“You see, new fish, no great mystery.” Bulaven said, before abruptly turning his head to look
over at another part of the dugout. “Hmm, looks like something is brewing.”
Following the direction of Bulaven’s gaze, Larn saw Sergeant Chelkar standing deep in
conversation with Corporal Vladek by the quartermaster’s table in the corner of the barracks. Then,
while Sergeant Chelkar walked away to talk to someone else, Vladek turned to open a wooden crate
beside him and, one-by-one, began to carefully pull out a number of heavy demolitions charges and
stack them on the table before him. As he did, Larn noticed that Bulaven’s face had grown suddenly
uneasy as though the big man had seen something in Vladek’s actions to worry him.
“What is it, Bulaven?” he asked. “What have you seen?”
“A bad sign, new fish.” Bulaven said. “Between me and you, a very bad sign indeed.”
“We are at Alert Condition Red,” Chelkar said, his face grave as he addressed the Guardsmen
standing before him while overhead the sound of explosions continued. “Sector Command says we
can expect an assault. A big one, probably timed to begin the moment this bombardment ends.
Looks like the orks are going to hit us hard this time. Leastways, harder than any of the other attacks
we’ve had to deal with today.”
A few minutes had passed and in the wake of his conversation with the quartermaster, Sergeant
Chelkar had ordered the men in Barracks Dugout One to arm themselves and assemble around the
iron stove for an impromptu briefing. Scholar, Bulaven, Davir, Zeebers, the other fireteams, even
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Vladek and the one-armed cook Skench, stood in their battle gear listening intently to Chelkar’s
words, their expressions every bit as grave and serious as their sergeant’s. Looking about him, Larn
saw that the easy and relaxed manner with which these men had enjoyed their time in the barracks
was gone now. They were soldiers once more. Guardsmen. They were ready for war.
“I won’t lie to you.” Chelkar said. “Things look grim. Every other sector in the area is under
heavy assault and all reserve units are tied up elsewhere. Which means no there is no potential for
reinforcements — at least not for several hours. Worse, Battery Command is already tasked to the
limit, so we can’t expert artillery support either. We still have our own mortars, of course, and our
fire support teams but, other than that, we are on our own.
“Now for the good news. Sector Command has made it clear that if we lose here there is the
danger of a major ork breakthrough into the city. Accordingly, they have ordered that we are to hold
this sector at all costs. Stand or die, they say. No matter how many orks come at us or how hard they
hit us, we are to hold on until we are reinforced, the ork assault fails, or the Emperor descends to
fight alongside us — whichever one of those comes first. We hold the line. I don’t care if hell itself
comes calling. We hold the line no matter what. Not that we have much choice here anyway, you
understand.
You all know what happens if we retreat. The commissars don’t even bother with a court martial
anymore: it’s just a bullet in the back of the head and a place on the corpse-pyres. This is
Broucheroc: between the orks and our own commanders, there’s just nowhere else left for us to go.
As for our plan of defence, I have ordered Vladek to distribute four extra frag grenades to each
man and one demolition charge per fireteam. Once the assault begins we will hold the forward firing
trenches for as long as possible, only retreating to the dugout emplacements when the situation there
becomes untenable. Then, once we’re at the dugout emplacements we will make a stand. That’s as
far as we go. After that, it’s hold the line or die.
“Are there any questions?”
No one spoke. Silently, the Guardsmen stood gazing back at their sergeant with resolve and
determination etched into every line of their faces. For better or worse, they were ready.
“All right, then,” said Chelkar. “We have been in this situation often enough before to make
saying anything else irrelevant. You all know what is ahead of us. I will say only this. Good luck to
every one of you. And, fates willing, let us all see each other again when the battle is over.”
“Maybe it is The Big Push,” Larn heard one of the Vardans say as he hung the extra grenades
Vladek had given him on his belt and went over to join the other members of Fireteam Three.
“Emperor knows, it was bound to happen sometime.”
“It can’t be,” said another man nearby. “General Headquarters would have told us.”
“Phah. You are fooling yourself,” a third man said. The damn generals refuse to even admit The
Big Push exists.
“When it finally does come they’ll be caught as much by surprise as the rest of us.”
The Big Push. By then Larn had heard the phrase used several times already, whispered amongst
themselves by grim-faced Guardsmen as they stood in the dugout making final adjustments to their
weapons and equipment as the bombardment continued above them. Each time he heard it, Larn
found something in the tone of the way they said the phrase that made him uneasy. It was a tone, he
realised, of nervousness and quiet anxiety. The tone of fear, he thought with a sudden shudder.
“Bulaven?” he asked the big man beside him. “What is The Big Push?”
For a moment the Vardan was silent, his usually affable manner replaced by the bleak and
brooding expression of a parent who realises he can no longer protect his child from the dark
realities of the world.
“It is a bad thing, new fish,” Bulaven said. “A story you could call it, I suppose. Or a myth. You
know when the preachers talk in church of the Last Judgement when the Emperor will finally step
forward from His throne once more and judge humanity for its sins? The Big Push is like that.”
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“It is something in the manner of a folktale,” Scholar said, standing next to him. “The Big Push
is the mythic apocalypse that every Guardsman in this city dreads. A Day of Judgement, as Bulaven
puts it, when the orks will at last mount their long-expected final assault and the city of Broucheroc
will fall. It is a nightmare, new fish. The one thing that the defenders of this city fear more than
anything else. And, as such, I am not surprised you heard it mentioned. For the orks to launch so
many assaults across different sectors at once and coordinate them with artillery bombardment is
highly unusual. So unusual in fact that it is easy to see in it the portent of something larger.”
“The Big Push is bullshit, new fish,” Davir said. “A story that the mothers of this city scare their
children to sleep with, nothing more. Put it from your mind.”
At that, they became silent and, looking at the faces of his companions, Larn saw the same thing
there as had been hidden in the whispers of the men he had heard discussing The Big Push to begin
with.
He saw fear.
And he was not reassured.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
21:15 hours Central Broucheroc Time
Bookkeeping and the Tragedy of War — Matters of Tactics while Waiting for an Eternity to Pass —
Preparations and Preludes in the Trenches — Holding the Line — Shot in the Head and Saved by
Davir — Last Stand by the Dugouts — The Sound of Salvation
For Captain Arnol Yaab it had been a long and tiring day. A day spent like every other day of the
last ten years in a cramped windowless office in the lower levels of the General Headquarters
building in the centre of Broucheroc, ceaselessly compiling the twice-daily Imperial Guard casualty
statistics from the reports and logs of the various Sectors Command throughout the city.
Sector 1-11, he wrote in a neat and ordered hand in the pages of the ledger before him. 12th
Coloradin Rifle Corps. Commanding Officer: Colonel Wyland Alman. Previous Strength: 638 men.
Total Casualties in Last Twelve Hour Period: 35 men. Current Adjusted Strength: 603 men.
Percentage Loss: 5.49%.
Sector 1-12, he continued, carefully allowing the ink time to dry so as not to risk smudging the
previous entry. 35th Zuvenian Light Foot. Commanding Officer: Captain Yiroslan Dacimol
(Deceased). Previous Strength: 499 men. Total Casualties in Last Twelve Hour Period: 43 men.
Adjusted Strength: 456 men. Percentage Loss: 8.62%.
Sector 1-13. 902nd Vardan Rifles. Commanding Officer: Sergeant Eugin Chelkar (Temporary
Appointment). Previous Strength: 244 men. Total Casualties in Last Twelve Hour Period: 247 men.
Current Adjusted Strength: -3. Percentage Loss: 101.23%.
Abruptly, gazing down at the entry he had just written, Yaab became aware that there seemed to
be some problem with his figures. 101.23%? That cannot be right, he thought. How can a unit have
lost more than one hundred per cent of its original strength and be reduced to a current adjusted
strength of minus three? It is an impossibility. How can you have minus three men?
Pursing his lips in annoyance, Captain Yaab re-checked the figures in the Sector Command Beta
casualty log. There, in black and white, the same statistic was confirmed. Out of a total strength of
244 men, the 902nd Vardan had somehow conspired to lose no less than 247 of their number in the
last twelve hours. Then, just as deep in his pen-pusher’s soul he began to fear he had made an error
that would see him reprimanded — or worse — posted to the frontlines, Yaab noticed a sheet of
paper clipped to the back of the log and realised he had perhaps found the source of the mistake.
It was a supplementary report, recording that a lander had crash-landed in Sector 1-13 at around
midday and deposited an additional 235 Guardsmen into the sector. Ah, now that would account for
the discrepancy, Yaab thought, making a quick series of mental calculations. An extra 235 men
would put the total strength of the sector at 479. Then, the loss of 247 men would leave us with a
current adjusted strength of 232, constituting a percentage loss of 51.57%. All in all, a much more
acceptable figure.
Happy again, Captain Yaab adjusted his ledger in line with the new calculations only to find
himself aggravated once more as he noticed the unsightly mess the alterations had made to the
clean, well-ordered columns of his figures. Sighing as he returned to compiling his statistics, Yaab
tried to take comfort from the thought that it could not be helped. It was the tragedy of his life that
certain amount of unsightliness was to be expected.
War, after all, could be a messy business.
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“Switch your comm-bead to our command net on frequency five,” Bulaven told Larn through the
roar of shellfire shaking the ground above them. “You will know we are about to go when the
shelling stops. Then, when we get the order, we run back to our firing trench. No crouching or trying
to stay in cover this time, new fish. You just sprint there as fast as you can. We have to be back in
the trench and ready to shoot before the orks reach the kill zone at the three hundred metre mark.”
They were standing with the rest of the Vardans next to the steps leading from the dugout up to
the surface. As his fingers fiddled to change the frequency of the comm-bead in his ear, Larn’s mind
turned to a lesson he had learned in his last battle. This is the worst time, he thought. While you are
waiting for the attack to start, before the battle even begins. Once the fighting is underway you are
still afraid. But it is having time to think about what is coming that makes the fear worse. And the
orks would seem to know it. They are giving us plenty of time to dwell on our fears. Right now, it
feels like waiting for an eternity to pass.
“All right, new fish,” Bulaven said. “Now, I have told you everything you need to know about
what we are going to do after that. I want you to tell it back to me now so I can be sure you have
understood it.”
Can he see that I am afraid, Larn thought. Is that it? Is he trying to keep me busy and take my
mind off the fact we could all he dead in a matter of minutes? And if Bulaven can see it what about
the rest of them? Are they all standing here watching me wondering if I am going to turn and run?
Do they think I am a coward?
“Our tactics, new fish?” Bulaven prodded. “What are they?”
“Once we reach the firing trench we will hold it as long as we can,” Larn said, silently praying
to the Emperor his voice did not sound as frightened and nervous as he suspected. “Then, if it looks
like we are going to be overrun, Scholar will set the demolition charge to buy us enough time to fall
back. You will be carrying the flamer, I will be carrying a spare fuel canister for you, Davir and
Zeebers will give us covering fire with their lasguns.”
“And if any of us are dead by then?” Bulaven asked. “Or too badly wounded to move on their
own? What then, new fish?”
“Then the three most important things are the demolition charge, the flamer, and the spare fuel
canister, in that order. Other than that we will help the wounded if we can. If not, we will leave them
behind.”
“Remember that one, new fish. It is important. Now, where will we fall back to?”
“To the sandbag emplacement above this dugout,” Larn said, repeating everything Bulaven had
drilled into him while they waited for the shelling to stop. “After that, it is like Sergeant Chelkar was
saying. We do not fall back any farther. Once we are at the emplacements, we stand or die.”
“Very good, new fish,” Davir said sarcastically from the side of them. “It sounds like you have
got it.”
Abruptly, the shellfire stopped. The brief silence that followed it felt strange and eerie after so long
a bombardment.
“Go! Go! Go!” Sergeant Chelkar yelled, as beside him Vladek threw open the door to the dugout
and the assembled Vardans ran pell-mell up the steps toward the surface. “Get to your trenches!”
Before he even knew it Larn was above ground, emerging blinking into the cold grey light of the
sun outside to turn and sprint towards the firing trench with Bulaven and the others beside him as
the rest of the Vardans spread out to run for their own positions. Then, with barely a few metres
gone, he heard Corporal Grishen’s voice in his ear through his comm-bead.
“Auspex reports activity in the enemy lines,” Grishen said, frantic through a squall of static.
“The orks are moving.”
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Larn could already see them. On the other side of no-man’s land, a horde of orks had risen up
and were now charging screaming towards them. For a moment Larn heard a still small voice in his
