by Various
‘Thank Grishen for the news, Davir,’ said Chelkar. ‘But tell him he may want to advise Sector Command our new company commander is probably lying dead with the majority of his men out there in no-man’s-land.’
‘Not at all, sergeant,’ said a new voice from behind him. ‘I assure you: your new company commander is still very much alive.’
Turning, Chelkar saw the straggler getting to his feet. Now he had the chance to see the man clearly, he saw that he wore a single gold bar insignia at his collar. Lieutenant’s bars.
It looked like kicking him in the arse again was out of the question.
One big line, sergeant,’ the lieutenant said, jabbing an unbending finger into the map before him. ‘That is the best way to defend our position. One big line, and we will break the orks like waves against the rocks.’
Two days had passed, and Chelkar stood with Grishen and Lieutenant Lorannus in the command dugout, around a map of the company’s defences. Two days, and now the unveiling of Lorannus’s grand design had forced Chelkar to a re-evaluation. His new lieutenant was not just a fool, he was a madman.
‘Of course, a great deal of work is required,’ Lorannus continued. ‘But the failings of the present system – this array of trenches and foxholes in which our men hide like so many rats – should be self-evident. If we are to break the ork resolve, we need a show of strength. We must concentrate our forces in a single great trench running the length of the sector, protected by minefields and barbed wire.’
Perhaps the lieutenant was simple-minded. It was the only explanation Chelkar could think of which made any sense. Already, two days under Lorannus’s command had been enough to turn Chelkar’s initial dislike of the man into a deep loathing. Lorannus was a by-the-book soldier, a shrill martinet who, Chelkar was sure, would probably soil his uniform if he ever saw an ork. And that damned uniform, that was another thing again. Despite repeated urgings, Lorannus had refused to dispense with his sniper-bait uniform or even to wear a greatcoat to cover it.
‘Well, sergeant? You have an opinion?’
‘We don’t use mines any more, sir. It only encouraged the orks to take prisoners and drive them across the minefields to clear them. Then, when they ran out of prisoners, they’d use gretchin instead. Either way, minefields don’t work.’
‘We will use punji sticks then, sergeant. Or pitfall traps. These are just details. There is a bigger picture here.’
‘Yes, sir, there is. With your permission, lieutenant, I think it is time Corporal Grishen went to see if comms has received any new messages.’
Lorannus paused, looking at Chelkar’s weather-beaten face with searching eyes. Then, with a nod, he indicated Grishen should go, waiting until the corporal was out of earshot before he spoke once more.
‘All right then, sergeant. We are alone. What is it you have to say?’
‘Permission to speak frankly, sir?’ Chelkar asked. At Lorannus’s gesture he continued, choosing his words carefully. ‘With all due respect, sir, wouldn’t it be wiser if you waited to acclimatise yourself fully to conditions here before making wholesale changes to our defences?’
‘I believe I am “acclimatised” as you put it, sergeant,’ Lorannus said, looking Chelkar squarely in the eye now. ‘And it is my intention these changes should be made without further delay. Should I take it you find some fault in my plans?’
‘Yes, sir. Our firing trenches and foxholes are spread out for a reason, same as they are in every other sector of the city. We do it that way to catch the orks in multiple fields of fire and cut them down before they can get close. At the same time, because there isn’t any one single strong point, if a trench is about to be overrun the men in it can pull back without fear of the whole line collapsing.’
‘Are you telling me it is deliberate policy to give ground to the enemy?’
‘We don’t give them anything, lieutenant. We lend it to them just long enough for the men in the other trenches to shoot them down. Then we take it back.’
‘No matter how you dress it up, sergeant, it is retreat. And retreat smacks of cowardice.’
‘Call it what you want, lieutenant. This is Broucheroc, and war here is not like what they tell you about in the scholarium.’
‘I am well acquainted with the realities of warfare, sergeant,’ Lorannus said, his face flushed and his lips tight. ‘My homeworld has a martial tradition that dates back centuries. And for generations my family has committed its sons to the service of the Emperor.’
‘And you have personal experience of fighting orks, sir?’
‘I do not see how that is relevant,’ Lorannus said. A dangerous edge had entered his voice, but this was too important for Chelkar to back down.
‘You talked about “a show of strength” and “breaking the ork resolve”, lieutenant? Well, there’s only one way I know to break an ork’s resolve and that’s to kill him. As for “a show of strength”, take it from me: they’re stronger than we are. The one thing you don’t want is to end up going hand-to-hand with an ork. Let them shoot at you all day – chances are they’ll miss. But go hand-to-hand and you’ll end up being fed your own liver. That’s what this is all about, lieutenant. Put our men in “one big line”, without multiple fields of fire and with nowhere to retreat to, and you’re giving the orks the chance to get close by sheer weight of numbers. And, if you do that, you might as well give them the keys to the city right now.’
‘You sound as though you are frightened of the orks, sergeant,’ Lorannus said, his expression dark.
‘Yes I am, lieutenant. I’ve always made it a policy to be terrified of anything that outnumbers me five-hundred-to-one.’
For a moment, struggling visibly to control his temper, Lorannus was silent. But Chelkar knew it was only the lull before the storm. Any second now, Lorannus would either dress him down or tell him to shut up and follow orders. Worse, he might even summon Grishen back and order Chelkar to be put under arrest for insubordination. Whatever the result, the lieutenant would have his way. Their defences would be relocated to one big line and, within a day at most, everyone in this sector would be dead. All because Command had decided to shackle them with a madman. But, no matter the folly of his plans, in the end Lorannus was the officer and Chelkar the sergeant. The lieutenant could send the whole company skipping naked towards the orks and no one would stop him. Unless…
‘Sergeant! Lieutenant! You must come quickly! There’s something going on over in the ork lines!’
It was Grishen, his voice over the comm-link shrill to the point of panic. An unlikely guardian angel, but for now Chelkar would take whatever he could get.
‘It seems we are needed elsewhere, sergeant,’ Lorannus said, placing his pillbox hat on his head and adjusting the strap under his chin. ‘We shall have to postpone this matter until later. But understand: this does not end here.’
‘As you say, sir,’ Chelkar replied, picking up his shotgun and shucking a shell into the breech. ‘This is not over.’
Lorannus turned away, moving towards the dugout exit with Chelkar two steps behind him. Then, stepping outside, Chelkar saw something which only confirmed his doubts as to the lieutenant’s sanity. Incredibly, instead of running or crouching, Lorannus went marching across the open ground towards the trenches as though it were a parade ground. Bad enough to be wearing that sniper-bait uniform, thought Chelkar. But the fool doesn’t even have the sense to run or keep his head down.
Not that the thought of some gretchin sniper blowing the lieutenant’s fool head off caused him any great concern. But there was always the danger the damned gretch would miss and hit someone else…
‘You hear it?’ Grishen’s voice was a dry whisper. ‘That noise from the ork lines. Engines.’
The sound could be heard clearly now, drifting across no-man’s-land from behind the barricades on the ork side. A growing cacophony of revving motors, grinding gears and rumbling exhausts. The sound of engines. And engines meant only one thing. Armour.
‘Could be they found an old promethium cache somewhere,’ Chelkar said. ‘Either way, it doesn’t matter. The reports were wrong, lieutenant. And, from the sounds of those engines, we don’t have much time to get ready.’
‘Yes,’ Lorannus said, ‘you are right of course, sergeant. We need to make preparations.’ Looking into the lieutenant’s eyes, Chelkar realised the man had no idea how to proceed. Confronted with an unforeseen situation, Lorannus was floundering.
‘Artillery, lieutenant,’ Chelkar prompted.
‘Of course,’ Lorannus said, his imperious facade abruptly restored as though somewhere a distant general had flicked a switch. ‘Artillery fire. Grishen, contact Battery Command and tell them I want an immediate carpet bombardment of the area directly in front of the ork lines.’
Then, as Grishen hurried towards the comms-dugout, the lieutenant turned towards Chelkar once more.
‘I’m sure, like me, you believe in leading from the front, sergeant. I suggest you take up position on the east of the line, while I take the west. It would be a tragedy, after all, if either of us were to wander inadvertently into the other’s “field of fire”.’
Without a word, Chelkar turned and ran crouching towards the forward firing trench on his side of the defences. Inside, Davir and Bulaven were already preparing for the assault; the big man was checking the pump pressure of the heavy flamer before him, while Davir flicked the safety off his lasgun and sighted in on no-man’s-land.
‘I am pleased to announce we are open for business, sergeant,’ Davir said, glancing over his shoulder as Chelkar jumped into the trench. ‘Just in time, too. From the sounds of it, we have a busy day ahead of us.’
‘Yes we have, Davir. But for now I want you both to put the camo-cover back on the flamer and keep your heads down.’
‘No offence, sergeant,’ Davir said as, beside him, Bulaven stared dumbly at Chelkar, ‘but I have found orks rarely drop dead of their own accord. You have to shoot them first.’
‘Perhaps in your close study of the orks you have also noticed they rarely do much in the way of reconnaissance before an assault,’ Chelkar replied. ‘If we don’t shoot at them, they are likely to think this trench is empty. And, if they do, they will concentrate their attack here. Then, once they get close enough, we will spring a surprise.’
‘Not much of a surprise, sergeant,’ Davir said, his tigerish smile revealing a mouthful of stained and crooked teeth. ‘Three men with only a shotgun, lasgun and heavy flamer between them. Still, if the orks get too close, we can always try having Bulaven fart them to death.’
Overhead, the air began to scream with the sound of shells. Grishen had called in the barrage; shrapnel and explosives were turning the area in front of the ork lines into a quagmire. But it would take more than that to stop the orks from coming. The best the bombardment could do was thin out their numbers.
‘Confirmation from all lookouts,’ Grishen said, ‘the orks are coming!’
No one with eyes or ears could miss them. From the ork lines the engine noises reached a crescendo, momentarily drowning out even the artillery barrage as dozens of ork vehicles smashed through their own barricades and sped into no-man’s-land. A motley, mechanised army of scratch-built vehicles and buggies gunned their engines forward to come roaring across the frozen mud. In seconds they were past the limits of the bombardment, leaving a third of their number burning behind them. A third already gone, but it mattered not at all. The other two-thirds just kept on coming.
‘All troops, upon my command,’ Lorannus said, calm and even over the comm-link. ‘Fire!’
A fusillade of missiles, lasbeams and mortar rounds hurtled into no-man’s-land. Some found their marks, and more vehicles exploded. But many beams glanced off armour, missiles failed, mortar rounds fell short. The motorised horde kept coming.
With grim satisfaction, Chelkar saw the bulk of them were headed his way.
‘Wait,’ he told the others. ‘I want them close.’
The death toll mounted as the other Guardsmen continued to fire. But the remaining orks kept coming in a mad dash to be first to the slaughter. One hundred metres. Eighty. Fifty. Twenty fire metres now and closing. Twenty...
‘Now,’ said Chelkar.
Before the sound of the order was gone Bulaven was on his feet. Moving with a speed that belied his size, he pulled the camo-cover away, his finger already on the trigger of the flamer. He fired, and an oncoming tracked vehicle suddenly disappeared in an expanding cone of fire. It exploded, but Bulaven was already onto another target. And another, and another. One by one, speeding vehicles became fiery deathtraps for their crews, screaming orks leaping overboard as around them their comrades crashed and burned. And still Bulaven kept working the flamer, a bright finger of fire turning vehicle after vehicle into an inferno. And all the time, beside him, Chelkar and Davir worked the triggers of their own guns like madman, trying to make up for lack of numbers with sheer volume of fire. Before long, all Chelkar could see in front of the trench was a rising curtain of flame, all he could hear was the screams of orks, all he could smell was the stench of burning flesh.
He kept on firing.
‘Reloading!’ Bulaven yelled, as the flamer suddenly sputtered and died, his fat hands already working to attach the fuel-line to a new canister. With a machine-like efficiency born of long practice, Chelkar and Davir sent half a dozen frag grenades into the flames to buy Bulaven the seconds he needed.
But then, they were machines: machines made for the killing of orks.
The flamer sputtered once more, then spat fire again, sending more orks screaming to their gods. And, even through the haze of battle, Chelkar could see his plan was working. Having concentrated their attack here, the orks had become log-jammed. Already, their assault elsewhere in the sector was faltering and Guardsmen from other trenches were able to add their fire to back up Chelkar and Davir. It was the oldest tactic in Broucheroc: offer the orks an open door then slam it shut in their faces. The oldest tactic, and yet it worked every time.
Then, just as Chelkar began to think he might have survived yet another battle, he heard a message over the comm-link that made him think perhaps the orks were not so gullible after all.
‘Lieutenant!’ Grishen’s voice crackled through the static. ‘Lookouts report more orks advancing towards us on foot through no-man’s-land. Sweet Emperor – their armour was only the first wave!’
For a moment there was only silence over the comm-link, then Chelkar heard Lorannus give an order of stark, staring madness.
‘All troops: fix bayonets and advance into no-man’s-land! You hear me? Forward, for the Emperor!’
In the trench, no one moved. Chelkar, Davir and Bulaven stood, staring at each other in disbelief. Turning to look at the other trenches, Chelkar could see they were not alone. Out of the whole company, only one man had left the safety of his trench. One man, who now charged forward single-handedly towards the army of orks hidden somewhere in the smoke. The only man who had followed the order was the man who had given it.
Lieutenant Lorannus.
Alone, while the troops he commanded stood watching him with total incomprehension, Lorannus leapt out of his trench and charged into no-man’s-land with bullets flying all around him. Coming to a burning tracked vehicle, he vaulted on to its hull, pushing a dead gretchin out of the way, then grabbed the vehicle’s twin stubbers and turned them screaming on a horde of approaching orks. One man, compelled by some unknown inner daemon to an act of suicidal madness.
It was the bravest thing Chelkar had ever seen.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Chelkar heard himself yell over the comm-link. ‘Are you going to leave him to fight the orks on his own? That’s your company commander out there! Charge!’
Before he even knew what
he was doing, Chelkar was on his feet with Davir and Bulaven beside him. Together, they charged into no-man’s-land with guns blazing, every other man in the company close behind them. A hundred men, inspired to the same madness as their commander, charging screaming to certain death.
Then, for the second time in a day, Chelkar saw something incredible.
The orks broke and ran.
Barely believing they were still alive, Chelkar and the others halted, looking at the backs of the retreating orks in dumb disbelief. Then, there came the sound of a single voice, soon joined by another, and another, until every man in the company – Chelkar included – was cheering Lieutenant Lorannus’s name. And, from his vantage point above them on the burning hull of the ork vehicle, Lorannus smiled and raised his laspistol above his head in a salute of triumph.
Then the bullet struck.
Somewhere out in no-man’s-land a gretchin sniper found his spiteful mark, the impact pitching Lorannus forward off the vehicle as a fist-sized spray of red gore erupted from the right side of his chest. Chelkar was by his side in seconds, his hands desperately trying to stem the flow of blood from the lieutenant’s chest as he screamed for a medic.
‘Tell them…’ Lorannus gasped, blood bubbling from his mouth with every ragged breath. ‘Tell them… it wasn’t true. My family… we were loyal… tell them…’
‘You will tell them yourself, lieutenant,’ Chelkar said, not realising he was shouting. ‘And you can show them the medal you’re going to get for this. And not posthumously, lieutenant. You hear me? This is no more than a scratch – in a couple of weeks you’ll be saluting when they pin that medal on you! Do you hear me, lieutenant?’
But his only answer came with a bloody-lipped and enigmatic smile.
Lorannus was already dead.
He had expected questions, or another beating, but having finished his story Chelkar found himself left in silence as the commissar’s attention returned to his data-slate once more. Minutes passed, the only sound in the room the quiet whirring of the vox-recorder and the scratching of a stylus as the commissar began to write something on the screen of the data-slate. Or perhaps it was hours: Chelkar could not be sure. He could only sit there, wondering. Surely, there must be more to it than this? If the commissar only wanted to ask him about Lorannus’s heroism, why put him through this torment? Why the arrest? The beating? Why bring him here at all?
