Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

A few days later, after a great deal of preparation for new operations, Bloody Platoon marched in good order through the camp courtyard. Overlooking them was the command tower of Regimental Headquarters, a proud, pale spire with a thin tinted observation window wrapping around it. Like the day they set out for Army’s Meadow, Captain Murga, Commissar Ghent, and Inquisitor Barlocke stood at the foot of the headquarters and watched the men fall in next to their sister platoons. The company priest, Kine, was also with them.

Marsh Silas, marching abreast of Bloody Platoon, led them along in another song, and the men sang it back to him:

“I don’t know what I been told!

I don’t know what I been told!

Ceres’ heart is mighty cold!

Ceres’ heart is mighty cold!

Ceres, Ceres, why not gimme a roll!?

Ceres, Ceres, why not gimme a roll!?

Never mind there ain’t no dough!

Never mind there ain’t no dough!

Ohhhh, Civil Ceres, I wanna make your belly grow!

Civil Ceres, I wanna make your belly grow!”

Guardsmen who served in regiments tithed to Cadia from various, distant worlds did not always hail from martial backgrounds. Many complained about the frequent parade ground drills. Cadian Shock Troops, however, rather enjoyed them! Bloody Platoon especially enjoyed singing and marching, especially in review. It was one of the few times when a superior’s gaze was something to be glad about and it was a chance to show just how disciplined they were. Showcasing proper Cadian values, after all, was something that should never be eschewed! And limbering up for the day’s tasks and singing a few songs to boost morale was always welcomed.

Marsh Silas brought Bloody Platoon to a stop at the leftmost end of 1st Company’s formation. 2nd Platoon was to their right, followed by 3rd Platoon, and then formations of other personnel from the company. Like most company compositions, the first platoon was made up of veterans, the second a mixture of experienced hands and average line troops, and the third platoon was made up of fresher support troops with less years out of the Whiteshields. Three infantry platoons was not a standard formation, the company having shrunk due to casualties and a lack of replacements over the years. Companies could have many, many platoons.

It was a cool, damp morning once again. Enginseers toiled over Chimeras and heavy equipment with their servitors. Men who were not in the morning formation pulled sentry duty and smoked lho-sticks in the trenches. A flight of Valkyrie VTOLs buzzed by.

“Men, before we get to our announcements, Preacher Kine shall bestow a blessing for your good works,” Captain Murga said loudly.

Kine stepped forward. He was an older man, clad in red robes complemented by white trimmings typical of the Adeptus Ministorum. On those white trims were prayer parchments, purity seals, and other Imperial Cult scriptures and incantations written in High Gothic. In one hand he clutched a tall wooden staff with a holy tome trussed at the very trop. The pages were tied open so all could see the script, although the High Gothic language was lost on the general infantrymen. Kine himself was a hunched over fellow, with a white-gray beard and long hair that came down to his neck. His face was etched with wrinkles, lines, and scars. This disguised his zealous fury, as many a time Marsh Silas saw the man fend off hordes of cultists with a heavy Chainsword.

“Let me preach His name!” Kine called, raising his other hand high into the air. All the Guardsmen knelt, placed one fist over their chest, bowed their heads, and closed their violet and purple eyes. “We give thanks to the holy God-Emperor of mankind, He who has fought our battles, defeated our foes, and won our victories. We remember the men who have fallen to Archenemy’s treachery and we commit their souls and memories to our Supreme Lord on Holy Terra! From this day forth, ye shall march with greater vigor and everlasting faith to avenge their loss. And we must always remember…”

The preacher’s voice began to drift away until Marsh Silas could not hear it anymore. He chewed his bottom lip unhappily.

Yes, he remembered the men who lost their lives in the ambush. What a grand ceremony they received. Once the bodies were collected, they were stripped of any useful wargear. Boots, Tri-dome Pattern helmets, Flak Armor, gas masks, spare charge packs, their M36’s, sidearms, special weapons—everything. Even personal possessions, of which they had few, were evaluated by First Sergeant Hayhurst, the company sergeant who served Captain Murga directly, and he was the one who decided what was kept or discarded. This was not new to Marsh Silas, but that did not make it sit well. He and the others liked to disguise their low spirits with humor. After all, they liked to joke, their wargear was only on loan. It by no means belonged to the brave, good men who gave their lives in defense of Cadia and the Imperium.

And what had those courageous, hardworking fellows earned? A canvas tarp to cover them while awaiting transportation to a Kasr graveyard. Which cemetery in which Kasr they were taken to, Marsh did not know. Mass burials were common and the lost would be permitted to rest until their bone returned to mother Cadia. Then, the graves would be opened up and new corpses would replace them.

Each time he watched the bodies of good Guardsmen depart for the grave, he remembered the day after the 540th Youth Regiment’s near-total annihilation. He and the other surviving Whiteshields, all lads of seventeen and eighteen years old, watched as Chimeras equipped with dozer-blades pushed the mound of bodies into a new mass grave. They were not even afforded proper military honors, as the local force was strapped and had to evacuate. A nearby rank-and-file Shock Trooper, much older than any of them, turned to the boys and said, ‘Glory to the Imperium.’

He remembered that soldier very well. A grizzled sort, with deep lines across his scarred, burned, mangled face. His violet eyes were especially faded, teeth were missing, and his forearms were covered with a myriad of laser and plasma burns. It was easy to see the Veteran spent many years off-world on countless campaigns and that being one of the few to return to Cadia meant little to him. It was the most splendid of dignities, his glories having brought him full-circle from one thousand battlefields to the battlefield he was born on. Surely, that dullness in his eyes was the culmination of so much honor. Glory indeed, Marsh mused to himself.

It was bad for a Guardsman’s morale to maintain bitterness, so he swallowed hard, as if trying to swallow his feelings, and snapped back to attention. “…obey your officers, continue your prayers, and if you have questions, let them go. May the God-Emperor bless you!”

Everyone stood back up and Kine’s attendants passed through their ranks, swinging golden chalices filled with burning incense. Those behind carried sanctified water which was speckled upon the soldiers’ breastplates. Once the ceremony was concluded and Kine departed, Inquisitor Barlocke stepped forward.

“As some of you may be aware, there is a likely infestation of cultists across the channel in Kasr Fortis. I’m quite certain you’re all eager to assault this bastion and cleanse this heresy in the name of our illustrious Emperor. However, we shall begin by conducting a series of security operations; denying mainland assets to their boats, seizing their craft and personnel whenever possible, gathering intelligence, and strengthening our position here at Army’s Meadow. We shall begin tomorrow, after our artillery support has arrived, which should be in the next few hours.”

Now, Marsh Silas did not consider himself to be a tactician or master strategist by any means, nor did he consider himself altogether bright. But, he did believe he was experienced enough to recognize that plans were well and good but rarely survived once the battle began. It made more sense to him, as much as he dreaded going to Kasr Fortis, to attack the enemy directly and end their operations quickly. Everything else would be mopping up. At that very moment, the rogue psyker could be strengthening his defenses! All the information in the world wouldn’t matter against an entrenched, determined foe.

In the same instant, he was relieved they were not going immediately. Kasr Fortis loomed ominously across the channel, its rotting spires pressing against the gray sky. And, strangely enough, he found himself growing more curious. What would they find in their pursuit of information? Would they discover how the populace of Army’s Meadow was turned against the Emperor’s light? Perhaps, they could shed some light on the identity of the Speaker, as it appeared Barlocke was unwilling to share any insight into his character. Could their operations unveil a greater heresy they could stamp out for the sake of the Emperor and the Imperium? He desired to know and recognizing the feeling made him feel strange in his own skin.

He noticed Barlocke was staring directly at him. The Inquisitor smiled warmly. “I believe that’s all I have to say. You are hereby dismissed.”

Marsh spun around on his heel. He and the other platoon sergeants repeated the order and the men dispersed. As the crowd of Guardsmen went back to their quarters, he lingered and watched Barlocke. The Inquisitor shared some words with Murga and Ghent, the conversation drowned out by so many cussing, joking, coughing, spitting, snarking troopers. He would have ventured closer but he didn’t want to stir Ghent’s wrath. While the Commissar appeared serious, and Murga cordial, Barlocke maintained a kindly expression. As soon as the conversation seemed to end, Barlocke’s eyes met Marsh’s.

Before he could decide to join his mates or wait to speak to him, the Inquisitor was already upon him. Putting an arm around his shoulders and turning him away, they began walking towards the main gate. “What ails thee?” Barlocke asked as Marsh adjusted the strap of his M36 over his shoulder. “Do you disagree? Would you rather just get things over with? I thought you were inclined to understand your foe before meeting him.”

“It’s tough to say. All o’ this is…odd and new. I ain’t sure what to make o’ that. I’m not sure what I think. I’m all over the place,” he said, tapping the side of his helmet, “and that’s not good for a platoon sergeant.”

A few days ago, he couldn’t have imagined speaking his mind so plainly and bluntly to the likes of anyone but his comrades. To do so in the presence of officers and Commissars was akin to suicide and with an Inquisitor, no less, could hardly be imagined. But he felt comfortable enough beside this man, remembering their warm meal a few days earlier and the pleasant conversations since throughout the many training drills and briefings the men underwent as they readied for operations in the sector.

Barlocke stopped them and they turned to face one another. The Inquisitor was taller than him and stooped slightly so they could make eye contact. This put him very close to Marsh’s face, which would have made him recoil before but he’d grown accustomed to it by this point. It made this whole experience all the more surreal.

“Ah, so then you are not just afraid for yourself but also your friends.”

“I’pose,” Marsh murmured, shrugging. “I don’t want to go there, and yet I do. I don’t want to know what waits for us thar or out among the hinterland, and yet I do. It scares me.”

“Not knowing, or the desire to know?”

“Both.”

“I’ve a lesson to teach you, Silas,” Barlocke said. “Understanding something and knowing something are two very distinct things. Say I was to suffer some trauma and you sympathized with my plight. That’s understanding. But say I endured pain you experienced also, then we would know one another’s troubles personally.”

“Jus’ seems like a bunch o’ words to me.”

“Never mistake the power of words, Silas,” the Inquisitor scolded, wagging his finger as if he was a Drill Abbot.

Marsh deflated a little, his head nodding to one side and his hands resting on his hips. Then, he remembered their conversation on the cliff that very first day. He grinned up at Barlocke.

“What did you call it, the things I say to please my commanders? Drivel? What’s to keep words from being meaningless?”

Barlocke’s pleased smile grew even wider.

“You are beginning to learn. That’s very exciting,” he mused. His gaze lowered and his expression suddenly became unreadable to the likes of Marsh Silas. The agent recovered, taking a little breath which could have been a chuckle. “You are interested in the odds you face. Numbers, materials, just what kind of enemy are we going to face. But I speak beyond that and ask that you look closer. Ask yourself why the enemy does what he does, this Speaker of ours. We cannot answer that. Not yet. If we can obtain that knowledge, we can defeat him. Knowledge, dear Silas, is a weapon greater than the lasgun or bayonet.”

Marsh held his tongue, although he thought the latter tools to be far more practical.

Barlocke spoke urgently then, eerily meeting Marsh’s thoughts. “There is much for you to overcome and unlearn within.” He tapped his cuirass quickly. “There is so much for you to learn if you could only just reach out and seize it! To open yourself is to subdue your own fear. You, we, must act anew if we are to prevail. What are we to gain if we fail to understand the foe and throw a wave of Guardsmen against his guns? What will change? Nothing, save for the body count.”

At that, Marsh furrowed his brow and folded his arms across his chest.

“You say that as if our sacrifice has no meaning.”

“Sacrifice is meaning in itself. Dying on a beach without having made gains is mere futility.” Barlocke said this very coldly, enough to make Marsh’s brief stiffness subside. But it didn’t stop there. The Inquisitor stepped even closer. “Surely, a man such as you who has been a witness to war and the many young lives snuffed out in human waves would have realized the difference long ago.”

Marsh grimaced and did his best not to shudder. Yes, there was a difference and he hated to admit it. Lines of three, four, five ranks deep of Whiteshield boys hardly into their first solar year in the Youth Corps thrown against the enemy. Torn apart they were, by Shurikens, Warp-laced bolts, and crude Ork Shootas. Sometimes, no objective was gained at all. The men wrested control of a hill just for the sake of the engagement. And afterward, they left the hill for some other battleground and no Cadia would return to it until the enemy occupied it again. Was that victory? Did the men sacrifice themselves for the Imperial cause? What had ultimately changed?

He knew he had to concede to the Inquisitor but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. From the curious expression in Barlocke’s dark eyes, he knew the agent was well-aware of the concession. “It is difficult to abandon the comfort, I suppose, of all the little lies your Commissars and drill sergeants told you. In times of great peril, when your fear grips you and the likelihood of death is all too high, you return to those comforts. Shed their false promises, Silas, for they shan’t serve you out here. Deep down, in here,” Barlocke pointed at his breastplate, “you already know that. It’s just easier not to admit it. Because by admission, you submit to fear.”

Barlocke turned slightly, folding his arms over his chest. “But fear of what? Death? We all fear death. The deaths of others? Of course. Which frightens you more, Silas Cross?”

Marsh Silas looked into the courtyard where many of his comrades lingered. Bloody Platoon was in a jovial mood, glad to have another day to prepare and rest before setting out on their new missions. Drummer Boy was smiling radiantly, his neat blonde hair momentarily ruffled by Yoxall who took part in the parade ground antics. The Walmsley brothers were chortling and exchanging cuffs on the shoulder as if they were in their own home. All the NCOs were handing out smokes and passing out lights and matches. Logue and Foley were chatting and they caught Marsh’s gaze. The former waved while Foley held up his forefinger—Bloody Platoon’s ‘first-of-the-first’ gesture. Marsh Silas smiled and returned it.

He felt Barlocke’s arm snake around his shoulders once more. “Both, it seems. Give me time, Silas. I’ll show you.”

Confused, Marsh looked up at him.

“Show me what?”

“Oh, many things,” Barlocke said gaily. He looked at him sideways and smirked loftily. Marsh wrinkled his nose at this annoying vagueness, but released a heavy, relenting breath.

“Fine, so long as none of my men have to die for it.”

Barlocke let go, stepped in front of him, and removed his hat. Placing it over his heart, he bowed in a courtly manner.

“I vow, not one more man of Bloody Platoon shall fall.” When he rose and put his hat back over his dark locks, he raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe me?”

Marsh Silas scoffed, laughing a little, but couldn’t help smiling.

“I do, and that makes me feel all the crazier.”

“Walk with me, why don’t you?”

Although given more time before the real work began again, Bloody Platoon and the other Cadians of their regiment would not sit idly. While they enjoyed a rest just as much as the next soldier, their spirits were high and they did not want their energy to go to waste. Their wargear was prepared and their officers were busily arranging their next briefing per Barlocke’s orders. Instead of resting, they would find some work to do. So the men started digging another communication trench between the parapet and their bunker to facilitate the flow of troops and supplies through their position. Already, the top of the cliff had become a spider’s web of trenchworks, fighting holes, and bunkers, with their personal barracks acting as the linchpin.

Although there were servitors and laborers who could do the work, Shock Troops were diggers themselves. Every man was experienced enough to know how to dig a proper trench network, not just a mere fighting hole. A lifetime of training lent them not just discipline and marksmanship, but decent engineering aptitude. It was dirty work, hard work, but it was necessary and worth doing.

By the time he and Barlocke ventured up the slope to their position, the men were already hard at work. Although the Inquisitor still drew many curious and startled eyes from the other platoons, Bloody Platoon viewed him with familiarity. Many were already exchanging cordial nods and greetings with him, presenting as much as they doffed their wargear and took up their Type 9-70 entrenchment tools. Barlocke spent a great deal of time with Marsh Silas but he took time to sit among the other Guardsmen, breaking bread, assisting in some mundane tasks, or merely chatting.

“My papa used to look down on this work,” Marsh Silas said as they watched 1st Squad leap into the unfinished trench with the same vigor of a bayonet charge. “There’s glory to be seized, lad! That’s why he’d say whenever I told him about our entrenching courses. By the Emperor, what a difference a trench or a well-dug hole makes on the battlefield.”

“A trench can make as much difference as a castle, my good man.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. A trench is a small thing by comparison, don’tcha think?”

“Ah, but it’s the smallest things that often make the most difference! Sometimes, wars are not won by the many but the few, and change comes not from the masses but from the individual.” Barlocke said this very excitedly. “You see, dear Silas, I’ve spent much of my life at study. This Imperium’s befuddling bureaucracy does not make for good record-keeping and making sense of it all is an arduous task. But it’s worth the effort if I can bring about a little good, even if I am just one man, yes? Learn to traverse knowledge and you have at your disposal a mighty tool.”

“Ardge-ooh-iss?”

“Difficult.”

Marsh grunted and adjusted his strap again. Barlocke continued. “When I was a younger man, I shunned the many tomes and texts the Inquisition keeps. Why bother sifting through it all when two books tell different stories on the same matter? Oh, I was so brash.”

“What changed?”

“Well, I did! It’s important to learn, it opens us up to being better men. But let us discuss…hmm…tactics, let’s say. You have learned the Cadian way. But I have studied tactics from generals all over this Imperium. And I’ll concede, yes, sometimes we must mass a force and throw them against the enemy. There are advantages to such an act and sometimes there is no choice. The risk might be high but so too is the reward. Yet, one must meter the cost. Is a piece of ground really worth the casualties?”

“Casualties are a part of the bloody business,” Marsh said matter-of-factly. “Part of being a Guardsman.”

“Oh, there you go again with the little conciliations the Commissars gave you in the little black book. Tis a shameful thing to linger in foolishness.” Barlocke shook his head. “Lie to yourself all you want, ye shan’t convince me. Besides, pointless wastes of life, uncompleted objectives, needless gains; these are part of being a Guardsman?”

“That’s one way o’ putting it.”

“Why do you think it’s that way?”

“Doctrine.”

“Oh, please.”

“Emperor take me, I don’t know,” Marsh said, tipping his helmet back a little. He then added sarcastically, “I’ve never asked.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Aha, that’s funny,” Marsh replied dryly. “Surefire way to get a bolt through the skull…”

Barlocke snorted and waved him off.

“What I’m merely trying to say is some situations the Guard are sent to deal with are better accomplished by careful applications of violence, not mobs of angry men with bayonets. An exercise of restraint is often better. First, we learn, then we attack.”

“Mighty fine way o’ putting it, Inquisitor, but I don’t think it works when you’re feeling the heat.”

“For a man who does not ask many questions you are very skeptical,” Barlocke mused. “This makes it all the more exciting.”

“I’m happy to entertain.”

“Entertainment? No. A man who needs more convincing than others will end up all the more convicted in the answers he receives, when finally persuaded.”

They stopped next to the pile of rucksacks and overcoats left by Bloody Platoon. None of the men wanted to get anything but their trousers and undershirts dirty. Nearly fifty men pounding away at the soil was already yielding results. Mounds of tan earth and piles of crushed rock created embankments at the lips of the new trench. Already, some of the troopers were hauling boards and beams to reinforce the walls.

Deciding he would help, Marsh took off his helmet, rucksack, and coat. As he did, he faced the Inquisitor.

“Look, you’re the boss. What you say goes. I know I can’t change yer mind, for I’m just a gunman with a few stripes. I ain’t got much to offer you in the way o’ wit or smarts. But I am most interested in but two facts: keeping these men alive and ridding my home of this heresy. If you think creeping around the hinterland and carefully applying violence will do that, then fine.”

“You aren’t interested in what I aim to show you?” Barlocke asked curiously. Marsh scoffed as he pulled his 9-70 off the side of his ruck.

“I get the distinct feelin’ I’m gonna be finding out whether I want to or not.”

“What do you think I mean by this phrase you linger on?”

Marsh balanced the shovel across his shoulders and thought for a moment, casting his gaze to the sun which now broke through the clouds.

“I’pose it means sending the right men to do the right job. And making sure you kill the enemy without losing too many of your own.”

“And through that we make a change. A creation of order and unity.”

Marsh waved one hand dismissively.

“Oh hell, how can men being sent off in different directions create any kind o’ unity? And whatcha even mean unity, I thought we was discussing tactics.”

“We discuss higher things, Silas, in a way you can understand, if only you take a moment to stop and dwell on it. Think not the method, but the objective. Actions may differ, but they all steer towards the same goal. That is unity.

Marsh thought for a moment and then grinned.

“Then, a bayonet charge is a kind of unity, ain’t it?”

Barlocke chuckled and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“In a sense,” he said. “But once the melee ensues, each man forgets the reason why he charged. He only aims to survive. Where is that unity then?”

Frowning, Marsh walked backwards towards the new trench.

“Ever been in a charge?”

His tone was snappy and more brazen than he initially intended. Barlocke, seemingly undeterred, began walking away as well.

“Yes,” was all he said as he departed.

Needless to say, Marsh Silas was put out. He was already conflicted by his own fears and desires and now Barlocke put a real spin on him. The platoon sergeant could hardly decipher their conversation. Unity? Order? Learning? Change? Study? Individual? Was the man deranged? Why was he even bothering to listen, anyway? Ever since he was a boy, every Commissar, priest, officer, and NCO, told him to avoid those who seemed to stray from the path. Fools who seemed to look down on the Astra Militarum’s sacred traditions of warfare and spoke endlessly about nonsense definitely seemed to fit that bill. He seemed to enjoy tormenting him with all his quizzical questions and fancy ways of talking. Barlocke was from the very Ordo which dealt with those whose faith was faltering in the Imperium. Why would he invite him to question? And what right did Barlocke have, looking down his long nose at the way he’d been fighting war? He was still alive, after all. Careful applications of violence—rubbish!

As he dug next to his friends, he thought about some of their past battles. Three standard years ago, an Ork WAAAGH led by yet another absurdly named Warboos struck the area of operations they were serving in. Instead of letting the green tide break against their excellent entrenched position, the previous regimental commander ordered them to break cover and assault the Orks on open ground without support. Without armor, air, or artillery cover, their casualties were very high and they were driven shamefully from the field. Marsh Silas barely escaped with his life, having caught an Ork bullet that nearly tore off his left thigh.

Another time, the regiment was on the march when 4th Company was ambushed by Eldar infiltrators. Rather than retreating to a more defensible location, the Captain ordered his platoon leaders on a frontal assault. There was no 4th Company after that. Only a handful of survivors were recovered by and incorporated into 1st Company. Some of them, like Monty Peck, Fletcher, and Astle, were now members of Bloody Platoon.

Strange, how his mind was drawn to these battles when he’d been a part of so many assaults which ended in victory. He remembered those, but not so clearly as their defeats. As his memory returned to these scenes, he felt the same animosity, bitterness, and disgrace he felt at those times. How deep his anger went to watch friends so needlessly lose their lives. It shamed him to admit it, even if it was to himself, that he wished there was something different they could have done. That what they were trained to do, what they were taught was right, didn’t always work. Did that mean it wasn’t right, anymore? Was it entirely wrong? What did that say about the people who raised him, told him he was superior to any xeno, mutant, or heretic? It sure didn’t feel that way on those terrible days. They were proven wrong time and time again, but what was he supposed to do about it? He was just a simple Guardsman.

“You know lads, I think that ol’ preacher is lyin’ through his teeth,” Walmsley Minor finally said. A great number of men stopped digging, including Marsh Silas. They regarded him with surprise and confusion. Forcing the point of his 9-70 into the earth, he leaned on the handle. “Think about it! He says the God-Emperor has defeated our enemies and won our battles. So how come He, the Greatest of Greats, ain’t mentioned in the after-action reports? And how come he ain’t been given a wage or promoted?”

Realizing that he was joking, some of the troopers groaned and waved him off amid a flurry of cuss. As they returned to their work, Yoxall closed the sandbag he was holding and shook his hedd.

“Halfwit, the God-Emperor does not fight side by side with us. He’s here in spirit! He influences everything. And the God-Emperor of all Mankind does not get promoted.”

“So does that mean when I pull the trigger with my ol’ trigger-finger,” Walmsley Minor said, wiggling his forefinger. “…that ain’t me doing that, it’s the Emperor?”

“In a way.”

“Then that means the God-Emperor does my talking too? Even at this moment.”

“Well…”

“That’s enough,” Marsh said in an even tone. “Keep that kind of talk down. Don’t want Ghent mistaking Walmsley’s stupidity for blaspheming.”

“Marsh, you turning into one o’ those preachers with them big words?” asked Walmsley Major, working beside him.

“Aye, he says it but non o’us can spell it!” his twin added jovially. “Not even him!”

“We’ve heard it enough times in the chapel. Hear a word so many times, you can say it and know it without spelling it,” Marsh answered. He raised his 9-70 to skim some dirty off from the side of the trench. After several strikes, the flat of the shovel caught on something. Marsh winced as he felt the tremors travel up his arms, immediately followed by brief soreness. Striking the object deliberately, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Some of the other men noticed and gathered around.

He started digging away at the blockage and felt nervous. Was he about to dig up unexploded ordinance or some foul object left by the Archenemy? Yoxall, warded the others off and helped him dig it out in case it was a shell or mine. Both men dug meticulously, their faces slick with sweat and dirt. Huffing and puffing, dark stains spreading under the armpits of their olive undershirts, their hair dampening, cool air stinging at their moistened brows, they finally cleared the dirty away. Much to their relief, it was an old, rusted, bent metal pipe.

Marsh and Yoxall did their best to extricate it by hand. For all their strength, they could not move it. The Walmsley brothers, two strong men if there ever were any, gave it a try but they too failed. Changing strategies, Marsh dug away at the wall some more but he realized he’d have to take away much of it to expose it. Nobody could gauge how long the pipe actually was and they didn’t want to make more work for themselves by patching a section of their trench.

As they puzzled over it, a thought finally came to Marsh Silas. He scrambled out of the trench and retrieved a coil of rugged, graying rope from his kit-bag. The rope was tied around the pipe several times and knotted up. After testing it to make sure it wouldn’t slip off at the slightest tug, he stretched the rope out. “Everyone take hold!”

Nearly half the men in Bloody Platoon tightened their gloves and grabbed a section. When they were all assembled, with Marsh standing in the trench and the rest of the men standing in a long line outside of it, he said, “We’re going to pull as one, give it one solid pull, then slack, and then pull again. Understand?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas!”

“One, two, three!”

The men heaved, paused, and then pulled again. It was only a second’s pause between each effort. Men grunted and huffed, their boots dug into the soil, sweat trickled down their foreheads under the rising morning sun. It took a great deal of time and effort, even with two dozen men. Scraping and shuddering, the pipe began to move. Slowly, more and more of the twisted object slid inch by inch out of the packed soil. Some of the dirt around it began to crumble. “It’s coming loose! Keep it up, now! Work together!”

With one final cry, they gave a mighty heave. The pipe slid from the soil and into the trench. Marsh Silas and his friends tumbled onto their backsides. Sitting up, they admired their handiwork; it was a very long, ancient drainage pipe. How it ended up there no one could guess.

“Hurrah!” the men bellowed. Picking themselves up, offering each other helping hands, they laughed and clapped one another on the back. Everyone wished their comrades a job well done.

“Victory for the Thirteen-Thirty-Third!” Queshire shouted, earning a bout of raucous laughter. Marsh remained seated on the embankment, enjoying Bloody Platoon’s jovial banter. He was smirking and thought triumphantly to himself: there you have it Inquisitor, that’s unity for you.

The laughter died down. He looked over his shoulder to see the men making way for Captain Murga and Lieutenant Hyram. Both of them returned the salutes and dismissed the men to their previous duties. Marsh stood up and saluted up at both men.

“Well done,” said the Captain after saluting him back. He turned to Hyram. “You’ve got a good platoon here, Lieutenant. And a good Sergeant, too. Keep at it, you men. It cheers me to see your happy, smiling faces. Why, it reminds me of my day as a ranker! Let me tell you a story of a lonely fighting hole my mates and I once dug…”

As Murga drifted away with some of the troops, Hyram offered his hand.

“I’ve got you, Staff Sergeant. Fine work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marsh muttered as he clambered out with his helmet. Deciding he needed a drink from his canteen, he ventured towards his rucksack. Hyram came with him, much to his displeasure.

“Well, Staff Sergeant Cross?”

“Marsh Silas is fine, sir.”

“I wanted to speak to you briefly, about our operations.”

“Ain’t you been briefed, sir?”

“Of course, but uh…I wanted to ask you some questions. Privately.”

Marsh took a short drink and cast a glance at the platoon. Most were resting as they listened to Murga tell another of his stories which he used to entertain the men of 1st Company. These were tales of Cadian valor and usually had some kind of moral to them about faith, loyalty, and maintaining the Imperial Truth. He enjoyed them and on any other day would have sat to listen. As much as he disliked the thought of having to deal with Hyram, he found himself grateful for the distraction this time. Sitting through another glory-story for a lesson he already knew didn’t sit well, suddenly.

“Sure, Lieutenant, let’s go.”