Part 4: Chapter 25

The 1333th Cadian Regiment began to retreat in good order. From the initial confusion and chaos of the withdrawal, Guardsmen from different companies were mixed together. But company commanders, platoon leaders, and sergeants rounded up the men and organized them into three columns. One could hear their frenzied boot-falls become more coordinated. Between their rucksacks and heavy boots their footsteps were very audible, making a series of distinct clumping, pattering sounds. In formation, their unsteady trot slowed down until they were marching. Their feet fell together, creating a constant, heavy clump, clump, clump in the sand.

On either side of the columns, officers and sergeants ushered the men on. Waving their arms and pointing down the beach, they gave orders and offered encouragement to keep pushing on. Fatigue was evident on all of the Cadians' faces and their ragged panting. Men wheezed and sucked for air, trying to catch their breath.

An explosion far to the rear made Marsh Silas open his eyes and gaze back at the cove. Both Vultures continued to hover near it. Rockets left smoke trails in the air behind them. When they fell behind the high, jagged rock walls, great plumes of white salt spray and gray sand shot skyward. When the gunships expended their munitions, they began firing their nose-mounted Heavy Bolters. Streams of red tracers sprayed from the hot barrels. Suddenly, rockets flew up from the cove. Both Vultures evaded, darting immediately to the side just in time. After narrowly avoiding a second series of rockets, the two gunships peeled away.

Marsh could hear their unnerved, but ultimately unwavering voices on Drummer Boy's Vox-caster. Both pilots remarked how close they came to being hit and then reported their fuel situation to the men below. The leading pilot declared they were returning to base to refuel and rearm; both would be ready to provide support again within the half hour. As they passed by, many of the Shock Troopers waved or held up their fists and cheered. Flying by, the Vultures dipped their wings from to side, a signal of salutations.

"Holding up alright then, Staff Sergeant?" Murga asked, his voice strained from carrying Marsh Silas on uneven ground.

"Well enough, sir," Marsh groaned, "though this here metal in my side is a great discomfort."

"Honeycutt will patch you up soon enough."

Murga was at the head of the column with his command squad. Hayhurst jogged up alongside them and pointed an accusatory finger at the wounded non-commissioned officer.

"Call yourself a Shock Trooper, do ye? Ya ain't fit to call yerself a Cadian. What fool goes and gets himself wounded by shrapnel in such a way? It ain't been but a week since yer last wounding. Ain't you's supposed to be smarter an' that, boy?"

"Enough, First Sergeant!" Murga snapped. "Marsh Silas fought with honor and defended our withdrawal heroically. He should be proud of the wound he sustained and we ought to be thankful for his valor. Now, double-back and bring up the rear of the column."

Hayhurst pursed his lips, nodded, and left. Marsh watched the hulking company sergeant trundle down the line.

When he looked forward, he could see Murga craning his neck to look at him from the corner of his eye. "Mind him not. Hayhurst is just sorry he did not get a piece of the action. I'm damned proud of you, Marsh Silas. You'll be put in for another medal for that."

The platoon sergeant's heart swelled with pride and it was very difficult not to smile. For a brief moment, he did not feel the burning pain in his side. But he maintained his composure and simply nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

"Thank me not, thank the Emperor this day."

Barlocke was beside the pair and he reached over to squeeze Marsh's shoulder.

"Yes, well done."

The Inquisitor was clutching his chest wound. Like Marsh Silas, he too was wounded by shrapnel. It was smaller than the piece embedded in the platoon sergeant's left side, but nonetheless, it was clearly causing him pain. Barlocke's mouth remained open and his breath was shallow. His dark brown eyes, normally aloof and curious, were narrow and focused. Even as he congratulated Marsh, his eyes remained fixed to the path ahead of him. Sweat coated his forehead, his brow was low and knitted over his eyes, and each time he took a step he winced. Although subtle, Marsh could see the pain briefly etched into his pale, handsome features. When his foot fell, the natural vibration ran up his leg and faded in his chest. Despite the dwindling sensation, it was enough to make the wound throb. Each time, the skin around his eyes tightened and his eyelids threatened to close. Over time, his breath became more ragged to the point it whistled through his clenched teeth.

Alongside the Inquisitor was Lieutenant Hyram. The junior officer was bearing the weight of Arnold Yoxall very well. Despite the cessation of action, his face was still contorted as if in battle. Muscles in his jawline bulged and his eyes were very wide. But he moved at a steady pace and drew breath in a controlled fashion like a proper Shock Trooper. Thrown over the Lieutenant's shoulder, Yoxall was doing his best to hold on. Like many Cadians, he was broad in the chest and slightly above average height. Hyram was slightly smaller than him thus he was having to utilize more of his strength to carry the wounded demolition expert.

Gritting his teeth, Yoxall looked up at Marsh. The latter grinned back, risked letting go of Murga's webbing, and saluted. Although it took him a moment, Yoxall was able to return the gesture.

"Got a wee pain in my leg," he said, managing a smile. One of his arms was wrapped around Hyram's front, clutching his webbing. The other gripped his right thigh, which was still bleeding heavily. The entire side of his heavy, tan field trousers was soaked in blood so deep and dark in color it was nearly black.

To see one of his closest, oldest friends losing so much blood greatly disturbed Marsh Silas. A massive pit formed in his stomach to the point it almost made him nauseous. Even his heart rate spiked. So great was his fear he forgot his own pain once more.

He shall not die. I shall keep my promise to you.

Barlocke's voice did seem to pierce his mind as it usually did. Instead, it seemed to leak through his chest, wrap around his lungs, follow his bones and slither up his spine. As it reached the inner recess of his mind, it coiled up like a snake and settled. Cold and damp, the words lingered, echoing off the walls of his skull. Just as the voice began to fade, it came back louder than before before finally vanishing like warm breath in cool air.

Rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh tried to work out the uncomfortable feeling. Looking up, he gazed at the Inquisitor. Barlocke's gaze remained on the beach ahead of them.

Although his voice was absent from his mind once more, Marsh knew his presence was still there.

We shall see.

Marsh mulled the thought in his mind as he continued to glare at Barlocke's side. The only indication the Inquisitor gave was a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

The regiment eventually made its way back to the valley above the beachside cliffs. Upon entering the short, yellow prairie grass, the three columns dispersed. Colonel Isaev ordered the most able body unit, Third Company, to form an inverted crescent. Augmented with the Heavy Weapons Squads from other companies, the firing line was able to cover both the approach to the beach and the bluffs running along the beach. Once in place, the troops began to dig in. First, they scraped out fighting holes and firing pits for individual squads or weapons emplacements. Then, they proceeded to connect their positions with knee-high trenches for quick, semi-protected movement. After further solidifying their positions, they cleared their fields of fire of grass by cutting it down with the sharpened edges of their Type Nine-Seventy entrenchment tools.

While Third Company braced for a counterattack, First and Second Companies erected a series of tents for the wounded. With harsher, chillier winds rolling from the sea, the medics needed stable environments to operate. As well, the command element needed a private area to reconvene and plan their next move. Removed by about a hundred standard yards from the perimeter, First Company was deployed in a coil around the cluster of about fifteen large tents. Like Third Company, they dug firing pits and fighting holes, cleared their fields of fire, and steeled themselves for an assault.

Meanwhile, the medics gathered up the wounded and brought them into the tents. Five tents were reserved for category one casualties, who were in critical conditions. These were Guardsmen suffering from anything from amputations to arterial bleeds. Before they were even seated on stretchers which served as operating tables, Voxmen were speaking into their handsets requesting medical evacuation. Category two casualties were not in as dire a state but still needed immediate attention. Walking wounded, or category three casualties, were removed to another set of tents where the junior medics and field chirurgeons administered treatment. Minor wounds from grazes and ricochete wounds to in-and-out gunshots were easily dressed.

Marsh Silas found himself with other category two patients. By the time he was set down on one of the stretchers, he was feeling the pain. The metal in his left side was no longer hot but it still seemed to burn. It seemed to grind against his flesh each time he made a slight movement. But he was being moved so much by other Guardsmen it was impossible not to feel it.

Hissing through his teeth, he laid back as Honeycutt and a field chirurgeon from Second Squad, Salvia, who had a square face and deep-set violet eyes, removed his flak armour. Others who were present in the tent at Honeycutt's demand held up their lamp packs. Warm, yellow light filled the tents.

While Salvia set the webbing aside, Honeycutt filled out a triage card with a stubby field quill. The senior medic removed his helmet and his short, sweaty blonde hair seemed to shine in the lamp pack glow.

"Breathing, check. Mental state and orientation; can you tell me your name, rank, place of birth, and your mother's name?"

"Silas Cross, Staff Sergeant, Kasr Polaris, Faye Cross."

"Follow my finger with just your eyes."

Honeycutt held up his index finger, gave Marsh a moment to focus, and then moved it left, then right, up, down, and finally in a circle. Without lagging, Marsh's violet eyes followed his finger perfectly.

"Mental state, check," Honeycutt grunted. "Orientated. Contamination, no..."

The medic went down the list, checking everything off. When he finished, he tore off the green strip at the bottom of the tag, leaving the orange category two strip. Using a folding pin, he flipped the tag to Marsh's sleeve then reached into his kit to retrieve two white surgical gloves.

Using a pair of scissors, he cut away the material around the wound. Carefully peeling the bloody wool away until the shrapnel and the skin of the surrounding impact area was exposed, he gingerly inspected it. "Penetrating injury, shrapnel."

Honeycutt looked up and frowned. "You could have walked."

"I don't need none o' yer lip, Honeycutt, treat me before I bleed to death," Marsh wheezed through his teeth.

The medic said nothing. Reaching into his kit, he pulled out a vial and a syringe. Taking off the cap, he carefully inserted the needle through the soft center of the lid and drew the pump back. Clear liquid filled the tube almost to the halfway mark. While he checked the syringe, Salvia unbuttoned Marsh's heavy overcoat, pulled his right arm out of the sleeve, then did the same to his field tunic. Left in his undershirt, Marsh could feel the bitter cold coming through the half-open flap at the entrance of the tent.

Rolling up the short shirt sleeve until his entire bicep was exposed, Salvia then reached over and took the syringe from Honeycutt. Marsh felt a brief pinch in his skin as the pain nullifier was injected. Within a minute, he felt the pain subside from a sharp, burning to a dull ache.

The relief made it feel as though the vise around his midsection was finally released. Tilting his head back, he sighed very loudly and opened his mouth.

As Salvia moved to the other side with Honeycutt, the tent opened and Lieutenant Hyram came in. He took Salvia's place on Marsh's right side and placed a hand on his chest. The two looked at each other for a few moments before the Lieutenant smiled at him. It was a kind, charitable smirk.

Marsh did not find resolve in it but rather reassurance. He did not realize he was smiling back. All he did was move his hand on top of Hyram's, patting the top and keeping it there for some time. Hyram did not seem to mind in the slightest. Although he was still on edge from his waning adrenaline and suffering from the aching in his side, he felt more at ease.

Junior Commissar Carstensen came in next and stood behind Hyram. She examined Marsh for a few moments, then leaned forward while keeping her hands on her knees.

"What's it going to be?" she asked Honeycutt.

"The shrapnel has penetrated the fleshy part of his torso," he explained in an informed, authoritative tone. "It isn't posing a threat to his internal organs and blood loss is minimal. But further movement could exacerbate the wound and cause further internal damage. A Valkyrie ride is out of the question."

"Exacerbate?" Marsh asked, looking back towards Hyram.

"Worsen."

"We are going to extract it." Honeycutt looked up briefly. "Immediately."

As they laid out their surgical tools, Marsh looked up at the ceiling of the tent. He knew it was going to hurt terribly.

By the Emperor's blessing and protection, he was spared from serious injury throughout his ten years of service in Cadian Shock Troops. Receiving shrapnel or getting shot in an unarmoured part of his body was not unfamiliar to him. Several times, he was in situations which nearly took his life, but through comradeship, fighting spirit, and the Emperor's will, he survived.

But it was not going to be like the times when bullets were easily taken from his flesh, when they did not strike bone and passed arteries. Taking it out was going to be arduous and beyond painful. Marsh Silas wanted to be brave and withstand the agony like a true Cadian. If he was able to stay behind and face a horde of deranged, demented heretics then he could resist such physical torment.

Yet, he did not feel ready. Mustering his courage seemed to be futile. Already, he could feel his heart beating faster and harder. It was as if it was in his throat. His breathing was becoming faster and ragged. As he saw the tools glint in the lamp light, he heard himself sigh with each breath. He gripped Hyram's hands tightly to the point he could see pain on the platoon leader's face. Hyram's spoke and his tone was encouraging, but the words were indecipherable. All Marsh could see were the tools the medics were preparing and he did not want to feel the pain.

Like in the middle of battle, he heard everything at a sharper tone. Every voice, metallic clink of tools, rucksack rustle, or shouted order outside the tent pierced his eardrums and made him shake.

Suddenly, the noise went away. For a moment, he thought he went deaf. Then, he saw the tent flap open. Barlocke entered; he was still wearing his uniform and blood continued to drip from the edges of his shrapnel wound. Only his wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat was missing.

Carstensen and Hyram stood up. He took the latter's spot, knelt, and clutched Marsh's hand. With his other, he cupped the side of the platoon sergeant's head, nestling his fingertips in his blonde hair.

Can you hear me, Silvanus?

His soothing voice came over him slowly. It was as if he was listening to raindrops in a rare summer drizzle. Immediately, he felt his heart rate and breathing slow. Marsh felt indescribably calm. All fear he felt dissipated; he did not even feel pain anymore. Looking into Barlocke's deep brown eyes, a strange peace he never imagined came over him.

Slowly, he nodded.

I can, Barlocke.

Barlocke squeezed his hand tightly.

Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and I will take you somewhere. Anywhere you'd like to go, and we shall go. Merely think of it and it will be so.

After staring at the Inquisitor for a few moments longer, Marsh did just as he asked.

Young Silas found himself running to the reinforced glass window of the downstairs study. A roaring fire snapped and crackled in the hearth. Its glow flickered on the desk and armchairs in the office. Running to the control pad, he pressed the deactivation button and the armour-plated shutters opened. Pressing his nose to the thick glass, he watched as a Chimera trundled down the zig-zagging blocks of the road. It came to a stop right in front of his home and the ramp lowered.

In the thick snowfall blanketing Kasr Polaris, he saw a cadre of Cadian officers step down the ramp. Each one was dressed in a superb, crisp tan overcoat and low-peaked caps. Each one carried a large, Militarum-issue olive drab travel bag. The officers gathered on the street to shake hands and pat each other on the back. It was difficult to see their faces in the industrial lamps and searchlights that scanned the environment. Fortified mansions for regimental commanders loomed over them on each side of the jagged road. Eventually, they said their goodbyes and departed in separate directions.

Smiling eagerly, he waited for one to come down the path towards his home. One by one, they all veered away. Slowly, the smile faded and melancholy sank into his heart. A single officer remained, lighting a pipe. In the brief orange flash of his match, Silas tried to see his face but the light was too weak. Waving it out, he flicked it away and began walking down the road. Winter wind caught the pale smoke from his pipe and cast it high into the air. He passed by the entrance to their short yard, then stopped. For a few moments, he lingered there, his shoulder facing the mansion's face. Silas watched, blinking away the tears threatening in the corners of his eyes.

Suddenly, the officer turned on his heel, passed through the gate, and walked steadily towards the house. Gasping, Silas ran to the door, unlocked it, and grunting in effort, threw it open. Cold wind blasted through the entryway and snowflakes buffeted his tan sweater. Standing before him was his father, Dayton.

Dropping his bag and crouching in the same moment, Dayton held his arms out.

"Silas, my boy!" he cried.

"Papa!"

Silas leaped into him, laughing and crying as he felt his father's big arms wrap around him.

When they finally let go of one another, Dayton stood Silas in front of him. He took his pipe from his mouth and cast the ashes out through the doorway, then let it fall on the step.

"Let me look at you, let me look at you," he said eagerly, sniffing as he did. "Oh, just look at you. You're getting so tall. Big too. You'll be very strong, I'm sure of it."

Tears were coursing down his father's cheeks. Dayton laughed happily and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. "C'mere, boy, come, come." He pulled Silas back into his arms and squeezed him so tightly it nearly hurt. Silas did not mind in the slightest.

"You're going to let the chill in."

Silas turned around. His mother, Faye, was leaning against the corner of the wall leading to the dining room. She was wearing a tan sweater, the same one she wore when she served in the Cadian Shock Troops. Her long, wavy blonde hair fell down onto her shoulders. Dark bags were under her eyes and her pale features were fatigued from her long shifts at the factorum. But her faded violet eyes twinkled and a smile tugged at her pink lips.

Dayton stood up and uncovered his own thick crop of blonde hair. He ran his hand through it, smoothing it back. For a moment, he stood dumbly and awkwardly. Silas looked between him and his mother, confused. Eventually, Dayton stepped forward, his black boots thudding on the floor. As he approached, Faye closed the distance. The sleeves of her sweater were too long for her arms and covered her hands. She draped her arms around his neck and he hugged her middle. Without any words, they closed their eyes and kissed one another deeply.

For a time, they remained that way; lips locked, chests pressed together, eyes shut tightly. It was as if they became statues.

When they parted, tears ran down Faye's cheeks. Dayton's own were glimmering.

"I prayed to the God-Emperor for this moment," Silas's father said wistfully, his voice thick with emotion.

"As did I," Faye said, her voice cracking.

"I thank Him for making it so," Dayton said.

Suddenly, the rigidity in Faye's trembling legs gave out. As she sank, Dayton went with her, his arms around her. Once more, they embraced. Her hands went to his cheeks and she kissed him again. Then, she nuzzled her head against his chest and sobbed into it.

Dayton turned and looked at Silas. A moment after he did, Faye looked as well. To see his parents so tearfully happy brought them to his own eyes. When they each held an arm out to him, he sniffed and walked into them. He put an arm around each of them and they pulled him in tightly. As father, mother, and son held one another, the wind blew hard. A flurry of snowflakes rushed through the doorway and all became white.

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He felt a tear course down each of his cheeks. It felt as though he awoke from the most restful, peaceful slumber in his entire life. Immediately, he was greeted by Barlocke's pale face. His eyes were closed. A moment passed and he opened them. Tears glittered in his dark brown eyes. Hyram appeared on his left and Carstensen on the right, gazing curiously but ultimately relieved at Marsh.

Barlocke wiped one of Marsh's tears with his thumb, withdrew his hand from the side of Marsh's face, and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. With a sniff and a sigh, he shook his head and smiled.

"So, the sweater you wear is your mother's?" he asked. "How sweet."

Blinking, Marsh's cheeks heated up.

"I don't, it's, shut up," he said, breaking his gaze. Barlocke laughed so handsomely then it was impossible for Marsh not to join in.

That was certainly beautiful.

Barlocke's voice was warm in his mind, like when the sun broke through gray winter clouds and shone on one's face. His smile became very sweet.

Marsh reached up, gripped the Inquisitor by the space between his neck and shoulder, and squeezed gently.

Twas a time when life seemed perfect. Thank you for letting me see it once more.

Barlocke tilted his head to the side, resting his cheek on Marsh's hand briefly.

Anything for you, my dearest friend.

"You were so still, I feared death took you," Hyram admitted. His tone was light and relieved.

"You seemed so at peace," Carstensen murmured.

Marsh Silas heard metal tools clinking. For a moment, his heart jumped as he looked to his left. But he was very surprised to see the thin shard of bloody shrapnel sitting in a tin tray. Specks of blood were on the rim and plate of the tray. Looking down, he saw his midsection was bandaged all the way around. Honeycutt and Salvia took off their white surgical gloves which had blood on the fingers, washed their hands in a small basin of water, then sterilized their surgical instruments. Once they finished, they donned new gloves.

He stared at the piece of shrapnel, then went to touch his side. Honeycutt snatched his wrist.

"You're bandaged, there's a shock pad underneath, and it's been heavily stitched. We were able to extract it without causing any internal damage. Superficial wound; it should heal nicely."

"By the Emperor..." Marsh Silas murmured in amazement. With wide eyes and a bigger smile, he turned and faced Barlocke. "...I don't feel a thing!"

"The Emperor protects," Salvia said.

"So does a healthy dose of nullifiers," Honeycutt added. "Valkyries are inbound. You're reduced to category three so you shall be one of the last to be evacuated back to Army's Meadow."

"What? No, I'm not going back. The fight is unfinished," Marsh implored.

He sat up, but Honeycutt, Barlocke, and Hyram each put a hand on his chest and held him back. Marsh looked in each of their faces, searching for an ally in his plight.

"You need to get back to base and rest. If you stay, you could exacerbate that wound and then you'd be an impediment."

"Well, I don't know what that there word means so I don't care much for it," Marsh said to Hyram, frowning. "Just give me a stim and I'll be on my feet in no time."

"It means-"

"I don't think he cares," Carstensen said.

"No, I'm teaching him his letters."

"We're not in a lecture hall, Lieutenant," Barlocke put in.

"Enough, enough!" Marsh said, waving his hand and pushing their arms away. Grunting, he rose to his feet. His coat, tunic, and shirt hung off his right side. Defiantly, he looked into their faces. "I can stand, I can move." He proved it by marching back and forth across the tent. "And if I can do that, then by the Emperor, I can fight."

Hyram and Carstensen exchanged a wary glance, then looked at Honeycutt. The medic pursed his lips, shook his head, and shrugged. All eyes went to Barlocke, who was still kneeling. He turned halfway to look back at Marsh Silas.

Looking at everyone nervously, the platoon sergeant knelt quickly beside the Inquisitor and put his hand on his shoulder. "You two are wounded. If I must go, surely you must too. But you can't𑁋you're in charge. We shall go together, then. Barlocke and Silvanus, Silvanus and Barlocke."

Barlocke's mouth opened a little bit, but after a moment he let out a sigh that was also sort of a laugh. Shaking his head, he took Marsh by the shoulder and stood up. Putting his hands on the Inquisitor's side, Marsh helped him to his feet.

"How can I resist? Look at that face, it is that of a child's."

Honeycutt stood up.

"Inquisitor, with respect, a wound like that𑁋"

"Worry not, I'll see to it the platoon sergeant behaves himself. Now, regimental command is still organizing the defense in case the heretics mount a nighttime attack. Once we're completely dug in and the Valkyries have taken the more severely wounded away, I am quite certain Colonel Isaev will rally the officers to plan our own secondary assault. When that time comes, I want you there. Until then, go rest. Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, see to it that he does."

"Yes, sir."

While Hyram gathered Marsh's wargear, the platoon sergeant went over to Honeycutt. Put out, the medic nonetheless dug into his medkit, and took out a case. Unlocking it, he revealed an array of pre-filled syringes. Taking out a standard stimulant, he tested the plunger and clear liquid squirted out. Coming to Marsh's bare arm, he carefully inserted it and injected him. The stimulant quickly revitalized him; he felt more alert and limber.

Tugging his coat back over his shoulder, he began following Hyram out of the tent. Carstensen went with him, nodding towards the entrance. Just as he exited the tent, he looked over his shoulder. Barlocke began to stoop over as Honeycutt approached him.

"Well, Sergeant, I think I'll be your next patient."

"Of course, Inquisitor. Salvia, ready another triage tag."

###

As the situation calmed in their bivouac, more tents were erected by Guardsmen who were not assigned perimeter watch. Watch shifts rotated so men could get out of the cold night winds. Small pits were dug inside each tent and a combination of twigs and firestarters were tossed in. With fires starting, men took turns warming their hands and leaving their charge packs by the edge of the flame. Others put a box grill over the hole and brewed recaf.

Marsh Silas found himself in the same tent as Drummer Boy and Yoxall. The former was in the corner, sitting next to his Vox-caster with the handheld up to his ear. Lying on the left side of the fire was the demolition expert. He was on top of his bedroll and was covered by a heavy wool blanket. By the triage card on his shoulder, it was clear he was already treated by another medic.

Hyram situated Marsh on the opposite side of the fire. The Lieutenant personally laid down his personal bedroll for him and covered him with the blanket he carried. No words were exchanged between the two, but the pair smiled kindly at one another.

"Anything on the Vox?" Hyram asked Drummer Boy. The Voxman just pursed his lips and shook his head.

"How's that big ol' bug bite, Yoxall?" Marsh asked, lying on his right side and pulled his coat over his chest.

"How's that little nip in your side, Marsh Silas?" the demolition expert retorted. The pair both chuckled. As Marsh began to fill his pipe, Yoxall rolled onto his back. "They wanted to send me back to camp but I just told'em to give me a stim. I ain't leaving you fellows in this fight."

"Seems I have some of the most stubborn Shock Troopers in the entire Segmentum Obscurus," Hyram remarked as he sat down in front of the fire.

"Did we lose anybody in Bloody Platoon, sir?" Marsh asked. Hyram took off his helmet and smiled softly.

"None. Thirteen wounded, including you too, but nothing serious."

"The Emperor protects," Carstensen said stoically, sitting on the opposite of the fire.

Marsh Silas agreed, but he remembered the promise Barlocke made to him. Was it just the Emperor at work or was the Inquisitor truly His servant? Perhaps, he was not just an agent of the Holy Inquisition. His appointment was divine and his power was as great as the Saints. Such a prospect delighted and terrified Marsh Silas, but he smiled to himself. The stimulant was making his mind run.

He looked around. Drummer Boy was still monitoring his handset, Yoxall was staring up at the ceiling of the tent, Hyram was warming his hands by the fire, and Carstensen was staring into the flames. Her matted orange hair was beginning to dry. Sand clung to some of her locks.

She noticed him staring and looked his way. Her green-blue eyes were vivid as they caught the tiny flame, which appeared white in her pupils. From where he lay, they appeared as mere dots.

Clearing his throat, he took the pipe from his lips.

"Beg pardon, Junior Commissar, but it appears you've lost your hat."

Carstensen blinked and her gaze softened. For a time, she looked at him. Then, she scoffed quietly and looked at the fire.

"I suppose I'll have to go and get it then," she remarked in a dry tone.

Marsh chuckled, as did Yoxall and Hyram.

Outside, they listened to the whistling wind and the distant, crashing waves. Sometimes, they heard the crunch of booted feet in the short grass outside their tent. Occasionally, voices murmured or hissed an order at his men. At one point, there was a loud scream from one of the makeshift surgery tents.

It sent chills up and down Marsh's spine. He wasn't the only one. Yoxall jumped in his bedroll, then coughed.

"Say, Marsh Silas, I've been overhearing Barlocke talking to you often. He calls you Silvanus. Why would he do that? That ain't your name."

Hiding his grin was difficult. Marsh Silas knew it was Arnold Yoxall's little way of trying to distract the others from how he flinched. For a man who was accustomed to the deafening shockwaves of high explosives and the rattle of Heavy Bolter fire, he was still easily startled by sudden noises.

Most of Bloody Platoon did not begrudge him for it. Often, they were on edge themselves and needed to react quickly to rapid changes on the battlefield. Marsh and a few others, however, enjoyed teasing him. This time, however, he decided to ignore it.

"I ain't got the slightest idea, Arnold. Guess when we was first starting to talk, I was just too plain scared to correct him. Now that we're comrades-in-arms, I'm used to it."

"High Gothic," Carstensen interrupted. "It's the High Gothic equivalent of your name. Silas Cross; Silvanus Crux."

Everyone looked at her for a few moments. She returned their gazes, ending with Marsh Silas, and then looked back into the fire. The platoon sergeant puffed on his pipe, let out a cloud of smoke, and leaned his head back.

"Well, it wouldn't feel right coming from any o' you fellows," Marsh said to his friends. Drummer Boy and Yoxall simply smirked at one another.

Frowning and shaking his head, he looked back at Carstensen. She adjusted her posture, drawing closer to the fire. The bright flames danced across her cheeks and the light emphasized her puggish nose. Her lips were slightly parted. Once he took another puff, he leaned forward and held the pipe out to her. Carstensen noticed, took it, and nodded. Pressing the neck to her lips, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

She took it from her lips, but only just. Keeping her eyes closed, she held her breath for time. Then, Carstensen opened her eyes and blew out a wavy, meandering cloud of smoke. Frowning, she repeated the process and then blew out another cloud. Once she did it a third time, she blew a perfect smoke ring up above the fire.

It quickly disappeared but Marsh Silas had never seen anyone do such a thing. He smiled wide. Carstensen noticed, although she did not smile.

"It's all about how you hold in your moth and shape your lips," she said. Carstensen smoked again and continued to blow smoke rings. Propping his head up on his hand, Marsh just watched. For a time, he watched the rings, then his gaze settled on her. After a while, he noticed how the corners of her mouth were ever so slightly tugging upwards.

He was not sure how much time passed. But as night fell, he, Hyram, and Carstensen were summoned to the command post. Before they departed, the platoon leader insisted on finding a spare coat for Marsh Silas, as a moderate section was cut away by Honeycutt to treat the wound. While Marsh donned his intact clothing, Hyram went out to find one. It was not long before he brought one in the platoon sergeant's size; luckily Walmsley Major was carrying a spare he may or may not have acquired during a resupply. This was whispered in Marsh's ear and along with Hyram, they snickered.

Now back in both his uniform and flak armour, Marsh Silas felt like a proper Guardsman again. With Hyram and Carstensen, they journeyed to the center of the bivouac. A large tent was pitched there and stood up and poles several standard feet higher than the standard length. Inside, they found the regimental command staff as well as the company command squads around a map spread across an erected collapsible table. The air was thick with lho-stick smoke and one could see the trails wafting in the lamp pack light.

Colonel Isaev was on the opposite side with Barlocke. Despite the cold, the Inquisitor lacked his overcoat, power armour, and even a shirt. Stark white bandages were wrapped all around his chest. Unlike many of the grizzled Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon, who bore shaggy chests and arms, he was devoid of any body hair.

Captain Murga was standing on the closest side of the table with his back toward the entrance. Upon hearing the flap of the tent, he turned halfway. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen saluted, which the company commander promptly returned. He nodded them over.

"The Inquisitor and the Colonel are discussing our next strategy," he whispered. "How's the wound?"

"It'll hold."

"With that codger Honeycutt's work, it surely will," Murga said, then looked forward.

"With the cover darkness, we should take the initiative now rather than wait," Isaev insisted, tapping the location of the cove on the map. It was circled with red field quill ink, with various notes around it accompanied by derogatory comments about the enemy. 'Cock-sucker heretics,' was written twice.

Isaev made a fist and hit the table hard. "The companies will assault in sequence, platoon by platoon, and take the outer area. Once it's secure, the regiment will mount a full frontal assault through the breach. However deep this cave goes, we shall clear it. No, purge it of this heretical filth."

"Purge it we must, yes indeed Colonel," Barlocke said, folding his arms across his chest. "But an attack of this nature will see us purged ourselves."

"I beg your pardon, Inquisitor?"

"Too many Guardsmen shall die in such an endeavor, Colonel," Barlocke said. "What's more, an attack on the outer grounds will alert the heretics within the cave. They'll be ready for us."

"We have the weight of numbers," Isaev insisted, "however many we lose will be inconsequential to the bodies we'll pile up. Success is assured."

"To approach a battle thinking victory is assured is for fools," Barlocke said bluntly. Colonel Isaev gritted his teeth and turned red. "I doubt not your regiment's ability to seize this objective, but I'm unwilling to commit it to a frontal attack. Casualties will be unacceptable."

Captain Giles stepped forward and nodded at the map.

"We could try drawing them out, somehow. If they were willing to pursue us onto the beach, surely they would give chase once more if we feigned assault."

Barlocke grinned and waved a finger at him.

"A much more sound strategy. But think deeper, dear Captain. We know not their total number; it could be so high as to match our own or close to it. Our deployment is limited by the terrain, as is theirs. We have the unique opportunity to utilize their ground to our advantage. Bottle them up so they are trapped within their own bastion, unable to maneuver or counterattack. Then, it will only be a matter of bayonets. To exploit this opportunity, we must eliminate the outer sentries."

Barlocke stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back.

"Colonel, I shall select a strike team to accompany me to infiltrate the enemy position and wipe out the sentries. While we do so, form the regiment into line of battle; the sequence you mentioned, shall suffice. Once we have secured the pemerter, the 1333rd Regiment shall advance inside. My strike team will advance inside the cave and try to kill as many heretics without alerting the rest. When the alarm is finally raised, the regiment shall charge into the caves and snuff out what remains of this heresy on the mainland."

For a moment, Colonel Isaev seemed apprehensive. He shared a discontented glance with many of his subordinates. Then, his jaw relaxed and he stood up straight.

"Very well, Inquisitor Barlocke. Do you have a particular unit in mind for this infiltration?"

For a moment, Barlocke's eyes remained fixated on the map. One arm remained across his chest, while the other hand held his chin. He was very still. Many of the officers and their non-commissioned seconds began to exchange confused, curious glances. Some shifted on their feet, unsure of what to do with themselves. Even Marsh's breath hitched.

Slowly, the Barlocke looked up and locked eyes with Marsh Silas.

"I think Bloody Platoon shall come with me," he said.

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