# Purge



## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

Chapter 1​
Screaming in with quad ram jets blasting the eerie silence of no man’s land to shreds, the flight of marauder bombers roused the weary guardsmen from snatched, uneasy slumber, their dreams plagued with the horrors of the last 7 months. Bone weary, the Guardsmen of the 117th Carrogan Marines, veterans and former conscripts mixed into units that would be the equal of any Storm Trooper regiment in battle changed their watches as the first payload of the long day shattered what was left of the piece.

The explosions lit up the grey dawn, the crimson blasts sending the low fog scurrying away. The muffled sound belied the fury the 500 pound and 1 Tonne bombs had on the traitor’s lines. Right now, bodies were being torn asunder, ripped limb from limb, yet only a dull, almost warm, glow could be seen only a mile away. 

A squadron of Lightning Air Superiority fighters banked overhead, spying a lumbering Tractor Rig immobilized from the previous nights pushes into the trench systems. Its salvagers could be seen through officer’s magnoculars, just out of mortar, or accurate autocannon fire range, so it left the navy wing to claim the glory for getting the kill.

Smirking, Major Barron of the 117th Carrogan Marines, wondered why the flyboys really cared so much about first kill, as the lances of blue fire speared from the lascannons. Used to dog fighting with the Hell Talons of the chaos forces, at insane speeds at sub-orbital altitude, the comparatively slow moving looted tank was as easy as spearing fish in a barrel. Indeed, many of the pilots had taken to using some of the sedatives and lho sticks that were the groundpounders way of easing their way through the horrors they had seen – although they used them rather to slow down their over reactive senses – each finely tuned twitch which saw them change direction at the speed of thought weren’t suited to ground attack, where the fastest something could move was no more than 40 kilometres an hour, rather than 40 kilometres a second.

A cheer went up to celebrate the rigs destruction; the temperamental reactor core, salvaged no doubt from a processor plant in the Fipellon District, and inserted into what was an ancient civilian… road clearance vehicle? Probably. Not that it mattered now – with its fuel fountaining up like blood out of a severed artery, bathing the lines in yet another homely glow, bringing some colour to the dirty and wan faces of his men. With an ear splitting crack, the sump caught fire, annihilating what was left of the tractor, and sending shrapnel searing out in a fan of death, scything down most of the heretical engineers. It left a few alive though, wounded, but alive. The nose mounted autocannons flared, gunning them down.

Shaking his head as the pilots swooped back into formation, tipping their wings in an ironic salute, Barron returned to his dug out. Chekiston, the comms operator looked up to see who entered, then flashed a brilliant white smile, his dirty face the same colour as his commanding officer, although the veteran himself was white when clean, with dirty, ash blonde hair. Knuckling his forehead and sweeping his hand through his hair, in the non-text book guardsman field salute, he got up from the cards table, and slapped on a pack of instant decaf in a pot of cold water, then dropped in a boiling tab. In seconds, the cup was bubbling away, and brown muck floated on the surface. Bringing it over, Barron just nodded to the card table, and drew a chair up with his foot, before collapsing into it, yawning heavily.

“’Sup Boss?” Chekiston sat opposite the major, and slid the brew over. Looking down at the distasteful mixture, Barron scrunched his face up, then realized that the brew was “full of nutrients to set them up for the day”, or so the Primer said. Snorting, he knew that whatever dolt had written the primer had never even tasted the foul shit.

Ignoring the pain, he stuck his little finger into the mess tin, and stirred. Chekiston was still waiting for an answer, so Barron explained the events of the morning. “Fraggin’ navy fly boys. Worse than the toy soldiers.”

“I hear that,” came the resounding calls of his command squad at the old gripe. Commisar Julio Vega just smiled at the usual abuse the Storm Troopers received from the rank and file guardsmen. They received the name “toy soldiers” from their seeming ability to only be used when there was glory to be had, and otherwise shut in a box to keep them safe. Sure, they could fight, but so could any of the veterans. Each one of his team probably had more battle experience than a storm trooper, and it was only through patronage or birth that a Trooper got into the Schola Progenium. Sitting back and closing his eyes, tipping his peaked Commissar’s cap over his face, he waited for the laughter to subside and the next comment.

“Hey, Vega,” shouted Leonard, the Mortar spotter. “I fink sometimes you’re ain’t half bad, for a commo at least, then I remember, you’s one of them pansies in the toy soldiers.”

“Hey, Leonard,” said Vega, “sometimes, you ain’t half bad, but then I remember I rammed your mother. 9 months later, imagine my surprise, I realized your mother cheated on me.” The dig out erupted in laughter as the commisar finished the time old joke.

Truth was, Julio Vega wasn’t bad at all for a commisar. He was strict as anything, when battle came, and fought like the son-of-a-bitch he was, but he wasn’t always fire and brimstone rhetoric. Well, not bad for a guardsman, but a bad example of a commisar, his old tutor used to say. Vega knew he wasn’t a Yarrick, having seen the man a couple of times at the Schola during his young training days, when he was a Storm Trooper. But he was liked by the men he fought with, and occasionally commanded, and it was a rare occasion when one of his men took a step backwards.

When they did, it wasn’t an execution, although due to the shame that the man had caused on the unit, Barron and a few of his heavies, with Vega along to ensure justice was given, the man was beaten to within an inch of his life, then left to Doc’ Doc to sew them up, ready for the next battle. As such, their arms, shoulders, and face were never touched – they needed them to shoot straight. Everything else was fair game.

But despite that, his usual barrack room easy-come-easy-go behaviour endeared him to those under his command. 

_Chapter 2 coming soon!_


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

awesome work vaz:victory:


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

Chapter 2​
Speaking of Doc’ Doc, or to give him his full title, Medical Officer 3rd Class, Orderly rate Docking, the large man ambled in. With a bushy unkempt beard, that it was rumoured he incubated chicken eggs in, and a body that was running to fat, the Medic walked in.

“Hey Doc, how’s Chef doing?” Barron’s ‘cook’ had been a gifted one. It had been he that was as bad as a ratling for thievery and black market, although it was never off his men, lest Vega caught wind of it. The man may have allowed you to walk backwards to prolong the time you could fight, but thievery? Instant death sentence. Still, that was overlooked, as he always managed to ‘recover’ Dairi-synth to make the decaf at least slightly edible, which was the reason he was called chef.

“Chef… Ah yes… sorry, my friend, but he’s made his last meal. He’s got 10, maybe 12 hours at most. He’s lost too much, and I could revive him with a blood transfusion, but he’d be useless. Had to take his arm off at the right shoulder. He’ll never fire anything but a pistol. With 2 fingers and a thumb, that’ll be tricky at best. Kinder to let him meet the Emperor.”

There was no real ‘chef’ or ‘Logistics Officer’ as the upper, snotty nosed boardroom ranks and planetary governors liked to call them, in the 117th Carrogan Marines. Too many deaths had meant everyone would fight. “Emperors Teeth,” mulled Barron, as he nursed his brew. “4 Regiments, cut down to just three thousand men, and that’s with reinforcements. I don’t mind being fucked over, but being fucked over with only Chekiston’s brews… Fuck that.” 

Hearing his name, Chekiston looked up from shuffling the cards as he began a new round, a grinned his grin. Touching his temple at the Medic, he busied himself with the game once more.

Suddenly, the wailing siren of an imminent attack went out into the tannoy systems in each dug out. 

“Come on boys. Time for some target practice.” Major Barron nodded to the Doc. “Docking, you any good at throwing knives?”

“Eh you could say so, why?”

“I reckon you could do with something a bit longer ranged than that laser scalpel.”

“Good point. I’ve got a Lasrifle I procured from some poor shit who died in the night. Poor bugger. Bullet to the artery and groin. Better I let him die. He had nothing left really to live for.” Nodding once again, Barron picked up his own weapon, a ripper pistol, and a power sword. The pistol was much too large and you couldn’t hit a barn door from 10 foot away, but it made a nice dent in the helmet of the traitor who spiked the Ogryn carrying it.

The rest of his men were already on the firing step, Chekiston, the comms man on the periscope, working out wind speed and direction for the Mortar teams in the heavy weapon section about 30 metres behind the front trench system.

Hearing running feet, yet more men from his platoon joined him on the step, including a wheeled autocannon, with the power to bring down anything from an aircraft to a Chimera. Finding someone next to him, he turned, seeing Doc’ Doc standing apprehensively at the firing step.

“Throne, I’m scared shitless. Feel as if I’ve forgotten how to fire a rifle these last couple of weeks.”

“You’ll be fine Doc. Aim low, you’re tense so you’ll pull up with the trigger, and you’ll probably slap it. Squeeze gently at 300 metres. I’ll give the signal for double tap.”

“Eh, just keep me alive. Frag it if you all get a bullet, at least I’m here to put you all back together again.”

“By the sounds of it, if we take a bullet we’re better off dead and not worth the effort.” Grinning, Barron slapped the Orderly on the back, hearing Chekiston report that the enemy were at 700 metres, and the fog was clearing.

“Excellent. It’s better than fish in a barrel – fish in puddle more like. Remember ladies; take the safety off your guns before firing. I know you’re good, but not that good.”

“Fuck off, sir” came Marianne. 16 years old and as raw a recruit as a grox steak. She came from the same hood that Barron grew up in, but hell, he was old enough to be her father, and had been serving with the guard since he was 14.

“Marianne, you know those fatigues never did you no justice to that figure of yours. We can sort you out some proper uniform tonight, stop by mine, ‘bout twenty hundred, yeah?”

“Yeah yeah, boss. With all due respect and all that shit, fuck off Major.”

Laughter greeted her words from all around. It wasn’t easy being the only woman in the squad, but somehow she managed it without too much bother. Not surprising, the state they found the last guy in after he bothered her too much. 

“600 metres”

“Hold steady boys and girls. Chekiston, be so kind to forward the coordinates to the gunnery positions. Snipers, pick your targets, fire on my mark. I want those cultists to get hit by the mortars while they’re in the open. Weapons are Green boys.”

The platoon sniper fire whipped out from among the hidden forward positions, their shapeless ghillie rags slutched up with deep brown mud and burnt cinders. Taking a peek through the smoke, he saw half a dozen fall from the three score cultists arrayed in front. 

“Chekiston, send word down the line. I want to know if there are any other attacks. This is too small to attack a dug in position.”

As the squads of cultists went to ground, the second salvo of sniper fire slashed through the weeds and mud of no man’s land.

“Mortars, open fire!”

_Chapter 3, coming soon to a Vaz Post near you!_


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## Micklez (Nov 22, 2008)

Real good mate, looking forward to the next chapter


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

Glad you like it  Here it is, sorry for the delay.

Chapter 3​
The soft _phut_ of the Vanaheim pattern 51mm mortars was deceptive. They were the lightest equipment the marines had to deal with enemy troops, essential considering their usual roles, but even in a trench fight, they were useful weapons, with very little to give them away. However, they provided one hell of a big explosion, the indirect fire mutilating the pinned down cultists.

Those in the trenches couldn't see the damage wrought, yet they knew what those mortars could do on an exposed enemy. "Good thing, really", thought Barron, looking through the magnoculars.

"Cease Fire, Chekiston"

"Sir?"

"That's an order."

"Sir." Turning away from Barron, Chekiston flashed through to Lieutenant Carroll in command of the mortars. "Orders are to cease fire. Standard Practise. Target is still in the vicinity of preordained coordinates order three seven six two alpha. Wind Speed remains unchanged, direction plus 3 minutes."

The static filled confirmation came through shallowly over the vox. 

"Let's see what trick they have up their sleeves. Something ain't right, and I don't fucking like it."

"I know boss, I've got this tinglin'."

"You feel it too? Thought my head was goin' west. Don't know whether to be grateful or scared."

"At ease, men."

Barron turned at the newcomers voice. Vega was walking down the line, having completed his rounds of the trenches, and meeting up with one of the Colonels adjutants, and his senior commissar. Nodding his head, Barron turned back to the magnoculars.

"Commissar. All's well?"

"Aye, you could say that. Been reports all across the front of small pushes like this, sheer waste of lives if you ask me. Not that I care about slaughtering chaos scum, but there's usually some reason for it. Still, I've got a hunch summit's up. Like something crazy's 'bout to happen, ya know?"

"You an' me both, Vega."

"Chekiston, if you please, call me what you want in the barracks, but I'm Commissar to the likes of you on the battlefield." Vega's smile showed that the threat was harmless.

"Yeah, whatever." Tilting his head, he quickly turned off the radio.

"You got a reason for doing that Chekiston?"

"Dunno, think I can heard summink. Ya know, like the boom a Marauder Destroyer makes, but as if in mountains? But there's no flight paths scheduled over today. I know High Command don't give a groxes testical wart about us sir, but that's mighty strange. Commisar here got the vox about this morning's flyover, but with him not telling us, there's nada. And there's no one at Artillery Command Theta directing the fire or asking for coords."

"You sure?"

"'Course I'm fucking sure. Wudna done it otherwise."

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit fucking shit. They've zeroed in on us. It was target practise this morning but for us! Keep it quiet, Chekiston, I want the order given quietly for us to return to the trenches. They're going to target their troops so it looks like an Imperial Barrage, then creep forwards so the turds can advance safe and secure."

"Like they did just after Initiative Delta Zero Three?" Doc' Doc joined in this time.

"Jesus that long ago? Emperor's Balls that was a hard brawl. Okay, Chekiston, you done yet?"

"Just the forward recon platoon to go, Sir. I know they're there, I'm getting a response, but nothing intelligible. They're there, but I dunno if they've recieved owt."

"Shit, get the rest of the men inside. I'll get our boys in." The first artillery came in, huge cheers from the surrounding trenches from the 117th Carrogan Marines could be heard as the huge earthshaker shells slammed into the ground, vaporising cultists.

Hopping down off the firing step, Barron prepared to drop the assault ramp, salvaged from a captured enemy gorgon, and get the forward snipers, when Vega's hand held his shoulder.

"Let me do it. The company needs you to lead, some something crazy happen."

"I don't like it, but be quick."

"You know me, back in a jiffy."

"Too fucking right I know you. As I said, I don't like it. Off you go. Chekiston, you and Doc' Doc are acting with my voice til I get back." Looking at his friend's retreating back, Barron wondered whether they would meet again. "I'll be here, Vega."

The huge barrage continued on, and on. Yet the artillery didn't cease, or make it's move towards the Imperial Trenches. _This shit just got real_, thought Doc, looking back over his shoulder. The age old saying had no better time to be said. This time, there was no killing with a Rifle in hand, where you could do something. If that shell had your name on it, well, there wasn't exactly gonna be a small enough matchbox for you.

_Chapter 4 up later tonight!_


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

CHAPTER 4​
“Alright gents, get back to the trenches, those are enemy guns!”

“Aren’t they fucking their own forces though Commissar?”

“Yeah, but it’s not at they really give a shit about them anyway. Look at the pattern of the fire, they’re creeping forwards. Barron’s ordered all personnel back to the dugouts!”

“Right you are boss. Okay ladies get your sixes into your pillboxes, and I mean sharpish.” 2nd Lieutenant Graften was efficient; if a little slow on the uptake, although his ability to lead in forward positions was remarkable. The men under his command quickly gathered their equipment and double timed it back to the trench system.

Barron, looking out from the assault ramp, his finger depressed on the open switch, as if by pushing harder he could make it go down faster. Suddenly, there was a lull in the steady echo of artillery – his men had been spotted, and sure enough, one of the cultists who had been creeping forwards under the artillery barrage saw what was happening and opened fire with the Heavy Stubber, and let rip, gunning down four of his men in a hail of fire. 

Three of them rose from the muddy dirt but the fourth lay in a water filled crater, either dead or wounded. Vega saw all this, and despite Barron’s attempt to jump out from the salvaged Gorgon, ran back to the man. The first of his men were 40 yards from safety when the heavy artillery started pounding away at the trench system, the planned tactics giving way to the bloodlust of the heretical gunners.
“Shit, get your fucking arses moving. Move it, Fairfew, come on, you lazy fuck!!!” Suddenly, the world exploded, just beyond the gate, an airburst shell, probably a forward artillery position, a stolen Medusa, perhaps, or a Griffon let lose its payload, scything down half a dozen men. Barron was splattered with blood, not all of it his own. Not one got up, although the major had a ragged gash which opened at the corner of his eye, and dragged its way from there to the back of his skull.

Shock overtook him, and he collapsed at the base of the assault ramp, blood dripping down into his eyes. The death of his men, so near to safety, yet taken away from him, from life… Fuck that shouldn’t have happened. That was the last he saw, as he convulsed, spilling blood from his mouth, streaming down his camo vest, and dyeing his black skin a ruddy crimson.

_________________________________________


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

CHAPTER 5​
“Come on you twat, where are you?” Barron’s eyes flared open in shock and pain, to find some fingers probing the side of his head.

“I’m awake you realise, Doc.”

“Bah, this shit ain’t what it used to be. If you’d died, we coulda got a new CO.”

“Ya well, you know, mon, if I’d died, I couldna given you any more shit, and you would have had a cushy life.”

“Don’t I fucken know it. Now hold still, there’s a piece of metal in your head I ain’t put in there. Ah, found it again.”

“I know. I could feel it.”

“Surprised you could feel anything with that skull o’ yours.”

“Ha fucking h… Ow you little twat, that fucking kills. Just wait till I get my hands on you, couldn’t you at least be a bit gentler. Hell, I’m your fucking CO…”

“All’s fair in love and war. I told you to hold still.” Holding a rusty piece of iron 3 inches long and half an inch wide, the doc snapped off his surgery gloves, and picked up the branding iron from the fire under the cookstove, the promethium fuel giving off a metallic flavour to the air. “Sorry boss, ran out of sutures. Gonna have to do with getting prodded like a Grox.”

“I’ll prod you like a fucking Grox. Just get it over with. Oh, but pass that bottle of Amasec first. Saint Helena’s Holy Tits, blessed though they be, that shit in my head stings. Ah well, like my old man always used to say – half in the throat, half in the wound.”

“I wouldn’t do that… Too late.” Doc smiled as he saw the normally lantern jawed majors face screw up into something fuck ugly. “You had you windpipe cut. Luckily, the way you fell sealed the wound, but Marianne weren’t that kind bringing you back. Thought it were just your head. Why she should bother caring if it hits the head, I dunno. There’s no pain where’s the no sense, like my old man used to say.”

Ducking the empty bottle of Amasec, Doc preceded to dip the red hot brand in the promethium and oatmeal mix, he jumped in, dodged the ham fist which missed his own head by a hairs breath, and stabbed the poker into the loose flap of skin.


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

CHAPTER 6​
“Poor fuck, no-one deserves that. Feel almost sorry for the poor bastard. Ah well. New game?” Chekiston shook his head at the howls of pain and oaths of violence that came from the sealed off Command bunker two pillboxes down. 

“Still, at least he didn’t decide that the big man weren’t worth it.” Vega struggled up, onto his side. He was forced to lie on his front, as his back was a bloody ruin, an artillery shell having detonated above him, close enough to shower him with enough shrapnel to break through his Refractor field, but not enough to kill him, though it sure as hell felt like it. Darieus wasn’t as lucky. Only thing left of him was the arm wrapped around the Commissars chest. That same arm was now propped up on the trench wall waving in the wind to the entrenched chaos forces.

“What we gonna do now, anyway? We’re hardly combat effective. A drunk crippled CO, half of his command platoon wiped out, a fucked up commisar, and 30 odd marines? Oh, and a Doc who likes his branding a little bit too much.” The artillery and the subsequent fight had hit the remaining members of Gamma Company, under Major Barron hard. The real trouble started when the mortars were hit with a barrage of fire, killing Lieutenant Carroll and all his men, then a stray shell found itself lodged in the ammunition stores, destroying 3 pillboxes and all those stuck inside. Then when the shelling stopped, the remaining members of the company gathered itself on the firing step. Marianne noticed that the Major hadn’t returned, so despite the orders of the Doc, and a knee in the jewels of Chekiston, she sped off to find him. Miraculously, he wasn’t further harmed, and throwing him over her shoulders, struggled back to the dug outs.

Then, the fighting got vicious. Without the entrenched and embedded heavy weapons, the Cultists were able to make their way comparatively unharmed through the lasfire, and the odd Frag Grenade. Dirty hand to hand melee erupted, the disciplined close quarter fire of the marines and the lightning quick knives of the cultists met in the trenches, and it was only due to the trenches acting as a chokepoint that the marines were able to hold them off, a critically wounded Commissar Vega holding them off, his face a mask of blood, brain and bone a sight that made even the most dedicated cultist think twice before charging.

Thanks to a timely arrival of the regimental commanders Grenadiers, the fighting ended sooner than it was hoped, but the 117th Carrogan Marines were reduced to but a fraction of their strength, suffering more casualties in the 3 hours of fighting than they had in 6 weeks. 

“No idea, man. I’ve spoken to Commissar In Chief Reliant, and he’s said that he’s hoping to get some FNG regiment in until we get some reinforcements. Hell, all of our companies have been hit hard, but we’ve been royally fucked over. I wouldn’t be surprised if we get disbanded, or they just form up our companies into 1 veteran company. 

“Hell no… We’ve worked to long, too hard for that to happen.”

“Don’t I know. 7 months, jack shit to show except scars, and the entire core knows that without us here, they couldn’t have done jack fuck. You’ve seen the forces they got, but with 3000 men, a flank has been held, against intelligence suggesting 50,000.”

“Officer on the Deck! Ahhhhh-ten-hut” Vega’s command barked out over the command dug out, Chekiston, Aldreich, Marianne, Tenenbaum, Jackson, Messenger, and the rest of the staff slapped down their cards – face down – and stumbled into a tired mess of an ordered demi-squad.

“Sit down, all of you. You’re all too fucked to stand up straight, Emperor knows you need your rest. That especially means you, Commissar.”

“Thank you sir.”

Brigadier Oakenhardt stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, and took off his peaked cap hanging it on the cast on his arm, the bone broken by an Ogryn collapsing on top of him after sticking it with his power sword. The dull light of the Glo-Globes showed the lop sided smile showing the old dueling scar of his days as a Naval Officer. Formally a piss-and-vinegar, thrusting ambitious young lieutenant as a Naval Gunnery officer, barely needing to shave, he answered a call to aid the Guard 50 years previous as an adjutant to his predecessor, General Howes. After his ship was destroyed, the navy wouldn’t find him another ship, so stayed on in the guard, and worked his way up, his uncanny knowledge of artillery and manuevres of ground troops smoothing his ascent up to the rank of Brigadier. Now a craggy old man, the salt and pepper military cut of his hair was thinning, his face a mass of scars and tanned by the suns and winds on a dozen worlds in a hundred climates, the only thing that was still a reminder of him being the same person were the coal black eyes, that spoke of dark things and a burning desire to eradicate the enemies of the Imperium.

“We all need rest, and that’s what we’re here for. The Schola Progenium have been in touch, Vega, with you Commisar Reliant. They’ve requested the presence of all Schola members of an Inactive Combat Regiment, and a small coterie of those who they consider to be trustworthy, hard fighters. When I say small, I mean no more than a company. Quite good, considering that the 117th Carrogan Marines now number 187 fighting men and women, and 62 wounded. We’ve been granted passage to Segmentum Solar, to begin our briefing for another mission.”

“What about this world?”

“Ah, Major. You heard then? I’d offer my hand, but all things considered…” Waving his cast helplessly, Oakenhardt smiled. Barron returned the gesture, and hobbled over to sit next to Marianne on the card table. “Yes… This world. It’s not our matter now. Imperial Forces are mounting a new offensive, with the landing of the 67th Valhallan Heavy Armour Division, they have nigh on 2000 men reinforcing this flank, and at best, us 200 can’t do anything they can’t do. We’ve got R+R aboard the Cruiser _Vladivostock_, courtesy of the Schola, but that's pretty much it. I've had nothing else."

"We're getting shipped out?"

"That's right, Barron. And I'm sorry to say we only got the Green Flag, thanks to our poor bastards dieing today. Those hive trash from the Spiders would have got in ahead, thanks to the mauling they took from those Traitors detonating the warheads in Silo Eleven Seventeen." The Necromundan 39th had been involved in fierce hand to hand when their officer decided to throw his entire regiment at the face of a rebel held defense battery, guarding the upper ridges of the Van De Waal mountains, but thanks to the heretics tirggering the arming codes, the Macrocannons concealed in the mountain side exploded, burying three quarters of the survivors.

"The only place they deserve to be is chain ganging it. Cunts. Damn near cut my throat after cheating him out of the serving girl back of Camp Borussia when we first arrived." Chekiston spat into the dirty ground. "Didn't let him make that threat happen though. Stuck him like a pig, and he squeeled all the way home."

The dug out laughed. The tale was famous for most of the Regiments who made the drop on to Calderon XVIII during the monsoon season, the lush forest around Camp Borussia turning into a haven for biting insects, and stagnant mud. Enough men had been found face down in the mud afterany fracas in the barracks. Why use a weapon when you can smother them?

So what's the ETA til the Evac? And who's taking over out position? We cover a mile long front, and there's nothing yet I've heard of with the spare resources to fill it.

"Nobody tell's me nothing, Major. I'd guess its those Cthonians, they've been recycled and resupplied with new grunts."

"You mean... As Jakiro of Cthonia, Jakiro? Damn it, this place'll be overrun in a month with that retard in command!" Barron's outburst shocked everyone in the dugout. Everyone knew that Elmander Jakiro, the Armoured Company commander of the Cthonian 33rd was a wasteful brash officer, who only receieved his Colonelship through connexions to High Commander Isan, yet it was the first time that anyone, even Barron himself outright criticised him. It was just a sign of stress over the last week.

"I can't do anything about it, my friend. My hands are tied over who replaces us. The schola have an Inquisitorial Mandate with them, and when they call, you can only answer. I wish I could place some of his staff in command over this post, but unfortunately, Jakiro won't do us a favour and get his head blown off. He has some capable men and women under his thumb." Oakenhardt was clearly sorry that he was being forced to leave his position, whether through orders or not, it felt like a failure. 2000 men, reduced to a single company, for nothing. No more reserves, no more supplies, just training at the Schola, then off to certain death.

"Sorry boys. Politics is the fucking shit. Truely I am. Reveille at oh-four-thirty for final send off. Let's give our boys a true Carrogan funeral. You have their tags?"

"Here, Sir." Barron reached over, and dropped the bundle of dog tags into the Colonels hand.

"Been a big butchers bill. I'll be round for Inspection 0500. Gotta file my report for the night." Donning his peaked cap, and the members of the Regiment hastily touching their temples, the Brigadier stepped out into the closing fog of the night.

"We're up shit creek now, and no mistake. I need a drink."


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

Brilliant stuff Vaz
I really hope u write some more about Barron
I love the way you mix the battle and banter
And btw if the story ur submitting to Bl is off this quality 
you have as good a chance as anyone


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

Thanks for your support Death  

Unforunately, if I was to send this to Black Library, I'd have to a) remove this from Heresy, and b) remove all the language, and having Barron talking about the cultists being annoying little brats, and "crikey there's artillery! We're going to get messed up", rather than "Mother Fucking 'Tillery. Get your fish smelling arses on the fucking decks you cunts"... just doesn't have the same effect. 

Anyway, a little update for y'all.

________________________________

CHAPTER 7​
“Gamma Company mustered and ready for inspection, Sahr!”

“Very good, Major. At ease, boys. As you all likely know by now, we’re being shipped off. The Schola has called. They are in need of some strong fighters. They need someone to do some proper fighting, instead of those glory boy Storm Troopers.”

“Too fucken right, Sir!” Chekiston’s comment got its well deserved laugh from the remainder of the Regiment. Those who had known, or fought alongside the Storm Troopers knew them to be strong, and accurate fighters, but due to the protection and what was seen to be cushy life they had, didn’t have the same experience as a Guard Veteran. In the Carrogan Marines, the Grenadiers performed the same job, but each one had served for at least 15 years. Barron himself should have been one, but turned down the offer so he could continue to lead his men. 

Oakenhardt grinned outwardly, but inside, he wondered how his men would take to working with the toy soldiers, which they inevitably would do. Hell, 3 months cooped up aboard one of the Schola’s Strike Cruisers, its black and gold armoured hull a blank face to some of the horrors that were kept inside was enough to turn even his stomach.

“We trainin’ them dogs how to properly fight, boss?”	

“No idea, Marianne. What I do know though, is that we’re being shipped out at request of the Schola Progenium, for tasks unknown.”

“They’re sending us away to get shot so them there toy soldiers don’t dint their armour? Fuck that.” Marianne spat into the ground.

Oakenhardt didn’t like this way of looking at it, but that was what it smacked of. A diversion, a meat shield, a tactical maneuvre… However you dressed it up, it all amounted to the same thing. “You’ve got the gist. Sorry, but there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. All we can do is take a gun and a sword, and shove it so far up some Emperor hating bastards arse that they taste steel every time they spit. The escort picks us up at 1600. We get relieved at 1400 by the Cthonians.” At this, muttering ensued. Barron’s outburst had already got round the trenches, and Barron could have expected a Court Marshal, had there been anything but a Commissar there. As it was, Jakiro was unlikely to push for an inquiry with a member of the Commissariat to back up Barron.

“That’s all, Major.”

Barron raised his hand to his hand to his forehead, and swept the hand back through the stubble that had formed on his unshaven head. Oakenhardt repeated the gesture, and placed the peaked cap back on his graying hair, before bimbling off through to his command centaur.

“Company… Dis…. Wait for it you slags… Misssedd!!!” Immediately, the few remaining Carrogan Marines dispersed, to gather their equipment. The weapons and ammunition of the dead men that had been rescued following the previous days fighting were piled in stacks that needed to be carried. Much was unusable, but it had enough to more than double each mans load, with over 80 kilograms in their berguns. The funeral pyre of the dead was burning bright, and would do for days at least. Well away from the trench system, the pyre would hopefully act as a beacon, drawing fire away from the embattled men, should such a time come again. The sharp breeze that had cleared away much of the fog and low lying mist was fanning the flames into a roaring inferno, the heat blistering the hands and singeing the hairs of the arms of those who carried the dead to their final resting place. The heat haze rose high into the air, the hand of the dead marine who Vega attempted to save waving sadly in the distance.

It was poignant sight of friends and comrades lost. For nothing. For a shit hole of a planet that was of no strategic benefit, and only because it was one of the Emperors Worlds. Friends, fathers, brothers, cousins, mothers, daughters, sisters. Entire generations wiped out in less than a year, just because “it was”. It was the last thing any remembered of the planet.


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

Nothing? Feedbacks nice, and I know I'm getting views, but to be honest, 8 Chapters, and 3 Replies is pretty fucking poor. I can't really send it off to BL Forums due to the content, and it would water it down far too much to edit it to meet their "exacting" standards. Please, for the love of god, leave a comment, either saying yes, no, I don't like it etc.

For example, I appreciate that not all of you will like the language - but I'd prefer someone to say that they don't like it - as long as someone reads it, and gives feedback, I'm a happy bunny. You don't want to see the unhappy wabbit.

Because guns don't kill people. Wabbits do.


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Heh heh heh..I had to play catch up with this one. I've been meaning to give it a look. Good stuff mate. I'm not a fan of the language (wait..didn't you mention that above LOL) but it's not like I don't use it on a daily basis lol. To me it always seems a bit out of place. Granted, it's realistic... I should know..my brother was in the Marine Corps lol...but still seems muck the story up for me. I don't know why but it does (making me more than just a little hypocritical LOL). Still, looking passed the language, it's a damned good story. Keep it up!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

I agree it is piss poor that people dont comment but that be the nature of people
I think the language gives it flavour
but if it was every two seconds it would get old
but you have a good balance
looking forward to more


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