Entry 9A
Rough Start
Cruan
Ard Allie
0722 Local Time
Twelve days before step off…
There is a saying within the Imperium, "Doubt is for the weak." It is supposed to reinforce those who are unshakeable in the face of danger and inspire those who might be timid in such situations. For me, as SFC Volker and I walked past the phrase painted on the side of Ard Allie's provost station, it felt like neither, more insulting than anything else.
"Let me do the talking, sir," Volker advised as we came to the door. I nodded mutely, stepping inside the drearily lit waiting room. On the right side were three desks manned by provosts, and on the left were four rows of chairs, with two downcast figures in them.
One of the provosts, a corporal, looked up from his desk and addressed us, "Welcome in, gents, are you here for the Grenadier boys?" Lovely, my merry bunch of morons was well known here.
"Yes we are," Volker replied.
'Right this way then," the corporal stood and gestured to a door on the far side of the room. We followed, entering a hallway lined with office doors before turning into the jail area. Four large cells lay in the corners of room, one held four bored individuals, another held members of the 2nd Freeport Dragoons, and the other two cells held members of the 1st Agementa Grenadiers. Specifically, men from my platoon. Hearing us enter, they all stood and looked at us, some with heads bowed in shame, others held high in defiance, and others still in expectation.
"Right, so," the provost pulled a data slate from a pocket, "the gentlemen in cell one," he indicated the cell on the left, "were booked for disorderly conduct and brawling yesterday at 1602 local time. The gentlemen on the right," indicating the cell on the right, "were booked for disorderly conduct and brawling at 1952 local time with the group from the 2nd Dragoons over there. All parties are to be released at the discretion of their platoon leadership; I'm assuming that's you gentlemen?"
"Yes, platoon leader and sergeant," Volker answered. The provost withdrew a set of keys, "Can you step out for a minute please, corporal? We'd like a word with our men." The provost nodded and left the room, leaving us with the detainees.
"Ooooo, looks like the mutts are gonna get it, lads," sneered one of the dragoons, standing near the bars of his cell. I was not in the mood to entertain such childish antics, nor was I going to allow slander of my Guardsmen. I turned, unclipping the holster of my laspistol, and crossed the room to the far cell. (*Yes, they allowed Volker and I to keep our weapons; this is the 41st Millenium in the Imperial Guard, shooting our own is kinda our schtick*)
The dragoons stood as I grabbed the mouthy one by the collar, pulling him towards me and slamming his face into the bars. Two of his fellows moved forward; I drew the pistol and put a bolt into the wall between them, "Not. A single. Step. Forward." The dragoons withdrew to the wall. "Do they look like mutts to you?" I asked the offending Guardsman.
"No sir, they don't," he mumbled out, his mouth having trouble moving against the bars.
"Come again, couldn't hear you?"
"No, sir, they do not!" The dragoon repeated loudly.
"No, they are not; they've actually fought and bled on this planet and going to fight again, while you and your boys, last I checked, have not fought, nor did you fight on Freeport against the Orks. You were mechanics that were on the first transport off world, is that not correct?" The dragoons, members of the regiment's maintenance detachment, sulked and glared daggers at me. "That's right; so how about you treat them with respect, yeah?" I shoved the dragoon back, causing him to stumble and fall down. "Because as far as I'm concerned, they can get themselves in enough trouble as it is without you stirring them up!" Turning back to the two cells full of my men, I let Volker take the floor.
"I'll get to you lot in a moment," Volker snarled at the first cell, "all of you, on your feet!" The second cell came to their feet, the largest of which, and the man I was the least surprised to see in that cell, standing last. Sergeant Hobbles, eyes staring above everyone's heads at the dragoons behind us. "First, allow me to say I am proud of you," Volker began, "standing up for your unit and your teammates is admirable and should be commended. However, putting eight Dragoons in the infirmary for a month is not acceptable. We're in the middle of a fucking war; we do not harm or break our fellow Guardsmen, even if they are being pricks, am I clear?"
"Yes, sergeant!" The men shouted. The provost poked his head in for a moment at the noise, then closed the door.
"Now," Volker turned, his voice low. When he was angry, Volker found creative ways to punish troublemakers, exercises only being used when he was mildly irritated or secretly entertained. "Hands on the bars." Everyone stepped forward, including three of the men I was most frustrated with; Sergeants Price (Eddie), Silas (Si), and Johnathan (Johnnie) McManus; a Cruan native who had become SSG McDonough's second-in-command when it came to the Cruan Guardsmen. The three sergeants had been the instigators behind a fight within the platoon.
The training exercise had gone about as well as initial training exercises go; a good deal of hits and plenty of misses on both sides. Slapping three officers who have no combat experience into leadership positions…well that goes about as well as you'd expect for the first day. The other three platoons were soundly beaten by ambushes and feints from my platoon. The second day, Abby and Mac had learned their lesson, listened to their NCOs who had seen combat, and bloodied me badly, with Ipswich still not taking the hint. Day three…day three was a clusterfuck; bad communications, poor weather, and with the end in sight, the four platoons shit the bed, blundering through the training area. The Redeye's scathing remarks of the third day stung everyone in the company, sending us away in disgrace and frustration.
Throughout all of this and unbeknownst to me, a cultural rift had formed in my platoon between the Freeporters and the Cruan. This rift widened with every day, every engagement, and every misunderstanding that went unresolved, culminating in the Redeye's ass-chewing. On the way back, one of Sergeant McManus's Guardsmen, Gavin McManus (*Yes the two are related*)made a remark that ruffled the feathers of the Freeporters. Sergeant Price returned fire, which caused Sergeant McManus to go toe-to-toe with the Freeporters, which led to Sergeant Silas throwing a haymaker. The assorted bruises and black eyes in amongst my Guardsmen was testament enough to the ensuing brawl.
Eyeing their platoon sergeant warily, everyone stepped to the bars and placed their hands on the bars, including the only person in the cell who didn't deserve to be in there; Benny McDonagh. The only one in a thirty-person brawl who tried to stop it.
As the last pair of hands came to the bars, Volker's left hand flicked a switch on his shock maul. Before anyone could react, the sergeant unclipped it from his belt in his left hand and pressed it into the bars of the cell. I don't know what the voltage on the maul was, but it was enough that every single Guardsman with their hands on the bars convulsed violently and screamed, their hands stuck firmly to the very thing that carried their pain. To them it must've been eternity, but for everyone else, it was three seconds. Volker removed the maul, flicking it as our men crumpled to the ground in pain, panting heavily.
"Your behavior yesterday was a fucking disgrace! We had one pissy day, and you decided to take it out, on each other, your bloody teammates, in the streets of the fucking city. Not only was it unacceptable, it was disgraceful to your uniform, your unit, and the Guard as a whole. We have a war to win, and yet you decide to bloody each others' noses instead."
"Oh fuck off you-" began one of the Cruan, before another of his kin cuffed him around the ear.
"And don't even start me on the disrespect you have for each other and your sergeants; do you want to fight the bastards who are taking your planet, or do you want to sit in the brig for the entirety of the war, because I can keep you there!" Volker was pacing in front of the cell now, swinging the power maul back and forth in front of him, just barely missing the bars of the cell each time. "I WILL NOT take a single one of you into combat if you are unable to give your leadership or each other the respect they have earned or are granted. This is not a schoolyard nor the hallways of a hive schola; this is a warzone and you will behave as such. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sergeant." Came the unenthused, humbled response from within the cell.
"Do we have any objectors to my statements?"
"No, sergeant."
"Excellent; provost?" The corporal appeared in the door, "Please open the cells for us." Volker deactivated his power maul and stepped back and I holstered my sidearm. The forty Guardsmen exited the cells as the provost unlocked them, all looking suitably downcast.
"Sergeants, with Volker and I. Everyone else, back to the armory to shower and dress. There will be punishments for everyone involved in both incidents. Dismissed." I said. The five sergeants stood back as the rest left.
The problem facing Volker and I was not a mere pair of brawls, nor was it a lack of discipline amongst new sergeants; those were mere symptoms. The root of the problem was a cultural divide; the Freeporters, with no home, were regarded as interlopers and vagabonds unable to save their planet by the Cruan, and the Freeporters regarded the Cruan as unruly, unwashed, and drunk natives unable to defend their home planet. It was an ugly argument with no true victor; I personally blame Inquisitor Kryptman for the whole mess of the Octarius sector, but that was neither here nor there.
What Volker and I had to figure out was how to bridge this gap to create a cohesive fighting force. First, however…we had to face down the Redeye.
"So what the hell did your cousin say to set off Sergeant Price?" I asked Sergeant McManus as we slowly made our way back to Building 19-98.
He sighed and scratched the back of his head before answering, "Since you 'Porties couldn't handle a real threat, you had to come find a weaker one to make you feel good about yourselves." My jaw about fell off my damn head as Volker and Hobs both turned to stare at the embarrassed McManus.
"And yet he stood up for the bastard," Eddie hissed.
"He's my bloody kin, whaddya expect me to do?" McManus argued back.
"Not be a right cun-" Si began.
"Silas!" Volker snarled, the ex-ganger shutting his mouth promptly.
"Whatever the case," I cut in, "this cannot happen again. We have less than two weeks before we deploy, and infighting is the last thing we need."
"Gents, I know I'm in the shitter right now, but canaye make a suggestion?" McManus in his heavy Cruan accent.
"And that is?" I asked, before anyone could interject.
"We've got two hundred blokes and five squad leaders, when we've got the capacity for another five squads with sergeants."
"To include yourself?" Volker cast a suspicious eye at McManus.
"I know what I'm sayin', damnit; what I'm suggesting is more squads, five under Volker and five under McDonagh."
"Me?" Benny said in surprise. "I'm a staff sergeant, not a platoon leader."
"He's suggesting we have five Freeport squads and five Cruan squads," Si realized.
"Right-o," McManus said, "it'd solve a hair of the cultural tension and make controlling the whole thing easier; we'd've mentioned it at the end of yesterday, but, uh…didn't have the space to."
"We'll think about it," Volker said and I nodded in response. "Right now, we're due to see the Redeye."
"Don't we need to shower first?" Eddie asked.
"Oh no; you're to see the commander in all your filthy glory today." We rounded the bend, coming in sight of Building 19-98; the last hundred meters to do the doors felt like an eternity. Going inside, some stopped to look at us, but most paid us no mind as we ascended the stairs to the office area.
"Right; sergeants to the commander's office, Volker and Russman, outside please." Came the voice of First Sergeant Newman as we entered the office. Volker and I dutifully waited at my desk as the five moved into Captain Apelles' office. A moment later, the Redeye began roaring.
"Russie?" Ipswich asked.
"Yessir?"
"Has he always been like this?"
"He hasn't," Volker commented, "it took a few hard conversations, but I was able to find the arsehole in him." The office was silent at that remark, the other three lieutenants struggling to figure out if the sergeant knew what he had said, while I struggled to contain laughter.
"So…what's the hole like?" Mac ventured, causing everyone to chuckle in spite of the situation.
"Like that," Volker nodded to the office from which an animal was unleashing righteous fury, "he's a good man and a gentleman at heart, but he recognizes when the lads need a nice screaming-at to get matters sorted." I noted Ipswich looking thoughtfully at the Redeye's office for a brief moment before turning back.
"Is everyone from your platoon alright?" Abby asked me. She had a cut with bruising around it on her right check from where a branch whipped into her.
"They're alright…most of them," I gestured to the office.
"And you?" She asked.
I nodded slowly for a moment before answering, "I'll be alright. I've had my ass chewed before."
"Come on, can't be that bad," Mac said, then reconsidered his statement.
"We'll be alright," Volker affirmed. We waited for awhile longer, listening to the verbal flood of rage from our commander, before Si, Eddie, and Johnnie exited the office looking like kicked puppies.
"Russman, Stadtlander, inside!" Came the voice of the Redeye. Volker and I stood and went into the office, coming to attention as Newman closed the door. "Right!" The Redeye who was standing, began, then let out a long sigh, sinking into his chair, "Thank the Emperor that's done and dusted." Myself, Volker, McDonagh, and Hobs were confused, but remained at attention. "By the Throne, gents, relax, sit; I've gotten the anger out."
"Didn't teach him that one," Volker whispered to me as we sat before the Redeye.
"Mister Hobbles," Apelles began with my weapons squad leader, "first and foremost, your willingness to defend the honor of your Cruan comrades is commendable, however, bludgeoning the dragoons is not what should have occurred, am I clear?"
"Yes sir, crystal clear," Hobs replied.
"Excellent; you'll be in charge of the team cleaning the company's weapons after the range tomorrow, dismissed." Hobs came to attention, saluted, and left the room swiftly. "Mister McDonagh; you are free and clear."
"Sir?"
"Apologies for including you in my tirade, however, I needed to project a certain image to your native fellows, am I understood?"
"Yes sir, I think so."
"Excellent; to be clear, I'm quite proud of you. You stood in the way of your kinsmen when it would've been simpler and easier to side with them. That speaks volumes to your character."
"Thank you, sir."
"Scrumptious, dismissed." McDonagh followed Hobs' swift example and left. As the door closed behind him, the Redeye sighed again and leaned back in his chair. "So, I see we've run into the difficulties of managing a multi-cultural fighting force. How are we feeling, gentlemen?"
"Ready to get after it, sir," Volker said.
"Frustrated, but I can make it work," I replied.
"Thank you for your honesty, Ald, Volker," Apelles fixed his old platoon sergeant with a half-bemused, half-annoyed look, "stop trying to shovel me shit and tell me the truth."
Volker paused, then admitted, "I believe Lieutenant Russman echoes my sentiments."
"Good man."
"Sir, may I ask why I'm not being chewed out right now?" I asked bluntly. Three pairs of eyes turned to me.
"Would you like to be, Mister Russman?" The Redeye inquired.
"No sir, I'm just a mite confused at the moment."
"I believe that the Emperor created the Lectitio Divinatus for an imperfect race that required guidance and grace, which I elect to emulate. You and Volker are not being reprimanded due to your…extraordinary circumstances; you aren't even a month into your command, and you're already being faced with challenges most men your rank wouldn't face in their life time. So, I am not chewing you out for that reason, although I would advise that such questions not be asked again, am I clear?"
"Yessir, my apologies."
"Forgiven; now, onto business, what have we learned from both our training exercise and our incidents last night?" The Redeye snapped his fingers and a servo-skull floated from below the desk, a stencil and parchment ready to go.
"Well sir, one thing we may have discovered is an issue in our squad organization," I began, "according to the boys, the five large squads we have, with SSG McDonagh handling relations with his kinsmen, makes for a confusing mess in the C2 (Command and Control) chain, especially when we have more Cruan NCOs available to us."
"It was suggested that we split the five squads from their current size of forty to ten squads of twenty, in what is effectively a miniature company. Ten squad leaders, five of which report directly to me, five to SSG McDonagh, both of whom would report to Lieutenant Russman," Volker continued.
"And I imagine these would be along cultural lines?" 1SG Newman inquired from behind us.
"Yes, 1st Sarn't," Volker answered.
The Redeye shook his head, "Affirmative to squad changes, no to the cultural segregation; if we are to form the force we want to and have been tasked with creating, we cannot divide along such arbitrary lines. You will make the ten squads with the five Cruan NCOs, they will answer to SSG McDonagh, however, both sets will have a healthy blend of Cruan and Freeporter, understood?"
The servo-skull meticulously copied what was being said as we spoke, it's small stencil creating a constant sounds of writing and dragging on parchment. Volker and I affirmed what was said, and we then dove into the tactical aspects of the three-day exercise for the next hour. Afterwards, we were dismissed, with Volker going to determine the new squad arrangements. As for me, I went out inspect the prep for the range the next day. After a three-day exercise, what everyone wanted was a break, but with our step-off time fast approaching, there was no time for rest.
"Oi, Russ?" Came the voice of Vic. Turning, I saw him and Irv approaching from our bay. A mild irritation popped into my head at not being call "sir"; not because I need an ego-stroking (*although that is a part of it early in a lieutenant's career*) but because it represented something I needed to handle within my platoon; the men seeing me as an officer and not one of them. I stared at him expectantly as the pair approached, eliciting a confused look from my friend. "Oh right, fuck, sorry mate, or, sir. Still getting used to it."
"I get it, let's not have it happen in front of the boys, got it?"
"You go-, yes sir."
"There we go, how can I help you?"
"We've got a question regarding how we want to handle our vox transmitters, especially since we've got eight spares." For the rest of the day, some-fucking-how, I got stuck working on vox devices, vox operators, and how to handle having three spares instead of eight with the addition of five more squads. By five in the afternoon, when the company had been dismissed for the day, I still had inventory to check.
Two-hundred lasguns? Check.
Two-thousand-four-hundred lasgun magazines? Check.
Twenty-charging stations? Requisitioned and on site.
And on, and on, and on it went.
Now, interloping reader, you may be wondering: Why by the Throne am I telling you all of this? Because, dear reader this is the most boring my life has been since Grunnur and, as of writing this entry, it will be the most boring my life will be until I am laid in the ground, dead. I am giving you context for the BAT-SHIT-INSANITY the war for Agementa, and indeed the war for Cruan, turns into.
I will say, however, that it wasn't, totally, a dull evening; as I was finishing up, I curiously heard the front door open, followed by someone coming up the stairs. The door opened, revealing Abby, who was giving me an inquiring squint.
"Of course you'd still be here," she said. I leaned back from my desk, arms wide in mock offense.
"Where the fuck did that come from? I'm just working!" I exclaimed, chuckling at the sudden assault on my work habits.
"I didn't," Abby facepalmed before continuing, "I didn't it mean it like that; I just meant," she started laughing in spite of herself.
"Throne, Abby, I didn't realize my work ethic offended you," I piled on. I knew what she had meant, but I'll be damned if I pass up a chance to rib one of my friends.
"Stop!" She laughed. "I just meant that it would be you working late, not Mac or Ipswich."
"Someone has to," I tapped the crown of my bald head, "ya think I got this hairstyle by relaxing?" Abby continued laughing as she half walked, half-stumbled to her desk and sat down. I set my work down, done as it was, and turned to face her; she was in civilian clothes; blue top, tan pants, a fairly simple look with her hair down. For whatever reason, I got fixated on that final fact; her hair was down. It occurred to me, in that moment, that I was going with another eight-hundred ninety-nine Guardsmen to possibly die in battle, and I had barely seen any of them out of uniform…what you though I was fixated because she's pretty?
Well that too.
I was broken from my thoughts by a confused yet insistent, "What?" from Abby.
"Nothing, just," I stammered, grappling with saying what was on my mind and deflecting. Instead out came, "I don't see you with your hair down much; it looks nice." Throne save me, I'm in my late twenties now, why do I still talk like I'm in college?
"Well, Militarum regulations and war prep don't let me do it in uniform," Abby replied, fiddling with her hair a bit, "thank you."
"Anytime," I smiled, "so what brings you back for the night?"
"Just wanted to check something for tomorrow."
"What, making sure that Private So-and-So can run the range if all the officers and NCOs suddenly die off?"
"Something like that," Abby replied as she checked her paperwork, then held up a middle finger to me. I chuckled as I put mine away for tomorrow, standing and stretching. "I'm going to be here for a bit."
"I can wait," I replied, going for a cup of thrice-refiltered-water.
"Don't think that I can walk back by myself?" Abby asked. I turned, raising an eyebrow at her.
"I know you can make it back by yourself, but I don't mind waiting and walking with you awhile." Abby opened her mouth, closed it, and went back to her work.
"Thank you," she said. We spent the rest of the time together in quiet, other things on our minds.
Entry 9B
Plans, Set, and Immoveable
Ard Allie
0900 Local Time
Ten days before step off…
Once again, the officers of the Agementa campaign found themselves crowded in the city hall for a briefing, this time lacking any Inquisitors. Chapter Master Sidero stood with the generals, alongside two Tech-Priests, one robed in electric blue, and one in rich red, and an Astartes that I could safely assume was the Iron Angels' Master of Sanctity or High Chaplain. Once again, the room was abuzz with conversation and gossip about the figures in the center of the room and what could possibly be the purpose of this mass-meeting. A stomp of the Chapter Master's boot silenced the room.
"Good morning!" Called Lieutenant General Taros Dektain, the liaison from Campaign Command.
"Good morning, sir!" We chorused back.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are ten days away from step off, so today, you shall be briefed on the scheme of maneuver for the campaign." Dektain gestured and four servo-skulls ascended, projecting an image of our campaign map onto the floor before the raised dais. Ard Allie was at the far end, with our final objective at the closer side.
"We have a trek of over six hundred miles ahead of us from here to our final objective, Belltowne. For our Freeport compatriots, Belltowne is out planetary capital, the birthplace and seat of power of the Arch-traitor, Cardinal Sameul de Richelieu. It is there that the Tau and the traitor allies have established their headquarters, and it is there that we shall break them. With this in mind, we announce the commencement of Operation: Heavenly March."
There was brief clamor of whisperings as many officers began talking amongst themselves; clamor that was quickly calmed by a single "SILENCE!" from the Space Marine Chaplain.
"The concept is simple; it's execution will take time," graphics began to appear across the map, arrows to represent routes, X-marks to represent friction points, and dots to represent towns, villages, and cities. "Operation: Heavenly March, or OHM for short, will begin in ten days time at 0000 hours local. Upon which, all units mustered within the bounds of the Ard Allie Defensive Zone (AADZ) will depart, moving through the Barr Maol zone to the front." A red zone a few miles outside of Ard Allie, past Barr Maol. Looking at it, I estimated in the three short weeks since I had left Barr Maol, friendly forces had gained approximately fifteen miles of ground. Considering our opponent, that wasn't too bad.
"Combat operations will begin upon arrival at the front; the 2nd Freeport Dragoons presently hold the frontline against primarily traitor forces with Fire Warrior leadership and battlesuit close support. The focus of initial engagements will be to break through enemy emplacements in the battle zone, designated the Coiseachd Bàs by the locals, or the Death Walk." The frontline area turned into a twenty-mile by thirty-mile oval stretching towards a town called Cnoc Dhunlay, Dunlay's Hill.
"The first objective of OHM is to retake the town of Dunlay's Hill in order to retake territory, and to complete the break out from the AADZ. During engagements in the Death Walk, the 14th Greensward Carbineers will arrive on Cruan and will immediately assist in friendly engagements. Shortly thereafter, the Sisters of the Order of the Imperial Rose will arrive in theater and add their forces to ours. Chapter Master Sidero will discuss his chapter's dispersal." Dektain stepped back and gave the floor to the Iron Angel.
"Brothers in arms," Sidero greeted, reaching up and removing his helm. Six service studs dotted the forehead of an aged, weathered face, with two cruel scars carved from the left side of his forehead to bottom of his right cheek, one of which crossed into his right eye, causing it to be white against the pale green of his left.
Even without his helmet, Sidero's transhuman voice carried easily through the city hall. "Unfortunately, the full might of my chapter cannot be brought to bear in this initial push. Much of our force is deployed elsewhere against the Greenskins of WAAGH! Badklaw andthe forces of the Skyhammer elsewhere. On Cruan, we bring to bear the full of the 1st, 3rd, and 7th Companies, with elements of the 10th Scout Company in support. These formations are designed to remain stuck in against the Tau and will easily wipe aside any traitor contingent." The Chapter Master stepped to the map, pointing with an armor hand, "Elements of the 3rd and 7th companies will be dispersed across the Death Walk in direct combat, while the scouts of the 10th will provide reconnaissance support for allied forces."
Blips depicting the Iron Angels' insignia appeared on the map, silver against the red. Dektain stepped forward again to speak, summarizing broad troop movements; the 1st Agementa Grenadiers would be deployed the fore of the fighting, alongside battered elements of the 1st and 2nd Freeport. The 22nd Cruan would form the left flank, with 8th Cruan on the right, with Skitarii cohorts from Ambolt and Molotok guarding the rear. I took down what details I could, but the details were sparse, saved for when we arrived at the front. With that, the brief was concluded, and we all departed.
Leaving the city hall, I vaguely heard the commotion around me, walking out with my fellow platoon leaders and my commander. Instead, my mind was elsewhere, thinking on the coming campaign. We were going straight to the front, where the fighting was the thickest. Sure, we had battle-hardened allies to our sides and Space Marines working with us, but they were not guaranteed to always be there.
All I could wonder was this: Was everything Volker and I doing enough to survive the coming fight?