Guilt and Anger

The Imperial Guard had surged into Golgotha Spire intent on breaking the Orks apart before they could consolidate their landing sites. To an extent, they were successful. Four of the strategically valuable bridges linking the dockyards and storage facilities to the mainland had been secured in the first day of fighting, with only minimal losses for the Imperium. The remaining two had been subject to the fiercest fighting of the day, resulting in one bridge's destruction by Greenskin saboteurs, and the other still hotly contested. Southgate Bridge was effectively cleansed in a matter of hours, as the Vendoland, Xenobane and Garredyne forces has swept across into Ork territory, courtesy of the 4th Grenadiers. By all accounts, the first day of the Green Winter Campaign had been a resounding success.

But not for Soras, or for any of the grenadier platoon. Six men dead was a tally for some, but for them, they were six friends that wouldn't be going home again. Their deaths lay heavily on the troopers' consciences, a bitter reminder that, for all their training and experience, even veterans could fall as easily as raw guardsmen. Kippler sat atop a terraced roof, listening to the bells from Temple Hill ringing in the night sky while a light snow fell. Kippler began unraveling a roll of cloth from his pack. It was Remer's homemade banner for the regiment, poor Gothic grammar and all. He really had used bootlaces for the stitching.

Two pillars adorned with eagles, one blindfolded, flanked the central emblem. Remer had chosen a large, furry animal for their symbol. Kippler recognized it as an Ursidae, an unusual beast from other worlds he'd only read about. Most Guard units that had seen them simply called the beast a bear. Remer's bear riding Space Marines, Kippler remembered that conversation. Across the bottom of the green flag, the slogan was written. "First Glory".

"First Glory to you then, Lenham Remer," said Soras quietly. He set the flag aside, unable to look at it anymore. Instead, he did what he always did when he needed to focus. He began stripping his rifle. At least that was something he knew he couldn't fail at.

"These are the men?" asked Colonel Crassus. Arrayed in front of him were fifty Planetary Defense Force soldiers, stripped down to their undershirts and coated in oil and grime. Even in the bitter cold, Crassus could see the sweat evaporating from their skin, and each looked like he had spent time in a furnace rather than manning an artillery battery.

"Gun crew seventy-seven, Colonel," said Battery Commander Hullen. The large man puffed out his chest with pride for the recognition of his leadership. A compliment from the Imperial Guard was as great an honor as the commander could achieve. Crassus let Hullen bask in his ego stroking, he wasn't here for the commander. He was here to see the crew themselves. "We are a joint anti-air and ground support unit. No doubt you were impressed by my performance today."

"Yes..." muttered Crassus, trailing off. He walked the breadth of the crew, eyeing the militiamen. Intimidated, several of them straightened up as he passed. "You men have helped win us a great victory today. Take pride in that. With your aid, we were able to secure a vital lynchpin in our supply lines to the battlefront. I am here to personally congratulate you for your timely assistance, and I shall be placing a commendation for your unit." Crassus clapped his gloved hands together, rubbing them to ward off the cold. "The Emperor thanks you this day. Moreover, I thank you."

Crew 77 snapped to attention, saluting. Crassus was impressed with their discipline. Perhaps there was more to Hullen than his paunch. "Thank you sir!" they shouted. Crassus returned the salute, and walked back to the half-track, waiting to pick him up. The Colonel pulled back the canvas and climbed into the truck's rear, where Major Lester was waiting for him.

"Did you find anything up there?" asked Crassus. If his hunch was correct, they had just gained a valuable asset.

Armand nodded. "You were right, Ertrand, the site is perfect. 77 Battery lies along Temple Hill's Fourth Rampart, right in the corner where the wall begins to curve. Their guns overlook the whole street across Luesan Island. It's got an unprecedented firing arc that we can use. They can provide fire almost anywhere within our sector."

"Good work," said Crassus, huddling up in his heavy cloak. "Send a vox operator over there first thing in the morning. I want a direct line between 77 and Command, is that clear?"

"Perfectly, sir. I'll send Murtonn, he won't let us down."

"Then we have nothing more to discuss," Crassus said. "Driver, take us home." The engine growled to life, and the half-track skidded along the still falling snow towards headquarters. The complex sat at the base of Temple hill, a sprawling series of management offices that the Guard had appropriated from protesting nobles. Crassus and Lester passed through the security checkpoints on their way to their billet. The Major bid Crassus good night, leaving him to his study.

The austere room left little to indicate anyone had even been there. Crassus only personal belongings were in a suitcase nestled in the corner. He decided now might be the only time to unpack what little he owned. A set of civilian clothes, a journal, and a small box. Crassus set the box on the desk and opened the lid, revealing an autopistol, the grip inlaid with silverwork. He looked at the weapon longingly. It had been a gift from his uncle, a metal craftsman back on Vendoland. Thinking back, he realized that it had been nearly twenty years since he had been home, and it would probably be another twenty before he would get another chance.

Crassus threw his winter cloak over the desk chair and eased himself into the chair, reclining back as far as the springs would allow. Enjoy the small moments, he taught himself. After a long, draining day, any comfort was a luxury. He glanced idly over to the stack of files and reports awaiting his signature. No matter how short lived they may be.

Gren stared down the Ratling cook opposite the mess table. "I'm not eating that until it stops moving," he snarled, pointing at the quivering pile of stew mounding his plate. The abhuman was insisting that the local wildlife was edible, only adding to Gren's disgust.

"Honest now chum, have you ever tried eating a Meridian Granite Borer?" asked the cook, his voice as greasy as his apron. "I've tasted it m'self an' nothing's wrong with me. Ask any of us, it's eatable."

Gren loomed over the table, towering over the halfwit midget. "Maybe for you, if you had stomach acid that would give a Space Marine a run for his money, but not for me. Give me a bowl that isn't slightly alive."

The Ratling raised his arms, expressing defeat. "Fine, soldier boy, have it your way." The cook slopped a new plate of food for Gren. "Enjoy," he said, deadpan. Gren just sneered at the runt and walked off. It had been a long day, and a ratling giving him lip wasn't helping.

A group of spectators had been watching the altercation from a distance. A few even called out some encouragement to Gren, but most watched in anticipation. Since 11th and 7th had been folded into one, several guardsmen had come to hear the stories about Old Gren. Some said he had snapped after losing most of his squadmates near the end of the Vandis heresy. Others told stories of how the young lad who followed him around was his handler, as if he was some animal. Those that knew Gren told these gossipers to shut up, or they might get to know him a little too well.

The rapid advance after the Vendolanders had cleared the bridge had brought the worst urban combat had to offer with it. With the Orks digging in, every building had become a fortress. Gren's platoon had been tasked with clearing a food rations depot in the Hab blocks, which now served as the mess hall he and Flinn sat in. The fight had lasted nearly four hours before the Orks had fallen back, taking most of the supplies along with them. The rancid stench of the company cook's stew only mildly blocked out the smell the Greenskins left behind.

"Cheer up, man," said one of the new boys as Gren seated himself along the table. "It's better to have the 'abbies' watch our food than watch our backs. And he's not that bad a cook, once you get round his ingredients."

Gren just grunted angrily. "So you think having some little freak poison you with a smile on his face is better than throwing him out against the Orks with the rest of us?" Gren shook his head. "I don't know how you can live with an abhuman like that. Just get some chef from the reserve company and be done with him."

"So I take it you don't trust the abbies then?" asked the trooper. Gren simply gave him a look that said 'you are an idiot for asking that.'

"Didn't I just finish saying that? No, I don't trust abhumans. I don't trust anyone."

"Corporal? May I have a word?" Kippler looked up from his rifle to see Captain Uther standing at the access door to the rooftop. Kippler nodded reluctantly, and Uther stepped forward. He offered Kippler a warm mug. "The ratlings aren't the most reliable chefs, I know. This is from my personal stock."

"Something you needed, captain?" asked Kippler, taking a sip from the steaming cup.

"Just a talk, Corporal. I've spoken with Commissar Connor, she gave me the action report on your success today. She... also told me of your casualties. I am sorry about Remer."

"There's nothing I could have done, sir," said Kippler flatly. "Artillery doesn't discriminate. It's just the feeling of helplessness that I am troubled by. There was nothing I could have done as I see it now. But what if I had done differently? Would I have been able to save him?"

Lars shrugged. "That's not for me to say. You made the call, and you must live with it. Soldiers die, Soras. If you try to save everyone, you end of getting them all killed. You need to move past that if you are to lead. And right now, your men need a leader. Connor told me about the trouble you had with your second grenadier, Vornas. Mend that damage now before it spreads."

"Yes sir."

Captain Uther got up to leave. "I'm counting on you, Soras, don't let me down. When you are ready, I have a list of replacement candidates for your squad. I have no doubt you will make a smart decision."

Half embedded in the bottom of Lake Aradine, a large section of the Ork rok rose out of the water like a jagged island. Even as the haphazard construct continued to fill with water, the Orks still persisted in their efforts to keep the ship running in a semi functional manner. In his newly made chambers near the top, Warboss Smashface convened with his Nobz. "Right, dis meetin' is come to orda now!" barked Smashface. "Dat means shut yer yap and listen! Now, where are we?"

"Well, boss, we're in a lake," said one of the Nobz. Smashface lived up to his name, leaving the Nob to pick himself up off the floor.

"I know dat, you idiot! I mean, where are we on da map? You know, dat fing dat I found dat brought us here in da first place? Mek, bring dat fing out 'ere and show us where we are!"

The new Mekboy, somewhat rapidly promoted after his predecessor's involuntary accident, nervously shuffled forward, holding a hololith chart in his hands. He set the chart on the ground, letting the assembled Nobz look over the three dimensional display. "It says 'ere boss, dat we're on Meridian, capital of da Subsecta Aurelia. Says dat we've come down on da Angel Hive, in particular, Golgotha spire."

Smashface looked at the map with a greedy gleam in his beady eyes. "Golgoffa? Now dats a propa Orky name, isn't it boyz?" The Nobz nodded in agreement with the Warboss. "Wot do you know about dis Golgoffa, Mek?" he asked.

"Well, da chart here says dat most o' da boyz managed to land on, well, land. We'z got most o' da city covered, Boss, wiv plenty o' loot already. Da humies are on da north side, but we'z got da island and da south ends covered. Looks like a huge crumpin' Waaagh! If I ever saw one!"

"Of course it's a Waaagh! you git! I coulda told ya dat," said Smashface. He pondered for a moment. "Err, how are we supposed to get to da fightin'? Da Tellyporta's busted up."

The Mek scratched his head, thinking. The Nobz put their collective thoughts together, and came up empty. Orks were made for fighting and winning, not for planning and scheming (except for those weird Blood Axe boys). The collaborative thought process lasted several minutes, a spark of genius occurred. The New Mek snapped his meaty fingers. "I've got it boss!" he exclaimed. "'Ere's wot we do!"

Alek rushed between cots of wounded soldiers, helping where he could. The chief field medic for the company, a thickset man named Yoren, was wheeling another shrapnel victim into the medical station. The Orks had mercifully avoided striking the Hab block's hospital. Whether because of its lack of value in their minds, or if they wished to find better opponents than dying men, Alek didn't care. He was too busy checking triage tags and directing incoming wounded to ancilliary wards.

There were few civilians coming in, thanks to the early warnings that had successfully moved the bulk of Golgotha into refugee shelters on the north end of Temple Hill. Alek paid little attention to the few that arrived. Right now, he needed to focus on the guardsmen in front of him. Other volunteer medics did the same. A man was brought in with a massive cut along the inside of his leg. He wasn't moving, and Alek remorsefully crossed an X on his forehead. Too far gone, too much blood loss. He couldn't be saved now.

With every new arrival, Alek anxiously checked to see if one of them was Remer. Maybe somebody had found him, just trapped below but alright. He kept hoping to see the unkempt mop of black hair on one of those beds, or maybe hear a bad joke from the eternal optimist. But Remer never came. Alek's heart sank as the night dragged on. He recounted the proverb: Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.