Muttering darkly under his breath, Zeebers grabbed his lasgun and put his hands on the top of
the trench wall to the side of him. Then, giving Larn a last poisonous glare, he pulled himself up out
of the trench and jumped into the open. The moment his feet hit the ground he was off and running,
zigzagging with his body half-crouched as he sprinted across open ground to the next nearest firing
trench and threw himself inside to safety.
“No,” said Davir, still peering through his sights towards the shell crater. “He is still in cover.
Maybe our friend is smarter than we think. Or perhaps he simply finds Zeebers to be a rather
scrawny and uninspiring target. Either way, I haven’t got a shot yet.”
“Again, Zeebers!” Scholar yelled, waving toward the next trench.
Discontent clearly visible on every line of his face even from a distance, Zeebers leapt from the
trench again and ran zigzag once more toward the next trench in line.
“He’s moving,” Bulaven said, gazing through the field glasses towards the crater. “Looks like
he’s taken the bait.”
“Quiet,” Davir hissed. “You are putting me off.” Then, exhaling slowly, he pulled the trigger,
producing a single sharp crack as the lasgun fired.
“You got him!” Bulaven said, passing the field glasses to Larn with a smile of exultation. “Look,
new fish. You see that? He got him.”
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“Of course I got him,” Davir said. Then, as he clicked the firing control switch on his lasgun to
safe, the wolfish smile returned. “Though it was a remarkably fine shot, even if I do say so myself.”
Gazing through the field glasses Larn looked toward the shell crater, at first unable to distinguish
any sign of the gretchin in the grey landscape. Then, he saw it: a small red stain lying across a grey
rock at the lip of the crater. Abruptly, adjusting the magnification of the field glasses to take a closer
look, Larn realised he had been mistaken. What he thought was a rock was in fact the gretchin’s
head, the red stain being the contents of the creature’s brains as they oozed through the hole in its
ruptured skull and dribbled towards the ground. The creature was dead, the only sign of its passing a
smear of red against the all-encompassing greyness of the world around it. A bright splash of colour
in the midst of a wasteland.
“Did you see how Zeebers did it, new fish?” Bulaven asked him. “Did you see how he kept
crouched and ran zigzag from one trench to the next, so he wouldn’t give the gretch too much of a
target?”
“Yes, I saw it,” Larn said, sensing some unwelcome portent in the concern evident in the big
man’s manner. It was almost as though Bulaven was warning him about something. “But, why do
you ask?”
“Why do you think, new fish?” Davir grunted. “Because, now Zeebers has been kind enough to
show you how it is done, next time we have a sniper it is your turn to act as bait.”
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CHAPTER TEN
16:33 hours Central Broucheroc Time
A Daily Dose of Hell — Further Musings on the Frontline — Friendly Fire — Intimations of an
Unwelcome Burial — Another Consultation with Medical Officer Svenk — Corporal Grishen and
Certain Failures in Communications — Sergeant Chelkar Finds a Way to Make his Point
“Battery, make ready!” he heard Sergeant Dumat’s voice shouting in his earpiece. “Gun crews
remove camo-covers and make ready to open the breech!”
As though an army of quiescent insects had been provoked into action, in an instant the artillery
park became a nest of activity. Everywhere, gun crews rushed to their posts to pull away
camouflaged tarpaulins and make ready for firing. Watching as the camo-covers were discarded to
reveal the huge and gleaming bores of the dozen Hellbreaker class cannons under his command,
Captain Alvard Valerius Meran allowed himself a moment of pleasure as he saw the extra firing
drills he had ordered for his men had worked. There was no sign of slackness, ill discipline or
confusion in the workings of the gun crews. The entire battery operated with all the smooth
efficiency of a single, finely tuned, well-oiled machine.
“Load ordnance.” Sergeant Dumat yelled, the strident tones of the command carried to the ears
of every man in the battery through the comm-beads inside the ear-protectors they wore to protect
them from the sound of their guns. “High explosive rounds.”
Standing in the shadow of the burnt-out building that served as his de facto headquarters,
Captain Meran watched the four-man loading teams attached to each gun crew as they hurried to
disappear into the tarpaulin-covered ammunition stacks beside each gun. A moment later they
emerged once more, each loading team gently cradling the shining and deadly weight of a metre
long high explosive shell between them. Then, carrying them to their guns, the loaders lifted their
shells into the open breeches for the other members of the guns crews to ram them home.
“Load propellant.”
Again, delighting at every well-trained movement and flawless action, Meran watched as the
loading teams returned to the stacks to fetch the heavy barrel-sized cylindrical sacks of cordite that
served as propellant for the cannons. Grunting under the weight, taking even more care with the
volatile cordite than they had with the shells, the loading teams lifted the sacks into the guns’
breeches, then retreated to their positions beside the ammunition stacks once more.
“Close breeches. Set firing trajectories as follows. Horizontal traverse: five degrees twenty-six
minutes. Repeat: zero five degrees two six minutes. Vertical elevation: seventy-eight degrees thirtyone
minutes. Repeat: seven eight degrees three one minutes. Windage: zero point five degrees.
Repeat: zero point five degrees.”
And so the sergeant’s voice went on, repeating the bearings again as the gun crews worked the
wheels and gearings of their guns’ aiming systems to adjust the Hellbreakers to the proper
trajectories. Until, their preparations at last completed, the gun crews stepped back from their guns
and awaited the firing instruction.
Yes, Captain Meran thought. Just like a machine. Really, that was a most excellent display of
gunmanship. It is a shame no one from Battery Command was here to see it. If they had been, they
would have been sure to have given me a commendation.
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Briefly, he wondered whether he should order an extra ration of recaf for the gun crews by way
of a reward. Just as swiftly he abandoned the idea. It might set a dangerous precedent to give the
men any additional reward for simply doing their duty. No, it would be pleasure enough that they
could all go to their beds tonight knowing they had performed their duties with admirable dispatch.
Then, noticing his men looking towards him with expectant faces as they awaited the order to fire,
Meran made an elaborate show of taking his pocket chronometer from its chain and opening it to
check the time. 16:30 hours exactly, he thought with a smile, hand going to the comm-stud at the
collar of his uniform as he make ready to vox the command to Sergeant Dumat to give the order to
let loose the guns.
Time to give the orks their daily dose of hell.
Perhaps half an hour had passed since they had killed the sniper. Half an hour. Yet still, having
returned to the trench in the wake of acting as bait, Zeebers sat sullenly in a corner glaring
murderously at Davir and the others. Most of all, he glared at Larn: his eyes full to the brim with
hatred and loathing. Not for the first time, Larn found himself wondering how it was the man had
taken so badly against him for no apparent reason. Though, given Zeebers’ current demeanour, he
thought better of asking him outright why he hated him.
Elsewhere in the trench, the others had resumed the same positions they had occupied before the
sniper’s opening shot. Davir had his back against the spare flamer canisters and was wrapped dozing
in an extra greatcoat once more. Scholar had returned to his book. Bulaven was still on the firing
step, gazing out into no-man’s land on watch with Larn beside him. Now, with the passing of the
brief excitement caused by the sniper, the big man had fallen as quiet as the others.
So much has changed, Larn thought, finding the brooding silence of the past half-hour had at
least given him time to think. A few hours ago I was with Jenks and the others, getting ready to
make our first planetary drop and wondering what to expect. Even in our worst nightmares none of
us could have thought of this. Certainly, Jenks wouldn’t have expected to die in his chair without
even leaving the lander. Any more than Sergeant Ferres would have expected to he killed by a
misfiring explosive bolt. The same goes for Hallan, Vorrans and Leden. It is like I remember that
old preacher saying one time. You never know what the shape of your death is going to be until it
has got you. And, by then, it is already too late to do anything about it.
Sobered by the thought, shivering against the cold, Larn looked out into no-man’s land and tried
to make some sense of how it was he had come to be there. Try as he might he could see no sense in
it. No sense in the mistake that had brought him to this place. No sense in the deaths of his friends
and comrades. No sense to the fact that it seemed his life was now under a fifteen-hour sentence of
death. He could see no sense in it. No sense at all.
Turning to glance down at the others from his position on the firing step, Larn noticed he could
just about see the faded gold leaf lettering of the title on the cracked leather cover of the timeworn
and battered book that Scholar was reading. Under The Eagle, the book’s title read. Glorious
Accounts of Valour from the Annals of the Imperial Guard. Larn had heard the book mentioned in
basic training. It was a compilation of stirring accounts of the brave actions and past successes of
just a few of the many millions of different regiments of the Emperor’s armies.
Watching Scholar as he read the book, Larn saw the man’s face break into an occasional smile
from time to time as though in sarcastic amusement at some passage he had seen there. Again, Larn
found himself wondering about Scholar’s background. Davir had mentioned something about him
no longer being in the scholarium. Could it be that Scholar had once been a student in some place of
higher learning! He certainly had the disposition for it, and he seemed better informed than any of
the other men in the trench. If he really was a scholar, what was he doing serving in a forward firing
position on the frontlines? It was a mystery. As much of a mystery as everything else about the
behaviour and motivations of the men around him.
64
With a sudden sadness born of isolation, Larn realised he understood nothing about the men who
shared the trench with him. Nor for that matter did he understand any of the other men he had met
so far in Broucheroc. Corporal Vladek, Medical Officer Svenk, Sergeant Chelkar, Vidmir, Davir,
Zeebers, poor dead Repzik — none of them seemed remotely like any of the people he had known
before he had come to this planet. By turns they were gruff, sardonic, cynical, world-weary,
intimidating, not to say largely contemptuous of all the institutions and traditions Larn had been
raised to cherish. Even with Bulaven, the most sympathetic and friendly of the Vardans, Larn could
sense a certain reserve as though the big man was wary of getting to know him too well. It was more
than that. More than any remoteness of manner or lack of empathy. These men seemed entirely
unknowable to him: almost as alien in their own way as the orks. It was as though some strange and
entirely new species of Man, far removed from Larn’s understanding, had been given life by this
place.
A new species, he thought with a shiver that owed nothing whatsoever to the coldness of the air.
A new species, forged in hell and nurtured on the fields of slaughter.
“You seem caught up in your troubles, new fish.” Bulaven said beside him, the sound of his
voice after so much silence making Larn jump. “As though the weight of this entire world was on
your shoulders. It cannot be so bad as that, though. A centi-credit for your thoughts?”
For a moment, wondering if it was possible to give words to all the confused welter of thoughts
and emotions whirling inside him, Larn was silent. Then, just as he was about to speak in answer to
Bulaven’s question, they heard the forboding thunder of artillery fire in the distance behind them.
“Hmm. Sounds like they’re firing the HeeBees.” Bulaven said, turning to look toward the sound
of firing.
“HeeBees?” Larn asked.
“Hellbreakers,” said Bulaven distractedly. “A local variant on the Earthshaker, just bigger. Now
please be quiet, new fish. We need to listen.”
From far away Larn began to hear the high-pitched scream of artillery shells in flight. Moving
ever closer, the sound of the shells’ passage high in the air above them grew louder by the instant.
Until, by the time the noise was directly overhead, the character of the shells’ screaming abruptly
changed, reaching a terrifyingly shrill and strident crescendo as the shells began their final deathdive
shriek.
“Incoming!” Bulaven yelled, grabbing Larn by the collar and pulling him down with him as he
suddenly leapt towards the bottom of the trench.
His stomach rebounding hard against an ammunition box as he landed on the trench floor, Larn
found he was not alone there. Roused by Bulaven’s warning shout, Davir and the others had already
thrown themselves prostrate at the trench bottom, hugging the ground with all the fervour of lovers
reunited after a long separation. Finding himself face down among a heap of bodies with someone
else’s boot heel jabbing painfully against his ear, Larn tried to rise, only to find it was impossible to
even move so long as Bulaven’s not-inconsiderable bulk was lying on top of him. Though any
questions Larn might have had as to the reasons behind his comrades’ strange behaviour were
quickly answered as the screaming of shells in the air above them abruptly ended, replaced by the
roar of explosions as the shells began to fall to earth all around their trench.
“The stupid sons of bitches!” Davir yelled, his shouting voice barely loud enough to be heard
above the din. “That’s the third time this month.”
His body shaking as the ground quaked from multiple detonations, Larn closed his eyes and
buried his face in the mud, his lips mumbling a litany of choked and terrified devotions as he prayed
