[Imperial Guard 01] - Fifteen Hours

by Mitchel Scanlon - (ebook by Undead)

  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.

  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 death-dive 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 for salvation. As he prayed, his mind raced with desperate and outraged questions. How can this be, he thought. Bulaven said they were our guns. Why is our own side shooting at us? But there was no answer. Only more explosions and flying soil as the bombardment continued.

  Then, abruptly, thankfully, the explosions stopped.

  “Move! Move! Move! Out of the trench!” Davir shouted. “Quickly. Before the bastards finish reloading!”

  Scrambling to his feet as the others leaped up and over the rear trench wall, Larn followed them. Clearing the wall, he saw they had already sprinted halfway down the rise towards the line of dugouts. Running desperately to catch up, for a moment Larn was aware of nothing more than the rush of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart. Then, as though with a slow dawning realisation akin to a nightmare, he heard the deathdive scream of falling shells once more and knew he would never reach the dugouts in time.

  Abruptly, an explosion ripped through the air to the side of him, knocking him to the ground and showering him with falling earth. Finding himself on his back and covered in soil, Larn felt a sudden fear at the thought he had been buried alive, before he saw the grey sky overhead and realised he was still above ground. Spluttering out a mouthful of earth as he stumbled to his feet again, he spent long dangerous instants staggering aimlessly about in a daze as more explosions wracked the ground beneath him. Then, relieved, he heard the sound of a familiar voice shouting through the haze of his confusion.

  “Here, new fish,” he heard the voice yell. “This way! Over here!”

  It was Bulaven. Standing sheltered within the sandbag walls of one of the dugout emplacements, the big man was gesturing frantically to him. Seeing him, Larn half-ran, half-stumbled towards him, all but collapsing into Bulaven’s outstretched arms as he finally reached the safety of the emplacement. Then, hurriedly, Bulaven helped Larn down the steps into the dugout while another grim-faced Vardan slammed the door closed behind them.

  “…new fish…” Bulaven said, the words mostly drowned out by the ringing in Larn’s ears, “…close one… thought… los… you…”

  “…new fish…” Bulaven said again, what few words Larn could understand were dim and muffled, as though the big man’s voice was a dying whisper echoing down the length of a long tunnel, “…are… ou… all… right…”

  “…new fish…” Bulaven’s face was painted with concern as Larn felt a sudden weakness and the world about him grew dark and distant.

  “…new fish…”

  And then, everything went black.

  He awoke to darkness and the smell of earth. Opening his eyes, Larn looked up to see a slim rectangle of cold grey sky above him surrounded on all sides by dark walls of soil. As he tried to stand, he found his limbs would not answer him. He could not move; the fact of his paralysis accepted with a curious sense of detachment and calm resignation. Abruptly, he saw four bent and ragged figures appear overheard to peer down at him as though from a dizzying height. Seeing the lines and creases on each ancient wizened face, he recognised them at once. They were the old women he had seen carting corpses away after the battle. Then, looking down at him with tired
disinterest, the women began to speak, each one taking up where the other had left off as though performing some ritual they had enacted a thousand times already.

  “He was a hero,” the first old women said as Larn slowly began to understand something was terribly wrong here. “They all are, all the Guardsmen who die here.”

  “They are martyrs,” one of her sisters said beside her. “By giving their blood to defend this place they have made the soil of this city into sacred ground.”

  “Broucheroc is a holy and impregnable fortress,” the third one said. “The orks will never take it. We will break their assault here. Then, we will push them back and reclaim this entire planet.”

  “So the commissars tell us,” the fourth one added, without conviction.

  Turning away, the rustling noise made by their tattered layers of clothing not unlike the flutterings of the black wings of crows, the women disappeared from his sight again. Lying on his back still looking up at the rectangle of grey sky above him, Larn felt his previous sense of calm replaced by a sudden presentiment of terror. There is something wrong here, he thought. They are talking as though I were dead. Are they blind? Can’t they see I am still alive. He made to speak, to call out and tell them to come back and help him up out of this strange pit he found himself lying in but the words would not come. His mouth and tongue were as paralysed as every other part of his body. Then, Larn heard a scratching sound as though somewhere a shovel had been pushed into a mound of earth, and knew all his horrified premonitions of a moment earlier were about to be made reality.

  This is not a pit, he thought, his mind frantic with despair. It is a grave! And they are about to bury me alive!

  “Grieve not for this departed soul,” he heard a stern and even voice say from above as the first shovelful of earth fell towards him. “Man born of woman was not made to be eternal. And, insofar as he was given life by the Immortal Emperor, so it is by His will that Man should die.”

  Feeling the earth strike his face, Larn tried to struggle to his feet. To scream. To shout. To cry out. It was hopeless. He could not move.

  “For though the soul may be immortal, the body was made to pass from this world,” the voice smoothly continued. “And let the flesh of the remains of Man be given over to the processes of decay, for only the Emperor is undying.”

  Helpless, Larn found himself blinded as another shovelful of earth landed on his face. Then, as fragments of soil dribbled into his mouth and nostrils, he felt more earth hit his body, the weight of it growing slowly more intolerable as, one remorseless shovelful at a time, the unseen grave diggers went about their work. Soon, his lungs crushed under the weight of the soil on his chest, his mouth and nose choked from the soil inside them, he could no longer breathe. Mute and blind now, his heart growing feeble, in the throes of his last desperate paroxysms of helpless terror the final thing he heard was the words of the calm and pitiless voice droning endlessly on above him.

  “Ashes to ashes,” the voice said, uncaring. “Dust to dust. A life is over. Let the body of this man be given to the earth.”

  “There. You see now I was right,” he heard Davir say. “I told you all he wasn’t dead. Naturally I defer to your medical judgement in such matters, Svenk, but I understand it is exceedingly rare to find a dead man who is still breathing.”

  Groggily opening his eyes, Larn was briefly confused to find he was lying on his back on the floor of an unfamiliar dugout with the gaunt figure of Medical Officer Svenk kneeling over him. For a moment he wondered what had happened to the open grave and the weight of earth on top of his chest. It must have been a nightmare, he thought. Then, becoming aware of a pungent odour making his eyes water, he realised Svenk had broken open a vial of smelling salts and was wafting them under his nose. Weakly pushing the vial away Larn tried to stand, only for Svenk to place a firm hand on his chest to stop him.

  “Not just yet, new fish,” he said, raising a hand to hold three fingers up in front of Larn’s face. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Three,” Larn said, noticing Bulaven kneeling on the other side of him and looking down at his face with an expression of concern.

  “We thought we had lost you there for a moment, new fish,” Bulaven said. “When you collapsed I was sure a near miss from one of the shells must have liquefied your insides. The blast does that sometimes, even if the shrapnel does not hit you. I am glad to see you are still all right though.”

  “How many now?” Svenk asked, changing the number of raised fingers and holding them in front of Larn once more.

  “Two.”

  “Good,” Svenk said. “You can remember your name?”

  “Larn. Arvin Larn.”

  “And where do you come from, Larn?”

  “From? Outside… there was shelling…”

  “True. But I mean where is your homeworld, Larn? Where were you born?”

  “Jumael,” Larn replied. “Jumael IV.”

  “Excellent,” Svenk said, his face at last cracking into a smile. “Let me extend my warmest congratulations to you, new fish. You are hereby pronounced fit for duty and free from concussion. Should you find yourself experiencing any sudden dizziness or nausea over the next twelve hours, please take two glasses of water and call me in the morning. Oh, and as for that headache you are no doubt feeling at the moment? Don’t worry, it is a good sign. It means you are still alive.”

  “The warmth of your bedside manner is most extraordinary, Svenk,” Davir said, suddenly appearing to stand over the medic’s shoulder and gaze down at Larn. “Remarkable, even. Really, you are a credit to your profession.”

  “Thank you, Davir,” Svenk replied, putting the loop of his satchel strap over his shoulder once more as he made to stand. “I always find such unsolicited testimonials deeply moving. Now, if you will excuse me, I had better go and check the other dugouts for casualties. Given the thoroughness of the bombardment our own side are currently subjecting us to, chances are there are others elsewhere who may be in more need of my talents. Though I warn you, new fish,” he added, looking down with mock seriousness at Larn. “While getting injured twice in one day is scarcely unheard of hereabouts, it does suggest a certain carelessness about your own well-being. Come to me again today, and I may be forced to start charging you for my services.”

  With that Svenk turned on his heel and walked briskly away, headed for the doorway at the far end of the dugout. As he watched the medic open the door and start up the stairs towards the surface, Larn became abruptly aware of the muffled sounds of explosions as shells struck the earth overhead. We are still being bombarded, he thought, the fog of his mind slowly clearing as he came more back to himself. And Medical Officer Svenk is about to go out in the middle of it in search of wounded men in need of treatment. Unbelievable. Whatever the strangeness of his manner, he is either insane or the bravest man I have ever seen.

  “You still do not look too well, new fish,” Bulaven said, still kneeling beside Larn and frowning at him with concern. “Your face is very pale.”

  “So?” said Davir. “For all we know that is his normal colour when he has just had the shit knocked out of him. Anyway, you heard what Svenk said, Bulaven: the new fish is perfectly fine. Now, stopping clucking over him like some idiot mother hen and get him to his feet. If the new fish isn’t dying he has no right to be taking up valuable space by lying there like that.”

  “Come on then, new fish,” Bulaven said, helping him stand up as Larn looked for the first time at the interior of the dugout around them. “Careful now. If you feel like your knees are about to go, just put your weight on me.”

  Inside, the dugout was smaller than the one he had been in before: perhaps a third of the size at most of the barracks dugout where he had first met Sergeant Chelkar and Corporal Vladek. Looking through the crowd of a dozen or so Guardsmen standing near him Larn saw a table in the corner covered in communications equipment. In a chair beside it an unshaven and harried-looking Vardan corporal sat holding a
pair of headphones to his ear with one hand, while pressing down the “send” button of the vox-corn before him with the other.

  “Yes, I understand that, captain,” the corporal said, talking into the vox-com. “But regardless of what your situation maps may say, I assure you we are still in possession of sector 1-13.”

  “That is Corporal Grishen,” said Bulaven once he had seen Larn watching the man. “Our comms officer. Right now he is talking to the commander of the artillery battery that is shelling us.”

  “What? You mean they know they are shooting at us?” Larn asked in disbelief.

  “I wouldn’t sound so surprised, new fish,” said Davir. “This is Broucheroc, after all. Here, such snafus are not uncommon. You have heard the expression by now, I take it? Snafu? I tell you: there could be no better term for describing this whole damn war.”

  “It is usually a question of parts, I understand,” Scholar said as he came over to join them. “The cause of these incidents when our own artillery suddenly starts shooting at us, I mean. Old parts wear out, the new ones are incorrectly calibrated, or else they have been recycled and refurbished so many times as to be all but useless. Whatever the cause though, I’m sure once the battery commander has become aware of our situation the shelling will stop.”

  “Phah. More groundless optimism,” Davir spat. “Really, Scholar, you are getting as bad as this fat oaf Bulaven here. Grishen has been at the comm-link working his way up that battery’s chain of command for the last twenty minutes. So far, the most he has managed to accomplish is for his backside to go numb from sitting in that chair. No, I wouldn’t expert this bombardment to end any time soon. For that to happen the moron shooting at us would have to admit he has made a mistake. And why should he do that, after all? If he kills us, some arsehole at General Headquarters will probably pin a medal on him.”