# Green Side



## DaemonBane (Dec 2, 2009)

This is the intro to a story that I've been meaning to finish for a while. But as with many things it doesn't always happen as soon as I'd like. Wrote it a while ago, and had it posted on the Boot Camp IG forum. Hope you enjoy.

“Hell of a day, isn’t it?” Colonel Garrett murmured to himself. At his side Captain Stone remained silent, a wry grin creasing his weathered face as the two men gazed out across the landing zone crowded with troops unloading from their drop ships. The sky was a churning mass of dark clouds, the first winds of the coming storm throwing the jungle into a frenzy of waving branches. Raindrops as big as a man’s fist were slowly beginning to fall, gaining in numbers and frequency every second. Garrett sighed. The smell of a proper jungle was a relief after months in transit, cooped up inside a ship with a regiment of Catachans with nothing better to do than get into fights with troops from other units. And win every fething one, he thought proudly. As they watched, the last of the drop ships was unloaded and rose up towards the violent sky, its engines screaming in protest as they fought against the wind. 
“Sir,” Trooper Lorez, Garrett’s radio operator called out. “All personnel are planet side and accounted for. Unit leaders are waiting for the go ahead.”
“Good,” he replied. “Very good. Captain, I’d say it’s high time we get ourselves stuck in a proper war.” With a final look at the jungle, he turned and led his staff off the landing zone towards the fire base serving as their home for the duration of the campaign. 
Already squads were gearing up, getting ready to plunge into the green darkness and unleash eight months of pent up aggression and frustration on the enemy. Weapons were checked and loaded, skin covered with camouflage paint, and knives carefully sharpened to razor keen edges. Every soul in the regiment was a veteran, baptized by fire and the blood of the enemy time and time again. Each one towered over normal men, impressively muscled and grim warriors whose prowess in combat was legendary even among the infinitely varied Imperial Guard.
As he strode through his men, Garrett traded words of encouragement and private jokes, always able to match a name with a face no matter how many troopers he commanded. He was lean, for a Catachan, but hard as iron, and tougher than any bastard in his regiment. His bald scalp was dominated on one side by a dull metal plate that had replaced a portion of his skull after a grievous injury he received from a tyranid in his first campaign. Rough stubble covered his square jaw under piercing grey eyes that took in every thing around him with calm intensity.
Upon reaching the relative center of the crowd, Garrett stepped up onto a mound of sand bags, gazing around at his men like a proud father. In mere seconds every man was silently watching their commander, eagerly awaiting the words they knew he was about to say.
“Well boys, here we are,” he began. “You all know why we’re here and what we have to do. Fething green-skinned bastards ain’t ever faced a more dangerous group of the meanest bastards in the Imperium, I can tell you that!” He waited a few moments for an intense chorus of cheers to die down. “You all know your assigned mission. Get to it, give ‘em hell and don’t stop till every single fething one is dead and burnt. I’ll see you out there.”
Almost on cue, the storm reached a crescendo as the regiment flowed into the surrounding jungle and vanished into the dusk. Every element in the unit knew their assigned mission, and was capable of surviving alone without re-supply for months at a time. Communications were always kept to a minimum, reserved for brief situation reports and emergencies.
Garrett stepped down from his perch with a groan. A life time at war had not been kind to his body, and storms always brought pain with them.
“About damn time,” he said, “about damn time.”


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