IRL Author's Note: Hi, actual Ben here responding to reviews! First, yes, this will be the last entry in this particular "journal". The intent is to divide this story into four, distinct parts and phases of Ald Russman's life.
Second, yes, the Iron Angels are a fan-made chapter. They serve an honest to goodness purpose and they will experience the good-old grim-darkness of the far future. The space between the Horus Heresy and the 42nd Millennium is nearly twelve thousand full years, filled with potential foundings of new chapters, and frankly I tire of seeing Ultramarines, Blood Angels, Black Templars, and the like everywhere…even though they are cool.
Major Entry 6
Fortunes Made and Fortune Makers
999.M41
Agementa System
Cruan
Barr Maol
Two days post battle…
*It took us two days to leave Barr Maol; the Iron Angels, 22nd Cruan, the 1st Freeport, and the Skitarii of Forge World Ambolt launched a wholescale assault on the Tau surrounding Ard Allie, shattering them, and sending them scurrying. Here, I was afforded a remarkable opportunity; to talk to Space Marines. The Iron Angels of the 3rd Company were stationed in Barr Maol, alongside the 2nd Battalion of the Fusiliers, and, due to my actions at Barr Maol, they allowed me to talk to the. So, let's start there shall we?*
Space Marines are awe-inspiring at the best of times and fuck-ass scary at the worst of times. The Chaplin of a Space Marine chapter is both of these, and it was doubly terrifying when you are sitting across from the demi-god. Now, some might be wondering; how did I end up sitting across from the Chaplin of the Iron Angels? Simple, he called me over.
Barr Maol had become our unofficial home for two days, whilst other units executed a breakout of Ard Allie. We, including my broken and battered ass (no I'm not bitter about it, why do you ask?) cleaned the CP up as best we could, making it a somewhat defensible fortification until Militarum engineers could work their magic on the place. This included cleaning up bodies, debris, and the like, just to keep busy.
During this time, the rest of the Iron Angels 3rd Company arrived to hold the former CP; bringing the rest of their vehicles, Skitarii, and their Chaplin. It was at the end of the second day, as Cruan's sun began to set, that I had my encounter with the Chaplin.
The evening air was warm and wet with spring, a fact not lost on my sweating body. After a full, agonizing day of labor, I was headed to the mess tent that had been established as, due to some unfortunate explosions, someone had destroyed the traitor's mess hall. After that I was due for a nice shower, and-
"Guardsman!" A voice boomed at me from my right. I turned to look and found a group of the Iron Angels clustered around three figures. The first and most prominent was the dreadnaught, the second of which was Lieutenant Brandt, and third of which was the Iron Angels Chaplin. A silvered skull with black eyes stared at me and a fist gestured to me, "Come." I approached, wary of what was going on.
"He doesn't bite, Corporal," Lieutenant Brandt said, "not unless you give him a reason to."
"One of those reasons is being slow to respond to orders," the Chaplin snarled. I approached quickly coming into the group and sitting on an offered slab of permacrete. "So…this is the one?"
"Yes, Chaplin Nikias, this is he," Brandt stated.
"Ah yes, the one who wished to take on the entire garrison with lasgun and bayonet, I remember," the Dreadnaught said, shifting his gaze to me, "Young Brandt tells such tales of you, Corporal."
"I'm sure he does, my lord," I said, uncertain of exactly what the hell I was supposed to be doing.
"Relax," Chaplin Nikias reached up, releasing the seals on his helm, and taking it off, "you are here as a guest. I am Chaplin Peter Nikias of the Iron Angels." Nikias was a wizened Marine; the three studs embedded in his forehead told me this was a warrior with a long service to. His face was rugged but also…quizzical in a way, as if he was a scholar before he was a soldier.
"I'm Corporal Ald Russman, sir, 1st Freeport Fusiliers," I introduced.
"Well met; you've met Lieutenant Brandt," Nikias gestured to Brandt, who was in the process of removing his helmet, "and this ancient one here i-"
"I am eight hundred years old, whelp; I am venerable, not ancient!" The dreadnaught retorted, rotating the barrels of his assault cannon. The assembled Marines chuckled at the obvious inside joke, and I smiled with them.
"This 'venerable' one is Miron Pavellis; former Captain of the 3rd Company," Nikias finished, still chuckling.
"A pleasure…venerable one," I said carefully.
"The pleasure is mine; it is…refreshing to meet an Imperial Guardsman whose zeal matches my brothers' own," Miron stated. Brandt had finished taking his helmet off, revealing a hardened face, a single service stud embedded in his forehead.
"Are we not worthy of mention, Chaplin?" One of the Angels asked.
"When you are dog piled by Kroot, your name will be worth mentioning," Nikias said. There was a general grumble, as if this was normal. "Though I do seem to recall you were aided by our young Guardsman here, is that correct?" This was pointed towards the Lieutenant.
"Yes, Chaplin, that is correct," Brandt nodded, "without him I fear I would have come away with something more severe than a few cuts and dents on my armor."
"I would like to hear the Corporal's rendition of events," another Iron Angel said, and all eyes turned to me.
"My telling may begin differently, my lords; where did Lord Brandt begin?" I asked, and a general chuckle went up among them.
"We are not 'lords', guardsman, call us sir or gentlemen," another stated, "and our Lieutenant began when the Kroot appeared."
"He missed out on a good part of the story," I said, settling in, "he didn't tell you about his mid-air rescue of me."
"Oh now we must hear this!" The Angels all leaned towards me to listen.
"In essence, I was falling from the top of the CP to the courtyard below," I began, "I was attempting an escape from their command center and detonated a melta charge as I jumped out. I flew over the catwalk, missing it, and started falling straight downwards. Lieutenant Brandt jumped from the balcony on the…nineth floor, I believe, and caught me midway down; riding the walls down until we hit the bottom."
"A maneuver he no doubt learned from the Deathwatch," Miron hypothesized.
"I did not realize we followed the Codex Astartes to the letter, brothers," Brandt said defensively.
"Enough; what happened next?" Nikias asked.
"After that we landed and that's when Lieutenant Brandt noticed the Kroot; I gave him the Inquisitor's power sword, took a shotgun with slug shells, and we went to work," I said simply, "the Lieutenant was a storm; I was just the secondary squall that made sure no one came behind him."
"Which is exactly what he did," Brandt agreed, "hence why they felt the need for a frontal assault."
"Once he got dog-piled by the Kroot, I shot two off before one of them headbutted me down. I drew my laspistol and blew his jaw off, then emptied the rest of the charge pack into the Kroot. The Lieutenant threw some of them off, crushed one beneath his hand, sawed through one more, and the rest fled."
"Modest," Nikias observed. I shrugged.
"I just did my job, sir."
"It is not a critique, Guardsman, it is a compliment. It is my duty to determine the character of all brothers under my command; how they tell their stories is an ample indicator of character," Nikias stated. I nodded in understanding as the Chaplin continued, "You have told me a story that revolves around Lieutenant Brandt, yet it was your part of the tale to tell. Brother Brandt and Miron both speak of your courage and your tenacity in the face of the enemy, yet you make it seem as if it is nothing; a mere duty. Why?"
"Because it's what it is, sir," I answered automatically, "I don't do it for the stories; I do it because it's what needs to be done, no matter the cost to myself." Even back on my Earth, this had been an answer of mine; if not me, then who?
"Not a glory seeker, this one," Miron stated.
"No, not at all…yet he has earned it," Nikias commented, "Now, Corporal Russman, if I cannot coax a story of your glory out of you, what tales will you tell?" I thought for a moment before answering.
"My squadmate, Private Hobbles, we call him Hob," I said, "the man is the simplest, most loyal man I've ever met. He's our squad stubber gunner; best one in the whole 4th Battalion, and I'd fight anyone who'd say otherwise. When we breached the citadel," I jerked a thumb at the mentioned structure, "a round cooked off in his stubber and ruined in. Not even a minute after that, we walked in and found a bolter, like yours, but smaller."
"Ah, yes, the De'az Pattern," came a calm, mechanical voice. The group parted to allow a techmarine entry, who knelt next to Miron's dreadnaught body and began scanning. "A former weapon of the Cruan Regulars, manufactured in this system."
"Corporal, this interloper is Techmarine Albus Malani; the keeper of Venerable Miron's body," Nikias introduced, casting a glare at Albus, who ignored the gaze, "Continue."
"It's not much of a story of some great action, just continuous deeds," I said, "Hob's has always been the biggest of us, and with the bolter in his hands, he formed our center. Towards the end of our assault, we breached the eighteenth level, coming face to face with traitor Tempestus Scions and Tau Fire Warriors. Inquisitor Levant was wearing power armor, and she took cover, and her Storm Troopers had carapace armor, and they hid. Hob, though? Hob took his bolter and went straight up the middle with no fear; he killed three before he took cover to reload. It was after that the Inquisitor and her men stepped up. You won't ever hear him talk about it, though."
"Equipment does not make a soldier," Albus stated, making an adjustment to the dreadnaught's leg, "the soldier defines his equipment by its usage."
"Well said," Nikias agreed. "Thank you, Guardsman."
"My pleasure, sir," I answered. Curiosity, ever present in me, took over, and I found myself asking, "Do you mind if I ask questions about your chapter, sir?"
"A fair trade," Miron stated, "ask, young one."
"I heard Lieutenant Brandt call himself a "son of Ferrus Manus"; who is Ferrus Manus?" I asked. Now, I already knew who the Primarch of the Iron Hands was, but I was more interested in how the Iron Angels defined him.
"Ferrus Manus was and is our progenitor," Nikias stated, "the father of the Iron Hands chapter, from which our gene-stock comes from, as stated in our founding ledgers."
"Though some within our chapter debate these sources," Miron noted.
"In any case," Nikias continued with a hint of annoyance in his voice, "the Iron Angels have served as sons of the Gorgon since our founding, though we some may not…agree with our principles."
"What do you mean?" I inquired, but the Angels shook their heads collectively.
"Perhaps another time," Nikias said, "though you no doubt have more questions."
"Yes sir; the Skitarii that follow you around, who are they?"
"They are of the Forge World known as Ambolt of the Ambolt system, from which our chapter home of Ängelhåll is located," Brandt spoke now. "Our chapter and the Adepts of Ambolt are linked together by defensive pacts and oaths of loyalty; ones which often lead both the Angels and the Skitarii of Ambolt to war alongside each other."
"So you they serve you?"
"Some, but most do not; the priests of Ambolt prefer to retain control of their servants, but they will fight alongside us."
"Those that do would fall under my command," Albus chimed in, finishing his work on Miron's dreadnaught. The sun was falling beneath the horizon now and a yawn split my face.
"It appears we are boring the young one," Miron commented.
"No…sir," I yawned again, my body reminding me it needed both sleep and sustenance.
"You are dismissed, Corporal Russman; go to your rest," Chaplin Nikias ordered.
"Yes sir; thank you for the…invitation to talk," I said, and Nikias chuckled.
"And thank you for your forthrightness; Emperor watch over you," he replied. I saluted and walked away, eager to eat and sleep.
*The following day, the remnants of the 19th Cruan and the 4th Battalion were relieved of Barr Maol by the 22nd Cruan Regulars and the 2nd Freeport Dragoons. We were transported from there to Ard Allie to find a city celebrating relief from siege; the Tau having been reluctant to do any major damage to the city and its populace. Despite that, Ard Allie had still be hard pressed to ration its food and, more importantly, its alcohol supply. The restrictions on those had since been lifted…leading to one hell of a party that, truth be told, I couldn't remember in the slightest. What I can remember is what happened the next day.
Ard Allie
Four days post Battle of Barr Maol
1128 Hours Local…
My first thought when waking up was to groan and cover my forehead, as if to ward off the pain that throbbed in my head. My second thought? Hangovers suck ass. I opened my eyes, closed them, wiped them of sleep, and opened them again. I was in the "barracks" that we in the 4th had been assigned to; a warehouse on the east side that had been converted to a living space for the 22nd, now belonging to us. The cot I had been assigned to was…livable, I suppose, though sleeping with clothes on was not the most pleasant of experiences.
"Well… must've been a fun night," I commented quietly. I sat up, slowly swinging my legs out from the bed, placing them on the floor, and rubbing my head with my hands again. It was blessedly quiet in the two-story barracks, with many of the other Guardsmen recovering from the previous night as well. Said quiet was violently interrupted by the BANG! of the main door opening loudly.
"Corporal Russman!" The intruder called. I moved to the railing; it was an open, two-story bay, with beds on both floors.
"Here!" I called, mustering my voice through exhaustion and sleep.
"Post!" Called the intruder. Suppressing a groan, I made my way downstairs as quick as was comfortable to find one of the most hated things in the military: a Provost Sergeant. Essentially a trumped-up military policeman, these…wretches made a mockery of military justice. To be safe, I approached and came to attention; the provost's scornful eyes taking me in a sweep. "You are to report to Building 3120 on Atticus Road no later than 1400 hours; make yourself presentable."
"Do you know who I am reporting to?" I asked.
"Your betters; dress accordingly," and with that, the provost turned on his heel and left, banging the door on his way out.
"Smug bastard," I muttered. I went back upstairs and gathered what I had for kit. My ruined flak armor had been replaced, alongside a newish field uniform and boots. In addition, I had concealed some Gue'vesa hygiene supplies in my Imperial gear, which I took to the shower. After a shower and a shave, I stepped out, dressed myself, and left.
Walking out into bright day of Cruan, I shielded my eyes from the light; the effects of the hangover still present in my system. Adjusting to the light, I strode out into Ard Allie, headed for the western side of the city. It was not too dissimilar from a city on the East Coast of the United States; filled with brick streets, trees, grassy spots where people gathered, and the streets were easy to navigate. The natives of Cruan, in addition to the remnants of the 19th Regulars, the defenders of the 23rd Regulars, and the provosts were walking the streets, socializing, and moving about the city in a relaxed state. I crossed the city at a decent speed; allowing myself to take in the city, but also trying to make good time to Atticus Road.
Said street, turned out to be two and a half miles long, which slowed my progress considerably, as I had to slow and look at building numbers. 3120 Atticus turned out to be a small compound, guarded by a mixture of Regulars, Fusiliers, and Dragoons, who allowed me entrance. The planetary headquarters was thrumming with activity; aides moved to and fro like ants in a hive, staff officers called orders and questions like squawking gulls, and there was a constant buzz of electricity as various devices were in near perpetual use by the staff.
"Corporal Russman?" A voice asked. I turned and found myself looking at a pair of men. One was dressed as a city official, a wiry, olive-skinned man with a Howard Moon moustache and jelled brown hair. The other man was a broad-shouldered, similarly olive-skinned, with wild, tangled salt-and-pepper hair and a thick beard, dressed in the garb of a preacher.
"Yes?" I asked.
"So this is the hero of Barr Maol?" The preacher asked, moving through the press of bodies to me. "I was expecting someone taller." Indeed, he was a full head taller than me, And a deal more muscular.
"Enough, Deacon," the other man said, "this is not the place. Apologies, young man; I am Administrator Andrin Fadri, this is Deacon Theodore Jungkin, servants of the Emperor and of Ard Allie."
"A pleasure, gentlemen," I said, "and, as much as I hate to be rude, I've got somewhere to be."
"Of course; a pleasure, Corporal." Fadri nodded and Jungkin stepped away from me.
"Strange," I thought to myself, walking past both of them, deeper into the compound.
"Oi, Russ!" Came a more familiar voice. Ahead of me, dressed in what must have been his finest clan garb and kilt, stood Benny, moving toward me with an outstretched arm.
"Hey! The hell are you doing here?" I asked, grasping the arm just below the elbow and shaking it.
"No bloody clue; I got summoned here and got told to cocking wait for you!" He said, "Now come on, this way! Is that they best you've got to wear by the way?" He asked, commenting on my attire.
"Well when your gear is still on a Lunar class cruiser, you make due," I retorted. We walked up three flights of stairs, the noise of the headquarters dimming with every step. The third floor was relatively peaceful, with a few officers moving calmly about. Most of these officers were majors, which had me nervous. We moved past them, turning and proceeding to the end of a short hall that had three rooms, two of which I heard voices from, one which had a pair guards posted outside.
"Corporals Russman and McDonagh, reporting," Benny said.
"Corporal McDonagh, you will wait here," one of the guards said, pointing to the second room, then knocked on the first door, "Corporal Russman reporting, ma'am!"
"He may enter," came a female voice. The second guard opened the door and I walked in…and regretted it. Before me, behind a large desk, sat Brigadier General Elaine van Königlich wearing a pair of glasses. Next to her stood Commissar Troy, Lieutenant Colonel Alsbury, and the Redeye; the Redeye now wearing the bars of a captain. The scent of pipe smoke filled the room, though none of them were smoking.
"Ah, here he is," the Redeye commented, standing up straight. "Good to see you, Mr. Russman." I nodded before coming to attention.
"Corporal Ald Russman, reporting as order, ma'am!" I said, defaulting the highest ranking in the room.
"Relax, Mr. Russman," the Brigadier ordered, and I did so, "do you know what I have in front of me?" A number of papers sat in a line across her desk.
"No ma'am," I answered.
"Here, I have a report from soon-to-be Staff Sergeant Benjamin McDonagh recounting your bravery, leadership, and planning during the operation, here," she bean moving left to right across her desk, "is a report from Tech Adept Xypha and her Rangers remarking on your planning capabilities, your ability to lead others, and your efficiency in battle, with data disks of combat footage. Following that is a report by a Tempestus Scion Sergeant Victor Tate, remarking on your willingness to dive into the fray and adapt, followed by his boss, Inquisitor Helena Levant, commenting on the same. And, to top off the accounts, we have an excerpt from a Lieutenant Brandt of the Iron Angels Space Marines, rounding off what everyone else said." The Brigadier leaned back in her chair, taking off her glasses and tossing them on the desk. "Captain Apelles, when was his promotion to corporal processed?"
"Ten days ago ma'am," the Redeye answered.
"Ten days…this is quite a rapid ascent, young man," Königlich stated, clasping her hands together.
"Um…rapid ascent, ma'am?" I asked hesitantly.
"Why yes; is it not obvious?"
"Is what obvious, ma'am?"
"Every report that sits on this desk does not tell the story of Corporal Russman the infantryman; they tell me the story of Ald Russman the leader. You are being promoted, Mr. Russman…to second lieutenant." To say I was speechless was an understatement.
"The words are, 'thank you, ma'am," Colonel Alsbury said, a smile on his face.
"Thank you! Ma'am!" I stammered out, taken a back and out of sorts.
"You are welcome, Lieutenant Russman," the Brigadier replied, "though it's a shame you won't be serving under my command." That struck a further chord of confusion.
"Ma'am?"
"The decimation of the 4th Battalion and the Agementa regiments have left a number of units combat ineffective and unable to be fielded. As a result, Campaign Command has deemed it necessary to form a new regiment from these remnants; the First Agementa Grenadiers."
"Which falls under my purview," said a voice. I turned to see a Cruan Regular dressed in the finery of a brigadier general, with two metal legs, smoking the pipe I had smelled when I first entered. "Brigadier General Syril McKendrick, former commander of the 19th Cruan…and you're new boss, by the way."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir," I said, stepping toward him and offering my arm. He took it and shook firmly.
"The pleasure's mine; I've heard great things about you…and I expect them from you," McKendrick stated.
"Understood sir; I'll do my best," I answered, the whole affair feeling immensely surreal.
"Good, now, you have some prep work to do, lieutenant," McKendrick said, "you've got a platoon to assemble and whip into campaigning shape."
"Oh so they're YEETING me into the deep end," I thought.
"How long do I have, sir?" I asked.
"Three weeks; then we move out," McKendrick said, "your company commander can get you all the needed paperwork," he pointed to the Redeye, "your platoon sergeant is waiting outside for you, and Staff Sergeant McDonagh will get you filled in on our way of doing things. Ah, by the way," he tossed me two boxes, "you get to tell him." I caught them, opening them both; inside one lay my gold lieutenant's bar, and in the other, lay Benny's sergeant chevrons.
"Will do, sir."
"Good; you're dismissed," McKendrick stated. I came to attention, saluted, about-faced and left the room. Had the guards not been at the door, I would've slumped against it and stayed there for the rest of the damn day; what the fuck had just happened?
The sound of voices from the second room caught my attention; the voices of SFC Volker, Eddie, Si, Hob, Vic, Irv, and Benny filling echoing from a half closed door. I looked at it for a second, then exchanged the corporal rank for the gold lieutenant bar…and grinned.
Back to wear I belonged.
End of Journal
Next Journal: The Cruan Campaign