Dante

[NeroTheApothecary]

Then the command comes, forward! Always forward! And so grinds endlessly the rusty cogs of the Imperial Administratum, and the massive branch of such I belong to. The Imperial Guard. So we throw ourselves towards the enemy. Swarming a space much too small for so many bodies. Las fire punchs steaming holes in the air as we engage. Shell craters become shelter for we are broken like a wave on the shore. I watch our newly reinforced company torn to shreds, more than half of the fresh faces are slaughtered in the first few minutes. They know nothing of war, only of dying for the Emperor. Nero is beside me, along with two other men I have never met before. Mud and dust cover their faces and they are all indistinguishable. Only Nero's tag number on his flak vest and the swiftness with which he reloads allows me to pick him out from the others. I fire until my lasgun whines and it's machine-spirit hisses with anger. They counter attack and we throw our frag grenades. Bombarding them with steel and thick plumes of mud. “For the Emperor!” Shouts the man in red. The commissar thrusts his chainsword at the sky. A flag raises behind him, the command platoon has finally made it into the engagement. We fling ourselves into a closer hole, firing as we go. One of the four in my group falls dead in transit, his chest blown apart by a powerful round. I can tell it was a heavy bolt from the way his torso ceases to exist, only a faint spray of scarlet marking where it had previously been. A las round slices and cauterizes, a bolt obliterates.

 

We rally around the flag in the seething vicious melee. Flamers spew promethium in sticky gouts, attaching itself to clothes, armor, skin, and burning for several more seconds. Flesh melts away in the heat, dropping off in chunks like melting wax. A chainsword roars, though I turn away. I cannot bear to see it's teeth slipping through some poor soul's meaty innards. I bayonet someone in the throat, it cuts the jugular neatly and ruins his vocal cords as the serrated edge is dragged out. The Emperor protects, he protects. I catch myself chanting under my breath. The commissar takes note and nods his head. “Kill in his name.” His blade is clogged with meat, and he revs the clutch and presses the reverse sigil to clear the jam. “Achieve the highest honor a pure human soul can.” His calmness strengthens me, though ice clutches my heart. A numbness that is frightening in itself.

 

We are not allowed to retreat. Ammunition is running low already, for the reinforcements in their excitement forgot to bring up more energy cells. The vox-caster snarls and an order is passed along. “Go to ground!” I fling myself down while shouting the order myself. Nero grabs the new face and drags him down too. The thunk of mortar tubes launching their ordanance is accompanied by a terrible whistle. Torrents of fire and outward cones of shrapenal envelope the area just in front of us. Fear has melted away, fear exists when you take further risks than what you must. Where I lay now I am merely experiencing, watching how I react animalistically to each command and death. The barrage creeps forward and ends ebruptly. ''Forward!'' We stand and leap from hole to hole like little Terran frogs, proppelled by faith and fury the Ecclesiarchy would proudly say. But truthfully it`s just fear and andrenalin. A reflex that you had hammered quickly into you by the plentiful deaths of your comrades. A motion you go through without even a thought.

 

I'm throwing another grenade now, my second I believe. The last one on my belt. Suddenly heat warms my face and sparks are thrown from my flak vest as I topple to the ground. The paint on my armor has been seared black and the rancid smell of burn't plasfibre and melted ceramite overwhelms me. Jared, our platoon medic, was with me in minutes. He kept a special eye on friends and men who had survived longer than a week. I was one of those few. He shook me viciously and stood me up. “I'm alright.” I kept saying. “I'm alright.” As if I was trying to convince myself that I had been that lucky. I thanked Jared and rejoined the fight.

 

When I reached Nero he was yelling. “Those were our own :cussing mortars! They nearly took us apart!” Unlike Nero I wasn't surprised, we had seen worse.

 

“And they saved our lives.” I replied. We had gotten much closer to the enemy trenches this time, but had been bogged down again by a heavy bolter position that was dangerously close to us. Whenever we stuck our heads over the lip of our possessed crater a swathe of fist sized missiles would scythe the dirt around us. The ground was churned by the fury of the impacts and we'd have to curl up in the deepest recesses of the available space to escape death. Tears ran down the new soldier`s face. He looked so young. I wanted to run so far from here, from the fire and death. But mostly from those poor boys eyes. Those little pearlescent orbs with a beautiful tint of ocean blue. Filling them was stark and utter horror, the lapping of all innocence from his soul. The company standard bearer is hit and the flag tumbles to the ground. It is recovered by another brave soul and he too is shot. His leg caught by a grazing las beam. He falls to one knee with an expression of overwhelming pain engulfing his face. His muscles taut and shock threatening to overwhelm him. Still he holds the flag high. He is at an angle at which I can see him from my own position of safety. The order is given to retreat, called repeatedly over the Chaos. We cannot move, but cannot risk being left behind.

 

We all run at once, throwing ourselves to the next defilade. Bolt rounds follow us but miraculously not one of us is hit. We follow such a procedure until the young soldier gets hit in the shoulder. He comes apart like a wad of moist paper. I`m glad I did not ask him of his name. Nero and I manage to escape the battlefield intact, stumbling over hundreds of previous battlegrounds that we had fought to gain in the past three weeks. Three longs weeks for less than three kilometers of land. Fresh reserve units rushed passed us to fill our gap in the line and make sure the enemy did not take even a centimeter. For if they took even a few hundred meters it would mean a full day of fighting to take it back. They would not leave their trenches however. That I was sure of. We had fought for every inch of ground leading up to their trench line, but that was only a stalling tactic. The trenches we had just attacked were four times what we had expected, built up over the past three weeks. Three reserve trenches, intricate tunnel systems for surprise counter attacks, folded communications trenches meant to exact ten lives for every one of theirs even when we reached their trenches, hardened strong points and plasteel pill boxes with overlapping fields of fire. They had manufactured a masterpiece, and we hadn`t even reached the city walls yet.

 

I never once looked up from the ground on the sombre trudge back to the support line, the weight of the battle dragging my eyes to my feet. Only when we reached our Chimera's did I realize how few we were. Our company had just been reinforced back too it's full strength of 300 men, but a quick count from Captain Lovich rendered only 76 frail shellshocked men. There was no rousing speech, no faithfully intoned words from the Commissar. All that was left was to reload and restock. Medical personal took away four more of our number for treatment, one had walked this entire way with a blade stuck in his arm. He was lucky, it had not gone deep, simply protruding from the meat of the bicep. Jared had shot him up with a vial of pain chems, his constricted pupils proof of such. The particularly stocky Captain pulled himself atop a Chimera with more than a little bit of trouble. Such was the price of being short. “522nd you are to recieve 2 days of active rest. This is a gift from high command for exemplary service today in the face of the enemy. Report to missionary Pladius for after battle prayer, and then you are dismissed.” He orders, then hops down, both his legs sinking knee deep into the mud. Nero and me stifle our laughter and quickly shuffle over to the missionary. Missionary

 

Pladius is a truly fearsome individual, carrying a chainsword almost as long as himself, with blood soaked purity seals attached at various points on the blade. On his body is draped a long red rob with intricate designs weaved into the fabric with gold thread. His face itself has seemingly been chiseled from the hard peaks of Fenris' mountain ranges, and branded by a rough quality like those from Catachan carry with pride. His eyes are a soft green and his brows furry but short in length. He is already shouting when we reach him, his firey words inspiring at first, but as the hour drags on I begin to crave a cigarette. As if on cue he wraps up his sermon and dismisses us to enjoy our freedom, for we have earned these two days. I find Jared, Nero, Opal, and Warren and we gather in a circle behind one of the Chimera's. All of us have found planks of metal to attach to our bags so we can place them on the ground and sit atop them without them sinking. Jared is an old soldier, the years etched into his tired face. However old here is only 28. His face is soft and his hair shows spots of gray already, the stress and the deaths aging him terribly. In personality he is simarly worn, he does not speak much, but when he does what he says is usually right. In battle he is a changed man however, hurling himself from casuality to casuality with his heart raging and even in the most dangerous of spots he does not leave a wounded man. He must be cared for by the Emperor himself to have survived so long with so many risks taken. Everyone appreciates it deeply, and many would throw their lives away so he could take another single breath.

 

Nero is my best friend, one who has been by my side at the start. We walked out of our hive gang together, and straight into the recruiting depot. For one could not escape the life of a gang member without going to the Guard. At least this slaughter was so impersonal, as a ganger you would have to look in some poor man's eyes while he begs you to spare him, and to spare him was to condemn yourself. Here at least the killing is all stolen away by the speed of the battle, sure you may be wounded emotionally by a man you cut down, but he is just a fleeting moment in a battle. Quickly moved on from and forgotten. Their eyes don't cut at you in your sleep, their wives screams don't echo in your dreams. Nero is a joyous soul, always laughing and making mischive with the higher officers. He has been caught a few times, but he takes his punishment proudly and the scars along his back from all his flogging is proof of such. He is quite slender, with a fair complexion and sandy coloured hair peaking out from under his helmet. No one should mistake his weight for weakness however. Twice in close combat I have seen him tear his way from a desperate situation with crimson stained combat knife and a ferocious look in his eyes.

 

Opal is too good a man to be here. He had been schooled in mathmatics and history in the finist Schola in the entire hive. He could have been an officer, but when his childhood friend was turned down he refused to be instated as an officer. Instead he joined the rank and file with his friend, who was torn apart by an artillery barrage in one of the first battles he had been in. Opal carries this with him, but his intelligence on foreign matters has always aided us. Although sometimes he is much out of our league intellectually. His brown eyes and darker skin had him dubbed mudman. However he carries this nickname with pride as he drags himself through the thickest of fighting by crawling on his belly and firing pin point accurate salvos of las fire.

 

Warren is our newest addition, having survived six months now we have deemed him experienced enough to be inducted. He got a little too drunk of the synthetic ethynol we had stolen for his initiation and much to our amusement flipped off the Captain. He was sentenced to 30 days extra duty with half rations and 100 whips. But this in the Imperial Guard is getting off lightly. His hair is the color of the old Terran raven, and his pale skin and light blue eyes contrast with this nicely. He would certainly be considered attractive if their had been a female within 30 kilometers. There was not however, so to us he was just Warren the scrappy child. “Why do you think we have been given two days rest? I thought we would be reprimanded harshly for failing our objective?” he asks.

 

Opal snorts condescendingly and avoids my glance when I motion for him to explain pleadingly. I do not want to have to be the one to say it, for it is frightening within itself. Better he hear it from the smart soldier and we all act as if we didn't know. That would be better for Warren I think. Yet Opal says nothing. I sigh and take it upon myself to answer his question then. “Our objective was not really to take any ground today, just test the enemies trench line. High command wouldn't tell us something like that, otherwise we would have just done a hit and run and not gathered as much information.”

 

“Is that why we weren't supported by any tanks or artillery?” He continues, and I glare at him for it.

 

“Yes, if the goal was to take trenches like that we would have been attached to some sort of line breaking mechanized company. In tandem we would have had much artillery covering our advance.” I finish. A meloncholy sea we five weary souls are plunged after speaking out loud what most had known. We were completely expendable, our rifles themselves were worth more than us. We have orders to toss them as far back as possible if we are wounded. None ever do.

 

The two days pass quickly, we sit in great circles and smoke and laugh about stories the few new survivors have brought with them. Fresh stories are a rare luxary at the front, and they are truly captivating. The night chill is what really disturbs us. It cuts through our thin clothes like razor sharp icicles. Our teeth chatter like heavy stubbers. Nero manages to trade four cigarettes and two packets of instant caffiene to a Chimera crewman. In return me and Nero will sleep two nights inside the Chimera, free from that biting wind. We cuddle for warmth, like in the old days that we cannot think about. The days that would have us lost in enrapturing memory that would spiral into a suicidal abyss. Two men lose fingers in the night, requiring field amputation by Jared. He hates doing such things, and spites the officers for forcing us to remain here when a camp is but a few kilometers away. At least neither of the soldiers lose their trigger fingers. Learning pull the trigger with another finger is awkward and that extra second can cost you your life.

 

We watch casualties stream by steadily on the third day, so many corpses, so many screaming children. Our partner regiments have been thrown against the enemy trenchline for the past two days, and the rumors hold truth that we have not gained even a foothold. At least we have seen the wounded coming back. The oppossite proves worse in the Imperial Guard.

 

 

 

 

This is as far as I've gotten so far, if anybody reads this and would like me to post more as I continue I shall post it here.

[deathjezter6]

Please, please, continue, it's turning out great so far.

[Taranis]

The best guard story I have read. I like the description of the guards fighting. I find it very well written. Please continue.

[BassWave]

Reminds me of a WWI book I read in my history class, great stuff :yes:

[KerianH]

Despite the grammar problems, which I've stemmed my Grammar Nazi from reprimanding you for adding them, this is a really great story. It's even more enjoyable when listening to Sabaton while reading.

 

Now, sooner or later, we're going to have to see who these Imperial Guardsmen are (I'm guessing Cadian, maybe), and specifically who they are fighting. I'm guessing rebels due to their use of Bolters, though if it was Space Marines I doubt that it would end well for these guys.

 

Be sure to add more. I really want to see what you come up with next.

 

-Kerian