Fire in the Night

Fire in the Night

Marko dropped to a knee, taking shelter behind the mercifully thick bulk of the compound’s ferrocrete wall.  As sweat coursed down his face he had a brief moment to appreciate the irony of an Alban trying to persuade his cold-stiffened fingers to flex and give him enough movement to hit the eject and slam a fresh power pack into his las rifle. Time for one deep breath….”First Rank – FIRE!”  Marko rose in perfect unison with his squad members, shoulder to shoulder, sighted down the barrel (“front sight son, always front sight”), picked his target and fired.  As the second rank rose Marko and his companions returned to their crouched position to await their turn in the three rank shot rotation Lieutenant Ibramanov had assigned to the south-west wall.

In truth picking a target wasn’t difficult as the solid mass of green-skinned monsters surging towards the compound made it almost impossible to miss.  Still the 24th Alban Rifles knew their business; firing wildly was not in their nature.  In fact for many the real difficulty would have been holding their nerve in the face of such mindless ferocity.  These feral beasts seemed to know no fear and feel no pain. Two days before Marko had seen an Ork lose an arm to a frag grenade, stumble to its feet and continue the charge wielding its own arm as a club.  It had taken several shots to the head to drop the Emperor-cursed abomination.  As fearsome as these beasts were not one Alban would take a backwards step even in the face of their most furious charge.  Where natural bravery and instilled discipline played a part, the Regiment’s grim-faced Commissars, sinister in their black leather greatcoats, enforced the Emperor’s Will without a flicker of emotion. 

Marko had seen just one summary execution in his 2 years serving with the regiment; on Arbreth V Sergeant Veychek’s nerve had broken in the face of a tyranid attack led by a hideous carnifex.  His order to retreat had scarcely left his lips when Commissar Maynev had roared “Stand fast!”, levelled his bolt pistol at poor old Veychek and blasted most of the back of his head clean away.  The troopers knew there would be no retreat for the 24th Alban Rifles; it was victory or death pure and simple.  Castellan Krushchev and Lord Commissar Sykev would accept no less.

“First rank – FIRE!” Stand, aim, squeeze, crouch, repeat.  Life had boiled down to a simple rhythm for Marko, almost comforting in the removal of independent thought and personal expression.  He was a component of a well-oiled machine, a tiny moving part in the great warmachine that was the Imperial Guard.  A heavy stubber exploded the chests of the 2 Guardsmen to his left.  Marko was broken from his reverie, the blood spraying across his face a painful reminder that whilst part of a great machine he was in fact a very soft, fleshy cog and distinctly vulnerable to solid ammunition.  The twisted remains of Niki and Dimitri were dragged clear and their spaces were filled from the rear ranks.  Two new sets of boots stepped into the gore, a new shoulder for Marko to butt up against as Lieutenant Ibramanov roared him into motion once more.

Three straight hours of disciplined, orchestrated fire had finally stymied the Ork attack and they had fallen back across the cleared killing ground taking shelter in the eves of the forest.  “Off to barbecue their dead” quipped Pauli.  “Bet it still tastes better than this muck” observed Erik.  Second Platoon had been relieved and found themselves quartered in what appeared to be an enormous shed.  The abandoned mining equipment scattered across the cavernous building and the thick film of gritty dust covering everything spoke of the compound’s previous life as an adamantium mine.  The field rations the squad were joylessly spooning into their mouths were specially developed to sustain Guardsmen in inhospitable conditions where there was no opportunity for a field kitchen.  While the meals contained all the essential nutrients required to keep a man fighting the designers obviously had been unable to incorporate actual flavour.

As the rest of First Squad chuckled humourlessly Marko couldn’t help thinking Erik was just crazy enough to try barbecuing an Ork.  The Albans’ ability to endure extreme conditions meant they were routinely assigned to inhospitable environments.  While they barely noticed the cold the subject of food reared its head on every campaign.  Collectively they had chewed through innumerable cans of field rations but whenever the opportunity arose Erik would attempt to alleviate their monotonous diet with whatever he could find to hand.  In fairness to Erik, he was a hell of a cook and had provided some surprisingly palatable meals from seemingly meagre supplies although context probably leant his creations a savour they did not truly contain.  However Erik had damn near killed two whole squadrons on Melchior Major when he had taken it into his head to stir fry the remains of a hormagaunt.  Whether it was the flesh of the monster or the remnants of the plasma charge that had killed it that poisoned the men was academic.  Erik had come within a hair of joining the penal units, only his service record saving him.

“Any idea why this pile of junk and dust is worth saving anyway?”  wondered Pauli aloud “I mean the last of the miners and their ore were evacced, what? Four days ago?  There’s nothing left here, why not just dust off and let those bloody green lunatics have the place?  Or better still virus bomb the bastards from orbit!”  Pauli’s evil leer spread across his grimy face seemed truly devilish in the half-light of the small hal-lamps.

“Maybe they plan on coming back so they can mine the place some more.  Maybe the poor souls that left call this hole home.  Maybe we’re supposed to stop these Orks right here so they don’t spread any farther.” Said Sal, sitting up. 

“Or maybe we’re just cheaper than frackin virus bombs!” replied Pauli viciously.

“Pauli shut yer mouth. Now!” Sergeant Malinov barked. “We’re guardsmen. We do as ordered and we keep doing it until someone orders us to stop.  That’s all you need to know.”

“Easy Sarge, all I’m saying’s that’d be nice to know why we’re stuck in a broke down old mining compound facing off against thousands of bleeding Orks when there’s nothing here worth fighting for!”

"You're not paid to think Pauli, you know that.  When they make you General you can think all you want but until then do as you're told and give my ears some rest. Right?"

"Aye Sarge."

The last of the meal was scraped up in comparative silence.  Marko cleaned his gear fastidiously, stowed it in his pack and then slumped against a small dusty pile of debris intent on getting as much rest as possible before their watch in four hours time.  He knew Malinov was right - in the Guard you did as you were told, marched where you were told, fought where you were told and damn sure died where you were told.  They had taken hills on distant planets, fighting and dying every step of the way, watching comrades and friends fall only to reach the top and be told they were falling back or pulling out altogether.  They had fought lengthy seiges to take towns they had then demolished and abandoned.  They had been through beach-heads and street fights on more than half a dozen worlds but they seldom knew why they were there or what was so important about this factorium, that hill top.  The best they had ever had to look forward to was a comfortable bed, a hot shower and a decent meal.  They all knew they would never return to Alba. Their path led to one of only two destinations: they would either die in the Emperor's service or, if they were incredibly lucky, be granted residence and retirement on a planet at the end of a conflict when they were too old to be of any more use.  Every Guardsman in the Galaxy knew their fate and only a scarce few ever saw retirement.

"Hey Marko. You awake?"

"No Sal, I'm asleep.  Hear me snore..."

Sal's soft sputtering laughter was enough to rouse a sense of guilt in Marko. "What's up buddy?"

"I was thinking about what Pauli was saying you know? About the virus bombs.  Do you think we're really cheaper than virus bombs?  Is that the only reason they send to us into these horrible places?  I mean I know we're only Guards and all but surely we're worth more than some bombs Marko. Surely.  I mean Niki and Dimitri died today and no-one even seems to notice. "

"Ssh Sal, ssh.  You can't worry about these things mate.  Just keep your gear right, listen to the Sarge and stick with the lads.  Anything else just has to take care of itself.  We look after ourselves and each other.  Let the brass worry about everything else and it'll all turn out fine, you'll see.  Now get some sleep, we're up soon enough."

"Do you know why we're here Marko?  In this compound I mean.  There doesn't seem any point to it.  There's nothing left here to protect"

"No mate, I've no idea.  I reckon the Orks are only here because we are.  They're bloody nuts.  But why are we here?  Damned if I know. Now, sleep."

"Marko?"

"Seriously Sal, enough mate..."

"Marko.  What's that noise?"

"What noi-? Oh holy frack! INCOMING!!!!"

The still night was fractured by the first detonations.  Enormous impacts shook the very earth.  The constant whine of the incoming super-heavy shells raked across raw nerves while the explosions soon battered the eardrums into a merciful tinnitus drone.  The air in Second Platoon's short-lived quarters was thick with dust as the world went mad.  Marko raised his head after the first few seconds and was quite astounded to discover he wasn't dead.  Slowly realisation filtered through that the shells were not falling on the Albans, they were falling outside the compound, on the Orks.  As the incredible fusillade of noise and death abated the stunned Guardsmen tottered outside into the compound.  The Albans were milling in confusion looking across the barren earth to the tree line where the Orks were encamped.  Had been encamped.  The scene was apocalyptic.  The short but furious bombardment had reduced a large camp of many thousands of Orks to a twisted hell of fire and broken trees in less than three minutes.  Marko saw Orks ablaze, running blindly, igniting their fellows.  Secondary explosions echoed across to the Albans as vehicles, weapons and arms caches ignited and added to the burning hell.

"Albans!  Form up!"  The order was simple: charge the Orks, leave none alive.

Second platoon were ordered to the right flank of the advance.  As the squads moved towards the remains of the Ork camp they halted every fifty metres, unleashing a furious salvo of las-rifle fire into the burning mess.  The Company's black-clad Commissar's roared encouragement extolling the Emperor's virtues and condemning the abominations of the xenos.  They demanded nothing short of utter devotion to the Imperial cause and the enemy's annihilation.  As for the Orks, they were a confused mob, whatever passed for their command structure appeared to have completely broken down amidst the confusion of the brutal bombardment.  Their defences were in chaos, their squads dispersed and the majority of their warmachines in ruins.  But they had lost none of their appetite for a fight.  As the Albans advanced those Orks who saw them coming suddenly found an outlet for their frustration and anger.  They were in no condition to organise anything as orchestrated as a counter-charge but they were still hell-bent on tearing the heads from as many Guardsmen as they could get at.

First Squad followed Sergeant Malinov, running into that hell of fire and death with a roared battlecry "ALBA!!!" They fired as they ran, staying close, covering their angles and supporting their comrades, months and years of hard training paying off amidst the burning madness.  The air swarmed with las-bolts and stubber rounds.  As the distance closed to the Ork lines they paused, dropping low and launched a rain of krak grenades into the nearest band of greenskins.  As the grenades detonated, the Albans charged into the Orks' midst, rifles barking tearing the foul abominations to shreds.  Marko, covering Malinov's right shoulder, saw one of the beasts barrelling out of the swirling smoke, levelled his rifle and destroyed the monster's lower jaw.  The Ork stopped, looking bewildered, one hand moving to its tattered face.  Three more rifle blasts to the chest put it on its back for good.  Commissar Maynev screamed "Move on! Move on!  For the glory of the Emperor! Slaughter the greenskins. No mercy, no mercy!"

The Alban's had been fighting the greenskins for too long to be lured into facing them hand-to-hand in single combat, the huge brutes were far too strong and savage to be faced alone.  Instead they held closely together engaging the nearest group with a withering blast of short range las-fire and only charging in to finish them off with bayonets.  Finally the Orks realised it was no longer a fight but a slaughter and their nerve gave.  What was a vicious close-quarters fire fight instantly became a turkey shoot as the Orks broke and ran, fleeing from the Guardsmen into comparative safety of the forest.  The Albans gave chase, mercilessly cutting the fleeing Orks down, payback for the friends and comrades lost in the last two weeks of fighting.

Finally Sergeant Malinov ordered his squad to a halt.  Concerned the line was being stretched too thin he ordered the men to hold their ground and regroup.  The troopers took the opportunity to catch their breath or slurp loudly from their canteens, clearing the acrid smoke of battle from their parched throats.  Slowly a roar spread through the Regiment, squad by squad, until they were all chanting at the top of their lungs "ALBA! ALBA! ALBA!"  The traditional battle cry brought a smile to Marko's face, coupled with the relief of having survived the charge.  The first light of dawn was visible through the tree tops as he looked around at his squad; Sergeant Malinov had recovered his breath sufficiently to light a nic-stick and was drawing heavily on it at the foot of a tree.  Erik was on the other side of the same tree urinating loudly.  Pauli stumbled into view holding what looked like a tin bucket with horns stuck to it, collecting yet more memorabilia.  "Nice helmet this.  God bless those ladies in the Imperial Navy! I reckon that bombardment just about saved our skins.  Would have been nice to get a bit of a warning though, I reckon I'll probably have to change me drawers when we get back!"

"Here, where's Sal?" There were only seven of them standing in the small clearing.  "Oh Light, where's Sal?"  Quickly the squad backtracked through the trees, retracing their steps through the carnage.  Fifty metres back, they came across the bodies of the last three Orks they had dispatched.  They spotted Sal's regulation issue boots sticking out from beneath one of the bodies.  It was no mean feat to pull the Ork's corpse clear; the stench alone was enough to make them gag as its entrails spilled onto the forest floor.  Sal lay very still, a large pool of dark blood spread across his skinny chest. "MEDIC! MEDIC!" screamed Marko. "Oh Throne, come on Sal.  You were supposed to stick with us!" Sal's eyes flickered briefly open, barely able to focus on Marko, his face deathly pale. "Marko? Marko, I can't breath....it hurts!"  "Easy mate, easy.  The medic's coming, they'll be here soon.  They'll sort you out mate, you'll be fine." Tears pooled in Sal's eyes, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps "Marko, I don't want to die."  Marko's own eyes filled up "You won't die Sal, the medic's coming.  He'll be he-"

"Oh Emperor's bloody piles!!" shouted Pauli.  He planted a hand firmly on Marko's shoulder and unceremoniously pitched him onto his arse in the dirt. "Enough of this crud."  He reached down, grabbed the front of Sal's blood-drenched tunic and ripped it open.  "That's the frackin Ork's blood you frackin half-wit.  There's not a mark on you!!  Now for frack's sake dry yer eyes and stop bawling.  It's bloody embarrassing."

In fact the Ork had broken a couple of Sal's ribs when he landed on him and he'd been knocked cold when he hit the ground.  The medic had him quickly patched up and dumped into a Chimera transport for med-evac back to the field hospital.  The rest of First Squad rejoined the remainder of Second Platoon and trudged back to the compound to regroup.  Losses had been mercifully light, the Imperial Navy's bombardment had done most of the damage and left very few of the Orks to put up a real fight.  However the weeks of fighting had the entire Regiment reduced to approximately 70% of its fighting strength.  The initial engagements had been fiercely fought but the withdrawal and eventual siege at the Adamantium mine had taken the real toll.

"Hey, Sarge!"

"Dear Lord....Yes Pauli?"

"What the hell is this place called anyway?"

"....damned if I know Pauli."