
"Very well. I know our strength isn't very high but we'll have to hold as best we can. Displace your men at strongpoints in the trenches, ensure your heavy weapons are operational, and rotate your watches in three-hour intervals. That's the most time I can afford you give our numbers. I apologize. If that's all, return to your men."
The other Lieutenants saluted and departed amid falling mortars. Carstensen immediately went to the parapet to keep watch while Marsh sat on one of the other stools. Hyram went over to Drummer Boy and rested his hand on his shoulder. "Any update regarding the movements of our reinforcements?"
"Negative, sir."
"Has there been a communique from Regimental Headquarters or Battlegroup Command? Any word on Giles, Eastoft, any of our wounded? It's been so long…"
"Negative on all, the network has been spotty since sundown. At first, I thought we had a bad cell or two. But when I sent runners to other Command Squads in the company, they reported the same issue. Isenhour went to 2nd and 3rd Companies, and they're experiencing issues, too. I tried sending him back to find an Enginseer but none are available." Drummer Boy ran his hand over his face and then thumped the Vox-caster angrily. "Piece of shit. Occasionally, I can get through but it never holds. Either the enemy is jamming our frequencies, the network is sustaining disruptions, or our equipment has just had enough."
Hyram looked over his shoulder at Marsh. The platoon sergeant just wanted to curl up in his blanket and sleep, but he met his friend's gaze and offered a casual shrug.
"We'll rely on runners then. We've operated without comms before."
"This is like war from a bygone age. No signal equipment, no night vision capabilities or flashlights—the batteries have all run out. If we stage a night assault, we'll have to fight by torchlight," Carstensen murmured.
"Torchlight and cold steel," Hyram added. A mortar shell landed close by and the officer didn't even flinch. "We won't be able to communicate regarding the enemy's movement or our own. But we will hold until dawn, right Silas?"
"Yes, sir," Marsh replied tiredly, but he found himself smiling and nodding.
"In the morning, we should be able to get a better read of the battlespace." In the distance there were terrific explosions. Orange fireballs billowed in every direction, split only by oily black smoke clouds. Huge bolts and missiles lanced from far behind the enemy's lines. In the muzzle flash of those weapons were two huge, hulking figures, towering above the ridges and mountains.
"Reaver-class Titans," Carstensen said wistfully. Marsh looked past her to see volleys of enemy fire strike the massive craft, but on it came. Listening to the battle on the opposite end of the valley reminded Marsh of listening to thunderstorms.
The mortar barrage intensified and soon heavy caliber guns opened up on them too.
"They're going to try and roll over us now," Hyram said, putting his helmet back on. "They know if they can get into the Kasr, they'll have a fighting chance. I'm sure they'll think us an easier combatant than the Titans."
The barrage ceased. Marsh Silas could hear bayonets being fixed in the enemy trenches. He clutched his M36c tightly. His heart throbbed and he could feel that terrible fear clawing its way up from his gut. But he swallowed hard and shut his eyes. Dawn, he thought, I just have to make it to dawn. Yes, you do Silas.
Legs shaking, hands trembling, Marsh Silas stood up. He couldn't just hear the stampeding feet; he could feel their vibration in the ground. Gritting his teeth, he walked up to the parapet. "Let's prove'em wrong," he said, loading his weapon and raising it to his shoulder. Marsh took a final breath. "Dawn."
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Author's Note: Apologies for the long delay, I returned from my vacation back in March but I hit the ground running. I've only had time for smaller works on DA and this chapter proved to be surprisingly difficult to write. Can't say I'm totally happy with it and one day when I go back to edit the story, I'm probably going to change it around. I'm excited for the rest of the story though! I probably won't be able to get to work on this again until late May or even mid-June, but this story is still ongoing. Thank you for your patience.
