Chapter 5
"Hup, two, ree, fo! Hup, two, ree, fo! Oh, Civil Cindi is quite linty!"
"Civil Cindi is quite linty!"
"And her heart is oh-so-flinty!"
"And her heart is oh-so-flinty!"
"Oh Cindi, Cindi, all I want with you is a roll!"
"Cindi, Cindi, all I want with you is a roll!"
"Never mind the dough!"
"Never mind the dough!"
"Oh, Cindi, Cindi, don't you know?"
"Cindi, Cindi, don't you know?"
"I wanna make your belly grow!"
"I wanna make your belly grow!"
It was the morning of a new day. Bloody Platoon marched in good order through the courtyard of their base. Overlooking them was the regimental command tower; a proud, pale spire with a thin strip of tinted glass wrapping around it. Like the day they set out for Army's Meadow, Captain Murga, Commissar Ghent, Inquisitor Barlocke, Lieutenant Hyram stood by. Also present were the lieutenants from Second and Third Platoons, as well as the company priest, Kine.
Guardsmen in the standard regiments tithed to Cadia did not come from a martial background. Most complained about the frequent marching drills or other parade ground maneuvers. Such was not the case for Cadian Shock Troopers, especially among Bloody Platoon. Marching reminded the Guardsmen about their unity, comradeship, and sheer firepower. Assembled together, shoulder to shoulder, rank pressed to rank, it showcased Cadian values and made them feel proud. Beyond that, marching was a momentary break from the sheer monotony of base-life or the adrenaline-pumping action of battle. It was an excuse to impress the officers, get them off their backs, as well as limber up for the day's operation and sing a few songs to make themselves feel better. Everyone in the company enjoyed hearing Marsh or one of the others lead them in their various cadences.
Marsh Silas brought Bloody Platoon to a stop in front of their officers and had them stand at attention. Second Platoon was behind them and Third Platoon was all the way in the back. Like most company compositions, the first platoon was made up of veterans, the second a mixture of experienced hands and average line troops, and the third platoon was made up of fresher line troopers in a supporting role. Many were just a standard year or two out of the Whiteshields. Three platoons was a very traditional number, though the 1333rd Regiment could afford such configurations. Compared to other Shock Trooper regiments, it was small. Some companies could manage five platoons, not even including their Heavy and Special Weapons Squads, who constituted platoons on numerical and organizational levels.
It was a cool, damp morning. Enginseers, aided by servitors, worked on Chimeras. Men smoked lho-sticks in the trenches. A flight of Valkyrie gunships flew by overhead.
"Men, before we get to our announcements, we thought it fitting Bloody Platoon received a blessing for their successful mission here on Army's Meadow." Captain Murga bowed his head slightly. "I would have wished it sooner, but we had a great deal of work to do preparing this base."
Kine stepped forward. He was an older man, clad in red robes complemented by white trimmings typical of the Adeptus Ministorum. On those white trims were prayers, blessings, and other Imperial Cult incantations written in High Gothic. In one hand he clutched a tall wooden staff with a holy tome trussed at the very top. The pages were tied open so all could see the script, though the High language was lost on the general infantrymen. Kine himself was a hunched over fellow, with a white-gray beard, long hair that came down to his neck. His face was etched with wrinkles and lines. Such age was deceiving; once in a battle against cultists, Marsh saw him charge like a trooper in his prime and cut down ten Chaos worshippers with a chainsword.
"We give thanks to the holy God-Emperor of Mankind, He who has fought our battles, defeated our foes, and won our victories. We remember the men who have fallen to the Archenemy's treachery, and we commit their souls and memories to our supreme lord on Holy Terra! From this day forth, we shall march with greater vigor, renewed energy, and everlasting faith to avenge their loss. And we must always remember..."
Kine's voice began to drift away until Marsh Silas couldn't hear it anymore. He began to chew his bottom lip.
Yes, he remembered the men who lost their lives in the ambush. What a grand ceremony they received. Once the bodies were collected, they were stripped of any useful gear. Boots, tri-dome pattern helmets, flak armor, gas masks, spare charge packs, lasguns, autopistols, special weapons𑁋everything. Even personal possessions, of which they had few, were evaluated by the company sergeants and were either kept, discarded, or traded with other Guardsmen. After all, the men liked to joke, their wargear was effectively on loan. What had the dead received in turn? A canvas tarp to cover them while awaiting transportation. Marsh saw them the day after the ambush. There they were in a row, each covered with an olive canvas, their bare feet sticking out from the bottom, their arms protruding to the sides. Eventually, a Chimera came and took the bodies away. Which mass cemetery they were going to, he did not know. Some space would be found, the remains of soldiers long dead removed, and the fresh corpses dumped in to replace them. Once, he watched a hill of bodies pushed into a mass grave by a tank equipped with a bulldozer blade. They were not even afforded the military honors that came with the reused graveyards. A rank-and-file Guardsman with many more years in the Shock Troops than him, turned and said, 'Glory to the Imperium.'
He remembered that Guardsman very well. A grizzled sort, with deep lines in his face and faded violet eyes. Teeth were missing, his forearms were covered with plasma and laser burns, and his face was pockmarked by so many pieces of shrapnel. It was easy to see the veteran spent many years off-world on countless campaigns. His glory came full circle, bringing from the grand fields of Cadia to the myriad of battlegrounds all over the Imperium. Surely, the dullness of his eyes was the culmination of so much glory.
Glory indeed, Marsh mused to himself.
Quashing such thoughts, knowing it was bad for a Guardsman's morale to maintain bitterness, Marsh snapped back to attention. "...obey your officers, continue your prayers, and if you have questions, let them go. May the God-Emperor bless you!"
Kine retired, managing a feeble little smile, not unlike a contented elder would give upon seeing his grandchildren at play. Without waiting for Captain Murga to announce him, Inquisitor Barlocke stepped forward.
"Some of you men are already aware, but we likely have an infestation of heretics and or cultists across the channel in Kasr Fortis. How large their operation is, at this point, unknown. Our first objective is twofold; scour the region for intelligence regarding their operation as far as their boats. How they got them, what they're using them for. Then, destroy them at dock with artillery fire. Our Basilisks are arriving today, however they will not fire until we discover what those boats' extended purposes are."
Barlocke paused impressively. "Once that stage of our operation is complete, you will be briefed further."
Marsh Silas did not consider himself to be an expert tactician or a master strategist, or altogether bright. But, he did consider himself experienced enough to know plans had a way of crumbling as soon they began. Beyond that, it made more sense to him to eliminate the boats as soon as possible rather than give the heretics more time to organize, stiffen defenses, and continue mainland operations. What if the rogue psyker got wise and decided to vacate the island before they assaulted Fortis? Knocking on doors of the locals wasn't the wisest goal eiter. While the folks living outside of the Kasrs were Cadians, they were washouts and squatters, people so unfit they were unqualified to be a reservist or an auxillary. Most were uneducated and undisciplined, foolishly trying their hands at professions other than soldiering. Marsh Silas wasn't too fond of them, but if they wanted to risk living outside the high walls, even in the quiet zones, he couldn't argue.
Patrolling on foot was a necessary action to take. Early warning systems, radar, Sentinel squadrons, and automated drones were all well and good. But the best eyes and ears on the ground was a Guardsman, or so the Uplifting Primer stated. Considering what happened at Army's Meadow, Marsh worried another ambush would occur and more undue casualties would be sustained. Wandering around the countryside would put them at greater risk to be attacked by the suspected cultists in the area of operations. Despite his original fears, he pondered if knowledge of the enemy was really worth the added risks.
Barlocke smiled at him from where he stood among the command squad. "I believe that's all I have to say. We'll take another day of rest and commence operations on the morrow. You men are dismissed."
Marsh spun around on his heel. He and the other platoon sergeants repeated the order, and the men dispersed. As the crowd of Guardsmen began going back to their quarters, he lingered, watching Barlocke. The Inquisitor was among the officers, speaking to Commissar Ghent. Over the bustle of cussing, joking, coughing, spitting, snarking men, he couldn't hear what they were saying. Going over and waiting nearby was acceptable behavior, but he didn't want to risk upsetting the Commissar. Keeping one's distance from the crimson uniformed political officers was a good way to stay out of trouble in and outside of combat. Ghent looked rather serious, while Barlocke nodded and smiled kindly. After a time, they came to some conclusion, exchanged respectful gestures, and departed. Not wasting a second more, he marched over to the Inquisitor. Barlocke, who was eyeing him with interest, saw him coming and closed the distance.
"You disagree?" were the first words uttered by the Inquisitor.
Marsh explained his reservations; the more time they yielded to the heretical bastion across the channel, the more time they could prepare or slip away. What was stopping them from evacuating on their boats one of these nights and scattering themselves over the mainland? If he was so adamant that the rogue psyker was hiding within the dead Kasr, then why didn't they go now? What's more, they held the upper hand now! The regiment was rested, supplied, and possessed a fortified base from which to prosecute their operations.
Marsh Silas spoke plainly and bluntly. A few days ago he wouldn't have dared to speak to Inquisitor Barlocke in such a fashion. But the man made it quite clear he was not the average Inquisitor, and wouldn't cry heresy just because the platoon sergeant was making his concerns known. Going now improved the chances of his platoon's survival as well as completing their objectives.
Taking it all in stride with his ghostly smile, Barlocke nodded, his hands politely folded behind his back. He was a hair taller than Marsh, which was quite a statement because the platoon sergeant stood at six and a quarter Terran feet. One who saw both men separately would have seen that when they spoke to individuals who were shorter than them, they stooped over a little bit. Not in a condescending way, not in a way to reinforce what physical superiority they possessed. No, they did so to level their eyes with the other individual, to create an even field between the two parties, to make the opposite feel more comfortable. Marsh was very much aware of when he did such a thing; it was very purposeful on his part. In the Imperial Guard, even sergeants carried with them a semblance of intimidation. From the moment he was ranked, he did everything in his power to dispel that aura. Receiving it from Barlocke, a man he was practically hardwired to fear, was a surreal experience.
Absorbing all that Marsh said, Barlocke nodded thoughtfully for a moment.
"When you told me you didn't want to delve into such a place without knowing what lies within, were you merely speaking of conventional intelligence, or understanding the motives of our target?"
In the time since he uttered the words, Marsh hadn't paid the matter much thought.
"Both, I guess," he struggled.
"I've a lesson to teach you, Marsh Silas," Barlocke said. "Understanding something, and knowing something, are two very different things. Say I was to suffer some trauma, and you sympathized with my plight. You would be understanding of me. But say I endured a pain you experienced also, you would know my trouble personally."
"Jus' seems like words to me."
"Never mistake the power of words, Silas," Inquisitor Barlocke said, raising a scolding finger as if he was a headmaster.
"What about useless rhetoric?" Marsh replied. Barlocke's smile widened.
"You're learning. That's very good," he mused. He looked down, smiling to himself. His expression was unreadable to the likes of Marsh Silas, which was surprising to him. Faces, he often joked to himself, were the only things he could read. Barlocke chuckled. "In matters of numbers, it's impossible to know. Any matter of methods myself or CHC could utilize to reconnoiter Kasr Fortis would be thwarted by the rubble and the toxicity. As for the latter, if we understand part of our foe's plans, catch even a glimpse of their operation, to understand why they're doing this, we shall be better prepared, even going so far as to turn their own plans against them. You may find this is more dangerous to the foe than simply knowing his numbers or materials. Knowledge, young sergeant, is a weapon greater than any lasgun or bayonet.
Marsh held his tongue, but thought the latter to be much more practical.
He spoke urgently then, eerily meeting Marsh's thoughts. "Silas, you must, must, overcome such thinking. Imagine if I was not present at this moment, but the mission was the same. Would you be here, rested, resupplied, and with a well-fortified base and support units? No, Marsh Silas, you wouldn't. You would be dropped onto Kasr Fortis by Valkyries before you could even catch your breath. Those heretics across the water would hear you coming, see you coming, and simply gun you down as you exited the aircraft. It would be a useless waste of life."
Feeling indignant, Marsh straightened up and furrowed his brow.
"Our sacrifice has meaning," he said firmly. "It must. When we fall, we join the Emperor and the honored dead."
"Surely a man who has seen war and so many young lives snuffed out in human waves would realize sacrifice doesn't always have meaning." Marsh grimaced and shuddered. Yes, he had. Lines three, four, five ranks deep of boys hardly out of the Youth Army thrown against the enemy. Torn apart, they were, by shurikens, Warp-laced bolts, and crude Ork shootas. Sometimes no objective was gained. The men wrested control of a hill from the enemy just for the sake of fighting the enemy, and abandoned the hill not long after. In ten years, Marsh had seen it all. He recalled seeing the bodies pushed into the grave. Could victory be worthwhile if purchased at such a cost? Could sacrifice be tempered with achievement, even if the two were unbalanced? Marsh didn't say as much, but he conceded to the Inquisitor, despite how badly he wanted to believe and how strongly he was taught by headmasters, Commissars, and instructors.
Barlocke leaned in very close, smiling, his thick dark hair flowing in the breeze. "Action, boldness, and daring completes missions. Patience and preparation saves lives. That must mean something to a man who looks out for his soldiers like you."
The Inquisitor stepped back and looked out over the yard. Marsh followed his gaze. Bloody Platoon was still heading back towards their barracks. They were in a jovial mood, glad to have another day's rest before starting their sweep of the area. Drummer Boy was smiling radiantly, his neat auburn hair momentarily ruffled by Yoxall, departing his normal professionalism for some schoolyard antics. The Walmsley brothers were chortling and exchanging cuffs on the shoulder, as if they were in their own backyard. All the noncom's were handing out smokes and passing around lighters. Logue and Foley were chatting, and caught Marsh's gaze. The former waved, and Marsh returned the gesture, oddly enough, with the same raised fist Barlocke displayed the previous night. He couldn't help but smile, seeing his friends and his troopers at ease.
Barlocke chuckled and clapped him on the back. "Give me time, Marsh Silas, and I'll show you."
Marsh turned to face him.
"As long as none of my men die because of it."
"I vow, not one more man of Bloody Platoon shall fall."
###
Having what was essentially a day off was a bit odd to the likes of Marsh Silas. Having been raised in a military family, he was warned since the time he could walk that service in the Imperial Guard would be grueling. That was his mother's side of it. When they weren't fighting the countless enemies of the Imperium, he would be performing backbreaking labor or drilling. On the other hand, his father assured such service was rewarding. 'There's glory to be seized, my lad!'he would , mused Marsh Silas as he made his way after Bloody Platoon, heading back to their barracks. What kind of glory could be attained fighting foes like Orks, who did not care if they lived or died. What of the Eldar, whose mysterious persistence he never understood. And Chaos? All those traitors wanted was glory. Lusting after it could only lead to taint or death. His father discovered the latter first.
Still, he wasn't going to complain. Marsh was a fighting man, preferring combat over trenching. Digging didn't interest him as much as meeting the foe. But as long as his men were happy, he was satisfied. Although he wouldn't just let them soak up their wages by loafing around. There was still work to be done. New trenches needed to be dug, barbed wire needed to be laid, and as usual, their wargear needed to be checked, re-checked, checked again, and checked some more.
Beside him, Inquisitor Barlocke walked up the gradual slope. Marsh didn't mind his company now. Nobody seemed to mind him as much, as he made himself a constant among Bloody Platoon. Sometimes he stood apart, watching the men service their weapons. Other times he sat among troopers and ate the same rations as them. Occasionally he would help other squads with their duties. More often than not, he would just appear, tell a joke that would get everybody laughing, and leave just as quickly. Before they broke their fast that morning, Barlocke gave Marsh and each of his bunk mates a pastry. It was the first sweet food they ate in quite some time besides the standard issue blocks of chocolate included in their rations.
It appeared Barlocke, as sociable as he was, was more talkative when it was just the two of them. "You see, dear Marsh, I've spent a great deal of my life at study. Information has a hard time being recorded in the Imperium and making sense of it all is an arduous task. Learn how to traverse it all and you have a mighty tool.
"Ardge-ooh-iss?"
"Difficult."
Marsh grunted and straightened the strap of his M36 on his shoulder. Barlocke continued. "When I was a younger man I shunned the many tomes and texts the Inquisition has access too. Why bother sifting through it all when two different books tell different stories on the same matter? Ah, I was brash then."
"What changed?"
"I'll tell you in due time, young sergeant." Barlocke shrugged and smiled pleasantly. "But you see, I studied tactics from generals all over the Imperium. And I'll concede that sometimes, yes, it's better to mass your forces and throw them against the enemy, especially if the foe is weak. Taking that risky charge can yield a high payoff. Yet that can, and often does, lead to undue casualties."
"Comes with being a Guardsman," Marsh admitted, trying to sound cavalier. Barlocke remained unconvinced.
"Pointless wastes of life, uncompleted objectives, and needless gains are part of being a Guardsman?"
"That's one way of putting it."
"Why do you think it's that way?"
"Doctrine."
"Oh, please."
"Emperor take me, I don't know," Marsh said, tipping his helmet back a little. He then added sarcastically, "I've never asked."
"Perhaps you should."
"Asking questions is a surefire way to get a bolt through the skull."
Barlocke snorted.
"What I'm merely trying to say is, some situations the Guard are sent to deal with are better accomplished by careful applications of violence. Here, we need to exercise restraint. First we learn, then we attack."
"Mighty fine way of puttin' it, Inquisitor, but I don't think it works when you're feeling the heat," Marsh grunted.
"For a man who doesn't ask many questions you're quite skeptical," Barlocke mused. "That's very good."
"How's that?"
"A man who needs more convincing than others will end up more convicted in the answers he receives, when finally persuaded."
Coming around the barracks, they found Bloody Platoon setting to their current task for the rest of the morning. While fortified, the base still needed communication trenches. Having placed the observation post just mere paces from the edge of the cliff, they decided to make it the linchpin of a new trench. It would run from either side of the OP along the cliff's edge, forming a jagged semicircle. A few more small bunkers for heavier weapons would be installed along the lines. The OP would remain the largest bunker in the line just before the barracks pillbox. It would take a good part of the day to get the project finished. Thankfully, they wouldn't have to pour rockcrete or ferrocrete for the bunkers. Bunker, in this circumstance, was a kinder word for a box made up of piled sandbags, wooden slats, and a mesh netting roof.
Men were already streaming steadily from the barracks, having dropped their wargear back inside and ascended once more with their Type 9-70 entrenching tools. Marsh dropped his rucksack, helmet, and took off his breastplate as well. Most of the other men shed their armor and were working in their plain, tan fatigues. Grabbing his own 9-70 entrenchment tool, Marsh walked towards the rudimentary beginning of the new trench. Barlocke was still with him.
He jumped into the trench, turned, and looked up at the Inquisitor.
"Look, you're the boss. What you say goes. You want us to wait, we'll wait, even if I think we ought to quit trenchin' and get about to the bloody business. But I'm only interested in two things, Inquisitor: completing the mission, and above all, keeping my men alive. If you think waiting, observin', trampin', and carefully applying violence will keep us out of the meat grinder, then fine."
Barlocke knelt down, the toe of his boot just sticking out over the trench.
"Are you sure you understand what I'm trying to say?" Barlocke asked, wearing a charitable smile.
Marsh gave it some more thought.
"I suppose it means sending the right men to complete the right job, and making sure you kill the enemy without killing too many of your own men."
Barlocke knelt a bit lower, clasping his hands together, his coat billowing in the wind.
"Yes. Do you know what that achieves?" Marsh shook his head. "It creates order and unity."
"How can men being sent off in different directions create unity?"
"Think not the method, but the objective. Actions may differ, but they all steer towards the same goal. That is unity."
Marsh thought for a moment.
"Then, a bayonet charge creates just as much unity."
Barlocke thought and nodded his head to the side.
"Yes, I suppose it does. But a charge breaks when it hits the enemy and each man fights for his own, individual survival, not the objective. Where is the unity then?"
Frowning, Marsh stepped back.
"Ever been in a charge, sir?"
His tone was snappy, more brazen than he initially intended. Barlocke, seemingly undeterred, stood up.
"Yes."
And he departed.
After a moment's hesitation, Marsh joined Bloody Platoon as they began working on the trench. Needless to say, he was put off. Although he was beginning to enjoy the Inquisitor's banter and his unique cut of character, Marsh didn't like being prodded or be left with lingering, nagging questions that sent his mind wandering. Life for a Guardsman was simple. Drill, march, follow orders, don't anger the Commissar, take care of the wargear, fight, survive, try to have at least two decent meals and a canteen of clean water, have one hearty bowel movement, and go to bed if possible. Which of those mattered most depended on the Guardsman. Growing up on a Fortress World like Cadia, his youth was reinforced by the suppression of questions. Questions wasted time, time otherwise spent praying, drilling, fighting, or something more productive. Everything a young Cadian needed to know was explained in full. What else was there to worry about?
Marsh Silas did his best not to ask too many questions. If he was forced to field them, it was in irregular circumstances, like the one Bloody Platoon found itself in since Barlocke and Hyram arrived. Only in matters of concern for the platoon would he raise his voice. Otherwise, he kept silent. Yet in the time Barlocke arrived, he found himself pondering things more than usual. Quiet, but always a keen observer, he was beginning to think Barlocke was specifically goading him into questioning himself and what his superiors said. Why would a man from an Ordo so bent on repressing the population through fear and retribution, incite him to question?
It put a bad taste in his mouth and darkened his mood. At times like these, he was glad for a laborious task to occupy his attention. He focused on the digging; those shoveling would take a scoop of brown soil and dump them into large bags being held by another trooper. Once full, these were tied off and placed on the edge of the trench. Performing the work, even on a crisp day, was hot work and some of the men were down to their undershirts.
Marsh's mind wandered. Despite brushing it off, Marsh did find the Inquisitor's argument to possess merit. Careful applications of violence. He supposed he understood why Barlocke preferred such an axiom over the Guard's preferred methods. For as many times he had joined the charge, his M36 leveled, his bayonet poised for the first strike, and overrun the enemy perimeter, he could remember just as many failures. Three standard years ago, an Ork WAAAGH led by an absurdly named Warboss struck the sector they were stationed in. Instead of letting the green tide break against their excellent entrenched position, the regimental commander at the time ordered them to break cover and assault the Orks on open ground without support. There was no support of any kind; not armor, not air, not artillery, and not even Chimeras to carry them into the fight. As such, they sustained heavy casualties and were driven from the field. Another time, the regiment was on a march when the Second Company was ambushed by Eldar infiltrators. Rather than retreating to a more defensible location, the captain and his platoon leaders ordered a frontal assault. The entire company was nearly annihilated, cut down in a hail of shuriken fire. Bloody Platoon and First Company saved the survivors; men like Logue and Foley hailed from the shattered Second.
Yet Marsh was a part of many successful attacks. What a rush it was! Finishing off Ork WAAAGHs or Chaos warbands with one, massive sweep. Above him, gunships and attack aircraft pounded them with missiles and bombs. Tanks and armored personnel carriers of all shapes, sizes, and types, blistered the enemy with cannons, bolters, and lasers. And to be stuck in the middle of thousands and thousands of Guardsmen, shoulder to shoulder, screaming their war cries, their feet pounding on Cadian soil, he felt invincible. As one solid, living, breathing, moving entity, they trampled the enemies of the Imperium. Even the horrors of Chaos seemed insignificant during such moments.
The more he considered it, the more he found the phrase to be set-piece. Guardsmen didn't have much use for the word carefully. After all, their business was war. It was quite difficult to be careful when at any moment the Imperium's enemies could descend from above and wreak havoc. Although it surely sounded swell; in fact he quite enjoyed it. In four words it attained the dry, grim, almost satirical nature of their occupation. All the same, it seemed better for the briefing room rather than the battlefield. A planner could carefully apply as much fictitious violence as he wanted on the map, and all at his own leisure. When the first shot was fired, all strategy was merely reaction and it relied on the mettle of Guardsmen.
He was glad when Walmsley Minor spoke up, taking him out of his own mind. The loader wiped the sweat from his brow and stood straight up.
"You know lads, I think that ol' preacher is lyin' through his teeth."
Some of the men paused and regarded him oddly. "Think about it. He says the God-Emperor has defeated our enemies and won our battles. So how come in the after-action reports, the God-Emperor ain't mentioned? How come He ain't been given a wage, or promoted?"
Realizing that he was joking, some of the troopers waved him off dismissively and returned to their work. But Yoxall, holding a bag open for him groaned irritably.
"Halfwit, the God-Emperor doesn't fight side by side with us. He's here in spirit. He influences everything. And the God-Emperor of Mankind doesn't get promoted."
"So does that mean when I pull the trigger..." Walmsley Minor said, wiggling his index finger, "...that's ain't me doing that, it's the God-Emperor?"
"In a way," Yoxall replied.
"So that means the God-Emperor does my talking too? Even right now?"
"Well..."
"That's enough, men," Marsh said in an even tone, "keep that kind of talk down. Don't want a Commissar mistaking Walmsley's stupidity for blaspheming."
"Marsh, you turning into one o' those preachers with their big words?" asked Walmsley Major.
"Aye, he says it but none o'us can spell it!" Walmsley Minor added jovially. "Not even him!"
"Heard it enough times in the chapel. Hear a word so many times, you can say it and know it without spelling it," Marsh answered. He raised his entrenchment tool to skim some dirt off from the side of the trench. After several strikes, the flat of the shovel caught on something. Marsh winced as he felt the tremors travel up his arms, immediately followed by a brief soreness. Striking the object deliberately, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Some of the other men noticed and gathered around. As he began to dig away at the blockage, he felt nervous. Was he about to dig up an unexploded bomb? Some foul symbol of Chaos? Everyone began to close in, curious, but he warded them off. He ordered everyone out of the trench, except for Yoxall, standing by in case they were digging up an old shell or mine. Both men meticulously dug, their faces slick with sweat and dirt clinging to their cheeks. Huffing and puffing, dark stains spreading under their armpits, hair dampening, cool air stinging their moistened brows, they finally cleared away enough dirt to see the object. A sigh of relief escaped their lips; it was an old, rusted, bent metal pipe.
Setting down his entrenchment tool, Marsh Silas did his best to grip the pipe and pull. For all his effort and strength, he could not move it. Yoxall, despite being less muscled, tried his hand and failed. The Walmsley brothers hopped in, each took hold, and tugged, tugged, tugged, yet the pipe absolutely refused to move. Changing strategies, Marsh dug away at the wall some more, although he realized this would not work. Nobody could gauge how long the pipe actually was, and if they took any more soil away from the wall it would disrupt the flow of the trench. Packing it all back would be time consuming.
Marsh thought and thought. An idea came to mind, and he scrambled out of the trench. Jogging to his kit bag, he reached in, dug around, and procured a coil of rugged, graying rope. Jumping back in, he tied one end around the pipe several times, making a few knots. Testing it to make sure it wouldn't slip off at the slightest tension, he climbed back up.
"Everyone take hold! Make sure your gloves are on. Strongest at the back." When all were assembled, with Marsh standing at the head, practically right in front of the pipe, he turned to face them. "We're going to pull as one, giving it one solid pull, then slacken, and then another pull. Does everybody understand?"
"Yes, Marsh Silas!" cried the men. Turning, Marsh gazed at the pipe for a moment and then took a breath.
"One, two, three!" Marsh yelled. The men gave a heave, paused for a moment, then gave another. It was only a second's pause in between each. Men grunted and huffed, their boots dug into the soil, sweat trickled down their foreheads under the morning sun. "Come on now men, Cooperor!" Marsh hollered. "Cooperor!" A chant rose up among them.
"Cooperor! Cooperor! Cooperor!""
It took a great deal of time, even with nearly fifty men. Scraping and shuddering, the pipe began to move. Slowly, more and more of the twisted, bent, dented object slid, inch by inch, from the packed soil. "Cooperor! Cooperor! Cooperor!"Soil began to fall. More of the pipe slid out. Marsh smiled.
"It's coming loose!"
With one final cry, they gave a great heave. The pipe slid from the soil and into the trench. Marsh Silas all of Bloody Platoon tumbled down to their backsides. Sitting up, the men looked at their handiwork. Why the pipe was buried there no one could guess, but they didn't care. Foolishly scattered and piled over one another, the men gave a tremendous cheer.
"Hurrah!" they bellowed. Picking themselves up, giving each other helping hands, they laughed and clapped one another on the back. Everyone wished each other a job well done.
"Victory for the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third!" someone hollered, earning a bout of raucous laughter. Yoxall helped Marsh up and the two sat on the edge of the trench, their legs hanging over the sides. Both were covered with brown soil. Neither cared, enjoying the men's bantering and joviality. Marsh glanced over his shoulder to see if the Inquisitor around
There's unity for you, he thought triumphantly.
Footsteps approached. Looking up, he saw Lieutenant Hyram and Captain Murga.
"Well done!" said the Captain, motioning for the platoon sergeant to remain seated. He turned to Hyram. "You've got a good platoon, lieutenant. And a good sergeant. Keep at it, you men."
Captain Murga left, but Lieutenant Hyram remained. He extended a hand down to Marsh Silas.
"I've got you, Sergeant. Fine chant there. Cooperor; work together."
"Only High Gothic I know, sir," Marsh said as he clambered up with the lieutenant's help. They exchanged salutes. As he set about collecting his wargear he found himself accompanied by the junior officer.
"Staff Sergeant Cross?"
"Marsh Silas is fine, sir," he said.
"I wanted to speak to you, briefly, about tomorrow's operations."
"Yes, sir?"
Hyram glanced at Bloody Platoon.
"Privately."
Despite the men returning to their work, and his wish to join them, the staff sergeant consented. Marsh dug through his webbing, looking for his canteen. The lieutenant offered him his, and Marsh accepted, taking a slug then dumping a little on himself to wash away the grime. Cool air met the chilly water on his scalp and shoulders. It sent a pleasant shiver down his spine and he shook a little before handing back the canteen. Picking up his equipment, Marsh and Hyram headed back into their barracks, descended the ladder, and walked all the way through to the latter's private comb.
Word Count: 6,088