Chapter 7
Marsh Silas and Inquisitor Barlocke approached Lieutenant Hyram. The junior officer was standing in front of the civilians, who were huddled together. One woman, looking a few standard years younger than Hyram, wearing a dusty frock and her hair falling from a loose bun, stood in front of them. Some of the medics, led by Honeycutt, continued to assist those that were injured. Despite the previous order to bring wargear that could only kill or assist in the capacity of killing, they brought an ample supply of rations and medicine. These rations, not of a terrible quality after the most recent resupply, were being passed around between the fifty or so civilians. Bandages were wrapped and broken limbs set. Honeycutt, despite his cantankerous disposition, was quite gentle with the still trembling civilians.
A dreadful stench clung in the air; burned and decaying flesh, gunpowder, blood, smoke. The sun was rising higher in the sky, although the morning was not through yet. It was a quick fight and the men were alert rather than tired. Sometimes a battle carried out with expediency and vigor primed the men. First and second squads were returning from clearing the barracks. Three wounded heretics were dragged out, rambling foul, daemonic chants. All three were quickly frisked. Upon finding nothing, they were forced against the barracks wall, their backs towards the town. Mottershead proceeded to walk up to each and execute one with a single shot from his laspistol. Each one crumpled to the ground, nothing more than threadbare piles of thin flesh, brittle bones, and torn clothing on the hard, cold ground. A spatter of blood coated the rockrete surface.
After an exchange of salutes, Marsh Silas glanced at the civilians.
"What should we do with them, sir?" he asked flatly.
Hyram glanced over his shoulder.
"Never mind that just yet, Staff Sergeant Cross. This woman here, miss...?"
"Asiah," she answered, bowing her head. Marsh approached, offering a friendly smile.
"You need not lower your gaze here, miss. We're here to help you." Marsh remembered, moments earlier, telling his superior officer they may have had to fire upon the enemy despite their human shields. A wave of remorse passed over him, for being so rash. While members of the Adeptus Astartes or the Adepta Sororitas could ignore the lives of the humble folk, he could not. Would not. He failed to remember his own principles, and decided to pray for forgiveness once they returned to base.
Asiah looked back up, a delicate display of gratitude upon her fatigued yet ultimately charming features.
"Miss Asiah," Lieutenant Hyram said in an orderly tone, "please inform them of the situation you just explained to me."
Clasping her hands over her stomach, tears threatened to fall.
"Sir, some of the soldiers were heretics and captured us before we could even put up a fight. We've been locked up for days. But then more heretics came and started shooting at the road when the artillery came! The second group took the children away! All the children! My little boy! They came and took them, killed folks who tried to break out, and the rest they threw into the cells in the big building! We tried to hang onto our little ones but they beat us and cut us! You have to get them back!"
At that, she burst into tears. She cupped her face with her hands and sobbed. Many of the women behind her did as well, bringing sleeves and aprons to their eyes or wailing into their hands. Husbands, many of them middle-aged folks who weren't fit for service anymore, did their best to comfort them. It was a pitiful sight and Marsh's heart went out to them. From his kit bag he procured the cleanest cloth he could find. It was nothing more than a torn piece of white fabric, taken from an old shirt he tore up some days earlier. Hardly a proper tissue, but rough soldierly types such as he did not care. It would have to do. He offered it to the lady, who withdrew her hands from her eyes. Touched by his kindness, she took it from his hand almost shyly. She smiled sweetly at him as she dabbed at her eyes. The white fabric covered part of her face as she did. It was as if she was hiding behind it a little, smiling at him. Marsh smiled back and put his hand on her arm.
"Miss, which way did they take the children? Can you tell me that?" he asked her tenderly.
She turned and pointed over the barracks.
"That way, over the rocky ridges, back towards the old fishing dock."
"How do you know that?" Barlocke asked. Asiah looked up at the Inquisitor, as if she hadn't noticed him until that very moment. Her eyes grew wide as saucers, her skin paled, and she began to tremble. A point of horror seemed to be Barlocke's Inquisitorial Rosette. The golden skull in the very center of the bone-white, black fringed rosette stared back at the middle-aged mother. Seeing her fear, Marsh leaned in.
"Answer his question, miss," he said, speaking as gently and reassuringly as possible. "Worry not, he means you no harm."
Asiah looked at the three men warily.
"Who are you?" she asked timidly.
"They call me Marsh Silas. This is my platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram, and our current commander, Inquisitor Barlocke. And..." he turned and looked back. The men who weren't on the perimeter stood some standard feet behind them. Tatum was filling one of the more tainted homes with flame, while Yoxall detonated an explosive in another across the way. The Walmsley brothers were fiddling with their heavy bolter. Hitch was juggling some frag grenades. Knaggs was staring down the wide barrel of his missile launcher. Honeycutt berated Derryhouse as he applied a bandage over a graze on the latter's temple. Troopers smoked, told crass jokes, swore loudly, and went over their wargear. Marsh sighed and smiled, "...and these are the merry men of Bloody Platoon."
Asiah couldn't help but smile again, almost as if she were charmed by this ridiculous pack of Guardsmen before her.
"Well, it's always been there," Asiah finally answered. "All the locals know about it. But you won't find it on map. Hardly any places besides the Kasrs are on a map..." She explained that farming was impossible on Cadia. Furthermore, it was frowned upon for being non-military, even if it was for sustenance. So the local people, overlooked by Cadian High Command and all of its various bureaucratic officers, turned to fishing. Cadia's imports consisted of food, war materials, and soldiers, all of which was sent to Kasrs. So the small townsfolk, often made up by crippled veterans or those who miraculously survived long enough to leave, washouts, those too unfit for even the lightest of duties, and other undesirables harvested fish. Only the youngest, fittest children were sent to Kasrs via the Interior Guard. But all the fishing boats were stolen away over the years by deserters and heretics; Kasr Fortis was their rallying point. For years, they kept to themselves save for the occasional theft while the townies traveled to the local Kasrs to buy food. But over the past two standard years, they were harassing the towns surrounding the channel, the basin, and the rest of the coast. They would land at the fishing docks, which Asiah called the Point. To get there on footšand it could only be reached on footšwould be a five and half kilometer trek. Stories from other fortified towns relayed that heretics and cultists would steal supplies, clothes, but their real prizes were children. No one knew why.
His blood running cold, Marsh gazed at Barlocke and Hyram. Barlocke received this information without emotion. Hyram, much to his surprise, seemed incensed.
"Has anyone brought this attention to Cadian High Command?"
"For years, sir!" she said. "But no one ever listens to us. Because we live outside the Kasrs we aren't seen as important, so they ignore us. They say we're making things up to get more protection." She did her best to contain her obvious bitterness, but it's impossible to disguise. Barlocke brought his hand up to his chin, absorbing the situation.
"Give me a moment to convene with my colleagues," he said. He turned, putting a hand on both Marsh and Hyram, guiding them some paces away. Once they were out of earshot, they leaned in somewhat. "What do you think?"
"What does 'convene,' mean?" Marsh Silas asked hastily.
"To gather up," Hyram answered impatiently, "we've got to get after the heretics and retrieve the children. The longer we linger, the more time we give them to ship them over to Fortis. If they get there we'll never see them again!"
"The rest of the company isn't here yet, sir." Marsh Silas continued, "it's just us. And we won't be able to get the Chimeras over those ridges. It'd be an on-foot job without any support."
"One platoon against numbers unknown doesn't bode well for us," Barlocke put in. "Our only advantages, from what I can ascertain, are that we have plenty of ammunition and they'll be slowed by their prisoners. Those sound like good odds to me and I've never paid much mind to enemy numbers." All three looked up, past the barracks. It was seated at the base of a steep, rocky incline. Having been briefed on the topography days ago, all knew it was going to be a tough walk across the ridges that lined the coast. Pitfalls, boulders, rises and descents. Traversing ridge after ridge after ridge was going to tire the men out, especially the heavies who were going to have to haul their cumbersome weapons over the terrain. When contact was finally made, their strength would certainly be sapped. More so, they would have to put extra care into their shooting if they were to bring any of the children home alive.
Barlocke continued to think. Marsh didn't like the thought of letting heretics drag away helpless children as much as the next man. But how could they conduct a rescue if they were weary? But there was a glow in Hyram's eyes. Fickle nervousness that seemed to cling to him everywherešon the parade grounds, on the march, in battle, even within the barracksšwas at that very moment, absent. Something was possessing him; a great surge of indignation and intensity filled him head to foot. Wavering from pity to kindness to animosity since the junior officer first arrived, Marsh Silas couldn't help but feel a speck of pride. Or at least a fraction of delight now that the officer was finally finding his boots. Perhaps his acrimonious speech finally drove the point home. More than likely, Marsh considered gratefully, the Emperor was shining upon him.
Rubbing his chin, Barlocke nodded. "I think we could do it. Lieutenant?"
"I say we go. Now."
The Inquisitor eyed him, obviously surprised but ultimately impressed by this new vigor. A wariness still remained intermixed in his dark eyes, however. He turned to the platoon sergeant.
"What's say you, Marsh Silas?"
All the risks washed over him. Subjecting Bloody Platoon to the trek and subsequent peril did not sit well with him. Ending the day before it began, before they bit off more than could chew, seemed a better prospect to him. But leaving those kiddies to whatever fate the heretics planned for them equally terrified and infuriated him. Was a single platoon a conceivable amount of men to conduct their operation, though? There was hardly a plan! Tramp over the ridges to the Point, kill the Chaos-infected lot, and deliver the kidnapped souls back to their families. Standing up straight, he cast his gaze towards the civilians. Asiah still stood before them, clutching the white cloth he'd given her to her chest, the other hand gripping her apron. Her watery eyes connected with his own; hope filled them. He tipped his helmet back as he looked at her. Despite his mounting concerns, he couldn't refuse a mother. He could see his own standing there instead of her, wondering where her missing son was. A thought filtered through his mind, recalling the only order Hyram gave him after the Battle of Army's Meadow.
"Sir," he said, bending back down into the three-man huddle. "Some days ago you told me to stop a man from throwing stones at a dead cultist. Why?"
"Because he ought to have stopped. Because it was right of him to stop." Hyram explained after a moment. "Heretic or no, if we show such contempt for a corpse, we'll begin to lose all humanity. It was the right thing to do."
Marsh nodded for a few moments.
"Then I says let's round up the gunmen and head out."
A smile split Hyram's face and he looked at the Inquisitor, like a child hoping for his father's consent on some matter or other. It was, after all, his final decision to make as the commander. Barlocke looked at both men kindly. He placed his wide-brimmed hat atop his head and nodded.
"Let us go."
Barlocke turned and headed back to the civilians. Hyram was about to follow but Marsh took him by the arm. Confusion passed into dreadful anticipation. No doubt, Marsh though, the lieutenant thought he was about to get another lecture on that of leadership. But that wasn't what Marsh was planning.
"Lieutenant, I've got to tell you something," he said in a low voice. Still apprehensive although otherwise intrigued, Hyram leaned a bit closer. "I think that Inquisitor there may be a psyker."
Hyram blinked in surprise.
"What makes you say so, Staff Sergeant?"
"How come those heretics so suddenly dropped their guns and bent over?"
"Could have been a miracle cast by the God-Emperor. Then again, Chaos affects those it claims in strange ways. I've heard of such things, though I have not seen it with my own two eyes."
"I'd like to think as much," Marsh responded gravely. He explained the dark aura he witnessed, or rather felt, around the Inquisitor the moment before their enemies were crippled. The laser-like focus yet seeming detachment exhibited by him in that very instant which struck fear into his heart. Adding for good measure, he noted how Barlocke seemed to always have an answer ready for a question, and seemed to know what he was thinking all the time. It was uncanny how often it happened. The more Marsh Silas explained, the more he became aware of just how present Inquisitor Barlocke was all the time. He would disappear for a period, but the moment someone had a problem, or a question, or some event was taking place, he would suddenly appear. Like he was always watching, more than the average witch-hunter. Despite knowing little about psykers, he knew enough; they were dangerous, and one who could pry into the minds of both friend and foe alike was equally troubling.
Hyram seemed unnerved by the accusation. It was not their place to pry into the affairs of an Inquisitor, especially behind his back. Marsh Silas knew this and grew dismayed with himself yet again. Since Barlocke arrived, he felt as though he'd done nothing but break solemn rules he obeyed for the better part of a decade. All his good soldiering led up to this? Admonishing officers, fraternizing with superiors, and slandering that same superior with mere speculation? Perhaps he deserved a flogging.
But all the same, like all children brought up in the Imperium, he was taught that psykers were dangerous beings because of their connection to the Warp. Being on Cadia, he received a little more of an education on the infamous realm. Understanding the dangers of the Eye of Terror was important for Cadian sons and daughters. What exactly the Warp did, what it was made of, or its most specific risks were still unknown to him. Yet he knew the Warp was unpredictable and psykers could unknowingly bring daemons into the world. It seemed a trifle, but he knew in other Imperial realms, people knew nothing of it. Respect and fear reinforced throughout his youth, he couldn't help but feel wary of Barlocke. The Ordo Hereticus itself was charged with hunting down psykers; how did one of their prey join their ranks? It was both perplexing and foreboding.
After taking a moment to think, Hyram responded in a cool, educated fashion.
"Do we have any reason to fear him?" Marsh stared at him blankly for a moment. Hyram blinked, then said, "Besides the obvious. He is on our side. And we've both seen he's not the usual sort of Inquisitor, thank the Emperor."
"Thank the Emperor, indeed," Marsh echoed.
"Besides, I thought you two have quite the rapport."
"Rapport?"
"A good friendship."
That they did. In the time they took Army's Meadow, Barlocke was extremely friendly with Bloody Platoon, especially Marsh Silas. They took all their meals together, always joined by the crowd from that very first night they ate together. Stories were swapped, jokes told, and there was plenty of laughter. Barlocke always regaled them with humorous tales, though everyone speculated he was making some of them up. He always asked many questions, all personal. Rather than gauging them for heresy, he wanted to know about their families, their upbringing, their homes, what aspirations they had. Despite his mysterious ambiance, he was always charitable and loved to talk. Marsh couldn't help but concede to this.
"Well, I suppose we do. We talk as equals. But psykers are dangerous, even sanctioned ones." Marsh sighed. "I do not fear him, I just though I should tell you. It is something we should be aware of."
"Thank you, Staff...Marsh Silas," Hyram said earnestly, nodding and smiling. "Assemble Bloody Platoon, if you please."
Raising his voice, Marsh Silas called for the men. In good order, they formed a circle around him and Lieutenant Hyram. He gauged them, asking if they were up for a little hunt. All answered excitedly: 'we're ready!' The goal was laid out before them and they took it in stride. The same expressions of indignation flashed on their faces. How dare the heretics take the children of our homeworld away, they seemed to think. Bloody Platoon would proceed across the ridges, never leaving sight of the coast. All were assured if they kept on the ridge and kept the water in sight, they would reach the Point in a few hours. By the blessing of the God-Emperor, they may be able to catch up and catch the heretics in the open before they reached the Point. While the heavies didn't look forward to toting their equipment over the rough terrain, they were raring to go like the rest. With Bloody Platoon ready, Drummer Boy dispatched a final message to the regiment, informing them of their new mission. Captain Murga and Captain Isaev responded in the affirmative. Second Platoon was coming up behind them and would either catch up or meet them on their return. Third Platoon would be attached to 2nd Company, who would secure the road while enginseers and servitors cleared away the wreckage. Seeing as how the garrison fell to Chaos, the town was to be razed.
Some questioned what to do with the civilians before they left. At this, Barlocke quickly arrived with an answer. His speedy appearance caused both the lieutenant and the platoon sergeant to exchange a glance. None of the civilians bore signs of taint; he gauged them himself. Having grown comfortable with the Inquisitor, a few of Bloody Platoon's members asked if he could be sure. Barlocke noted those beginning to bear the corruption would complain of pains and voices in their heads. Not a single one showed either of these signs. Trusting his judgement, Hyram and Marsh decided the civilians could not stay here. In his kindness, Hyram ordered Master Sergeant Tindall to ferry the civilians back to base with his Chimeras as well as escort the Basilisks the rest of the way.
But before the civilians mounted up, they waited to see Bloody Platoon off. Ecstatic they were accepting the mission, they made a line as the troops began marching past the barracks and cheered them.
"Hurrah for Bloody Platoon!" they cried. "Praise the God-Emperor!"
Bolstered by their confidence, the men of Bloody Platoon couldn't help but smile as they walked out. Despite their dire mission, they were met with continued smiles and happy remarks. It felt good to be a Cadian Guardsman! As he walked along the side of the column, Marsh tipped his helmet to Asiah. In return, she briefly ran over, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. When he passed, she did the very same to Lieutenant Hyram. As Barlocke passed, she let him walk, but bowed respectfully all the same. It was under her hopeful, tearful eyes, that Bloody Platoon left.
###
As the sun rose higher in the sky, Bloody Platoon labored up and over another ridge. Black rocks coated crests, slopes, and formed little jagged falls and cliffs. Huge boulders dominated some spots, clusters of them so close they formed little hills and rises of their own. Worse still, there was hardly a foot of uncovered soil on the uneven terrain. Stones the size of fists, mixed with smaller pebbles, formed piles and sheets of gravel in between the bigger formations. It was nearly impossible to find a firm footing on it. Men slipped and spilled. Fleming rolled his ankle and Walmsley Minor skidded so bad he tore open a pant leg and bloodied his knee. Honeycutt applied a bandage as there was no time to sew up the tear.
It was becoming chillier. There were no trees along this stretch of land. Wind swept across the exposed ridgelines. Below, on their left, they could see the channel and the basin. The ridges led straight down to the water and the beach could hardly be traversed, being made of rocks itself. To their right, one would have expected flatter ground. Numerous crags, bluffs, and rock formations covered the land for some kilometers. Going around them would have taken just as much, if not more time to get to their destination, even if it was across easier territory. Still, the snow-dusted fields in the distance, rife with yellow tundra grass, seemed a treasure to the weary eyes of Bloody Platoon.
Having left their heavier gear behind it, one may have thought their hike to all the easier. To the men of Bloody Platoon, huffing and puffing under their lighter loads, it made no difference. Plodding along at their pace, going up and down, down and up, sliding and tripping, at points clawing up rocks on their hands and knees, it was just as difficult. At some points, it took three or even four men just to drag a heavier weapon up an incline.
Marsh was towards the front of the spread out column, sucking for air. He was an extremely fit man despite how often he smoked his pipe. On the march, he could carry himself over thirty-two kilometers in a day. In full gear, no less! Of course, that was on level ground. Unforgiving land like this wore even the strongest men out. He was grasping Drummer Boy's arm, helping the lad walk. The vox-operator was able-bodied, but with the vox-caster on his back, it was slow going. Sweat poured down his face.
Everyone labored on. Hyram looked ready to collapse but continued all the same, occasionally stopping for several seconds to catch his breath. Marsh couldn't help but feel some pride, or perhaps satisfaction, return. There was a new energy in the junior officer. Perhaps the goal of their mission spurred him on. Despite not being the most physically fit man, and suffering more than the others, he kept pace. Men walked with their shoulders hunched, heads low to combat the wind. Some brought the chin of their tactical hoods up to cover their lower faces. Nobody spoke. Their mouths were dry.
Ahead, he watched Bullock, acting as lead scout, amble his way up another rise. Bloody Platoon was spread out into three staggered parallel lines, maintaining intervals of several meters. Two men were out a bit farther on the left and right flanks, acting as skirmishers. To the back of the column, three more men maintained their distance, acting as a rearguard. Briefly, he looked around at the men, all panting, he couldn't help but raise his voice.
"Think of it as an extra tough drill, men," he counseled, breathless himself. "And thank the God-Emperor it's not bloody snowing yet."A few of the men laughed, which was fine by him. He continued trying to bolster their spirits, saying things like, 'Beats living a hive,' 'it's good for the lungs,' and, 'You're lucky to have me; Commissar Ghent would make you run.' The Guardsmen struggled on; those in earshot with a smile on their weary faces.
He looked over his shoulder. Most of what he could see was the ridgeline they had crossed. Far beyond, past the hill they started from, he could see the coastal road running all the way back to Army's Meadow. Squinting, he could see Kasr Sonnen atop a distant hill, its mighty walls and spires blistering with weaponry. Part of him felt sorry the folk there would be losing their homes. Another part was glad the Chaos infection was going to be wiped away for good. Not to mention those folks would finally be placed inside the Kasrs. It was for their own good; staying out here was a fool's errand. Life in the Kasrs was more martial, yes, but it was tempered by security and decent living standards.
He certainly would have wanted to be in a Kasr rather than trudging on exposed, rocky terrain. A hard drink in the tavern, hot food, music, and a soft bed. To top it off, he didn't need to worry about some cultist or xeno menace disturbing his night in the quiet sectors. High walls, automated defense systems, expert defense regiments; it was nice to have somebody else do the fighting and guarding for a change. He supposed it came from growing up in one. Remembering Polaris, he felt safe when he looked up at those armored walls. When he saw the Guardsmen patrolling the jagged streets, his heart swelled with admiration. They looked strong and disciplined, ready and proud. Out here, away from the Kasr, even if the entire regiment was there, he would have still felt vulnerable. Only the walls of a Kasr offered true security and comfort.
Bullard stopped and raised his fist in the air. The entire platoon stopped. Then, Bullard slowly lowered himself on one knee, extending his left arm up and out. Everyone sank low. Taking one last look to Drummer Boy, who nodded that he was alright, Marsh struggled up to him. It took some time, given the severe ground. More than once, he slipped on some loose stones, much to his disdain. Eventually, he reached the sniper.
"Movement, top," Bullard said, nodding up and above. To their immediate front, the ridge went gradually upwards. It wasn't so much a ridge as it was a hill. Characteristic of the ground they already covered, it was quite rocky. Boulders loomed over one another, forming pits and barriers. Observing this height, he waited for something to move. Tension clouded the air. His heart rate began to pick up. His muscles tightened, like a runner about to engage in a sprint. Like any Guardsmen, he took the time to figure out where he was going to go if the shooting started. Any Guardsman considered his surroundingsšfind defilade and avoid enfilading fields of fire. Something big that could conceal him entirely was the best option. Before him was a great rock, big enough for three or even four men to hide behind and fire over.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Ker-thunk!
Three autogun slugs flew through the air and a fourth struck him right in the center of his flak armor. The force was great enough to throw him on his back and knock the wind from his lungs. Autogun fire behind to stream down from the rocks above them. It was met by heavy lasfire.
"Marsh!" Bullard cried. He threw his rifle over his shoulder, and under heavy fire, dragged the gasping platoon sergeant over to the rock he singled out a moment ago. Bullets landed all around them, kicking up pebbles, striking the ground with snap-like sounds. More whizzed and hissed by his head. Still struggling to find his breath as Bullard dragged him, he saw his men ducking for cover, sliding behind rocks or diving into shallow crags. Streaks of red flew from their lasgun barrels, right over his head. Finally behind the rock, Bullard knelt beside him and shook him by the shoulder. "Are you wounded!? Are you wounded!?"
Marsh shook his head and finally gulped air. Taking his lasgun in hand, he turned so he could peek over the rock. He kept one hand on Bullard's shoulder. Raising his head, he quickly surveyed the enemy positions. He couldn't make out their entire line. All he could see were yellow muzzle flashes, appearing and disappearing from multiple spots. A barrage of bullets struck the boulder, tearing away chips. Swiftly, he ducked back down.
"Sons a' bitches are dug in," he swore. He put a finger to his vox-link. "Walmsley, Albert, suppress the crest of the hill!" he then switched to the platoon-wide link. "Watch for the muzzle flashes and focus your fire!"
With that, he turned and squeezed off several shots at the first muzzle flash he saw. After the burst, he ducked low again as the heretics responded in kind. Bullard was struggling to aim his longlas and fire. The enemies above them were concentrating fire on their position. With a few hand signals, they worked out a strategy; when Marsh rose to fire, he would suppress one position, effectively marking it with deep red lasbolts. In that moment, Bullard would aim and try to silence the threat permanently. Marsh jumped up, aimed at a muzzle flash, and fired six shots in quick succession. Bullard slid the barrel of his longlas up on top of the rock, trained it on the marked target, and fired. As both Guardsmen dropped down, they witnessed a brief flurry of movement; a ragged form lit up red in the brief instant the shot connected.
Repeating the maneuver twice more, they began to receive more automatic fire. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, Marsh and Bullard made themselves as small as they could behind their rock. Slugs hit all around them, casting a spray of pebbles that clinked against their flak armor.
As the fire dwindled, he was shocked to see Inquisitor Barlocke sprinting towards him. Sliding into the position beside him, he raised his lasgun and fired, sending a tremendous beam of red energy upwards. Someone above them cried in pain.
Barlocke knelt down and gripped Marsh by the collar of his chestplate.
"Are you alright, Silas?" he asked rather urgently, his dark eyes filled with concern.
"Just got the wind knocked outta me," Marsh replied. Despite the reassurance, Barlocke seemed to give him a once over before turning his mind back to the battle.
"This hill is slowing us down," Barlocke said over the noise.
"Oh, I'll just ask them to move," Marsh grunted. Barlocke laughed. He briefly looked over his shoulder, back up at the enemy position. "We'll be sitting here shootin' each other up all damned day! We have to root'em out!"
Turning, he called for Foley, Logue, Yoxall, and Hitch. If a few could advance into the heretics' positions, they would punch right into their base of fire. Having to turn their barrels on the assault team, their fire on the rest of Bloody Platoon would slacken. Thus, the men would be free to move up and overrun the enemy position. Bullard was to remain and take out exposed targets, and Yoxall would utilize his extra grenades to clear out spider holes. Ordering suppressive fire, the heavy bolter teams raked the hillside, while Sudworth and Lowe used the autocannon to blast away at more entrenched positions. Fleming and the other grenadiers raised their weapons, launching explosives in high arcs that landed all over the hill. Some missed, others silenced another enemy shooter. Then came the tell-tale whump of the mortar. Olhouser and Snyder tucked themselves into a crag. Lieutenant Hyam, instead of firing his weapon, was directing their fire. Each time a shell fell upon the enemy, their fire was interrupted and a shower of stones would land on the Guardsmen's helmets below.
With his men assembled, Marsh gave one look to the hill, another to the sky, uttered a brief prayer, and vaulted over the rock. Barlocke and the others followed.
"Bloody Platoon!" they cried.
"First to spill blood, first to shed blood!"
"For Emperor and Imperium!"
Immediately, Marsh dove for another, landing hard on a sheet of rough gravel. Gritting his teeth as he crawled over the pointed rocks, he managed to get behind cover once more. Waiting for a barrage of grenades or a mortar shell, he scampered up the jagged slope, to another rock. They were only a few meters from where they started when they saw a small round object fly from behind a rock towards them.
"Grenade!" shouted Yoxall. The engineer, despite being under fire, dropped his meltagun, caught the grenade, and flung it back. It detonated in midair as he dove back onto the ground. However, two more grenades came flying towards them. This time, Barlocke stood up, flipped his queer lasgun around so that he held it by the barrel, swung, and smacked one of the grenades away. No one was able to catch the third.
"Scatter!" cried the Inquisitor. In a blur of tan and green, the men sprinted, dove, rolled, and jumped for dear life. Marsh managed to scramble forward behind a long rock that was just high enough to conceal him. The fire was becoming more intense; he could feel bullets flying right over his back. Looking around, he spotted Logue with his customized autopistol scaling a massive boulder. Foley was going around, his double-barreled shotgun ready. Hitch had gone farther than the others; he was higher up, overtaking Marsh Silas on the left flank. Stopping in a nestle of rocks, he fired four volley's of three-shot bursts from his plasma gun. White-blue bolts sheared across the rocks. The plasma gunner then lobbed a frag grenade at an enemy position Marsh could not see. It went off, sending rocks and dust in all directions. Yoxall went several meters back down the face of the hill. He lobbed a grenade and then rushed up, trying to move towards Marsh Silas. Then went Barlocke, moving fast and low, with that odd shotgun of his. He was but a dark flash. Marsh lost sight of him in the rocks.
He continued his struggle up, clawing and sliding from rock to rock. Bullets struck the landscape all around him. Gasping and grunting with exertion, he labored to another boulder, to another, and another. Bullets passed through this pant legs; he could feel them just passing by his skin. A bullet struck his shoulder pauldron, casting yellow sparks and sending him down onto his side. He wheezed and let out a cry, one of stress, anger, and fear, rather than pain. Catching his breath, laying on his back behind a long slab of a stone, he raised his head. Immediately, a yellow flash appeared in a nook between two vertical rocks ahead of him. They struck the other side of the slab with tremendous fury, causing him to duck low and groan again. Waiting for the fire to trail off, he rose to his knee, fired, watched the red lasbolts miss because of his hasty trigger pull. There was more firing; a muzzle flash right ahead, another two above on top of a rock overhang, another to the side. Bullets smashed into his cover and Marsh ducked down, gasping.
His legs were trembling. His breath was growing ragged from fear. If he stayed, he would die. But his self-preservation instincts were kicking in, and he thought if he moved, he would die anyways. It was a terrible, vicious cycle. Innate, natural predispositions battling with training and experience. "Come on..." he breathed to himself, pounding his fist against the rock. "...come on, come on!"
The others are advancing, Barlocke is ahead of us all, and what of the men behind you, what will happen to them if you do not act, he thought to himself.
"Come on!"
Word Count: 6,138