The rain pinged like bombshells on his helmet, the cruel staccato of bolter fire joining in for a stuttering symphony of death. Water seeped down the back of his neck as he leaned to grasp the small cup of stimulant drink from the box of munitions on which it rested. New bolter rounds for shooting, new spades for digging, new grenades for throwing, but no new men for killing. He took a sip of the sludge in the mug, cold and bitter in his mouth. Steam rose from his breath as he stood, silent, watching the forest of tank traps and barbed wire beyond. He finished his breakfast but kept the cup in his hand, letting it fill with the rain. He took a swig, swishing the putrid liquid in his mouth, searing his teeth with the acids and pollutants in the water. He spat, and took a drink from his canteen, then poured the rest of the water in. It would be clean by evening, the kinetic filter system scrubbing the water with his movements.
Tendrils of smoke wormed their way through the defenses like the tentacles of some colossal beast reaching up from the depths of the ocean. The stink of its breath assailed his nose, but his movements were sure and swift, removing his helmet with one hand and pulling his mask over his head with the other. He pulled his coat closer to his skin and placed his helmet back on his head. The poison mist stuck close to the ground, seeping over the edge of the escarpment and into the trench. It billowed about his legs, snaking, clutching, ready to pull him under. Still he stood, lasgun slung over his shoulder, eyes, hidden by cloth and glass, looking out to the unknown.
He thought of the last warm shower he had. Steam in clouds all around him, embracing his body in warmth. That was on a different world, in a different time. His regiment had been tasked with eliminating an enclave of cultists which had holed up inside the capital city. The weak-willed heretics held their trenches for mere weeks, and in reward for their swift capture of the city the soldiers were allowed to rest a day before destroying it. There had been a small house, in a park inside the city, abandoned. Clean, with hot water, and soft linens. His patrol could have been executed for the unauthorised stop, but no one said a word, and the cultists were long dead. They took turns in the shower, washing the grime, the blood, the war from their skin and hair. After his turn, he looked around the bedroom where he dressed. Picture frames showed smiling faces and happy lives.
The next day he burned the house to the ground. As the flames reached higher, he released his hold on the trigger of the flamethrower and watched until the house collapsed, the flakes of burnt wood and paper floating into the sky like butterflies. Before the regiment left at the end of the day he managed to go back to the house, the ashes still hot, the embers still glowing. He found one of the frames, half of the picture charred and blackened by the fire, the other sheltered by the glass. It was a picture of a young girl, twelve or thirteen at the most. She reminded him of his sister. He took the picture and stuffed it into one of the pockets on his coat. He would look at it when he had a moment to reflect, and thought of her family, his family, until he finally lost it to the mud.
The toxic miasma that buffeted his legs and burned his skin lingered for days. He had seen men die from those poisons, scratching out their own eyes and shrieking in pain as boils burst all over their skin until a merciful soldier silenced them with death. The daily bombardments increased in frequency as well, the trench itself worn down by the attack. Now he rebuilt what he could with the tools at his disposal.
He reported to his officer only to find a different man in charge. The old officer had died that morning after accidentally shooting himself in the leg. He told this new lieutenant about the increase in artillery barrages, but the youth seemed more concerned with the lack of pomp displayed in his report. He turned around and walked back to his trench as he always did, the backs of the dead beneath his feet familiar with the passage of time. He tried to count the number of bodies once but lost his way just over three hundred. When he arrived he crawled into his cubby and attempted to fortify it using the construction materials his former squad had been supplied with. The recent increase in volume of explosive materiel had left his home in danger of collapse. A shrill cry from above indicated another light show was about to begin. He huddled back as the bombs fell. Routine.
Then the shells stopped short. He heard a whistle blow from across no-man's land, and scrambled to grab his lasgun, his routine broken. Heavy bolter fire immediately erupted from both sides as gunners were presented with targets to aim at. Men were cut down in bloody swathes as they raced across the field of obstructions between their home and their goal. He aimed, firing his lasgun at the racing figures and then stopped, fixing his bayonet while they charged on. Only a few would make it, he knew, past the bolters, and he tried to find out who. One man, dressed in the same uniform as the rest, gas-masked and dodging left and right, was obviously a veteran of the trenches. He aimed once more and fired, striking the man in the chest and throwing him to the ground. He thought of his brother, fiery spirited, likely the most nimble on the field. He aimed at another combatant, evading the heavy gunners' fire, hiding behind cover. He fired again, and thought of his father, cautious, careful.
A man leapt into his trench and clubbed him with the butt of his rifle. Stunned, he fell back, dropping his lasgun, but quickly surged forward before his enemy could fire, grabbing the closest weapon to him; his spade. They struggled for a moment over the rifle until he could bring his weapon to bear. The one-handed shovel made a sick crack as in cut into the man's neck and collarbone. The impact shook up his arm and spattered his mask with blood. The man fell to the ground, blood pouring from the wound, writhing, soon another corpse among a multitude. He fell back against the side of the trench, his heart racing, his shoulder aching where he had been hit and his elbow aching with the force of his blow.
The bolter fire became sporadic once more, the enemy advance halted. For now.