Part 2: Chapter 9

It was a silent march back to camp.

As the sun finally began to sink behind snow-capped hills, the only sounds to be heard were distant artillery and Bloody Platoon's booted feet marching on the pavement. In the fading light, they were a shadowy mass. Fifty men, expressionless, rigid in frame, moved in perfect, mechanical unison. From the grimy column rose a smell of body odor, burnt metallic stink from overheated barrels, and the musky powder scent of autoguns.

In a short time, the temperature dropped. Cadia was a multi-biome planet, hosting subarctic climates such as theirs. It was cold for most of the year with brief, warm summers. There was little rain but snowfall was frequent. Predicting the weather was an impossibility. Even after the long hike from Hyram's Hill, their lasgun barrels still kept some warmth.

Marsh Silas strode beside the column, rather than at its head. It was a position a platoon sergeant ought to take, to keep the platoon in order. At the front of the column he could see Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke. Only Hyram walked differently from the men. All else kept their heads raised as if on the parade ground, with one hand on the strap of their weapons and the other swinging solidly at their side. Hyram's head hung low, his shoulders sagged, and his feet barely kept up with the rhythm of the march. It was an un-soldierly sight. On any other evening, Marsh would have been outraged to see a man behave in such a way even if he was outranked. Bloody Platoon never marched in such a disorderly fashion and to see their commanding officer do so was a disgrace.

But he wasn't going to push whatever grace the God-Emperor granted him and berate his superior officer again. Spineless as he was, Hyram displayed some energies during the day's fighting. Saving those children electrified him, drove him to haste, and empowered his voice above the battle din. For the first time since he arrived, the man actually ordered Guardsmen about. Fleeting as such capability was, Marsh wasn't going to risk antagonizing him again. Once was enough and he believed himself to have been quite clear. Marsh Silas was a man of action, able to overcome his fears and perform his duty. Sometimes, he was even eager for the fight, if just to get it over with. And if need be, like any disciplined Cadian, he would sacrifice himself in the heat of battle for his Emperor and his comrades. At heart, however, he was a rather cautious man. Or at least, he did his best to be. Action completed the mission and defeated the foe. Prudence kept him alive. As loyal and diligent a servant he was of the God-Emperor, Marsh thought himself more useful alive than sacrificing himself in a singular instance of combat.

Someone coughed. By sound alone, he could tell it belonged to Hitch. It was the first sound any man made since the order to move out was given. Marsh glanced at Bloody Platoon. Their movement was immaculate, though their seemingly emotionless faces spoke more to Marsh Silas than tears. More so, it was their eyes. Were it a moonless night, their faces would have been entirely obscured by the envelope of darkness. The moon was out tonight, however, obscured every so often by passing clouds. When it was clear, he could see the men's faces very clearly. All looked forward, yet saw nothing. They stared into a middle distance, or perhaps a nothingness that all disturbed souls were privy to. An empty gaze, betraying a mind plagued by thought. Since its formation, the 1333rd Cadian Regiment dispatched countless enemies from Eldar infiltrators to overconfident Ork WAAAGHs. Yet their most common enemy, those subservient and twisted by Chaos, proved to be their most hated foe. Never in the line of duty had they hesitated to pull the trigger on servants of the Archenemy. To eliminate one was fulfilling a Guardsman's most sacred duty. Yet this time was different, even if they all knew it was their duty. Tonight, Bloody Platoon did not hesitate when given the order to fire. But seeing the Ecclesiarchy-sanctioned holy totems they held in their fingers𑁋silver chains with little silver, plain Gothic crosses, and prayer beads𑁋told him it was a difficult order.

The wind pushed at their backs, carrying the scent of burnt flesh from back down the road. After the executions, Tatum was ordered to burn the bodies in the ditch. All the little bodies were engulfed and filled the air with a stench familiar to Marsh Silas, although this time he found it harder to bear. When the inferno finished, they drew their nine-seventies and buried them there in the ditch. Ever since they left, the smell of roasting flesh lingered in his nostrils. To hell with light discipline, Marsh thought for the first time in his life, as he reached into his pocket and retrieved his ebony pipe. From another pouch, he produced tabac leaves. Tucking it into the bowl proved difficult. His hands were trembling. A few small shreds of tabac drifted from his exposed fingertips as he attempted to poke them in. Muttering to himself, he pulled some more and filled the bowl. Drawing a strike anywhere match, he pulled the small whetstone from his kit bag. Hands still quivering, he swiped it against the stone several times. It failed to light. He flicked it away, drew another match, and struck. This time the end briefly lit, but was gone in a moment. Cursing softly, he threw it, and drew another match. Again, his shaking hands failed him. Aggravated, he inhaled sharply, and the smell of roasting flesh came back stronger. His stomach lurched and he stopped walking.

He didn't notice Inquisitor Barlocke looking over his shoulder. He approached and took the whetstone, drew a match of his own, and struck it. It lit without issue. Cupping his hand around the pipe, he dipped the match inside. Marsh puffed a little and a thin trail of smoke drifted up. Waving the match until the flame flickered away, Barlocke then tossed it aside. Marsh was about to start walking again but Barlocke placed a hand on his shoulder. As the platoon passed, Barlocke drew a pipe of his own from within his coat. It was plain, plainer than Marsh's own polish pipe. Barlocke used the whetstone to light another match and began smoking as well. He only finished the process when Bloody Platoon passed by entirely.

Unable to maintain his composure, Marsh turned, walked hastily to the ditch alongside the road, bent over, and vomited. It was a difficult retch. He hadn't anything to eat all day. It dribbled into the dark soil at the bottom of the ditch. Whether it was from the horrible stink in his nostrils or the amount of movement without proper sustenance, he wasn't sure. When he was through, he spat and sat down. With his free hand, he tipped his helmet back and held his forehead. After a moment, he reached into his kit-bag and retrieved his prayer beads. Pursing his lips to hold his pipe, he clutched the beads with both hands. Barlock stood just beside him, his hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder.

"We could have gotten there sooner," Marsh breathed after he finished his prayer.

"The corruption already set in," Barlocke said, standing above him. "Their minds were too young, too fragile."

"Why the kiddies?" Marsh asked, shaking his head. "Why them? They's just a bunch a lil' kiddies. What could Chaos use them for?"

Barlocke nodded his head to the side.

"Once, on a Civilized Planet, I was tracking a band of heretics. Rumors persisted they were corrupted, but these were unsubstantiated. Sent me to check, regardless. When I got to their last known location, just a scatter of ramshackle huts, I found a small child. He was alone, huddled by a little fire in the center of a shed. When I picked him up, he pulled the pin on a grenade. Didn't see it, just heard the clink. Dove out of there and I was burned very badly." He paused, then made a dismissive sound. "Chaos finds a way to use everyone."

Marsh smoked briefly on his pipe, mulling the facts over. But it all came to the same outcome.

"We had'em, Barlocke. I mean we had'em! We got them outta there and for what? What was the point?"

Barlocke didn't answer for a time. Marsh was looking up at him; his face was concealed in shadow underneath his wide-brimmed hat.

"The fate which befell them was a blessing compared to what awaited them as Chaos thralls."

Marsh shut his eyes, trying to fill his nostrils with the smell of burning tabac. It was all he had to get the stench of scorching flesh out of his nostrils. Just the mere scent caused the entire scene to replay over and over in his mind. All he wanted was for it to stop.

"That don't make me feel no better. For once in my soldier's life, I was actually glad. I was glad! We did something we ain't ever done before. We did somethin' that was plain right. And it didn't matter." He smoked briefly. "Now all I feel is pissed off and I don't know what to do about it!" He shook his head, raising his trembling hand to his stubble-coated chin as he smoked. "Fucking Chaos-worshipping cock-sucking bastards..."

Time passed. Never in his time as a Guardsman was he or the rest of Bloody Platoon forced to dispatch a child. From the most daemonic of Chaos worshipers to weapon-less corrupted heretics, the men witnessed countless, unspeakable horrors. Terrifying as they were, it made their duty much easier to perform. This was indescribably more burdensome. Thinking as much, he exhaled and said, "It don't feel right."

"Eliminating foes of our Imperium doesn't feel right?" Barlocke asked curtly. Marsh glared up at him.

"Don't put it like that."

Barlocke seemed to shrug, his movements obscured by his long coat and the growing darkness.

"If we failed to fulfill our duty, we would have risked not just our lives, but others. Keeping them alive was not an option," he said.

"We, is it? You didn't have to pull the trigger."

"Giving an order and pulling the trigger are more similar than you may realize, Marsh Silas," Barlocke responded in a low, kind voice. "You know full well what they would have turned into.

"And I would have shot them down then."

"Are you saying it would have been easier to kill caterwauling little monsters than𑁋"

Marsh glared up at him again, silencing the Inquisitor. Barlocke was by no means intimidated by the harsh look, he surmised, but rather polite consideration. His hardened stare soon softened.

"Maybe." He sighed. "But then I start thinking, maybe it woulda been harder to see them lose their minds and become devils."

"You know as well as I, it was right."

Marsh stared into the bottom of the ditch for a great deal of time. It seemed like hours to him.

"Deep down, I know it." He looked back up at the Inquisitor. "But that don't make it any easier to swallow."

Clouds rolled in, ushered by a cold breeze. It obscured the moon, plunging Cadian into deeper darkness. After casting a glance upwards, Barlocke extended his hand and Marsh took it. Back on his feet, the two began walking after the column. Bloody Platoon was halted ahead not too far away. As they walked, Barlocke put an arm around his shoulders. He looked over at the shadow-faced gentleman, hardly illuminated by the tiny orange glow from the bowl of his pipe.

"Hard as it is, these feelings will pass. All pain passes in time. For the moment, you have to remain strong, Silas. For the sake of your men."

"About all I can be," Marsh sighed. The two men walked at a steady pace down the road until they caught up to Bloody Platoon. Lieutenant Hyram was standing to their side, watching the Inquisitor and the platoon sergeant approach. Once they were beside the platoon, the order was given to continue on. Barlocke and Marsh Silas walked alongside one another and smoked the entire way. Dull orange light emanated from their pipes.

###

Bloody Platoon crossed the bridge, snaked up the cape road, and marched through the perimeter gate of camp in good order. Just inside, Second and Third Platoons were resting. Still geared up, but with their weapons stacked together, the barrels pointing up at the night sky. Captain Murga was among them and strode out with Lieutenant Comstock and Lieutenant Savidge of Third Platoon. He greeted Marsh Silas and the men warmly, then asked for an explanation regarding their delay. It was Inquisitor Barlocke who answered, explaining in low tones the events that transpired after the company split.

Captain Murga's and the other officers' eyes widened as they listened to the report.

"Well, it's a damned shame they were corrupted. But you met the enemy, destroyed his position, and were able to damage his mobility. Furthermore, we now know the nearby settlements are being targeted. You ought to be proud."

"Bloody Platoon performed admirably," Barlocke finished, "though their spirits are low."

"I'll have Commissar Ghent speak to them."

"Unnecessary, Captain."

Murga decided not to contest this point and turned his attention back to Bloody Platoon.

"You've all earned a rest. Tomorrow we shall hold a briefing, Inquisitor, based on the information you sent along. First company, fall out." Murga was about to turn and head back to the regimental command post, but stopped halfway. A look of dread passed over him. Marsh followed his gaze. Standing just on the other side of the road were the townsfolk, waiting in a small makeshift camp constructed out of spare tents and hastily erected sheet metal sheds. Many rose from their campfires and strode cautiously towards the platoon.

Taking off his peaked cap, Murga ran a hand over his bare head. "I forgot about them. Somebody has to tell them."

"I shall," Barlocke offered.

"It should be me," Hyram said. His disposition aside, Marsh couldn't help but admire him for that. Yet he could see by the officer's trembling hands the task was going to be more challenging than he could bear. Before he dwelled on it any longer, his thoughts passed between his lips.

"I'll tell them, sir," he said. Hyram seemed too tired and depressed to resist, or even show surprise. He simply looked at Captain Murga, who only nodded before walking away. Second and Third Platoons went with him, the Guardsmen feeling the weight of the outcome upon their shoulders. When they departed, Marsh looked back towards the civilians. All were gathered now. In front of the camp fires, which cast a pale orange outline around them, they seemed to be one, living mass. A smaller crowd; undoubtedly some bore the taint of Chaos and were dispatched. Across the road, they regarded Bloody Platoon with confusion and eagerness. From their side, the Guardsmen beheld them with dismay and trepidation.

Pushing to the front of the civilian crowd was Asiah. She wore fresh garments. Gone was her dirty apron, replaced by a clean long jacket and a hooded shawl over her shoulders. The hood was scrunched down at the base of her neck. Her hair was a feathery brown tied into a rough ponytail. Many strands were loose and swayed in the ocean breeze that flooded over the camp. Her violet eyes glimmered with hope. Recognizing Marsh Silas at the head of the column, she smiled wide. To him, she appeared as charming as when they first met in the small town.

He noticed she was still holding the white cloth he gave her. When he saw it, all he planned to say vanished from his mind. Having volunteered his voice, he found he suddenly lacked one. Not just in her eyes, but all their eyes, he could see that shimmer of hope. Fooling themselves into thinking the children were rescued but sent somewhere else until arrangements could be made. To be the destroyer of their anticipation, to watch all happiness crumble at his words, Marsh wished to be anywhere else in the Imperium.

"Tell them the truth," Hyram said eventually. "Don't spare a detail. They deserve to know."

"They do, but their grief will dampen the souls of your men worse yet. Spare some words, Marsh Silas, for the men's sake. And for their own," Barlocke said, motioning towards the civilians.

"To lie to these poor wretches would be a most despicable act, Inquisitor," Hyram retorted.

"Lying and vagueness are two very different concepts, Lieutenant," Barlocke replied bluntly. Putting his hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder, he whispered, "The choice is yours, Marsh Silas."

After a moment, Marsh Silas began walking towards the civilians. As he did, he removed his helmet and clipped it to his belt. Then, he took one last puff on his pipe before he knocked it against his knee pad. The ash fell down onto his pant leg, but he didn't mind a tall. Behind him came Bloody Platoon, falling out from the column and shifting into a crowd behind their sergeant. Why they stayed he did not know; they were excused duty and could return to their bunks. Perhaps they just did not want him to deliver the news alone. On his right was Lieutenant Hyram, bracing for the worst. To his left was Barlocke, face plain, his emotions unknown except to himself. Marsh glanced at him from the corner of his eye. How he wished to steel himself like the Inquisitor. To betray no emotion, to bear such presence among men. Perhaps it was to ease the blow of the approaching despair.

He walked right up to Asiah. She reached out and took his hand in both of her's.

"Miss," he greeted. "I hope you are well, here."

"The children," she said immediately, "where are they? My boy?"

Marsh swallowed hard, his mouth turning dry. She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Miss Asiah..." he began slowly. "We found the heretics who took the kiddies and killed them all. The place they took them to has been blasted. But the kiddies𑁋the children..."

Asiah's eyes brimmed with tears. Marsh Silas put his other hand on top of her's. He leaned down to look directly in her eyes. In a gentle tone, he finally said, "they...are at rest now. Their souls are kept by the God-Emperor."

At this, Lieutenant Hyram and Bloody Platoon removed their helms and bowed their heads. Barlocke took off his hat and held it over his heart. He gave an elegant bow, rose slowly, and donned his hat once more. Then, he took Marsh by the arm and stepped away, trying to take him along. Asiah would not let go as she sank to her knees and sobbed into their hands. Ignoring the Inquisitor's tugging on his arm, Marsh Silas knelt down, slipped one hand away, and placed it around her shoulders. He stared down at the dirt, not wishing to look up the terrible wailing of the civilians in front of him. Mothers sank and fell into their husbands' arms. Fathers wept as they held their wives. Their sobbing rose into screams of grief, tearing through the night. As they cried, Marsh continued to stare down. He did not dare to meet their betrayed gazes.

Asiah continued to sob into their knitted hands. Her face rose for a moment, eyes flooded with tears. They streamed down her face, cascading like water running down a cliff. With an injured expression, she met his eyes.

"Give me back my baby..." she whispered, her voice choked. Then she sprung forward, ripping her hands away from his, and began pounding her fists against his armored chest. "Give me back my boy! Give me back my boy! He's mine, he's all I have! Give him back!"

Marsh took these blows without comment. Even on his knees, his broad frame was hardly moved by her clobbering. Suddenly she ceased, resting them flat against his flak armor. "He's got hair like yours, a little scar on his chin. Did you see him?"

He hadn't had a chance to look at all of the children. Whisking them away in the heat of battle didn't allow for a proper headcount. Nobody asked for names and none were given. Yet as he retraced the memory, difficult as it was to relive, no child with such a scar or hair color sprung to mind.

"No, Miss Asiah, I did not."

"He could yet live!" she cried. "You have to go back out there and find him! Find him!"

"Your son sleeps with the honored dead, miss," Barlocke said in a low voice. "Come, Silas."

He wanted to leave, to escape, but as this poor woman latched onto him he did not want to move. Her weeping moved him in a way that he had not experienced before. Never had Marsh despised himself and his enemy so thoroughly. For his failure, he had to atone, to withstand the bereavement of so many souls. Inquisitor Barlocke was having none of it. With a firm hand, he finally pulled Marsh Silas to his feet. As his guilt roiled inside him, Marsh let himself be taken away. Asiah remained on her knees, bent over, sobbing into her arms, clutching the white cloth in her hands in front of her as if they were prayer beads. She stayed that way and cried. Behind her, all the rest moved in a pitiful fashion, looking skyward, appealing to the heavens, entreating the God-Emperor to undo their woes.

Barlocke clamped a hand on the back of his neck and forced him to look forward. When he felt compelled to give the deprived one last glance, the Inquisitor's grip grew tighter. "Do not gaze upon them once more, man, lest the image be frozen to your mind for the remainder of your days."

It was too late, Marsh Silas thought. Too late.

Bloody Platoon was already heading back to the barracks, having splintered off one by one while Marsh knelt with the civilians. Somewhere along the walk back up to their cliffside dwelling, Barlocke disappeared. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the Inquisitor's absence. It did not matter. As he stepped into the pillbox, stuffed with ammunition, extra weaponry, and other equipment, he suddenly felt exhausted. Vitality failed him and all he wanted was to slump into his bunk. Everyone was down below before him and doffed their gear. Some wiped their faces down with cloths dampened from a canteen or took a drink of water before sliding under their blanket. A few were still kicking off their boots. Still fully ladened with his gear, Marsh walked through each comb. As he entered, he was met by tired faces and tearful eyes. Unsure of what to say, Marsh drifted through, flashing a smile, a pat on the shoulder, or a playful elbow. Some responded in kind. It was enough. In his soldier's life, Marsh found the briefest and simplest of acknowledgements was all a soldier needed at times.

Working his way through, he eventually ended in his comb. Among his friends, he felt better and greeted them warmly. Both Walmsley brothers were in their bunks. Arnold Yoxall was still unloading his gear in a deliberate, slow fashion. Honeycutt was kneeling beside Drummer Boy, who was curled on his side in his bunk. Sensing that something was off, Marsh knelt beside the medic.

"He's got the shakes again," Honeycutt whispered to him. Drummer Boy was shivering under two blankets and clutching them close to his breast. Several times this occurred before, usually after terrible battles. Despite being considered a veteran, their vox-operator was still a lad and their least experienced member next to their platoon leader. When he was confronted with these horrors, he occasionally suffered from a sort of shaking. Honeycutt, being educated in the human body, deduced it as some kind of, 'atypical adrenaline decline.'

Marsh wasn't quite sure what that meant, although he figured Drummer Boy just struggled to calm down after a fight. Adrenaline gave the body energy and when the action was over, it drained away all one possessed. Usually, a man just shivered for some minutes after the excitement ended. Perhaps it was a slower or more troublesome come down for their young companion.

Honeycutt performed a short religious mantra to help expel negative elements and soothe the soul, although this didn't seem to work. Reaching into his medical bag, he poured some water into a little bowl and then crushed some herbs in it. Swirling it with a spoon until it grew a bit thicker, he had the Boy drink it all. Again, time proved this endeavour futile. Although he did not speak, Honeycutt breathed irritably. For a long while, he stared at Drummer Boy. A blank expression gripped his rugged features.

After a time, he set what he held down and rubbed his chin. He turned to the platoon sergeant. "Make sure his legs are close together and then tuck an extra blanket around them. Heaviest one you can find." With a nod, Marsh went over to the communal chest. All the combs were equipped with a sizable chest filled with items anyone could use. These ranged from spare blankets, extra socks, sewing kits, cooking ware, and the like. When the regiment was on the move, these were looked after by the Chimera crews. Like most men in the Guard, something was given in exchange for the protection. Usually they relied on smokes or decent rations to barter for their service. On rare occasions when there was nothing worthwhile to trade, someone reluctantly handed over some spare thrones. Men in Bloody Platoon took turns doing so. Whoever's turn it was grumbled aplenty, but they knew keeping their extra supplies secured and easily transported was worth the cost. Not to mention the chest itself provided an extra seat at the table, they liked to joke.

Throwing open the chest cover, Marsh dug for the heavy blanket at the bottom. After some rummaging, he pulled it out without disturbing much else inside. Keeping the bulky brown blanket wrapped up under his right arm, he came back over. He closed Drummer Boy's legs under his standard-issue blanket. He then threw the heavy blanket over him and tucked him in tightly. "Now you put some weight on his legs," Honeycutt said.

Not bothering to object because of his mounting fatigue, Marsh knelt down once more and put his folded arms over the Boy's legs. He made sure not to dig his elbows in or crush him. Honeycutt then drew closer to Drummer Boy and ran a hand over his head. "Why don't you look at me, son?" After some time and with a little strain, the vox-operator looked at the medic. "There's a good lad," he soothed. "Now, look at the sergeant."

Craning his neck, Drummer Boy looked at Marsh Silas.

"I don't think I'll sleep tonight, Marsh Silas."

"You won't if you keep them eyes open," he responded with a smile.

Taking off his glove, Honeycutt placed his hand over Drummer Boy's eyes, closing them. But he kept his palm there, applying just the slightest bit of pressure. Over some time, Marsh wasn't sure how long, Drummer Boy's shuddering began to cease. It wasn't an automatic response, just a gradual decline. When the Boy was finally still, the medic tentatively lifted his hand. The vox-operator's eyes were shut and there was peace upon his face. Standing up, he exchanged a glance.

"How did you know that'd work?" Marsh whispered as he stood up.

"Not all cures lay with an herbal remedy or a hymn."

"Careful where you say that," Marsh muttered, glancing at Yoxall, who seemed too tired to care if he heard. Honeycutt paid him no mind, stowed his items, and climbed into the bunk above Drummer Boy. Going over to Yoxall, they bumped each other's shoulders with their fists. Marsh then stripped his gear and armor, placing it at one corner. Waiting until his friend got into the bottom bunk cut into Cadian earth, Marsh turned and looked around. He noticed a lantern still burning in Lieutenant Hyram's private comb. After some hesitation, he knocked on the wooden trim around the entrance. "Lieutenant, sir?" There was no answer. "Permission to enter, sir?"

Once more, there was no answer. This time, he could hear sniveling. Glancing back at his comb mates, all of whom were now in their bunks, he pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Pulling it back into place behind him, he found the comb seemingly empty. His weapon, equipment, and gear were sloppily piled up beside his desk. In the corner of the room his helmet sat upended, as if it was thrown there. He went to it and picked it up. Wiping the dust from the top, he set it down lightly on the desk. Turning around, he glanced at the cutting where the pict-captures stood. One was missing.

Hearing the sniffling behind him, Marsh Silas turned to see Hyram huddled in his bunk. The junior officer was curled up under his blanket, his tunic unbuttoned, gripping the pict of his son with both hands. His hands trembled and clutched it so hard his knuckles were white. With heavy legs, Marsh walked over and peered over the officer's shoulders. Hyram's dirty face was smeared by tears and his eyes were red. Mucus leaked from his nose and every so often he sniffed.

Before him was not an inexperienced fool who would get himself or his men killed. Absent was the soldier within who reared his head earlier in the day, gripped by determination. All animosity left Marsh Silas, at least for that instant, and he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Lieutenant..."

Surprisingly, Hyram shook off his hand.

"You've damned us, Cross," he snapped in a choked voice. He tucked his face deeper into his blankets but never took his eyes from the pict. "You lied to those poor souls and now we are damned."

"I didn't lie, sir. I just, eased the blow, is all."

"Lie or not, we carry the greater burden now. Yes, it would have cut them deeper. But truth is liberation. To keep the truth will accrue more damage to the messenger than any it could inflict upon the receiver. You have spared no one in your effort to alleviate the pain. We are damned with the truth."

Marsh Silas felt a pit grow in his stomach. Stooped over with a hand braced on the wall above the bunk cut, he stared at the lieutenant for some time. His words sank in. For a moment, he wanted to be angry. What was this fancy-speaking, inexperienced aristocrat thinking, lecturing him on the aspect of truth? In the lieutenant's state and his already feeble disposition, he could have gotten away with another outburst. But he couldn't bring himself to say or do anything.

Without another word and his head hung low, Marsh Silas exited the officer's lodgings. Leaving his dirty coat and field trousers on, he heaved himself into the bunk. Readjusting, he lay on his back, pulled the blanket up to his waist, and rested his hands on his stomach. Staring at the wooden boards of Yoxall's bunk above, he was still for a time. A long time. At first, he was very still. Breathing shallow, his chest rose and fell. When he took a deep breath, his identification tags, resting at the base of his neck rather than his chest, slid down the chain. The metal was cold against the soft skin of his neck. It was actually rather pleasant.

Eventually, he began to clasp his hands. Alternating between squeezing the fingers on one with the others or clutching them firmly together, his mind wandered back to Asiah. Anguished sobbing and tearful wailing filled his ears. The sounds seemed distant, far off. Sensations of memory were always that way. As the scene repeated over and over again, both their return to camp and the execution of the young ones, Marsh Silas felt a lightness in his chest. A pain grew over his heart, causing it to swell. First he saw the children's faces. The face of every woman flashed through his mind next; Asiah's was the most prominent. Then, he saw his mother's face. Tired, yet maintaining such a soft expression. Dark bags under the eyes for want of sleep. A sharp nose. Loose blonde hair with many frays. Warm violet eyes, filled with compassion. Thin lips, curled in a mystic, faraway smile.

His breath caught. Marsh Silas briefly looked out from his bunk, checking each of his companions. All were fast asleep, some even snoring. Listening, he could hear no one walking down the tunnels. Sliding back into his bunk, he pulled the blanket up to his chin, bit a wad of the end, and wept until sleep came.

###

When Marsh Silas stirred, he was disoriented. Sleeping underground was safest for a Guardsmen, but unable to see daylight or darkness made guessing the time difficult. Luckily, he left his watch on. Blinking the lingering fatigue from his eyes, he raised his wrist. It was just about 0430 hours, standard Terran time. Certainly, it would still be dark outside, though the sunrise would come soon.

For years, he tended to wake before the morning call. It was natural𑁋the body adjusting and adapting to daily routines. Whether it was from that very routine or his dream-populated slumber that he woke, Marsh couldn't be sure.

In the night, he saw the places he lived. First the fortified mansion of his father's family, then the cramped apartment he shared with his widowed mother. He saw her face, exhausted from the fifteen hour shift, across their tiny table. She never looked at anything in particular and hardly touched the meal she prepared. Although, there were times when she would gaze at him and when he looked back, she would show a mother's smile.

Such dreams were bittersweet and did not come often. The pictures they formed were the kind a Guardsman wished to keep in his mind and just as quickly remove them. In the grim life they lived, alleviated briefly by victories counted from battles won to completing a difficult task, occasional glory, and rare furloughs, memories of home and family kept soldiers sane. Think too much of them, and Guardsmen grew melancholic, lonesome, and bitter.

Usually, when he woke early, Marsh Silas would rise from his bunk, don his uniform, start brewing recaf, and watch the time. He would wait until just before the horn bellowed and Commissar Ghent came calling. Waking the men just before he arrived pleased the political officer and staved off his wrath for another time. Being woken by the platoon sergeant was preferable than being roused by the Commissar, the Guardsmen agreed.

On this dreary morning, with his strength still absent and his heart still heavy, Marsh Silas did not rise. For the first time in many years, he elected to remain in his bunk with the blanket up to his chin, curled on his side in the tight space. It wasn't to grasp an opportunity to loaf or get some extra sleep. He just couldn't make himself move this time. The previous night weighed thickly on him still.

He lay for some time, hands clasped together on his center, staring at the wooden boards above him. His mind was blank and that was fine by him, hopeful that a more rejuvenate, albeit shorter, sleep would come. Men like Logue and Foley argued sleep came sooner if one cleared their minds. Walmsley Major adamantly believed attaching to one thought and letting it carry you away was quicker. Refuting his own brother, Walmsley Minor declared that letting your mind wander was better. Having tried all three, Marsh Silas subscribed to Logue and Foley's theory. It worked more often than not.

Just as his eyelids began to grow heavy, the boards above him creaked. A moment later, Yoxall's bare feet appeared over the bunk. Doing his best to be quiet, the demolitions expert hopped to the floor and sat down. He pulled on his heavy socks, followed by his boots, which he began to tie. Propping himself up on his elbows, Marsh Silas looked down at him.

"I say, Arnold, are you up?" he asked his friend. Yoxall didn't look up as he tied his other boot.

"Couldn't sleep." Marsh Silas winced, worried Yoxall may have heard him last night. "I'm going to fire up a brew for the lot and then head to the OP."

"I'll join you," Marsh said, swinging his legs out and sitting up. Yoxall stood, finished dressing in his fatigues, and left for the center comb. Rubbing his eyes and yawning, Marsh Silas set about completing his uniform. He tucked his shirt into his pants, tightened the belt, buttoned his coat, slid his socks and boots on, tied them, and pulled the suspenders up over his shoulders. It was acceptable for off-duty men to let them hang to the sides, but he preferred to have them up.

As his hands were cold, he put on his fingerless gloves and rubbed his palms together. Before he left for the communal comb, he took a look at his sleeping compatriots. He drew closer to Drummer Boy's bunk. The vox-operator was curled up in a ball, sleeping peacefully. Both hands were drawn close to his face and he was sucking on his thumb. For a moment, Marsh Silas reached out to take his hand away. A Commissar would have found it unsoldierly and unmanly. But his hand lingered, then fell. Smiling warmly, Marsh Silas left him be and headed out.

Yoxall was already finished with brewing a pot by the time Marsh arrived. The smell of strong recaf filled the communal comb, overpowering the dry dusty smell of dirt or the odor of men that wafted throughout their underground home. A tin cup with a thin, rusty handle was handed to him. Marsh blew on it, gripping it by the sides rather than the flimsy handle. It warmed his palms comfortably. Breathing in the strong scent drove drowsiness away and the first sip warmed him up quickly.

Filling another cup for himself, Yoxall turned around and the pair stood side by side for a moment, warming their hands and sipping carefully. The smell drew out others; Queshire, fully dressed, came out and silently helped himself. Drummer Boy arrived wearing the heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders, followed by the Walmsley brothers, their blonde hair covered by watch caps. Honeycutt even appeared, wearing a grouchy expression. Each man found a cup, filled it, and began to drink quietly. No one spoke. No one looked at the man next to him. All stood, some leaning against the walls, staring off fixedly in some direction; at the floor, at the ceiling, and the sides of the comb. Eyes were blank and expressions vacant as each man mechanically lifted his arm and drank his recaf.

Standing silently, together, smoking, drinking, staring, they seemed a motley bunch. Not the proud Cadians the rest of the Imperium heard about, but stubble-cheeked, dreary-eyed, beat up Guardsmen. At times such as these, all pride vanished. Men forgot who they were. Such was the life of a Guardsman. When the eyes of his world were drawn elsewhere and he was safe within the confines of his bunker, the prestige of his regiment mattered little and the name of his homeworld was far removed from his mind. Alone in his thoughts, the Guardsman mulled on his actions, on what he did and what he could have done. But only for a time; soon he would shake his head, reminding himself of the many slogans pasted on massive posters in the Kasrs, and resume his duties. In the time being, however, the few men of Bloody Platoon stood among one another in peaceful silence.

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