Chapter 29
There was a deep, bass rumble from within Ebba. Huge, blotchy clouds of smoke drifted from its spires. Columns of rockcrete rose from each falling artillery shell. Some decimated buildings were overtaken by flames and the light created an eerie, smeared glow above the city walls. Muzzle flashes flickered along the ramparts as countless ork guns barked. Tracer rounds created long streams of red light arcing through the evening. Mortars, cannons, and automatic grenade launchers hammered away at the crenellations. Every impact sheared away a few more millimeters of rockcrete. Undeterred, the orks maintained their punishing rate of fire.
Bullets thudded into the embankment of the parapet, causing many helmeted heads to duck down. Heavy weapons crews unleashed a fusillade that raked the ramparts. They were aided by Griffon mortar carriages from the 998th, bunkered down in the Imperial trenches. Leman Russ tanks fired from behind piles of earth and sometimes rolled partially up the mounds to gain a higher trajectory for their cannons. Ork artillery answered and shells bombarded the lines with tremendous fury. Clots of packed soil were thrown in all directions and shrapnel skidded off tank armor.
Sitting in the frontline trenches below these heavy guns, Bloody Platoon sat on the firing step. Men gnawed on flavorless nutrient bars and brewed weak recaf over portable burners. One individual from each squad was selected to hold a canvas sheet over the cooking stations so flying chunks of earth did not land in their pans. Others shored up the trench as best they could, but without lumber there was little to be done. Some equipped with heavy weapons stood on the firestep or occupied bays to suppress ork fortifications. But most remained idle, tucked into cuts in the walls or into makeshift dugouts protected by sandbags.
Marsh Silas sat under a feeble canvas canopy in one of the bays, his arm around Hyram. Both men had large bandages on their cheeks. Rowley slouched beside Marsh, one arm over her eyes and the other holding the handset to her ear. In an adjacent bay, the Walmsley twins operated a heavy bolter they had taken from a dead gun crew. Walmsley Minor fed the belt while Walmsley Major sat on a crate firing long bursts. The clatter of the weapon was deafening and the many piles of cartridges beside grew so large they rolled onto the duckboards. Fremantle directed their fire while Jacinto lobbed bolts of flame at the ramparts.
"Walmsley," groaned Marsh, as the continuous heavy bolter fire made his temples throb. The platoon sergeant kept shooting. Glaring from the corner of his eye, Marsh cleared his throat. "Walmsley…Walmsley!" Rolling his eyes, he activated the laud-hailer on his chestplate's collar. "Walmsley!" The big Cadian jumped, took off his helmet, and looked at Marsh. "When is—" The laud-hailer screeched and the captain irritably turned it off. "—when are the mines those pioneers from the 111th are digging supposed to be completed?"
"Two weeks ago, sir."
"And how long have we been here?" he asked, stuffing the bowl of his pipe with tabac leaves and lighting them. He then grabbed a lho-stick packet from a pouch taped to Hyram's shoulder plate, tapped two out, and lit them with the same match.
"Four weeks, sir."
Marsh handed one lho-stick to Rowley and placed the other between Hyram's lips. The executive officer, dark bags under his eyes, reviewed after-action reports, rosters, and supply sheets.
"Well, you better stop firing that thing and save the ammunition, we're going to need it when command gets their heads out their arses and comes up with a better plan than wasting artillery shells on thick rockcrete."
"This army has used more than half its stores," said Hyram, his voice groggy and heavy. The shot through his cheek was thoroughly stitched and healed, but still uncomfortable. "Von Bracken has spread the artillery regiments thinly around the city to support each unit. The guns cannot concentrate and knock down the walls. They'll wear their barrels out and start dropping short before they run out of ammunition."
"Would you put that down, man," grumbled Marsh. "Why don't you go rest?"
"I'm of no use to the company behind the lines."
A heavy lasbolt blast from the other side of the bay made them both jolt. Tattersall ducked back down and adjusted the scope of his hot-shot marksman rifle. Tolly, standing on a crate, balanced her long-lasrifle on the sandbags and fired next. Beside them, Speakman observed the ramparts through his magnoculars and took readings with his auspex. He read out his corrections, Tattersall and Tolly jumped up, took aim, and they both fired.
"Hits. You got that crew."
"About time," breathed Tattersall. The young Kasrkin slid down the trench, sat on the firestep, and took off his helmet. Upon meeting Marsh's gaze, he gestured up and down the trench. "This is grox-shit, sir. I thought this trench business was behind us. We nearly spent a solar year living in trenches outside Kasr Sonnen."
"Why are you complaining?" asked Clivvy as she walked by. "It's not raining or snowing, there's no mud, and there's not a single infernal engine from beyond the Eye to torment us. Be grateful to the God-Emperor."
"I am happy to fight His battles!" Tattersall yelled after her. "I would just prefer to not have dysentery again!"
"Or scurvy, jaundice," added Speakman. "Or trench foot, trench fever, oh, and trench mouth. Hey, that sounds like a game to be played. What's say we put down bets for the most sick cases? Who is for trench foot?" He took out a pad of paper and a field quill.
"Speakman, shut up," ordered Marsh.
The recon trooper sadly put the pad away. It was then that Drummer Boy jogged up. Just as he sat opposite Marsh, an ork mortar shell exploded behind the trench. He ducked and a large chunk of earth struck his helmet and broke apart, leaving him covered in dust.
"Blast. Sir, my squad is low on rations."
"We're all low on rations," said Hyram. He reached over and took Marsh's hand away from the bandage below his eye, which he had started to rub.
"It's not just that, sir. We're short on grenades again. Water is low, too. Charge packs and power cells are burning out. I asked around the whole platoon, then went over to 2nd, and 3rd. It's the same story. And again, the food. We need a decent meal."
"It appears you got a little too used to the better eating at Fort Carmine," teased Rowley. She lifted the lip of her helmet and smirked. "You got a little fat, didn't you?"
"Not that you mind," said Drummer Boy, smiling. Rowley bounced an eyebrow before lowering her helmet.
Marsh took off his own and ran his fingers through his locks. Before, the sides of his hair were neat and trimmed down to a stubble. Now, it was growing back and the thicker hair he wore grew longer. Along with many of the men, his beard was thicker and a layer of dirt caked his face.
"I have been to see the major," he said tiredly. "He has been to see von Bracken, but he is too consumed with the wider campaign to pay much attention to us. Prince Constantine is in command and his hands are constrained by the commanding general. Because he is constrained, Rosenfeld is constrained, and if Rosenfeld is constrained, then I am constrained. Do you see how this works, sergeant?"
"Did the CO tell you the colonel of the 309th wants to decorate you and that tank crew for protecting Lux Cadia?" asked Hyram.
"He did not mention it."
"Oh. Well, the colonel of the 309th wishes to decorate you and that tank crew—"
"I get it." Marsh blew a smoke ring and leaned back against the earthen wall. "Fucking hell, we're in the middle of a blasted stalemate with no way to break it, supplies are running out, and officers are thinking of pinning medals."
"It's not just an issue with supplies," said Hyram. "Nobody planned for a siege, the engineer and labor corps are undermanned, and there are too few Munitorum supply units. We bungle our offensive while the orks slaughter their way through Ebba. Maybe we should just drop on it…"
"No go. Romilly said the flyboys who are trying to support the Vellania Guard within the city are losing too many aircraft to ork flak. Even if we drop from a higher altitude, they'll be ready for us this time."
The enemy's barrage intensified and mortars rocked the trench. It was incomparable to the terrible hurricane bombardments the Iron Warriors inflicted a few years ago. As violent as these strikes were, these were lighter shells and lacked tactical precision. Instead of diving to cover like Guardsmen of the 111th, on the company's left flank, the Kasrkin merely tucked themselves in against the trenches and tugged their helmets down.
The barrage moved northward and Marsh picked his face up from the dirt. He collected his empty pipe, but paused when he heard the heavy, steady tramp of marching feet. Pushing up his helmet, he saw throngs and throngs of marching boots climbing over the trench. The ranks of the Frateris Militia once again approached the frontline. There were hundreds more than before, all dressed in piecemeal armor, carrying a menagerie of autorifles and second-class swords. Some lacked true weapons at all, armed only with a bit of pipe, rebar, and pickaxes. Many discarded their shirts, revealing bloody flesh carved with the Emperor's aquila or an Imperialis.
Marsh's eyes widened as the elderly Fusco raised his scepter. He stood on the parapet even as bullets landed around him. Some found their mark, slaying several of his attendants as well as nearby militiamen. The rounds would have struck him as well, but the golden shield created by his rosarius rendered them harmless.
"Hear me, children, for I am the God-Emperor's voice!" he cried over his laud-hailer. "Do not be daunted by these high walls! Formidable they may appear, you need not fire nor cannon to bring them down! Faith is your chief weapon, it is your shield and your armor! Prove your faith unto Him and the Master of Mankind will strike down the stone and create for you a breach! Then, like a flood, you will cleanse this city of xenos filth!"
The militiamen brayed, shouted, and sang even as the orks cut through their stationary ranks with cannons and automatic weapons. Servo-skulls flew over their heads, blasting orchestral hymns. Men and women pinned scratch-made purity seals to their exposed chests. Fusco pointed his scepter at Ebba's walls. "Prove your everlasting faith unto Him and He will pave the path for you! Show Him your devotion! Show Him your love! Show Him your sacrifice!"
Marsh could not hear his own yelling over the roar of the militiamen. He ran with Bloody Platoon, who all waved their arms and cupped their hands around their mouths as they screamed. But the Frateris Militia surged in a great wave over the trenches and across the cratered ground before Ebba. Every gun the orks possessed turned on the crowd and cleaved through their ranks. Onward they charged, undeterred and unwavering before such punishing fire. So many booted feet struck the ground, it became thunderous.
Bloody Platoon fought to keep them in the trench. They grappled, tackled, tripped, struck. Militiamen fought back, breaking free and running after their bedfellows. Wild-eyed, howling, shrieking their prayers and love for the Emperor, they trampled one another to cross the field. Bodies fell in rows, then in piles. Blood and intestines coated exposed soil, turning it into a black mud that militiamen slipped in.
Hundreds fell in moments, yet hundreds more survived far enough to reach the wall. Some struck at the rockcrete bricks with hammers, pickaxes, and even knives. Laughing orks jumped onto the crenellations and fired their heavy-shooters right in the crowd. Those militiamen who fell became a platform for the next wave to stand upon. Massive piles rose against Ebba's wall, the blocks now stained a grisly dark red. The militiamen climbed and died, climbed and died. Some dropped their weapons entirely in a feeble attempt to climb up the surface, clutching loosened rockcrete. So feverish was their scratching and climbing, they broke their nails and fingers. Red handprints and streaks crossed the wall. Most never made it more than a meter.
The piles grew higher, higher, until there were a series of jumbled mounds that connected to one another. A singular mass of blackened bodies stretched at the foot of the curtain wall for many meters. Outstretched frozen limbs reached from the stone. There were few survivors; those without arms staggered, those without legs crawled, but bullets brought their final advances to end.
Trapped underneath the multitudes of corpses were wounded militiamen. Arms groped, legs kicked, hands pushed at the tangled heaps. So aghast at this site, the fire from the Imperial lines abated. So too did the orks hold, if only to reload. In that brief, relative quiet, there were many pained moans. Voices called upon the Emperor, for aid, or for someone to finish them.
Marsh Silas sank to the firestep and covered his face. He heard someone bounding up the communication trench and a hand took his hand away. Sister Ruo appeared out of the swirling dust, her eyes wide.
"I heard on the vox there was a mass casualty situation," she said, then looked over the parapet. "Oh, dear Emperor, not again…"
"God-Emperor, these subjects have upheld Your will and have made a sacred sacrifice!" Deacon Fusco held his scepter high, exalting the evening sky. He strode away with his surviving attendants. "This day, I pray You are pleased with them, as I am! None lacked in faith, none lacked in courage! Truly, they have made You proud!"
"Proud!?" Ruo stormed over to the decrepit priest and pointed at the wall. "They're dead and for what!?"
"The only way to move progress and protect the church within is by the Emperor's divine intervention. Yet, he does not bestow His gifts so quickly. They must be earned, Hospitaller. Ultimate sacrifice is the only method to truly earn Hs miracles! Look upon this field of glory and see how many willing souls have made it! Soon, the Emperor will break down these walls and grant us passage to the heart of Ebba!"
"Willing!?" shouted Marsh. He grabbed the priest by his collar and shook him. "You had them whipped up in a fervor, you made them believe the Emperor would reward them in life! You lied, you old bastard, you got them killed! What kind of leader are you!? All you'll do is get more poor soldiers killed, that's all you can do!" Fusco wailed dramatically as his ornate cap fell from his head and the gold chain around his neck, ornamented with diamonds, fell away.
"Sister, you dare let this sinner defile this holy cloth!?"
"Yours is not a cloth sanctified by the touch of his Hand. The God-Emperor is a prophet of Truth and you are a liar to his subjects," said Ruo. But she reached over and took Marsh's hand away. "Risk his ire further and he will see you punished. The platoon needs you."
The words felt bitter. Marsh waited until Fusco fled to speak. Yet, before he could, there was a shout from beyond the lines. All turned to see Jacinto race out of the trench to a small stack of bodies in the field. He started rifling through them, removing those on top. Muzzle flashes appeared across the ramparts.
"By the Throne, covering fire!" shouted Marsh. He ran back to his dugout to retrieve his hellgun. Bloody Platoon rose to the firestep and unleashed a fusillade of lasbolts. When he emerged from the dugout, he saw Jacinto struggling to drag a wounded militiaman out from the pile. Just as he freed him, a burst of automatic fire killed the injured man and struck Jacinto in his side. He cried out and fell, curling into a ball and writhing. Marsh dropped his weapon and clambered out, but hands restrained him as a devastating volley of autocannon shells struck the parapet.
Kasrkin lobbed smoke grenades out of the trench and thick, gray clouds rose in front of Jacinto. Commissar Fremantle dropped most of his kit, climbed out, and ran to the wounded psyker. Picking him over his shoulders, he carried him back as tracers pummeled the ground around him. The ork fire grew so intense he had to nearly throw himself and Jacinto into the trench. There was a wet, red stain on Jacinto's right side, just above his waist.
"Medic up!" he cried. "We need a medic!"
Shock troopers from the 111th ran down the trench and a field chirurgeon appeared. Just as he opened his kit, he glanced at Jacinto and stopped. The Commissar glared up. "Get to it, man!"
"Apologies, sir. That there is a psyker. I don't want to put my hands on that thing."
"This is a wounded man and you will treat him!" ordered Marsh.
"No disrespect, sir," said another man. "We are taught to abhor the psyker, not to heal him."
"They're worse than abhumans. They commune with the Warp itself!" Fremantle stood and drew his plasma pistol. Marsh Silas caught his arm and forced him against the wall of the trench.
"You will not harm these men, no matter the circumstances," he growled into his ear.
"They defy our orders at the cost of our friend," protested Fremantle. "They will obey."
"I will treat him."
Marsh and Fremantle turned as Ruo knelt beside Jacinto, unbuttoned his coat, and undid his tunic underneath. The mechanized troopers gasped, aghast, and murmured among themselves. One searing glare from Fremantle sent them hurriedly away.
Ruo's expression was calm, almost placid, and her hands moved automatically. No disgust appeared in her eyes, no vehemence. She was careful around the wound as she exposed it. Above Jacinto's belt were three small holes in a line. Gingerly, she inspected them and Jacinto hissed. "Shh, be still, all will be well," she soothed, pressing her hand to his forehead.
Marsh knelt in front of the lad while Fremantle sat on the psyker's other side, holding his hand. Ruo smiled pleasantly at Jacinto a moment later. "These hit your belt before entering your flesh. They did not travel far. I could squeeze them out, but I will extract them." She reached into her bag, produced her forceps, and carefully inserted them. Jacinto squirmed and Fremantle held him.
"I-it, hurts badly," he said.
"It appears worse than it is." One by one, she took out the bullets. Ruo's movements were deft and swift. "There. Now, let us seal them and send you behind the lines to rest."
"M-my thanks, Sister Ruo. I c-can do the rest." Jacinto reached down, snapped his fingers, creating a small, intense, billowing flame, and pressed it to each wound. The smell of burning flesh was sickening, but the wounds were cauterized in a moment. He dropped his head back and hissed through his teeth. Ruo put her hand on his forehead again as she procured a syringe.
"That was very brave of you," she said.
"I don't w-wish to be separated f-from my friends." He breathed calmly then. "Thank you."
"How fortunate they are to have a comrade like you," she said, and gently inserted the needle into his exposed arm. "There, just enough to nullify the pain. Now, rest for a little while, and then we'll go get the ork who shot you."
"Dun worry about tat sistah!" exclaimed Tolly, still in her sniper's nook a few meters down the line. "I took tat son of a bitch's head off for ya, Jacinto!" At that, Ruo actually chuckled.
Fremantle helped Jacinto stand and brought him to a more protected dugout. Marsh stood up, sighed, and then looked down at Ruo. She merely packed up her kit and fixed her habit. As she dusted off her emerald and white armor, her gaze rose and Marsh offered a smile. For a moment, she almost appeared sheepish, but then she shrugged.
"It is good he decided not to go back. I have been to see the medicae stations. It is a travesty, I tell you, a true travesty. Sanitation is poor, they are lacking in supplies, and they are short staffed. I am late only because I stayed to help. Why von Bracken did not enlist a commandery or even a mission of my fellow hospitallers, I know not. Now, let's check your eye."
Ruo brought Marsh back to his dugout and seated him next to Hyram. As she reached into her bag, Marsh noticed the stink already rising from the field of corpses. He started to turn and rise, but Ruo turned him back. "Do not look at them, it will do no good. Just look at me." She turned on a palm-light and shone it directly into his pupil. After the examination, she held up one finger and slowly moved it side to side, and then up and down.
Every day, she performed this inspection. Marsh had grown accustomed to it, even if the eye that had left his skull functioned properly. "Bloody Platoon makes do, and so will I," she continued. "At one battlefront I served on while stationed at Cadia, I had to tear up bedsheets for bandages. Emperor willing, it will not come to that. Now, let's change out your dressings."
"I hope so, for there are no beds nor sheets" said Marsh. Ruo chuckled as she carefully peeled the bandage from his cheek. He winced as the adhesive finally separated. When he reached up to touch it, Ruo shooed his hand away. She took off the other dressings and inspected them with a palm light. Satisfied, Ruo withdrew fresh bandages from her satchel. As she did, Marsh reached up and gingerly touched the scar that ran horizontally from the left corner of his mouth.
"I pray you will not fret over new scars. They are the true badges of duty."
"Cadians are meant to be scarred," he replied, then sighed somberly. "Carstensen had one just like it, right from the corner of her mouth and across her cheek. It came from a heretic's blade in close quarter battle, of which she emerged victorious. She always did."
"She truly merits her moniker," said Ruo quietly.
"Carstensen was truly the bravest," said Drummer Boy. "It was always glorious to see her on the battlefield."
"She was always so calm and even-handed," added Rowley. "But when she took the field, all the fury the God-Emperor gave her was brought to bear on the enemy. There could be no better teacher, either. Clivvy, Tattersall, and I would not be the soldiers we are without her."
Marsh Silas's eyes fell upon hearing the fondness in their voices. There was a sudden cold despite the warm night. He looked left and right, and suddenly his companions seemed so far away. A moment ago all he had to do was reach out and touch them. Now, he would have to travel kilometers and kilometers to find them again.
Ruo lifted his chin and applied a new bandage. As focused as she appeared, there was something gentle in her own gaze. She was compassionate enough, but it was an altogether kinder expression.
"I had a companion once," said Ruo. "We were novitiates together and rose to become Sisters. We served on many beleaguered fronts and countless times we bore arms to protect the wounded and downtrodden. It was during one of these battles she was slain by a traitor marksman. A shot rang out and she fell, her life stolen by a single bullet. Alas, she is with the Emperor now, but the thought of her passing on without a final word brings me pain. I wish I could have saved her."
"And when the pain makes itself known, there is nothing to be done to quell it, and reminds you of your failure. Like a sickness, it must run its course.
"Sometimes, yes. But if there is an illness, then there is a cure." She lowered her hand and smiled. "I often try to remember Lynette's humor or kindness, the victories we shared, and our accomplishments together. This does not bring me happiness, necessarily, but some peace. Then I raise my voice to the God-Emperor, for I know He has her in His care. There is always solace in that. To speak to the Master of Mankind is just as healing as it is to speak to a friend."
Ruo stood but Marsh took her wrist. Surprised, she leaned closer again. He waited a moment, glanced at the recovering Jacinto across from them, then at Tolly. The little Ratling tapped a tired Tattersall on the shoulder, beckoning him to rest. She kept her long-lasrifle pointed towards Ebba, and her chipper expression shifted to one of alertness. Marsh turned back to Ruo and offered her a weary, crooked smile.
"Truly, the Hospitaller's touch can allay a great deal. When we first met, I was disappointed, for I thought you would maintain distinctions. I expected a rift, and here you treat me like an old companion. It does not take much pondering to know your graciousness is boundless after all." He nodded at Tolly and lowered his voice further. "I know what it is you refused upon the Gatekeeper."
Ruo's face stiffened. The scene must have replayed within her mind; her troubled voice, Lada's rationale, the orders from the regimental command, the refusal he prayed she would make. The Hospitaller bowed her head and slowly gazed at Tolly.
"Never would I disobey such a direct order. We of the Orders Hospitallers work in kind with the Officio Medicae. But, the instruments they provided, the medicine, if it can be called that, and to force sterilization upon others. It was a violation of my oaths, sir. Aye, I refused the order, and made my penance."
"Why commit penance for a righteous act?"
"A good act that nonetheless defied a command deserves penance," said Ruo. "To have no regret in doing so, deserves another. My hands
Marsh Silas tilted his head to the side, smiled fondly, and touched her shoulder plate. It was all he could do to tell her there was no sin there, for no word felt appropriate. Ruo, in turn, grasped his pauldron. After a moment, he thumped his fist against her armor and nodded.
"I would ask you to consider that you should commit no penance for what you've done today. You binded a psyker's wounds and touched his flesh, but remember, the pysker is still a man."
Ruo seemed uneasy for a moment, and then she nodded. After the last bandages were placed over his wounds, and the Sister shifted to Hyram, he exited the dugout. It was quiet then, with only sporadic exchanges of stray rounds between the ork walls and Imperial frontline. The artillery had ceased firing, no doubt to keep their barrels intact. In turn, the orks returned to their rampage through the city.
Any Guardsmen, however green or experienced, relished these moments of calm. But his eyes were drawn back to that horrible, twisted array of broken corpses. All joined and melded together, creating an embankment of torn flesh and exposed bones beneath the rockcrete. Booted feet and broken hands protruded from the pile.
"Walmsley, stay put," he ordered. "I am going up the line to get a headcount."
"I can do that, sir."
"I will do it." Marsh picked up his hellgun once more, connected it to the power pack, and shouldered it. Just as he set out, Hyram stood and collected his own equipment. Together, the two men journeyed through the trench. As they walked, he named each man and woman of Bloody Platoon. Some hunkered down to sleep now that the firefight was paused, others maintained a vigil.
Along the way, Fleming the grenadier jumped onto the parados, laid on his back, and aimed his grenade launcher at a high angle. He squeezed the trigger and sent one round soaring through the air. It landed directly in a shell crater, casting up a puff of dirt. Ork cries rose and a squad of them appeared. Wit and the other Ogryn, standing on the firestep, cut them down with autocannons and ripper guns.
"Some of those orks climbed down a rope earlier in the evening thinking they could crawl in here," said Fleming, confidently. "But we saw'em—thought about callin' for fire but I figured we could handle it."
Angry shouts upon the walls were followed by long bursts of gunfire. As everyone sought cover, Wit jumped off the firestep, grabbed Fleming, and covered him with his body. Bullets struck his heavy flak armor. Many Ogryn did the same, protecting those who were unable to get down fast enough. Behind them, Triage's squadron of Conqueror tanks hammered away at the ramparts. A few shells destroyed the crenellations and killed the orks behind them.
"Dat'll learn'em," said Wit. "Did ya see dat, Mash Silas?"
"I sure did, sergeant," replied Marsh. "Well done. But you ought to let go of Fleming now."
Wit looked down to see his massive arm covering the grenadier's face. Fleming flailed and tapped the Ogryn's arm repeatedly. He released him, then the Kasrkin braced himself against the earthen wall and gulped for air.
"Oh, sorry bout' dat, Flemin'."
"No trouble," he wheezed. "Thank you for being my shield."
"Keep at it you men," said Hyram as they squeezed by the hulking abhumans.
"And keep your heads down," ordered Marsh over his shoulder. "No more fool's errands, please. We will get at them eventually."
As he walked, he remembered when Bloody Platoon numbered around fifty Guardsmen. Now he commanded double the amount. What a strange thing it was to lead a platoon when in some other, foreign regiment he might have been leading a company's worth of men. He admired Hyram for it; although Rosenfeld was the commander, the executive officer carried great burdens. While he took every opportunity to join his old unit for an operation, his efforts in logistics and administration were felt in every platoon.
They came to the end of their section of the line. Lieutenant Gabler and 3rd Platoon were on their right, occupying a similar stretch of trenches. Marsh slowed and put a hand on Hyram's elbow. "I did not see Little Mac," he murmured. He looked around feverishly. "Was he caught in the open?"
"Silas, what goes?" asked Gabler, approaching from further up the trench. With her was Lieutenant Tarlis, her face coated in grime and her helmet dented from shrapnel impacts.
"I have not seen my platoon enginseer."
"I've seen him," said Tarlis, who pointed southward. "He was inspecting some kind of hole."
"Praise the Emperor," murmured Marsh, tilting his helmet back and rubbing his forehead. Hyram suddenly smiled and tapped him on the shoulder plate.
"My, don't you worry these days. And I thought the enginseer befuddled and annoyed you."
"Befuddle indeed, but he is too useful to be bothersome." He turned to the two other officers. "I pray you fare better this night."
"No losses for us, but the men are in a dour mood. We caught wind that one of the mines under the walls to the south collapsed. Over a hundred Cadians lost their lives, and labor levies lost twice that number."
"There's talk of a breach at the northern wall, but von Bracken is throwing the Maccabians into it with little success," said Tarlis. "An infantry officer I am not, but even I would be hesitant to send troops into a gap like that. All the greenskins would have to do is set up guns on either side."
"That's too logical for von Bracken," huffed Hyram. "What brings you upfront, Lieutenant? Have you come to take over a platoon in one of the regiments—you have a bit more sense than some of these officers, it seems."
"I would be honored to join but I have come to seek you and Marsh Silas, in fact." She drew closer and took off her helmet. "I have continued my investigations and I've been able to deal with a few more of those crooks. Alas, I possess no authority for greater action, otherwise I would clean up every supply column. Everything is in disarray; not enough manpower, too few trucks, inaccurate manifests. We've only a trickle of supplies coming from Hydraphur and nobody knows how to allocate them."
The longer he listened, the more deflated he became. His temples became sore again and he had to take off his helmet to rub them. No wonder we are so short on everything, he thought to himself. Imperial bureaucracy at its finest, no? The fragment of Barlocke's teasing voice bouncing around his skull did little to alleviate his stress.
When he opened his eyes again, Tarlis smiled at him. "With all this confusion, it's hard to keep track of everything," she said in a teasingly aloof voice. Why, we've lost track of a convoy of four Cargo-8's just behind the lines. A shame, for they were loaded with a company's worth of supplies. There's really nothing I can do."
Marsh Silas blinked, then narrowed his eyes. Tarlis hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and swung back and forth on her feet. Gabler and Hyram's eyes lit up excitedly.
"I would think least of all you would be willing to just let such cargo go without documentation," said Marsh Silas. Tarlis' smile faded and she shook her head.
"Normally, I would not. But you made me aware of the corruption occurring right under my nose and this damnable siege is draining these regiments of all they need to survive. These soldiers need to eat, they need medicine, and they need arms with which to fight the enemy."
The offer was too enticing, the grim necessity of such rule breaking too apparent. What a risk the young officer was willing to take. It reminded him of another officer who took it upon himself who would do anything to protect his men. An office who braved artillery fire to raid supply shacks so his men would not have to go hungry in a rotten trench.
His gaze fell. What of his own orders back on Cadia? He had barred his men from thievery; as Kasrkin, there was no further use of it for they had more supplies than they ever needed. More than that, they had become an elite force, one of the best in the entire Imperium of Man, rivaling Tempestus Scions. Soldiers such as those had to hold themselves to higher standards if they were to uphold their noble titles and set an example for the common troops.
"Who am I to violate my own decrees?" he whispered to Hyram.
"We must make every effort to win this war but I will not have the Kasrkin of this platoon or company suffer because of von Bracken's shortsightedness. There is theft, and then there is necessity. We steal not from civilians or fellow soldiers, but from the incompetent and the uncaring."
Marsh Silas considered, then his lip stiffened, and he nodded. He extended his hand and Tarlis took it.
"Thank you," he said. "Would you go to my platoon, fetch Walmsley Major, as well as Drummer Boy, Tolly, and their squads, and guide them there."
Tarlis left with a squad of Gabler's Kasrkin. The latter officer then joined Marsh and Hyram as they drifted down the communication trench, then into the rear. Passing dugouts, foxholes, destroyed vehicles, and bunkered down Basilisks, they searched the fields. Eventually, a red robe appeared. Marsh breathed easily as the trio approached Little Mac.
The enginseer motionless while his mechadendrites slithered around the edge of a large, wide, strangely square hole. Coming up beside him, Marsh was surprised by its width; an entire Leman Russ tank could fit inside without scraping the walls. A smooth, rockcrete ramp led into a dark tunnel, although it was blocked by a mass of twisted wreckage many meters thick.
"This is an auxiliary entrance to one of the subterranean aqueducts that run across Vellania," said Little Mac before anyone spoke. "These bring water from the freshwater oceans in the far east of the world to feed the pasture lands."
"You know that just from a quick examination?" asked Marsh. Little Mac pointed to the ramp and tapped a knocked over sign with his servo-tendril. It read, 'Auxiliary Access Alpha-Primus.' Marsh Silas frowned. "Oh."
"I saw no mention of these in our briefs," said Hyram. "Romilly couldn't have missed them."
"Perhaps von Bracken chose to leave them out," said Gabler, bitterly. "It is no surprise no one has taken notice, it is blocked." Marsh Silas got as close to the wreckage as he could and activated his helmet's lamp-pack. The light penetrated only a few meters down the rockcrete tunnel.
"This one must lead directly to Ebba," said Marsh, coming back up the ramp.
"If it could be traversed, it may lead into the city," said Little Mac. "We would only need a few vehicles to clear the way." Marsh's head snapped between the tunnel and the enginseer. He nodded quickly, then put a hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, any vehicle with a dozer blade could do it. With armor support, we could punch in, seize the gatehouse, and open it for the rest of the army! Well done, Mac!"
"Hold fast," said Hyram. "Ambushes and traps may await us. We should not be too hasty."
"We could send a scout in, but even the smallest Cadian without armor could not fit through there," said Gabler, motioning to a small gap underneath the twisted rebar on the right side. Marsh Silas studied the opening for a moment, then keyed his micro-bead.
"Red Seven, Red Six. Send Tolly and her squad up to Green's position. Make sure they have their weapons, over." He looked back to Hyram and Gabler. The two officers exchanged an uneasy glance. Marsh knew their thoughts, for they were his own: five Ratlings would not survive against orks in close quarters. "We have to try," was all he said.
A short time passed and the night grew darker. Five little figures scampered out of the trenches. Marsh waved them over to the front of the ramp. "Let's take a knee," he said, crouching with them. "Look here. This utility passage to the aqueducts below may lead into Ebba. If it is not blocked or guarded by orks, this may be our means to infiltrate the city. We must know the route, any obstacles or sentries, and most of all, where it emerges."
"A real scoutin' mission!" exclaimed Tolly, bouncing on her heels. The other Ratling's faces lit up and they trembled with anticipation. "Truly, sah!?"
"Aye, I need you to blaze the trail. But the unknown is dangerous. I don't want you to get into any fights, understand? If you make contact, pull out. All five of you must make it back."
Tolly smiled softly then and her green eyes twinkled, as if she were touched. Slinging her long-las over her shoulder, she touched Marsh on the cheek for a moment, then patted the top of his head.
"Sah, we ain't made in tah Emperor's image. We're mutants, I know it. But He still made me a soldier, and soldiers lay down ter lives if tey have tah. I am ready for tat." That glint became more resolute, and it was shared by her compatriots. Marsh inhaled deeply and nodded.
"You may go when ready."
"We go now. Tah soona we get in tere', tah less soldiers'll die. Follow me, lads!"
The Ratlings hurried by, each one tapping Marsh's golden Imperialis crest on his right shoulder plate. One by one, they squirmed through the gap. Following them down the ramp, he stood at the blockage and watched the squad disappear into the darkness. The padding of their feet faded away.
He waited, listened, and held his breath. No voices, no gunshots, no explosions. Marsh slowly pulled away and went back up the ramp. Yet, instead of joining his waiting companions, he sat down at the top. As he gazed into the tunnel, he took his prayer beads off his right wrist and clutched them tightly between his fingers. He closed his eyes and wished to pray. But he could not, the words were lost in the overwhelming, cacophonous rumble of boots in their hundreds, marching, marching, marching towards the guns.