Despite the bright morning sun, it was dark and dreary inside the medicae tent. Marsh Silas sat on a camp stool between the flap of the entrance and an overturned ammunition can supporting a dull lamp pack. Wind made the canvas sides of the tent ripple and shake. Wounded and sick men, lying on field cots, shivered and drew their blankets tighter around them. Officio Medicae personnel administered medicine, switched out fluid bags, and changed dressings. Occasionally, someone moaned and he was quickly attended by one of the medics. While Cadian medics did not have a gentle touch like a Sister Hospitaller, they were kinder than the Medicae doctors.

  Honeycutt remained crouched in front of Marsh, holding him by the chin and tilting his head to the side. The graze on Marsh Silas’s temple had stopped bleeding. After a few moments, he let go of his chin and picked up his helmet from the stand. A large, deep cut ran horizontally along the entire length of the lower part. Scoffing, he set it down and met Marsh’s somber, violet gaze.

  “It’s not ceramite, that’s for sure, but it did save your life. If you weren’t wearing your helmet, your head would have been cleaved open by shrapnel. It only touched you there,” he said, pointing at the nick. “Not even deep enough for sutures, but you still should have come in last night.

  Marsh just nodded and kept turning over Yeardley’s small book in his hands. “Has the ringing in your ears stopped?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sluggish? Having trouble focusing?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry, you must have attended the Medicae training course since we last spoke. Have you earned your wings?” Honeycutt asked dryly and firmly. The ‘wings’ he referred to were the angelic-appearing wings sewn onto his rank insignia, denoting his status as a medic and not a mere field chirurgeon. On the left sleeve of his tunic where his three stripes pointed upwards, there was a wing on either side.

  Marsh looked down at his boots and Honeycutt scoffed. “That’s what I thought. I’m the one who says if you’re fine or not. Now, is the answer to all those questions a, ‘no,’ or not?”

  “It’s no.”

  “Then, you’re fine. Now, get. I’ll see you out there.”

  Marsh Silas stood up then, took his damaged helmet, ran his thumb over the silver Aquila on the front, put it on, and stepped out into the daylight. Immediately, his nose was assaulted by the familiar stench of decomposing bodies. Looking left, he saw rows of dead Guardsmen covered in canvas tarps. There were four in total with about twenty men in each. These were an accumulation of dead from various platoons through the regiment and even a few from the 95th and the 217th. Most were from 2nd Company who died assaulting the last satellite hive. The rest were slain during patrols to fill gaps in the encirclement around the enemy position or during probing attacks conducted throughout the previous day.

  With nearly all the troops undergoing final preparations, nobody was spared to bury them. Each one was covered from the head all the way down to their ankles. None of the tarps were long enough to cover their feet. Like their Flak Armour, the black leather boots and winter socks were seized. Dozens upon dozens of pale feet, tinted blue from the winter cold, protruded out from the sheets.

  The platoon sergeant walked up to the newest row. Walking to the end, he crouched in front of the four smaller bodies. Raising the booklet, he turned through the pages again. There was a sketch of the entire squad standing in formation, their arms pressed rigidly against their sides, their thumbs pressed against the first knuckle of their forefingers, and their chins raised high. On the next page was a rough drawing of Yeardley himself. Next was a depiction of their quarters back at Army’s Meadow. Each bunk was accompanied by a little note indicating who slept where. Finally, there was a larger image, so big he had to turn the booklet so the page was horizontal. It showed the 1333rd mobilizing in the shadow of the enemy hill they infiltrated. It was a martial scene, filled with flags, tents, and hordes of Guardsmen. Scribbled in the upper right corner of the page were the words, ‘Glory to the Imperium!’

  He believed in the Imperium, Silvanus, and upheld those values which you would call Cadian. You should be proud. Barlocke’s voice was tender and soothing. Immediately, it had the effect of staving off Marsh’s sorrow. But it did not last, and the feeling persisted akin to a bad winter’s cold that lingered in the chest.

  “He still died,” Marsh muttered as he stood up and readjusted his helmet. “Bleeding his last on the edge o’ some battlefield that don’t even got a name.”

  You are being too hard on yourself. The enemy is at fault and I think we can both agree the Colonel—

  Marsh squeezed his eyes shut. “Enough,” he growled. “Just...enough, already.” Barlocke said nothing more and Marsh Silas journeyed through the remnants of the woods. There was nothing left save for a field of brown sumps in the thin snow and a line of trees facing the enemy’s positions. The wooden road stretched all the way to the flat ground leading to the final bastion. There was even enough wood left over for another path to be built to the north so the 217th’s various armored vehicles could further support the infantry.

  Marsh stood among the remaining trees, not far from his platoon’s position, and gazed at that great hilltop. Artillery batteries hammered away at it in a thunderous rhythm. Columns of earth billowed across the hill. Every so often, an accurate shell struck an entrenchment and detonated the ammunition stored there.

  “That’s because of Yeardley.” Hyram strode up beside Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant did not turn to salute. “He noted three dozen light artillery positions, machine gun nests, and other obstacles and defenses. With those observations, the artillerymen are reducing them as we speak. He did it all under fire, no less. What he and his comrades did will save lives.”

  “Aye, but the cost. Webley, Soames, Leander, Yeardley. The loss feels immeasurable. All I wanted to do was help them. Teach them how to survive, show them how to become good soldiers. Perhaps, I would find a way to open themselves up to the new ways that Barlocke preached. It felt right but now, with them gone, and Merton, Rayden, and Graeme having departed, I am questioning my judgment. Was it all enough?”

  “Friend, listen to me, for I speak not in accusations, reprimands, or condescensions. Once, I was not a very good soldier. Weak, scared, and more than a little drunk. It took one man to put me into shape. In me, he saw someone worth helping, worth teaching, worth passing on his lessons. Oft, I doubt I’m much of a warrior even now, but I know that I am not the man I was thanks to him. Do you know who that man is?”

  Marsh Silas finally gazed at his friend. Hyram reached over and put his hand on the base of Marsh’s neck. “You gave those Whiteshields exactly what they needed to survive. You have awoken their spirits like Barlocke so wonderfully did with the likes of you and me. He was a wise warrior and kind soul. He would have done much good for the Imperium.”

  Well now, don’t I sound simply wonderful? “But you’re different. He always said as much. Barlocke dreamed of changing the Imperium so that all our faraway imaginings of a prosperous life without fear, turmoil, and division. He talks as though the dream would come true on the morrow. You’re a soldier, you know that all our paths forward are hard. Too often we must decide betwixt not good and bad, but bad and worse. It is with that moderation, that pursuit of balance between dreams and reality, that you walk. It will make the journey and its product all the most righteous.”

  “Balance,” Marsh Silas said. “That is what Lilias and I spoke of. I know I merely relished the opportunity to be like my mentor. To delight, to intrigue. But, that is not who I am. I did my best to amend that failing, to prepare the Whiteshields for these hard times. I see it even more clearly now: they must survive today if they mean to build a future tomorrow.”

  “That future will not foster without sacrifice,” Hyram said. “You understand what the word means. Across the hinterland, the Cove, Army’s Meadow, and Kasr Fortis; it was you who led the way. No man was more prepared to lay down his life and join the Emperor than you. Even if you were afraid and wished to live, you were ready. That is the example that you set, that we as Guardsmen should set: no good thing is won without loss.”

  “And thus they fought so hard,” Marsh Silas murmured. “I knew it when the bullets flew that night. It is bitter in my throat and heavy in my heart. But the truth always will be,” Marsh Silas said.

  Hyram walked in front of Marsh and tapped him on his chestplate. His smile was brotherly and tender.

  “Brother-mine, you have learned a lesson of leadership I had to accept upon Barlocke’s departure from our mortal realm. One day, and I pray soon, you will rise to become an officer. With what you have achieved in those children and all that you have learned, I cannot think of a man better for it.”

  Calls rang through the woods. Shock Troopers emerged from their tents and rose from fighting holes. Hyram’s expression grew stoic. “Jump-off is soon.”

  This is the final test for them,” Marsh murmured, then his gaze grew firm. “And for me.”

  “Those Whiteshields still need Marsh Silas. Bloody Platoon need them. Everyone must bring all they have for this assault.” The two locked hands. “I will see you in the trenches.”

  The two comrades parted. Marsh SIlas passed through the platoon. Many of them stood up or tipped their helmets, uttering a respectful, ‘Marsh Silas.’ Usually, he would have stopped to ask after them; made sure they said their prayers, had enough to eat, were in good health, and were keeping their wargear in order. But he didn’t need to do that. Each of these veteran knew what was about to happen. Whetstones ran across bayonets. Hand grenades were attached to the webbing by their pins rather than their clips. Trench knife scabbards and autopistol holders were placed in easy to reach areas on the chest or hips. Those who were prepared kissed their prayer beads or ran their thumbs across the Aquilas hanging on their dog tag chains. Men huddled together outside their holes, locked hands, pressed heads together, and uttered prayers for the Emperor’s protection. Some knelt in front of a preacher as he recited passages from various purity seals on his brown robes.

  All around, platoons formed into companies and marched over the hill to fill the assault trenches. Marsh checked his wrist-chrono. Twenty minutes separated Bloody Platoon from the attack. Glancing back at Hyram, he saw him stopping Carstensen. She had climbed out of her hole and seemed to walk towards him. But the platoon leader held up his hand, said something to her, and she looked at Marsh worriedly. Still, she obeyed and conducted her duties.

  Taking one last look at him and the platoon, Marsh knew they didn’t need him right then. He veered towards the Whiteshields. All three were already out of their hole and fully-laden with their combat loads. Despite their fatigue, their expressions were dark and gritty, ready for the fight.

  “Form up,” Marsh told them and the trio assembled in front of them. Hands on his hips, his helmet cocked backwards, he gazed into the eyes of each teenager. He drew a breath and took off his helmet entirely. “Clivvy, Rowley, Tattersall. I wish I could enact something to keep you here. To entreat our beloved Emperor to keep you out of this fight. You have all given so much to this battle already. Your blood, your toil, your friends. But I look into your eyes and know that even if that were possible, you would decline. Ain’t that right?”

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant,” the trio answered.

  “I know your comrades, were they still with us, would say the same, because—”

  “You taught us well,” Clivvy said suddenly. She stepped in front of her two friends and looked up at Marsh Silas. “I have known no pain as bitter and stark in its intensity as losing them. But I know I—we—can bear it. You trained us for this. You have prepared us for a great task. I understand that now.”

  Clivvy took off her own helmet and dropped it. She took her hair out of her knot and let it fall upon her shoulders. When she lifted her gaze once more, her eyes were bright with vigor. “Yeardley spoke for all of us before he passed. We all yearned for the fight, we were eager to make our mark. But at night, in low tones, we spoke of our fear. Try as they might, Whiteshields always know the casualties will be high among them. None of us thought we would survive combat for the first time. I look out and see how few Whiteshields remain in the other platoons and I thank the Emperor every day for sending me to you.”

  Her eyes started to glimmer. “I would give me life if it meant I could bring my friends back. But they laid down their lives to save more lives. Heavy is the cost of seven, but by giving up their lives, they have saved seven hundred or seven thousand. I see it, Marsh Silas. Just as you and Hyram and Carstensen brought us out despite Isaev, despite everyone’s hopelessness, it was all to save lives, to make a difference for others in spite of our fears, in spite of everyone and everything tells us not to. We fight and struggle because it is right. Just like you. If we prove ourselves today, no more shall the regiment cast away and abuse the Whiteshields. Whether we survive or we all die, we will show them that it was all worth something.”

  Tattersall and Rowley stepped forward, brave and resolute next to their squad leader. In both of their faces, he saw the same expression as Clivvy. Their eyes revealed all their emotions and agreements. Marsh Silas felt his own eyes shimmer. He stepped forward and took Clivvy by her shoulders. Smiling proudly, he shook her as he nodded.

  “We will show them. For Yeardley’s sake,” he said, “and Leander’s. Rayden’s, Merton’s, Soames’, Webley’s, and Graeme’s. For theirs, and all of those who will one day don the White Shield.”

  The artillery barrage intensified. Calls passed once more for troops to assemble in the assault trenches. Marsh Silas took his helmet from his belt, spun it over in his hands as he lifted it, clapped it on his head, and clipped the chinstrap. “Who do we serve?”

  “The Emperor, sir!” the Whiteshields cried and they put their helmets back on.

  “Who are we?”

  “Cadians, sir!”

  “Who are we!?”

  “Cadians, sir!”

  “Then move like Cadians and bring your fury to the enemy!”

  ***

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Chimeras, Hellhounds, and an echelon of Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks rolled alongside the countless assault trenches. Sentinels ambled alongside them. Lines of Quartermaster-Sergeants held crates of charge packs or grenades near the corners throughout the communication trenches. Shock Troopers passed by and stuffed every pouch, pocket, musette bag, and haversack they carried with as much ammunition as possible. Preachers walked among them holding chalices filled with burning incense. Swinging them gently back and forth, they uttered blessings as the Guardsmen passed through the thin gray smoke. Marsh breathed in deeply, catching both sweet and earthy scents.

  Bloody Platoon advanced to the far right flank of the forward trench, colloquially known as the ‘jump-off trench.’ Marsh found the three Whiteshields crouched near the platoon command squad. He tapped each one on the top of their helmets and then joined the latter group. Someone left a few empty crates nearby and he found Hyram and Carstensen standing on top of them. Both were peering over the lip of the trench. Balancing his feet on one of the crates, he squeezed between them and rested the barrel of his M36 on the top of the sandbags. Hyram gazed at the objective through his magnoculars. Carstensen reached over, took the magnoculars from around Marsh’s neck, and peered through them. With a satisfied grin, she handed them back.

  The ridges and hill’s that made up the heretics’ final bastion were under immense fire. Artillery shells screamed overhead and rained down on the terrain. Columns of earth repeatedly flew into the air. Huge chunks were blasted from mammoth rocks. Cliffs were sheared off of bluffs, hillsides collapsed, and some ridgelines broke into rockslides. It was a terrific display of firepower and Marsh couldn’t help marveling at it.

  “Are they ready?”

  Marsh felt a hand on his back. Looking back, he was surprised to see Ghent’s stern, violet gaze. The Commissar motioned towards the Whiteshields. Upon seeing Clivvy’s determined expression and bright violet eyes, Marsh Silas smiled.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” he said firmly. Ghent just nodded and walked slowly down the trench.

  “Have faith in the Emperor, Guardsmen, for He has placed His trust in us! Do not falter on this day and He shall reward you with victory!”

  Marsh looked at Carsensen on his right. She smiled softly and the two held hands. The platoon sergeant glanced at his commanding officer. Lieutenant Hyram tucked his scope away, pulled up his M36, and met Marsh’s gaze. Both smiled at one another briefly; one final look, a silent farewell.

  “Keep moving, stay aggressive, and for the Emperor’s sake, listen to your officers!” Giles shouted as he went up the line.

  “Make sure you have a full charge pack loaded,” Eastoft commanded, patrolling in the opposite direction. “Packs and frags where you can reach them! Do not stop for anything but a wounded comrade!”

  Hyram turned around and faced the men.

  “Bloody Platoon, listen up!” he yelled as the artillery barrage intensified. “Maintain your intervals, keep plenty of space between men. We’ve got four hundred meters to cross. We’re going to hit the hill on the far right, linking up with 2nd Platoon, 3rd Company of the 217th as we do. Then we’ll seize the hill behind it.”

  Suddenly, the barrage’s sharpness ceased. A few minutes later, more rounds came. These landed in the center of the field in front of the jump-off trench. Instead of exploding, clouds of thick white smoke rolled and billowed. “There’s the smoke!” Behind them, they heard a deep, rhythmic beat. Men from the regimental bands pounded on gothic drums, steadily filling the air with an intense battle song.

  “Get ready!”

  Men kissed their beads and took final puffs on their lho-sticks before flicking them away. A series of clicks resounded among the men as they disengaged the safeties on their weapons. Soldiers took out their trench knives and clenched them between their teeth. Some took hand grenades off their chests and held them. Carstensen squeezed his hand and her aquamarine eyes flashed with courage. Her power fist hummed and glowed with blue energy. Marsh shut his eyes, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled.. You’ll make it, Silvanus.

  “We’ll make it,” he said aloud.

  Whistles blew all along the line.

  “Chaaarge!”

  Hyram heaved himself over the top and waved his arm.

  “Follow me!” he cried.

  “Bloody Platoon, let’s go, go, go!” Marsh screamed.

  Throwing up a great roar, thousands of Guardsmen sprinted from the trenches and began racing across the field. Bayonets glinted in sunlight. Chimeras, Hellhounds, Leman Russ MBTs, and Sentinels tore across the level ground. Marsh Silas held his M36 under the barrel as he ran. Looking left and right, he saw thousands of troops and dozens of vehicles. The display of Imperial might was awesome to behold. But his throat remained terribly dry, more from fear than fatigue. His heart pounded within his chest. Behind him, the sounds of the drums faded. The clouds of smoke drew nearer. Zealous troopers rushed in front of him, the ranks and lines of the formation bleeding into one another. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and Bloody Platoon charged through the smoke.

  Heavy Stubber rounds tore through the air, snapping and zipping by their heads. Bullets riddled the ground, creating a rapid, almost wet-sounding thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. Dirt and snow flew everywhere. Men slumped and crumpled. Others collapsed, screamed, and clutched their wounds. Mortars fell, showering chunks of earth and dust over them. Sizzling shrapnel whizzed through the air, slicing men’s hands, arms, and legs off. Blood was everywhere.

  “Keep going! Come on! Stay with me!” Hyram yelled, grabbing Babcock by the shoulder. The Color Sergeant held the standard high so the men could rally on him. Men swarmed in and out of shell craters left by the bombardment. Heavy weapons troops struggled to move quickly with their combat loads. Up and down the charging line, vehicles returned fire. Red and blue Multi-Lasers streaked out. Sentinel autocannons slammed away, the spent shells clattering to the ground. Boom! A Leman Russ Tank blasted at one of the forward enemy positions, forcing the occupants out.

  White and yellow muzzle flashes erupted all over the ridges and hills. In front of them all, the enemy’s trenches were alive with automatic weapons and lasguns. Missiles soared from them and struck some of the vehicles. One nearby APC caught a missile right in the bow, blowing it open. Shrapnel from its armor leveled entire squads of mechanized infantry. Immediately, it caught fire. Screaming crew members struggled out of the hatch, their uniforms aflame. A Sentinel on the right was struck center mass. The armored, enclosed cockpit could not withstand it. The heat set off the Autocannon ammunition, causing a massive secondary explosion that tore in half. Separated, the two legs crashed to the ground, crushing a few unfortunate souls.

  Marsh weaved around shell craters and leaped over wounded men. People screamed for the Emperor’s aid, wailed for their mothers, or called out the names of their home Kasrs. Officers waved their swords and pistols in the air. Standard-bearers waved the flags. NCOs pushed and prodded hesitant troops out of their cover.

  “Move it, move it! If you stay here, you’ll die!” they said. Gripping his M36 with both hands now, Marsh pumped his legs as hard as he could. The enemy’s positions loomed closer than before but it still seemed like he’d been running for hours. Around him, Shock Troopers continued their war cries, drowning out the desperate calling of the wounded. Commissars brandished their Bolt Pistols, threatening some unfortunate men they found hesitating or hiding behind vehicles for cover.

  Bloody Platoon maintained its head. Marsh ran with Carstensen and the Whiteshields. But a clot of helmets in a crater caught the platoon sergeant’s attention. He ran over with his entourage to find Whiteshields from other parts of the regiment huddling within. They were shaking, clutching their weapons close to their chests, and pulling their helmets tightly over their heads.

  “What is this!?” Ghent cried as he stormed in. “I thought I was charging with Cadians, not cowards!” He raised his Bolt Pistol.

  “No!” Carstensen yelled, stepping in front of him. Ghent was about to reprimand her but Marsh stood over the Whtieshields.

  “Listen up! We are halfway to the objective! In another few meters, we’ll be under their guns! Then, our fight begins! You might think yourselves small and unprepared, but you have the honor of being born as Cadians. Look to these Whiteshields and see what you can become this day!”

  Clivvy, Tattersall, and Rowley ran to the front of the hole. Despite the intense enemy fire, they got out and stood over them.

  “Come, comrades!” Clivvy shouted, holding up her M36. The Whiteshields in the crater looked up, mesmerized and wide-eyed. “We are almost there! Do not stop now, you are almost upon the enemy! Come with us and give them the bayonet! Follow us!”

  Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall each tore forward. Without hesitation, the other Whiteshields all stood up and rushed out. In a few seconds, the crater cleared all except for one youth. Ghent approached menacingly but Carstensen drew forward. The Junior Commissar crouched in front of the Whiteshield and cupped her cheek.

  “Lass, get up. Your friends have all gone ahead. What will you think of yourself in the morning when all kept fighting and you stayed behind?”

  The Whiteshield’s eyes widened. A light filled her irises. With a small gasp, her lips tightened and her brow furrowed. Snarling, she threw herself out of the crater and belted a war cry. Carstensen leaped up after her, turned just as a shell fell nearby, and extended her hand to Marsh Silas. He took it and she pulled him up. “Come, Silas!”

  Marsh paused only to yank Ghent out of the hole as well. Together, they caught up with Bloody Platoon, now leading the advance of Whiteshields. All around them, mortar shells rained down and Heavy Stubber rounds chewed up the ground. They passed by Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera; he stood in the turret firing the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter.

  “By the Throne, you will die under these treads, heretics!” he screamed in between bursts.

  Marsh watched Guardsmen in the front ranks engage the heretics. On the left flank, men from the 1333rd and 95th stormed the enemy’s trenches. At first, the melee was chaotic. There were bayonet thrusts, dagger swipes, buttstock blows, fists, kicks, and grapples. But more Shock Troopers added their weight to the battle. Heretics gave up and tried to escape by climbing out of or going down their communication trenches. Motivated, determined Imperial hands caught and dragged them back in.

  Marsh and Carstensen threw themselves down as a concealed Heavy Stubber opened fire on the platoon. They crawled their way up the hil. Heretics popped in and out of spider holes. Some lobbed hand grenades down at the men. But the veterans were ready; they snatched up the grenades or caught them before they hit the ground and tossed them back. Derryhouse threw himself into a spider hole, rooted out the heretic within, and stabbed him to death with his trench knife. At point blank range, Bullard shot a heretic in the head; the lasbolt cleaved open the top of his skull. Then, the sniper jumped into a fighting hole, struck the second heretic with the barrel of his long-las, turned it around, and started to beat him with the stock.

  Slowly but surely, they gained ground. But their momentum was stalling. They needed to get up the hill fast before they lost the initiative. At the top, heretics moved their heavier weapons around to counter them. Brave Guardsmen crouched or even stood up, risking death from enfilading fire on their left flank, to suppress them.

  Bullets struck right near his face, spraying Marsh’s cheeks with dirt. The rounds snapped right over his head; that Heavy Stubber gunner was shooting right at him. Carstensen was behind him, periodically rising to fire off Bolt shells at likely locations, before ducking down as bullets sliced by. Jupp was ahead of the platoon sergeant. The Guardsman stood up, raced along the side of the hill, going from rock to rock. At the base of the massive center hill, he approached a pile of rocks. A muzzle flash appeared within. Bypassing numerous enemy positions he assaulted it by himself. Pulling the pin on the grenade, he took a running start, leaped a little, and lobbed it. It landed right in the rocks and exploded. The Heavy Stubber ceased firing.

  “Covering fire!” Marsh ordered as Jupp ran back. 1st Squad shifted fire and began suppressing the enemy positions Jupp bypassed. It was not enough. Heretics rose, leveled their autoguns, and riddled him with bullets. While his Flak Armour held, his kneecaps were blast opened. He collapsed, attempted to raise his M36 to return fire, and then was shot through the head.

  Marsh rose to a crouch, picking off a few heretics through his scope. Suddenly, Carstensen threw herself on top of him.

  “Get down!”

  To their left, two Hellhounds rapidly approached. Bullets pinged off their armor. Rolling right up to the enemy positions, fire erupted from their Inferno Cannons and drenched the enemy positions. A great chorus of screams filled the air. Melting men staggered and stumbled about. Heretics flailed on the dirt to extinguish the flames. It was so hot all the snow around the positions melted. Marsh felt the heat on his face.

  Like water filling a hole, the flames raced through the trenches, detonating ammunition caches and grenades. Just as the Hellhounds finished firing, Tindall’s Chimera rolled up and cut down swathes of reinforcing heretics emerging from tunnels in the base of the hill. Other APCs contributed to the fire and soon the position was seized by troopers.

  Marsh and Carstensen continued with Bloody Platoon. Men cleared one enemy position after another through bayonet rushes and grenade assaults. He saw the Whiteshields take down an enemy Heavy Stubber position together. Clivvy kicked the gunner in the face before bayoneting the loader. When the gunner attempted to attack her, Tattersall grabbed him, wrestled him down, and turned him over. Rowley perfectly bayoneted the heretic, turning the blade to gore him. Together, the trio led the Whiteshields further up, nimbly wiping up position after position.

  “Marsh Silas! Marsh Silas!”

  The platoon sergeant looked up. Hyram was waving at him. With Carstensen in tow, he hurried over to his commanding officer. Hyram grabbed him by the collar of his Flak Armor. “Our link-up isn’t here! Look!” He pointed with the flat of his hand back towards the assault trenches. Squinting, Marsh spotted the Guardsmen’s olive drab helmets below the edge. “Their platoon leader and sergeant were both killed and they retreated! There’s a gap in our line and if the enemy seize it, they can roll up our flanks!”

  Marsh looked back at the hesitating platoon again. Hyram grabbed him by the cheek and turned his gaze back.. “I need you to go back out there and get them.”

  Marsh looked back out the field filled with corpses and burning vehicles. The last of the troops were still coming under heavy fire. He looked back at Hyram, his violet eyes shocked. Hyram’s expression was grim but his eyes were set.

  There could be no delay. Marsh Silas slid down to Carstensen, handed her his M36, shotgun, kit bag, and rucksack. To be quick, he needed to be light.

  “The Emperor protects. The Emperor will be with you,” she said. He smiled gratefully.

  “I’ll make it,” he told her. Will we!? Barlocke sounded distressed for the first time. Marsh crawled by Hyram. The Lieutenant’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the pauldron.

  “Silas, you may not be coming back from this.” His mantra, the final words he shared, letting the chosen man know he did not give his order lightly, a final shard of truth acknowledging the peril, a token of respect from commander to subordinate.

  “Got it, sir,” Marsh said, winking and smiling.

  He turned towards the rear and drew breath. “The Emperor is with me.” I am one with the Emperor, the Emperor is with me. Barlocke’s prayers were mystical, filling Marsh’s soul with a sense of wonder. It was as if all his faculties were charged. At that moment, the strategic situation melded with his own feelings of duty. Everything—the battle, the danger, the necessity—just made sense. Was this the deeper meaning behind all things Ghent spoke of long before? Faces and images flashed through his mind; his mother and father embracing by the firelight, the warm lamp pack glow as Overton and Clement laughed over a joke, the big, trusting eyes of his Whiteshields, Hyram’s fatherly stare as he struggled with his letters, Carstensen’s oceanic gaze he became so lost in, and all the smiles Bloody Platoon ever shared with him. He closed his eyes, breathed in the acrid smell of gunpowder and burning earth and tasted that cold Cadian air he loved so much. “I am one with the Emperor, the Emperor is with me.”

  He exhaled, jumped to his feet, and charged back onto the field.