Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

The hasty retreat quickly grew orderly. From the initial confusion of the withdrawal, Guardsmen from different companies were mixed together. But company commanders, executive officers, and countless NCOs reformed the men and organized them back into columns. One could hear their frenzied footfalls become more coordinated. Between their jostling rucksacks and heavy boots their quick-march was very audible, making a series of clumping and pattering sounds. When they were a kilometer away from the cove, their pace slowed down to a steady clump, clump, clump.

Officers and sergeants ushered the men on. Commissars offered encouragement and threats by turn. Men panted raggedly, wheezed, and sucked for air. There was no conversation.

An explosion far to the rear made Marsh Silas open his eyes and gaze back at the cove. Both Vultures continued to hover near it. Rockets left smoke trails in the air behind them. When they fell behind the high, jagged rock walls, columns of white water and gray sand shot skyward. When the gunships expended their munitions, they began firing their nose-mounted Heavy Bolters. Streams of white tracers sprayed from the hot barrels. Suddenly, rockets flew up from the cove. Both Vultures evaded, darting immediately to the side just in time. After narrowly avoiding a second series of rockets, the two gunships peeled away. As they passed, many Shock Troopers cheered and held up their fists. The Vultures dipped their wings from side to side in salutations.

“Holding up alright then, Staff Sergeant?” Murga asked, his voice strained from carrying Marsh Silas on uneven ground.

“Well enough, sir,” Marsh groaned, “though this here metal in my side is a great discomfort.”

“Honeycutt will patch you up soon enough.”

Murga was at the head of the column with his command squad. Hayhurst jogged up alongside them and pointed an accusatory finger at the wounded non-commissioned officer.

“Call yourself a Shock Trooper, do ye? Ya ain’t fit to call yerself a Cadian. What fool goes and gets himself wounded by shrapnel in such a way? It ain’t been but a week since yer last wounding. Ain’t you’s supposed to be smarter an’ that, boy?”

“Enough, First Sergeant!” Murga snapped. “Marsh Silas fought with honor and defended our withdrawal heroically. He should be proud of the wound he sustained and we ought to be thankful for his valor. Now, double-back and bring up the rear of the column.”

Hayhurst pursed his lips, nodded, and left. Marsh watched the hulking company sergeant trundle down the line. When he looked forward, he could see Murga craning his neck to look at him from the corner of his eye. “Mind him not. Hayhurst is just sorry he did not get a piece of the action. I’m damned proud of you, Marsh Silas. You’ll be put in for another medal for that.”

The platoon sergeant’s heart swelled with pride and it was very difficult not to smile. For a brief moment, he did not feel the burning pain in his side. But he maintained his composure and simply nodded.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank me not, thank the Emperor this day.”

Barlocke was beside the pair and he reached over to squeeze Marsh’s shoulder.

“Yes, well done.”

The Inquisitor was clutching a wound just above the collar of his cuirass. Like Marsh Silas, he too was wounded by shrapnel. The pieces were smaller than the piece embedded in the platoon sergeant’s left side, but nonetheless, they were clearly causing him pain. Barlocke’s mouth remained open and his breath was shallow. His dark brown eyes, normally aloof and curious, were narrow and focused. Even as he congratulated Marsh, his eyes remained fixed to the path ahead of him. Sweat coated his forehead, his brow was low and knitted over his eyes, and each time he took a step he winced. Although subtle, Marsh could see the pain briefly etched into his pale, handsome features. The skin around his eyes tightened and his eyelids threatened to close. Over time, his breathing grew more ragged to the point it whistled through his clenched teeth.

Alongside the Inquisitor was Lieutenant Hyram. The junior officer was bearing the weight of Arnold Yoxall very well. Despite the cessation of action, his face was still contorted as if in battle. Muscles in his jawline bulged and his eyes were very wide. But he moved at a steady pace and drew breath in a controlled fashion like a proper Shock Trooper. Thrown over the Lieutenant's shoulder, Yoxall was doing his best to hold on. Like many Cadians, he was broad in the chest and nearly two meters in height. Hyram was slightly smaller than him thus he was having to utilize more of his strength to carry the wounded demolition expert.

Gritting his teeth, Yoxall looked up at Marsh. The latter grinned back, risked letting go of Murga’s webbing, and saluted. Although it took him a moment, Yoxall was able to return the gesture.

“Got a wee pain in my leg,” the Breacher said, managing a smile. One of his arms was wrapped around Hyram’s front, clutching his webbing. The other gripped his right thigh, which was still bleeding. The entire side of his heavy, tan field trousers was soaked in blood so deep and dark in color it was nearly black.

To see one of his closest, oldest friends losing so much blood greatly disturbed Marsh Silas. A massive pit formed in his stomach to the point it almost made him nauseous. Even his heart rate spiked. So great was his fear he forgot his own pain once more.

He shall not die. I shall keep my promise to you. Barlocke’s voice did not pierce his mind as it usually did. Instead, it seemed to leak through his chest, wrap around his lungs, travel along his bones, and slither up his spine. As it reached the inner recesses of his mind, it coiled up like a snake and settled. Warm and damp, the words lingered, echoing off the walls of his skull. Just as the voice faded, it came back louder before finally vanishing like a warm breath in cool air. Rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh tried to work out the sensation. He looked up; Barlocke’s gaze remained on the beach ahead of them.

The regiment eventually made its way back to the valley above the beachside cliffs. Upon entering the short, yellow prairie grass, the three columns dispersed. Colonel Isaev ordered the most able-bodied unit, 2rd Company, to form an inverted crescent. Augmented with Heavy Weapons Squads from other companies, the firing line was able to cover both approaches to the beach and the bluffs. Once in place, the troops dug in. First, they scraped out fighting holes and firing pits for individual squads or weapons emplacements. Then, they proceeded to connect their positions with knee-high trenches for quick, semi-protected movement. After further solidifying their posts, they cleared their fields of fire by clearing grass with the sharpened edges of their 9-70’s.

While 2rd Company braced for a counterattack, Guardsmen from 1st and 3nd Companies formed the rest of the perimeter and occupied interior positions. Others were ordered to stand down and rest, so they found shelter in the many tents erected in their basecamp. Removed by about a hundred meters from the western perimeter, 1st Company deployed in a coil around a cluster of fifteen large tents. Medicae staff came out to receive the wounded. There were so many cases not all of them could be afforded space in the infirmaries. Only critical casualties—arterial bleeds, sucking chest wounds, amputations—along with as many category two casualties were taken in. These were men whose conditions were not as dire but still required immediate attention. Walking wounded, or category three casualties, were removed to another set of tents where junior medics and Field Chirurgeons administered treatment. Minor wounds—grazes, ricochets, in-and-out gunshots—were quickly dressed.

Marsh Silas found himself with other category two patients who could not find space in the Medicae tents. By the time he was placed on a litter, he was feeling the pain. The metal in his left side was no longer hot but it still seemed to burn. It ground against his flesh each time he made a slight movement. Being carried and moved around by so many Guardsmen made it worse.

Hissing through his teeth, he laid back as Honeycutt and a Field Chirurgeon from 2nd Squad, Salvia, who had a square face and deep-set violet eyes, removed his Flak Armor. Others who were present in the tent held up lamp-packs at the medic’s command. Warm, yellow light filled the tents. While Salvia set the webbing aside, Honeycutt filled out a triage card with a stubby field quill. The senior medic removed his helmet and his short, sweaty blonde hair seemed to shine in the glow

“Breathing, check. Mental state and orientation; can you tell me your name, rank, place of birth, and your mother’s name?”

“Silas Cross, Staff Sergeant, Kasr Polaris, Faye Cross.”

“Follow my finger with just your eyes.”

Honeycutt held up his index finger, gave Marsh a moment to focus, and then moved it left, then right, up, down, and finally in a circle. Without lagging, Marsh’s violet eyes followed his finger perfectly.

“Mental state, check,” Honeycutt grunted. “Orientated. Contamination, no...”

The medic went down the list, checking everything off. When he finished, he tore off the green strip at the bottom of the tag, leaving the orange, red, blue, and white strips which described other assessments. Using a folding pin, he clipped the tag to Marsh’s sleeve then reached into his kit to retrieve two white surgical gloves. Using a pair of scissors, he cut away the material around the wound. Carefully peeling the bloody wool away until the shrapnel and the skin of the surrounding impact area was exposed, he gingerly inspected it. “Penetrating injury, shrapnel.”

Honeycutt looked up and frowned. “You could have walked.”

“I don’t need none o’ yer lip, Honeycutt, treat me before I bleed to death,” Marsh wheezed through his teeth. The medic said nothing. Reaching into his kit, he pulled out a vial and a syringe. Taking off the cap, he carefully inserted the needle through the soft center of the lid and drew the pump back. Clear liquid filled the tube almost to the halfway mark. While he checked the syringe, Salvia unbuttoned Marsh’s heavy overcoat, pulled his right arm out of the sleeve, then did the same to his field tunic. Left in his undershirt, Marsh could feel the bitter cold coming through the half-open flap at the entrance of the tent.

Salvia rolled Marsh’s undershirt sleeve all the way up, exposing his scarred bicep. He then reached over and took the syringe from Honeycutt. Marsh felt a brief pinch in his skin as the nullifier was injected. Within a minute, he felt the pain subside from a sharp, burning to a dull ache. The relief made it feel as though the vise around his midsection was finally released. Tilting his head back, he sighed very loudly and opened his mouth. As Salvia moved to the other side with Honeycutt, the tent opened and Lieutenant Hyram came in. He took Salvia’s place on Marsh’s right side and placed a hand on his chest. The two looked at each other for a few moments before the Lieutenant smiled at him. It was a kind, charitable smirk.

Marsh did not find resolve in it but rather reassurance. He did not realize he was smiling back. All he did was move his hand on top of Hyram’s and keep it there for some time. Hyram did not seem to mind in the slightest. Although he was still on edge from his waning adrenaline and suffering from the aching in his side, Marsh felt more at ease. Junior Commissar Carstensen came in next and stood behind Hyram. She examined Marsh for a few moments, then leaned towards the medic while keeping her hands on her knees.

“What’s it going to be?” she asked Honeycutt.

“The shrapnel has penetrated the fleshy part of his torso,” he explained in an informed, authoritative tone. “It isn’t posing a threat to his internal organs. But further movement could exacerbate the wound and cause further internal damage. A Valkyrie ride is out of the question until it is removed.”

“Exacerbate?” Marsh asked, looking back towards Hyram.

“Worsen.”

“We are going to extract it.” Honeycutt looked up briefly. “Immediately. We won’t wait for a surgeon. I can do it myself.”

As they laid out their surgical tools, Marsh looked up at the ceiling of the tent. He knew it was going to hurt terribly, even with the pain nullifiers.

By the Emperor’s blessing and protection, he was spared from serious injury throughout his ten years of service in Cadian Shock Troops. Receiving shrapnel or getting shot in an unarmored part of his body was not unfamiliar to him. Several times, he was in situations which nearly took his life, but through comradeship, fighting spirit, and the Emperor’s will, he survived. But it was not going to be like the times when bullets were easily taken from his flesh, when they did not strike bone and arteries. Taking it out was going to be arduous and beyond painful. Marsh Silas wanted to be brave and withstand the agony like a true Cadian. If he was able to stay behind and face a horde of deranged, demented heretics then he could resist such physical torment.

Yet, he did not feel ready. Mustering his courage seemed to be futile. Already, he could feel his heart beating faster and harder. It was as if it was in his throat. His breathing was becoming faster and ragged. As he saw the tools glint in the lamp light, he heard himself gasp with each breath. He gripped Hyram’s hands tightly to the point he could see pain on the platoon leader’s face. Hyram’s spoke and his tone was encouraging, but the words were indecipherable. All Marsh could see were the instruments the medics were preparing.

Like in the middle of battle, he heard everything at a sharper tone. Every voice, metallic clink of tools, rucksack rustle, or shouted order outside the tent pierced his eardrums and made him shake. Suddenly, the noise went away. For a moment, he thought he went deaf. Then, he saw the tent flap open. Barlocke entered; he was still wearing his uniform and blood continued to drip from the edges of his shrapnel wound. Only his wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat was missing. Carstensen and Hyram stood up. The Inquisitor knelt where Hyram had been and clutched Marsh’s hand. With his other, he cupped the side of the platoon sergeant’s head, nestling his fingertips in his blonde hair.

Can you hear me, Silvanus? His soothing voice came over him slowly. It was as if he were listening to raindrops in a rare summer drizzle. Immediately, he felt his heart rate and breathing slow. Marsh felt indescribably calm. All fear dissipated; he did not even feel pain anymore. Looking into Barlocke’s deep brown eyes, a strange peace he never imagined came over him. Slowly, he nodded.

‘I can, Barlocke,’ he thought. Barlocke squeezed his hand tightly. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and I will take you somewhere. Anywhere you’d like to go. Merely think of it and it will be so.

Silas found himself running to the window of the downstairs study. A roaring fire snapped and crackled in the hearth. Its glow flickered on the desk and armchairs in the office. Running to the control pad, he pressed the deactivation button and the armor-plated shutters opened. Pressing his nose to the armaglass, he watched as a Chimera trundled down the zig-zagging blocks of the road. It came to a stop right in front of his home and the ramp lowered.

In the thick snowfall blanketing Kasr Polaris, he saw a cadre of Cadian officers march down the ramp. Each one was dressed in superb, crisp khaki or green overcoats and low-peaked caps. Each one carried a large, Militarum-issue olive drab travel bag. The officers gathered on the street to shake hands and pat each other on the backs. It was difficult to see their faces in the industrial lamps and searchlights that scanned the environment. Fortified manses for regimental commanders loomed over them on each side of the jagged road. Eventually, they said their goodbyes and departed in separate directions.

Smiling eagerly, he waited for one to come down the path towards his home. One by one, they all veered away. Slowly, the smile faded and melancholy sank into his heart. A single officer remained, lighting a pipe. In the brief orange flash of his match, Silas tried to see his face but the light was too weak. Waving it out, he flicked it away and began walking down the road. Winter wind caught the pale smoke from his pipe and cast it high into the air. He passed by the entrance to their small yard, then stopped. For a few moments, he lingered there, his shoulder facing the mansion’s face. Silas watched, blinking away the tears building in the corners of his eyes.

Suddenly, the officer turned on his heel, passed through the gate, and walked steadily towards the house. Gasping, Silas ran to the door, unlocked it, and grunting in effort, threw it open. Cold wind blasted through the entryway and snowflakes buffeted his green sweater. Standing before him was his father, Dayton. Dropping his bag and crouching in the same moment, Dayton held his arms out.

“Silas, my boy!” he cried.

“Papa!”

Silas leaped into him, laughing and crying as he felt his father’s big arms wrap around him. When they finally let go of one another, Dayton placed Silas in front of him. He took his pipe from his mouth and cast the ashes out through the doorway, then let it fall on the step.

“Let me look at you, let me look at you,” he said eagerly, sniffing as he did. “You’re getting so tall. Big, too. You’ll be very strong, I’m sure of it.”

Tears were coursing down his father’s cheeks. Dayton laughed happily and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. “C’mere, boy, come, come.” He pulled Silas back into his arms and squeezed him so tightly it nearly hurt. Silas did not mind in the slightest.

“You’re going to let the chill in.”

Silas turned around. His mother, Faye, was leaning against the corner of the wall leading to the dining room. She was wearing a khaki sweater—the same one she wore when she served in the Cadian Shock Troops. Her long, wavy blonde hair fell down onto her shoulders. Dark bags were under her eyes and her pale features were fatigued from her long shifts at the factorum. But her faded violet eyes twinkled and her faded lips pulled into a smile.

Dayton stood up and uncovered his own thick crop of blonde hair. He ran his hand through it, smoothing it back. For a moment, he stood dumbly and awkwardly. Silas looked between him and his mother, confused. Eventually, Dayton stepped forward, his black boots thudding on the floor. As he approached, Faye closed the distance. The sleeves of her sweater were too long and covered her hands. She draped her arms around his neck and he hugged her middle. Without any words, they closed their eyes and kissed one another deeply.

For a time, they remained that way; lips locked, chests pressed together, eyes shut tightly. It was as if they had become statues. When they parted, tears ran down Faye’s cheeks. Dayton’s gaze was glimmering.

“I prayed to the God-Emperor for this moment,” Silas’s father said wistfully, his voice thick with emotion.

“As did I,” Faye said, her voice cracking.

“I thank Him for making it so,” Dayton said.

Suddenly, the rigidity in Faye’s trembling legs gave out. As she sank, Dayton went with her, his arms laced around her torso. Once more, they embraced. Her hands went to his cheeks and she kissed him again. Then, she nuzzled her head against his chest and sobbed into it.

Dayton turned and looked at Silas. A moment after he did, Faye looked as well. To see his parents weeping in their happiness brought tears to his own eyes. When they each held an arm out to him, he sniffed and walked into their grasp. He put an arm around each of them and they pulled him in tightly. As father, mother, and son held one another, the wind blew hard. A flurry of snowflakes rushed through the doorway and all became white.

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He felt a tear course down each of his cheeks. It felt as though he awoke from the most restful, peaceful slumber in his entire life. Immediately, he was greeted by Barlocke’s pale face. He was just opening his eyes and tears glittered in the corners. Hyram appeared on his left and Carstensen on the right, gazing curiously at Marsh but appearing ultimately relieved. Barlocke wiped one of Marsh’s tears with his thumb, withdrew his hand from the side of Marsh’s face, and dried his eyes on the back of his hand. With a sniff and a sigh, he shook his head and smiled.

“So, the sweater you wear is your mother’s?” he asked. “How sweet.”

Marsh’s cheeks heated up.

“I don’t...it’s...shut up,” he said, breaking his gaze. Barlocke laughed so handsomely that it was impossible for Marsh not to join in.

That was certainly beautiful. The Inquisitor’s voice was warm in his mind, like when the sun broke through gray winter clouds and shone on one’s face. His smile became very sweet. Marsh reached up, gripped the Inquisitor by the space between his neck and shoulder, and squeezed gently.

‘It was a time when life was almost perfect,’ he thought. ‘Thank you for letting me see it once more.’ Barlocke tilted his head to the side, resting his cheek on Marsh’s hand briefly. Anything for you, my dearest friend.

“You were so still, I feared death took you,” Hyram admitted. His tone was light and reassured.

“You seemed so at peace,” Carstensen murmured.

Marsh Silas heard metal tools clinking. For a moment, his heart jumped as he looked to his left. But he was very surprised to see the thin shard of bloody shrapnel sitting in a tin tray. Red specks were on the rim and plate of the tray. Looking down, he saw his midsection was bandaged all the way around. Honeycutt and Salvia took off their white gloves which were fairly saturated along the fingers, washed their hands in a small basin of water, then sterilized their surgical instruments. Once they finished, they donned new gloves. He stared at the piece of shrapnel, then went to touch his side. Honeycutt snatched his wrist.

“You’re bandaged, there’s a trauma pad underneath, and it’s been heavily stitched. We were able to extract it without causing any internal damage. It should heal nicely.”

“By the Emperor...” Marsh Silas murmured in amazement. With wide eyes and a bigger smile, he turned and faced Barlocke. “...I don’t feel a thing!”

“The Emperor protects,” Salvia said.

“A healthy dose of nullifiers helps too,” Honeycutt added. “Valkyries are inbound. You’re reduced to category three so you shall be one of the last to be evacuated back to Army’s Meadow.”

“What? No, I’m not going back. The fight is unfinished,” Marsh implored.

He sat up, but Honeycutt, Barlocke, and Hyram each put a hand on his chest and held him back. Marsh looked in each of their faces, searching for an ally in his plight.

“You need to get back to base and rest. If you stay, you could exacerbate the wound and then you’d be an impediment,” the Lieutenant said.

“Well, as it turns out I know what that word means and I don’t care much for it anyhow,” Marsh said to Hyram, frowning. “Just give me a stim and I’ll be on my feet.”

“How about a lesson then in synonyms, then? Intensify, inflame, aggravate—”

“I don’t think he cares,” Carstensen said, cutting off Hyram.

“No, I’m teaching him his letters.”

“We’re not in a lecture hall, Lieutenant,” Barlocke put in.

“Enough, enough!” Marsh said, waving his hand and pushing their arms away. Grunting, he rose to his feet. His coat, tunic, and shirt hung off his right side. Defiantly, he looked into their faces. “I can stand, I can move.” He proved it by marching back and forth across the tent. “If I can do that, then by the Emperor, I can fight.” Hyram and Carstensen exchanged a wary glance, then looked at Honeycutt. The medic pursed his lips, shook his head, and shrugged. All eyes went to Barlocke, who was still kneeling. He turned halfway to look back at Marsh Silas. Looking at everyone nervously, the platoon sergeant knelt quickly beside the Inquisitor and put his hand on his shoulder. “You too are wounded. If I must go, surely you must too. But you can’t—you’re in charge. We shall go together, then. Barlocke and Silvanus, aye?”

Barlocke’s mouth opened a little bit, but after a moment he released a groan that was also sort of a laugh. Shaking his head, he took Marsh by the shoulder and stood up. Putting his hands on the Inquisitor’s side, Marsh helped him to his feet.

“How can I resist? Look at that face, it is that of a child’s.”

Honeycutt stood up.

“Inquisitor, with respect, a wound like that—”

“Worry not, I’ll see to it the platoon sergeant behaves himself. Now, regimental command is still organizing the defense in case the heretics mount a nighttime attack. Once we’re completely dug in and the Valkyries have taken the more severely wounded away, I am quite certain Colonel Isaev will rally the officers to plan our own secondary assault. When that time comes, I want you there. Until then, go rest. Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, see to it that he does.”

“Yes, sir.”

While Hyram gathered Marsh’s wargear, the platoon sergeant went over to Honeycutt. Put out, the medic nonetheless dug into his aid bag and took out a case. Unlocking it, he revealed an array of pre-filled syringes. Taking out a standard stimulant, he tested the plunger and clear liquid squirted out. Coming to Marsh’s bare arm, he carefully injected him. The stimulant quickly revitalized Marsh; he felt more alert and limber.

Tugging his coat back over his shoulder, he began following Hyram out of the tent. Carstensen went with him, nodding towards the entrance. Just as he exited the tent, he looked over his shoulder. Barlocke stooped over as Honeycutt approached him.

“Well, Sergeant, I think I’ll be your next patient.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. Salvia, ready another triage tag.”

***

As the situation stabilized, more tents were erected by Guardsmen who were not assigned a perimeter watch. Observation shifts rotated so men could get out of the cold night winds and sleep. Small pits were dug inside each tent and a combination of twigs and camp starters were tossed in. Soon, small campfires glowed from within every tent and smoke was vented out via a hole in the roof. Men took turns warming their hands and leaving their charge packs by the edge of the flames. Others put a box grill over the fire and brewed recaf.

Marsh Silas found himself in the same tent as Drummer Boy and Yoxall. The former was in the corner, sitting next to his Vox-caster with the handheld up to his ear. Lying on the left side of the fire was the demolition expert. He was underneath a heavy wool blanket and resting on his bedroll. The triage tag on his sleeve indicated he had already been treated.

Hyram situated Marsh on the opposite side of the fire. The Lieutenant laid down his personal bedroll for him and covered him with the blanket he carried. No words were exchanged between the two, but the pair smiled kindly at one another.

“Anything on the Vox?” Hyram asked Drummer Boy. The Voxman just pursed his lips and shook his head.

“How’s that big ol’ bug bite, Yoxall?” Marsh asked, lying on his right side and pulling his coat over his chest.

“How’s that little nip in your side, Marsh Silas?” the Breacher retorted. The pair both chuckled. As Marsh filled his pipe, Yoxall rolled onto his back. “They wanted to send me back to camp but I just told’em to give me a stim. I ain’t leaving you fellows in this fight.”

“Seems I have some of the most stubborn Shock Troopers in the entire Segmentum Obscurus,” Hyram remarked as he sat down in front of the fire.

“Did we lose anybody in Bloody Platoon, sir?” Marsh asked. Hyram took off his helmet and smiled softly.

“None. Thirteen wounded, including you two, but nothing serious.”

“The Emperor protects,” Carstensen said stoically, sitting on the opposite side of the fire.

Marsh Silas agreed, but he remembered the promise Barlocke made to him. Was it just the Emperor at work or was the Inquisitor truly His servant? Perhaps, he was not just an agent of the Holy Inquisition. His appointment was divine and his power was as great as the Saints. Such a prospect delighted and terrified Marsh Silas. No, he thought, I’m just letting the stimulant play with my mind.

He looked around. Drummer Boy was still monitoring his handset, Yoxall was staring up at the ceiling of the tent, Hyram was warming his hands by the fire, and Carstensen was gazing into the flames. Her matted orange hair was beginning to dry. Sand clung to some of her locks. She noticed him staring and looked his way. Her green-blue eyes were vivid as they caught the tiny flame, which appeared white in her pupils. From where he lay, they appeared as mere dots.

Clearing his throat, he took the pipe from his lips.

“Beg pardon, Junior Commissar, but it appears you’ve lost your hat.”

Carstensen blinked and her gaze softened. For a time, she looked at him. Then, she scoffed quietly and looked at the fire.

“I suppose I’ll have to go and get it then,” she remarked in a dry tone. Marsh chuckled, as did Yoxall and Hyram. Outside, they listened to the whistling wind and distant, roaring waves. Sometimes, they heard the crunch of booted feet in the short grass outside their tent. Occasionally, voices murmured or hissed an order at his men. At one point, there was a loud scream from one of the makeshift surgery tents. It sent chills up and down Marsh’s spine. He wasn’t the only one. Yoxall jumped in his bedroll, then coughed.

“Say, Marsh Silas, I’ve been hearing Barlocke talking to you often. He calls you Silvanus. Why would he do that? That ain’t your name.”

Hiding his grin was difficult. Marsh Silas knew it was Arnold Yoxall’s little way of trying to distract the others from how he flinched. For a man who was accustomed to the deafening shockwaves of high explosives and the rattle of Heavy Bolter fire, he was still easily startled by sudden noises. Most of Bloody Platoon did not begrudge him for it. Often, they were on edge themselves and needed to react quickly to rapid changes on the battlefield. Marsh and a few others, however, enjoyed teasing him. This time, he decided to ignore it.

“I ain’t got the slightest idea, Arnold. Guess when we was first starting to talk, I was just too plain scared to correct him. Now that we’re comrades-in-arms, I’m used to it.”

“High Gothic,” Carstensen interrupted. “It’s the High Gothic equivalent of your name. Silas Cross; Silvanus Crux.” Everyone looked at her for a few moments. She returned their gazes, ending with Marsh Silas, and then looked back into the fire. The platoon sergeant puffed on his pipe, let out a cloud of smoke, and leaned his head back.

“Well, it wouldn’t feel right coming from any o’ you fellows,” Marsh said to his friends. Drummer Boy and Yoxall simply smirked at one another.

Frowning and shaking his head, he looked back at Carstensen. She adjusted her posture, drawing closer to the fire. The bright flames danced across her cheeks and the light emphasized her puggish nose. Her lips were slightly parted. Once he took another puff, he leaned forward and held the pipe out to her. Carstensen noticed, took it, and nodded. Pressing the neck to her lips, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She took it from her lips, but only just. Keeping her eyes closed, she held her breath for time. Then, Carstensen opened her eyes and blew out a wavy, meandering cloud of smoke. Frowning, she repeated the process and then blew out another cloud. Once she did it a third time, she blew a perfect smoke ring up above the fire.

“It’s all about how you hold in your mouth and shape your lips,” she said, noticing Marsh’s delighted smile. Carstensen smoked again and continued to blow smoke rings. Propping his head up on his hand, Marsh just watched the smoke rings. Then, his gaze settled on her. After a while, he noticed how the corners of her mouth were ever so slightly tugging upwards.

He was not sure how much time passed. But as night fell, he, Hyram, and Carstensen were summoned to the command post. Before they departed, the platoon leader insisted on finding a spare coat for Marsh Silas, as a moderate section was cut away by Honeycutt to treat the wound. While Marsh donned his intact clothing, Hyram went out to find one. It was not long before he found one in the platoon sergeant’s size; luckily Walmsley Major was carrying a spare he may or may not have, ‘acquired,’ during a resupply. This was whispered in Marsh’s ear and he snickered along with Hyram.

Now back in both his uniform and Flak Armor, Marsh Silas felt like a proper Guardsman again. Joining Hyram and Carstensen, he journeyed to the center of the bivouac. The command tent was the largest in the entire camp. Inside, they found the regimental command staff as well as the Company Command Squads around a map spread across an erected collapsible table. The air was thick with lho-stick smoke and one could see the trails wafting in the lamp pack light.

Colonel Isaev was on the opposite side with Barlocke. Despite the cold, the Inquisitor lacked his overcoat, power armor cuirass, and even a shirt. Stark white bandages were wrapped all around his chest. Captain Murga was standing on the closest side of the table with his back toward the entrance. Upon hearing the flap of the tent, he turned halfway. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen saluted, which the company commander promptly returned. He nodded them over.

“The Inquisitor and the Colonel are discussing our next strategy,” Murga whispered. “How’s the wound?”

“It’ll hold, sir.”

“Honeycutt may be an old codger but his work always will,” Murga said, then looked forward.

“With the cover darkness, we should take the initiative now rather than wait longer,” Isaev insisted, tapping the location of the cove on the map. “The companies will assault in sequence, platoon by platoon, and take the outer area. Once it’s secure, the regiment will storm the breach. However deep this cave goes, we shall clear it. No, purge it of this heretical filth.”

“Purge it we must, Colonel,” Barlocke said, folding his arms across his chest. “But an attack of this nature will see us purged ourselves.”

“I beg your pardon, Inquisitor?”

“Too many Guardsmen shall die in such an endeavor, Colonel,” Barlocke said. “What’s more, an attack on the outer grounds will alert the heretics within the cave. They’ll be ready for us.”

“We have the weight of numbers,” Isaev insisted, “however many we lose will be inconsequential to the enemy’s destruction. Success is assured.”

“Believing a battle thinking victory is assured should be left to the overconfident, the foolish, and the stupid,” Barlocke said bluntly. Colonel Isaev gritted his teeth and turned red. “I do not doubt your regiment’s ability to seize this objective, but I’m unwilling to commit it to a frontal attack. Casualties will be unacceptable.”

Captain Giles stepped forward and nodded at the map.

“We could try drawing them out, somehow. If they were willing to pursue us onto the beach, surely, they would give chase once more if we feigned assault.”

Barlocke grinned and waved a finger at him.

“A much sounder strategy. But think deeper, dear Captain. We do not know their total number; it could be so high as to match our own or close to it. Our deployment is limited by the terrain, as is theirs. We have the unique opportunity to utilize their ground to our advantage. Bottle them up so they are trapped within their own bastion, unable to maneuver or counterattack. Then, it will only be a matter of bayonets. To exploit this opportunity, we must eliminate the outer sentries.”

Barlocke stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back.

“Colonel, I shall select a strike team to accompany me to infiltrate the enemy position and wipe out the sentries. While we do so, form the regiment into line of battle; the sequence you mentioned, shall suffice. Once we have secured the perimeter, the 1333rd Regiment shall occupy the beach. My strike team will advance inside the cave and try to kill as many heretics without alerting the rest. When the alarm is finally raised, the regiment shall charge after us and snuff out what remains of our foe’s forces on the mainland.”

Colonel Isaev seemed apprehensive. He shared a discontented glance with many of his subordinates. Then, his jaw relaxed and he stood up straight.

“Very well, Inquisitor Barlocke. Do you have a particular unit in mind for this infiltration?”

Barlocke’s eyes remained fixated on the map. One arm remained across his chest, while the other hand held his chin. He was very still. Many of the officers and their non-commissioned seconds exchanged confused, curious glances. Some shifted on their feet, unsure of what to do with themselves. Even Marsh’s breath hitched. Slowly, Barlocke looked up and locked eyes with Marsh Silas.

“I think Bloody Platoon shall come with me,” he said.