Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

It was a silent march back to camp.

The first snows of the long winter season fell as the sun sank behind white-capped hills. Only the deep reverberations of distant cannonades and the steady tramp-tramp-tramp of Bloody Platoon’s booted feet on the pavement could be heard. In the last gleams of fading, orange light, they were but a shadowy mass. Fifty men rigidly moved in perfect, mechanical unison. From the grimy column permeated a stench of body odor and burnt metallic stink overheated M36 barrels.

Marsh Silas strode beside the column rather than at its head. It was a position a platoon sergeant often took to maintain the unit’s order. At the front of the column, he could see Lieutenant Hyram with the fifty-first man, Inquisitor Barlocke. Their gait deviated from the rest of the men. All the others kept their heads raised as if on the parade ground, maintaining grip on the strap of their weapons while the others swung at their side. Barlocke did not match the platoon’s rhythm and Hyram’s head hung low. His shoulders sagged and his feet barely kept to the beat of the men.

It was an un-soldierly sight. On any other evening, Marsh Silas would have felt outraged to see a man behave in such a fashion even if he was his superior. Such low Cadian spirit was disgraceful. Many times before, he corrected Hyram during their marches and did not care which of the men saw him do it. But tonight, he relented. He was too tired, he told himself. Hyram fought as hard as any man that day and for the first time the spineless twit showed a degree of tactical aptitude, that was part of it, surely. And he was not going to test the grace the God-Emperor already granted him; he’d never admonished a superior officer before in his life. If he kept it up, he would have to pay the Emperor His dues. Yes, that was really it.

Someone coughed. By sound alone, Marsh could tell it belonged to Hitch. It was the first sound any man made since the order to move out was given. He glanced at Bloody Platoon. Still, their movement was immaculate but their emotionless faces spoke more to him than any word or tear drop. More so it was their eyes. Moonlight was beginning to pierce the clouds and he could make out their faces in those glimpses of pale, blue light. They stared straight ahead, lost in the middle distance, that nothingness all disturbed souls were privy to. An empty gaze, betraying a mind plagued by thought. Every mind went back to the same place.

Since the 1333rd’s reformation six standard years earlier, the men of Bloody Platoon faced countless enemies. From Eldar infiltrators to overconfident Ork WAAAGHs, they’d witnessed the horrors each xenos horror could bring. Yet their most common and erstwhile enemies, the Archenemy, proved to be their most hated foe. Never in the line of duty had any failed or hesitated to pull the trigger when facing the heretic, traitor, and cultist. A Cadian’s sacred duty was to dispatch these foul foes.

Yet, this time it was different even if all knew they’d fulfilled their vow to the Emperor. Once again, they did not balk or falter. But every man clutched Ecclesiarchy-sanctioned totems in their fingers—silver chains with Gothic crosses and wooden prayer beads—the duty sat heavily on their souls. Marsh slipped the beads he wore around his right wrist off and laced them between his left fingers. It felt good to touch them, pressing his fingertips against the points of the dark rhombus shapes and running the brown, circular charms along his knuckles.

The wind pushed down from the north and carried the faint scent of burnt flesh and Promethium; a familiar stench. Marsh Silas brought the chin of his tactical hood over his nose but the smell lingered. He cleared his throat and breathed heavily through his nose. Still, it persisted.

“To hell with light discipline,” he muttered. He procured his ebony pipe and a pouch of tabac leaves. With shaking hands, he shook some of the leaves into the bowl and hastily struck a match. It took several tries and he dropped the first one. The second proved even more difficult to strike. Groaning, he flicked it away and tried a third time. Aggravated, he inhaled sharply and the smell of roasting flesh seemed every stronger. His stomach lurched and his feet halted.

He didn’t notice Barlocke had come back to join him. The Inquisitor took the box of matches and lit one on the first try. Cupping his hand around the pipe, he dipped the match inside. Marsh puffed a little and a thin trail of smoke drifted up. All the platoon sergeant could do was grunt and nod. Just as he started to walk again, Barlocke placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place while the platoon marched by. Marsh just looked up at the man, the smoke from his pipe creating a veil between them. The smell of burning leaves was strong. Too strong.

Marsh Silas hastily walked into the roadside ditch, bent over, and vomited. It was a difficult retching, for he hadn’t eaten all day. Yellow bile dribbled onto the dark soil in the bottom of the ditch. When he was through, he spat and sat down against the embankment. Tipping his helmet back, he held his forehead and tried to breathe. Trembling gasps subsided and he gripped his pipe with his lips. With both hands, he clutched his prayer beads tightly and rubbed them in his palms. Barlocke’s hand touched his shoulder again.

“Deny and deny your empathy as you wish,” the Inquisitor whispered. “You know why you do not accost the Lieutenant, for he bears the same turmoil.”

“We could have gotten there sooner,” Marsh finally said.

“The corruption was irreversible. Their minds were too young, too fragile to resist.”

“Why kiddies? Why them? They was just a bunch o’ lil’ ones. What use can the old enemy make o’ them?”

Barlocke trudged into the ditch and, still standing, met Marsh’s gaze.

“Once, I tracked a roving pant of cultists to a Civilized World. Upon landfall, I had naught but rumors to chase them. When I reached their last known location, just a few run-down huts, I found a small child. He was alone, huddled by a little fire in the center of a shed. When I picked up, he pulled the pin on a grenade. Didn’t see it, just heard the click. I managed to escape but I was burned quite terribly. Some of the shrapnel is still in my arm,” he said, lifting his left hand. He examined it briefly before letting it drop. “Those forces which proctor such corruption find uses for all souls.”

Marsh smoked his pipe, releasing small clouds from his nostrils and his mouth. His mind wandered and fought. It all came back to the same outcome.

“We had’em. I mean, we had’em! We got them outta there and for what? What was the point?”

Barlocke did not reply for a time. Marsh tried to compel him to answer with a look but the Inquisitor’s face was concealed in the shadow cast by his wide-brimmed hat.

“The fate which befell them was a blessing compared to what awaited them as thralls. As to what it was all worth? Well, only you can answer that.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh just tried to fill his nostrils with the smell of burning tabac. It was all he could to do to try and remove the acrid stink of scorching flesh from his mind. More than the mere thought, the smell alone was enough to make the scene repeat!

“That don’t make me feel no better. For once in my soldier’s life, I was well and truly glad. We did something we ain’t ever done before. It was right, plain and simple. And it didn’t matter.” He smoked briefly. “Now all I feel is rage and I don’t know what to do about it!” he shook his head, grasping his stubble-coated chin. “Corruption it may have been, but I’d have rather shot one o’ those heretics. Dare I say, I’d fight a daemon before having to do that again. It don’t feel right.”

“Eliminating foes for our beloved Imperium doesn’t feel right?” Barlocke asked. Marsh glared up at him.

“Don’t put it like that.”

The Inquisitor seemed to shrug, his movements obscured by his long coat and the deepening darkness.

“If we failed to fulfill our duty, we would not have risked just our lives but many others. Keeping them alive was not an option.”

“We, is it? I didn’t see you on the firing line.”

“Giving an order and pulling the trigger are more similar than you may realize, Silvanus,” Barlocke responded in a low but kind voice. “You know full well what they would have turned into.”

“And I would have shot them down, then.”

“Are you saying it would have easier to kill caterwauling little monsters than—”

He felt the muscles in his jaw lock and bulge. His lips pursed tightly. Whatever face he was making seemed to make the Inquisitor stop. There was no intimidating an Inquisitor to silence though, he surmised; it was but a polite consideration. His hardened stare softened.

“Maybe,” was all he managed for a time. “But, perhaps it woulda been harder to see them lose themselves as they become devils.”

“You know as well as I, it was right.”

Marsh stared into the bottom of the ditch for a great deal of time. He puffed steadily on the pipe, a steady trickle of smoke escaping his nose, mingling with that of the pipe’s. A steady hand brought the pipe down.

“Deep down, I know it.” He looked back up at the Inquisitor. “But that don’t make it any easier to bear.”

More clouds rolled through the sky, ushered by a cold breeze. Shreds of moonlight were soon obscured, plunging Cadia deeper into darkness. After casting an upwards glance, Barlocke extended his hand and Marsh accepted. Back on his feet, the pair followed the column. All Barlocke did was put an arm around Marsh as they walked.

“Hard as it is, these feelings shall pass. All pain passes in time, but only if you choose to heal from it. For the moment, remain strong. For the sake of your men.”

“I’pose that’s all I can be,” Marsh replied. Bloody Platoon had halted ahead by fifty meters. While the enlisted men maintained their formation, casting only brief glances over their shoulders, Hyram waited beside the column. The Lieutenant seemed to search them with his gaze, lingering on Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant nodded and the men carried on.

They continued south along the coast road, listening to the crashing surf. Army’s Meadow was in sight, then. Finally, they crossed Mason bridge, snaked up the cape road where the yellow flowers danced on either side, and marched right through the perimeter gate in good order. Just inside, 2nd and 3rd Platoons were resting. Still clad in their wargear, their M36 lasguns were stacked together around the campfires, the barrels pointing skyward. Captain Murga was among them and strode out with Lieutenants Comstock and Savidge. His greetings were warm but he curtly inquired as to their delay. It was Barlocke who explained all that transpired.

“Well, it’s a damn, damn shame. But you met the enemy, destroyed his position, damaged his mobility, and denied a vital piece of ground to them. The flow of fresh recruits to Kasr Fortis shall cease now. You ought to be proud.”

“1st Platoon performed admirably,” Barlocke said before either Hyram or Marsh Silas could speak. “You must understand their spirits are low, however.”

“Commissar Ghent shall whip them into shape.”

“Unnecessary, Captain. I should think they just need a good rest for the time being.”

“Very good, sir. Colonel Isaev is holding a briefing tomorrow for all regimental officers based on the information you’ve gathered. Oh, Inquisitor, I don’t suppose I could ask for your aid in one matter.” Murga nodded uncomfortably towards a new, makeshift campsite on the south side of the base. Spare tents, hastily erected sheet metal sheds, and various lean-tos. The evacuated townsfolk were already appearing from their shelters.

Marsh Silas felt his gut tighten while Captain Murga removed his low-peaked cap. “I haven’t told them the sorry news. I think it would be better to hear it from someone who was there.”

“Very well. I shall be the one,” Barlocke said.

“It should be me,” Hyram offered. There was no deep resolution or determination in his voice. Just a sad, weary acknowledgement. It conjured a strange feeling within Marsh; he could not tell if it was sympathy, admiration, or something else entirely. Both he and the Inquisitor were so willing to take on the burden.

“I can tell them,” he heard himself say. Hyram, too tired and near despondent to argue, merely nodded. Barlocke did not show any surprise.

Captain Murga did not contest the offer and returned to the Company Command Squad. Marsh, Barlocke, Hyram, and the rest of the platoon waited for the rest of the company to disperse before they approached the campsite. All the townsfolk were gathered up. Standing before their camp fires, which cast a pale orange outline around them, they appeared to be one, living mass. A smaller crowd it was; undoubtedly some bore the same taint and were dispatched. All regarded Bloody Platoon with confusion and eagerness.

Pushing to the front of the crowd was Asiah. She wore fresh garments. Gone was her dirty apron, replaced by a clean fisherman’s jacket and a hooded shawl upon her shoulders. The hood was scrunched down at the base of her neck. Her feathery blonde hair was tied into a rough ponytail. Many strands were loose and swaying in the ocean breeze washing over the base. Her violet eyes glimmered with hope. Recognizing Marsh Silas at the head of the platoon, she smiled very wide. To him, she appeared as charming as when they first met in her small town.

When he noticed she was still holding the white cloth he gave her, all he planned to say vanished from his mind. Having volunteered his voice, he found he suddenly lacked one. Not just in her eyes, but all their eyes, he could see the shimmer of anticipation. Did they not see the children were absent? Were they fooling themselves into thinking the rescue was successful but other arrangements were made? To be the destroyer of their desire, to watch all happiness crumble at his word; Marsh Silas wished to be anywhere else in the Imperium.

“Tell them the truth,” Hyram eventually said as the platoon sergeant lingered at the edge of the campsite. “Don’t spare a detail. They deserve to know everything.”

“The Lieutenant speaks true. But the pain of such grim facts will cut all the deeper. Spare some words, Silvanus, for their own sake. And for your men’s; these people’s grief will only make your own worse,” Barlocke suggested.

“To lie to these poor wretches would be a most despicable act, Inquisitor,” Hyram retorted vehemently, forgetting his station. Barlocke did not seem to care in the slightest.

“Lying and vagueness are two very different concepts, Lieutenant Hyram,” he replied bluntly. Putting his hand on Marsh’s shoulder, he squeezed it and whispered, “The choice is yours.”

After a moment, Marsh Silas stepped forwards. As he did, he removed his helmet and clipped it to his belt. He emptied his pipe by knocking it against his knee pad, casting ash down his pant leg. Behind him came Bloody Platoon, breaking formation and shifting into a crowd with their sergeant. Why they stayed he did not know; they were excused duty and could return to their bunks. Perhaps, they did not want him to deliver the news alone; he loved them for that. Hyram was on his right, pensive and braced. Barlocke was on the opposite side, emotions unknown except to himself. To betray no emotion, to bear such presence among men. Did he hope to ease the blow of approaching despair?

Marsh Silas walked right up to Asiah. She reached and took his hand in both of hers.

“M…Miss,” he greeted, clearing his throat. “I hope you are well here.”

“The children,” she said immediately. “Where are they? My boy?”

He swallowed heard. His mouth ran dry. Asiah squeezed his hand tightly.

“Miss Asiah…” he started slowly. “We found the heretics who took all the kiddies and killed them to the last man. The dark place they were brought to has been destroyed. No more children shall be taken in the night. But the kiddies—your children…”

Asiah’s eyes brimmed with tears. Marsh Silas put his other hand on top of hers. He leaned down to look directly into her eyes. His eyes searched, shut, opened; his lips moved but there was no voice. Finally, in the gentlest tone he could muster, “they are at rest now. Their souls are kept by the God-Emperor.”

Upon this word, Lieutenant Hyram and Bloody Platoon removed their helmets and bowed their heads. Barlocke took off his hat and held it over his hat. He gave an elegant bow, rose slowly, and donned it once more. Then, he took Marsh by the elbow and tried to take him along. Asiah did not let go as she sank to her knees. After a few shudders, she leaned forward and started to sob in her hands, still locked with Marsh’s. Ignoring the Inquisitor’s tugging, Marsh Silas knelt down, slipped one hand away, and took her shoulder. He dared not look at the denizens behind her, wishing only to gaze upon the dirt. Yet, their terrible wailing forced his eyes upwards. Mothers sank and fell into their husbands’ arms. Fathers wept as they held their wives. Their sobbing rose into screams of agonizing grief, tearing through the night. As they cried, Marsh found he could not watch for long. Their betrayed, tragic gazes were simply too much.

Asiah continued to sob into their knitted hands. Her face rose for a moment, eyes flooded with tears. They streamed down her face, cascading like water running down a cliff. With an injured expression, she met his eyes.

“Give me back my baby…” she whispered, her voice broken. Then she ripped her hands from his, lunged forward, and pounded her fists against his chestplate. “Give me back my boy! Give him back to me! He’s mine, he’s all I have! Give him back!”

Marsh took these blows without comment or resistance. Even on his knees, his broad frame was hardly moved by her clobbering. Suddenly, she ceased and rested her palms against his Flak Armor. “Please. Please. His name is Galo. He’s got hair just like yours and a little scar on his chin. Didn’t you see him?”

He didn't have a chance to look at all the children. Whisking them away in the heat of battle didn’t allow for that kind of inspection. Nobody asked for names and none were given. Yet he recalled all that transpired as best he could.

“No, Miss Asiah, I did not.”

“Then he could yet live!” she cried. “You have to go back out there and find him! Find him!” One fist pathetically beat his chestplate. “Please, you have to go back out and find him. Please…”

He wanted to leave—escape—but as this poor woman latched onto him, he found he could not move. More and more, his arms started to lace around her, clutching her tightly. Revulsion roiled in his chest, not for her, but for himself. To tear away from this woman in her time of grief seemed despicable and he despised the notion which dogged him so. And he was drawn back to the ditch, the trek across the hinterland, the battle; was there something different he could have done? It seemed so much easier to place blame on himself for this outcome.

A hand wrapped around his upper arm once more and gently pulled. When Marsh did not move, it tugged more firmly.

“Your son sleeps with the honored dead, my lady,” Barlocke said in a low voice. “Come, Silas, come.”

Finally, Marsh Silas allowed himself to be pulled away. Asiah remained on her knees, bent over, sobbing, and clutching the white cloth in her hands as if it were prayer beads. She stayed that way and wailed. Behind her, all the rest moved in a pitiful fashion, looking skyward, appealing to the heavens, entreating the God-Emperor to undo their woes.

Barlocke clamped a hand around the back of Marsh’s neck and forced him to look forward. When he felt compelled to give the deprived one last glance, the Inquisitor’s grip grew tighter. “Do not gaze upon them once more, man, lest the image be frozen within your mind for the remainder of your days.”

“Too late,” Marsh Silas murmured, “too late.”

Bloody Platoon trundled piecemeal to their cliffside perch. One by one, individuals or clots of troopers splintered off to return to their berths. Marsh drifted in and out of the crowd and only realized when he was near the top Barlocke disappeared. His absence did not matter. As he stepped into the bunker, filled with ammunition, extra weaponry, and various equipment, a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Vitality failed him and all he wanted to do was slump into his bunk. Down the ladder, everyone drifted to their assigned quarters. All doffed their gear and shed their filthy clothes. Men who talked of warm showers and hot meals silently climbed into their bunks. Some wiped their faces down with dampened cloth or took one last drink of water before sliding under a blanket. A few were still kicking off their boots. Still fully laden with wargear, Marsh walked through each chamber. As he entered, he was met by many exhausted faces and glimmering eyes. Unsure of what to say, he drifted through silently, almost aimlessly. He tried flashing a smile here, tapping a shoulder plate there, and found such gestures in kind. But everything felt hollow and numb.

He reached his chamber and found his dear friends. Among them, he felt somewhat better and there were warm greetings. Both Walmsley’s were in their bunks; despite the lack of space, the young joined the elder in their cramped space. Back-to-back, wedged together, the two brothers fell asleep instantly. Arnold Yoxall unloaded his gear in a deliberate, slow fashion. Honeycutt was kneeling beside Drummer Boy who was curled on his side in his bunk.

“He’s got those shakes again,” the medic whispered. The Voxman was indeed shivering, but not as if he was cold. This happened on rare occasions and no one was certain of the reason why. “There, there, lad. Just breathe and focus. Don’t you want to sleep?”

“Won’t sleep,” Drummer Boy replied. “Can’t sleep.”

“Sure, you can,” the medic soothed. “After a day like today, you’ll sleep deeply. No dreams will dog you. I’m sure of it.”

Drummer Boy just shook his head. Honeycutt went to their chamber’s communal chest, dug through the contents, and procured an extra blanket. It was heavier than the standard Militarum sheet. He wrapped it around the Voxman’s legs and tucked it in. “Marsh, lean forward and put some weight on his legs. Make sure they’re close together.”

Marsh obeyed, applying a firm amount of pressure. He ensured his elbows did not dig into his flesh or put too much weight on his knees. Drummer Boy’s shivering went on for a few minutes more but started to slowly abate. Honeycutt leaned over his head and stroked the young man’s blonde hair. “Tell me about the codes. Did you change the Vox-caster’s codes?”

“Always. As soon as I get back to base, I check in with Company Headquarters for updated frequencies. I record these in my code book and proceed to switch all channels over to the new codes.” His voice started to get sleepier. “Then I erase the previous entries…so in the event of capture…the enemy cannot reference our encryption codes…”

Drummer Boy talked a little longer about the various technical information regarding Vox-communications until he fell asleep. Soon enough, his chest rose and fell steadily, his breathing was normal, and he ceased to shake. Marsh Silas and Honeycutt stepped away from him and started to shed their equipment.

“How’d you know that’d work?” Marsh whispered.

“Not all cures lie with an herbal remedy, hymn, or injector.” Grinning, he nodded towards Yoxall. “No matter what the old preacher’s son might say.”

“I heard that,” the Breacher muttered. Marsh tapped Honeycutt on the shoulder to say goodnight and then bumped his fist against Yoxall’s. As the medic dimmed the lamp-packs mounted on the walls, Marsh was about to follow the remaining men’s suit and enter his bunk. But he noticed the light was still on in Lieutenant Hyram’s quarters. Lingering outside his sleeping arrangement, Marsh stared at the dull yellow light emanating from behind the curtain.

“Sir?” There was no answer. “Permission to enter, sir?”

Once again, there was no reply. He listened closely and he heard sniveling. Glancing back at his platoon mates, all of whom were now in their bunks and fast asleep, he pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Pulling it into place behind him, he found the quarters seemingly empty. Hyram was not at his desk. His M36, armor, and other gear were sloppily piled up beside it. In the corner f his room, his helmet sat upended, as if thrown there. He picked it up, wiped the dust from the top, and set it down lightly on the desk. Turning around, he glanced at the cut in the wall where the pict-capture stood. One was missing.

Hearing the sniffling behind him, Marsh found Hyram curled up in his bunk. The junior officer was under the blanket with his tunic unbuttoned and gripped the pict of his son with both hands. His hands trembled and he clutched the frame so tightly his knuckles turned white. Hyram’s back was to the room and Marsh had to lean over him to see his face. All the dust on his cheeks were smeared by tears and both eyes were red. Mucus leaked from his nose and every so often he sniffed.

This was not the man he’d seen on the battlefield nor the fool he’d witnessed on the parade grounds. All animosity left Marsh Silas, at least for that instant, and he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Oh, Lieutenant…”

Much to his surprise, Hyram shook his hand off.

“You’ve damned us, Cross,” he snapped in a choked voice. He rolled over in his cot and propped himself up on one arm. “You lied to these poor souls and now we are damned.”

“I didn’t lie, sir. I just…eased the blow, is all.”

“Lie or not, we are belaboring a greater burden now. Yes, it would have hurt them deeply. But truth is a liberation! To keep the truth will accrue more damage to the messenger than any it could inflict upon the recipient. You have spared no one in your effort to alleviate the pain. We are damned with the truth.”

Marsh Silas wanted to feel angry. How could a fancy-speaking, inexperienced aristocrat playing soldier lecture him like that? But he couldn’t muster the emotion as the words sunk into him. Eventually, his head hanging low, he stood up and stepped away from the wall. Two tears rolled down Hyram’s cheeks and he swiftly burrowed back into his blanket to stare at the pict.

Marsh Silas went back to the outer chamber and heaved himself into his bunk. He didn’t bother to remove his dirty coat or field trousers. Readjusting under the blanket, he rested his hands on his stomach and stared at the wooden boards of Yoxall’s bunk above him. For a time, a long time, he was still. Breathing shallow, his chest barely rose and fell. When he finally took a deep breath, his identification tags, resting at the base of his neck rather than his chest, slid down the chain. The metal was cold against the soft skin of his neck; it was actually rather pleasant.

His hands began to clasp. Alternating between squeezing the fingers of one with the other hand or clutching them firmly together, he saw the scene again. The kids kneeling in the ditch, their bodies falling over, Tatum expending the last of his Promethium tanks to burn them away, and the sound of 9-70 entrenchment tools chipping into the earth to bury the charred remains. Anguished cries rang in his ears and the distorted shadows of so many grieving parents fell in the firelight. And poor, agonized Asiah, clutching her hair, wailing with tears in her eyes. Again, he saw it all. Again and again.

His breath caught. Marsh Silas briefly leaned out from the bunk and looked around. Each of his companions were asleep. Some were even snoring. Listening closely, he heard no one walking down the tunnels. Sliding back under his blanket, he pulled the cover up to his chest, balled it into a wad, bit it firmly, and wept until sleep came.

***

When he stirred, he felt disoriented. Grit was in his eyes and his head swam. Sleeping underground was safest for a Guardsman, but being unable to see daylight or darkness made guessing the time difficult. Thankfully, he left his wrist watch on. Blinking lingering fatigue from his eyes, he checked the time: nearly 0430 hours, standard time. Certainly, it would still be dark outside, though the sunrise was approaching soon.

For years, he tended to wake before the morning roll. It was natural—the body adjusting and adapting to a soldier’s daily routines. Whether it was from that very routine or his dream-addled slumber he awoke from, Marsh couldn’t be sure.

What had he seen? Places he lived; first the fortified family mansion in Kasr Polaris and then the cramped apartment he shared with his widowed mother. He saw her face, exhausted from her fifteen-hour manufactorum shift, across the table. She never looked at anything in particular and hardly touched the meal she prepared. Although, there were times she would gaze at him. When he looked back, she always bequeathed him with a mother’s smile.

Such dreams were bittersweet and did not visit him often. The pictures they formed were the kind a Guardsman wished to keep in his mind and just as quickly remove them. In the grim soldier’s life, alleviated briefly by victories counted from battles won to simply surviving another difficult day, occasional glories, and rare furloughs, memories of home and family kept a man sane. Too much thought, however, could turn a Shock Trooper melancholic, lonesome, and bitter.

Usually, when he woke early, Marsh Silas would rise from his bunk, don his uniform, start brewing recaf, and watch the time. He would wait until just before the horn bellowed; Commissar Ghent and First Sergeant Hayhurst would come calling immediately afterwards. Waking the men just before they arrived pleased the two men and staved off their wrath. Being woken by the platoon sergeant was far preferable than being roused by their dangerous political officer or their perpetually angry company sergeant.

On this dreary morning, with his strength still absent and his heart very heavy, Marsh Silas did not rise. For the first time in many years, he elected to remain in his bunk with the blanket up to his chin, curled on his side in the tight space. It wasn’t to grasp an opportunity to loaf or get some extra sleep. He just could not make himself move this time.

His mind ceased to muddle, steadily becoming blank as he fixated on little objects throughout the room; the Walmsley’s boots in a neat little row, Honeycutt’s hand hanging off his bunk, Drummer Boy nestled completely under his two blankets, and a few loose autopistol slugs resting on the center table. Men like Logue and Foley argued came sooner if one cleared their minds. Walmsley Major adamantly believed it was attaching oneself to a singular thought and letting it carry one away was quicker. Refuting his own brother, Walmsley Minor declared letting your mind travel freely better. Having attempted all three modes, Marsh Silas subscribed more to Logue and Foley’s theory. Hopefully, it wo8uld lead him to a short but rejuvenating slumber for the next hour.

Just as his eyelids grew heavy, the boards above him creaked. Yoxall’s bare feet appeared over the bunk. Doing his best to be quiet, the demolitions expert hopped onto the floor and sat down. He pulled on his heavy socks, followed by his boots, which he started to lace. Propping himself up on his elbows, Marsh looked down at him.

“I say, Arnold, are you up?” he asked his friend. Yoxall didn’t look up as he finished tying his boots.

“Surely, I must be, lest I find myself sleepwalking,” was his reply. “Couldn’t sleep any further. I’m going to fire up a brew for the lot.”

“I’ll join you.” Marsh swung his legs out and sat up. Yoxall stood, finished dressing, and left for the central chamber. Rubbing his eyes, Marsh set about completing his own uniform. He tucked his shirt into his pants, tightened belt, threw his khaki sweater on, but didn’t bother with the suspenders. It was acceptable for off-duty men to let them hang to the sides, after all. He donned his boots and followed Yoxall.

It was cold in the underground barracks and he also put on his gloves. Yoxall was already steaming a pot by the time Marsh arrived. The strong aroma of recaf filled the commune chamber, overpowering the smell of dry dirt and salty rock. A tin cup with a thin, rusty handle was given to him. Marsh blew on the contents, gripping the mug by its sides rather than the flimsy handle. It warmed his palms comfortably. Breathing in the hearty scent drove away drowsiness and the first sip warmed up his entire torso. He could practically feel it traveling through him.

Filling another cup for himself, Yoxall turned around and the pair stood side by side, warming their hands and sipping carefully. The smell drew others; both Walmsley brothers, 3rd squad leader Sergeant Queshire, Honeycutt, and even Drummer Boy appeared, wrapping the heavy blanket around his shoulders. Each man found a cup, filled it, and drank quietly. No one spoke and no one exchanged a glance. All stood, some leaning against the walls or a beam or sitting on a stool. They stared at the floor, the ceiling, the sides of the chamber. Eyes were blank and expressions vacant as each man mechanically lifted his arm and drank his recaf.

They seemed like a motley bunch. Not the proud Cadians the rest of the Imperium heart about, but stubble-cheeked, dreary-eyed, beat-up Guardsmen. At times, all pride vanished. Men forgot who they were. Such was the soldier’s life. When the eyes of his world were drawn elsewhere, and he was safe within the confines of his bunker, prestige mattered little. Alone, but together with his friends, the Guardsmen no longer toiled by hand or in mind. Quiet was peace, and peace was so rare for the Guardsman, and after such terrible days, it was good to say nothing for a time.