"Second rank, fire! First rank, reload!" Christy shouted. The air at the tip of every lasgun was superheated in a split second; a clap of noise and the flash of the gun were incredible. As a rank fired, every detail within ten metres looked like daylight again.
Grey watched the pounding of the heavy weapons and the stabbing of the lasgun fire but he knew it was only a matter of time before the wave of Genestealers would break through.
Grey pulled his long curved blade out, "Oh god, sir!" The Major remarked,
"What’s that Mr Bejor?"
"Just that I have never been in combat you see, sir."
"Well Mr Bejor," Grey spoke whilst his eyes were fixed on the barbed wire line, "May I recommend you just fire your pistol at close range?"
"Yes, yes, good idea sir, very wise."
Grey took one step forwards and squeezed the handle of his weapon. As soon as they cross the wire, he thought: "Any second now…" he whispered so only he could hear. "Any second…" he willed the suspense to end.
Then without an order being shouted or an officer running ahead; just out of drilled training, with no hesitation, the hundred and first ran past Grey’s view. Every one of them had fixed bayonets and charged. Grey could not believe it, combat was usually a defensive option or because an officer had ordered the assault to slow the enemy. But to meet the enemy like that…
Grey was so full of respect he started running towards the combat. He hopped over the wire and stumbled down the embankment, only just keeping himself upright. The Hundred and first’s fighting at the bottom of the hill was as organised as the firing drills at the top.
Most combats Grey had been involved in were brawls of improvised weapons: brute strength and swinging blades. These were lines of men, locked together, protecting each other with defensive swings, and stabbing the enemy with thrusting jabs.
As the line broke under the weight of the onslaught Grey had his opportunity to get into the fighting. As he was about to step into the gap, a stealer poked its elongated head through; its mouth was open displaying its sharp teeth, one of its claws slashed forward across Greys face. Grey swung his arms up and cleaved straight across its neck, causing gushing blood from the orifice. The claw had caught Greys left eye, and blood poured into his right. He whipped it away as best as he could and continued into the combat, slashing and lunging into any Stealer he could find.
The blood continued to poor into his one good eye and he started stumbling on the bodies he could not see underfoot. His right heel hit a wet piece of flesh and Grey went down. On his back his right eye socket acted like an inkwell and filled straight up with blood. Totally blind now, he lay there waiting for a stealer to notice him.
Grey could feel himself moving backwards, dragged across the floor and left sitting against the slope "Medic!" Grey could hear the lisp in his rescuers voice; it was almost certainly one of the mutants. As a medic started wiping the blood away Grey could see his rescuer in his red uniform charging back into the combat.
"They put me to shame." Grey gargled to the medic as blood fell down the back of his neck.
"What's that sir?" the medic replied in order to keep him talking.
"In comparison to that mutant regiment," Grey started to go limp, " I looked like a brawling Ork!" and fell unconscious.
=
Commissar Grey awoke. It was all kind of hazy for him; the only memory was the pain of the hot metal pressed into his left eye socket to stem the bleeding. He opened his right eye and could see perfectly. He looked up at the billowing white tent material moving and swaying in the light breeze. His face screwed up. He could smell something in the air, something disgusting, "Smells like burning hair!" he said to himself out loud.
Grey tensed his back muscles and then forced his torso upright, "I'm in my tent. So I must be fit for duty."
He pulled the bed sheet off and flung it onto the floor. He quickly observed that he was still in last night’s clothing. "Oh, my new shirt’s ruined…" he noted as he looked at the blood-soaked ruffles of the shirt that had only been worn once.
He slid his legs out sideways and stepped onto the rug: "Where are my boots?" he asked himself, "Oh, there." he replied to himself as he spotted them at the foot of the bed. He pulled his shirt off and his boots on and moved to a large ammo case in the corner with the words 'Explosive Ordnance' written on the side. His hand fiddled with the latch and then he pulled the lid upwards.
Inside were some books; an antique shotgun; spare boots; personal ammo (not that there was such a thing); and a pile of (somewhat) fresh clothing. He grabbed a plain white shirt and pulled it on. The rest he decided could stay on him. He grabbed his weapons belt and put it on. He drew the bolt pistol and checked the clip had ammo in, "Spot on." he said as he realised he hadn't even fired a shot. He drew his blade "Oh, someone has cleaned it, good." and he slid it back in.
He did not feel worried about his eye. Odd really, he thought, I've had it so long and yet I don't feel upset it's missing! After all the years it has served him well. He knew he would get a bionic eye and it would make him look more battle-hardened.
It was bright outside. Grey could see two of Bejor’s guardsmen cooking breakfast but the smell was not Boar bacon and Sandsnake eggs. It was just that burning hair smell.
"Morning, Comrade Commissar!" Captain Peal called from over the centre command position. Commissar Grey just held his hand up as a gesture, he felt too groggy for pleasantries. He moved towards the smell and could see some of the red-coated Mutant guardsmen dragging the dead bodies of the enemy and some of there own onto a bonfire.
He could see Captain Christy organising the body disposal. "This is the thanks they get is it?" Grey hissed under his breath, "They did all the fighting and now here they are, doing the hum and drum."
Grey made his way down the embankment over to the men, "Captain!" Grey called "Nice morning is it not?"
"Yes it is, Comrade Commissar." Christy saluted, "Fine day."
"Has Bejor ordered you out here?"
"Yes Sir, he has."
"Ummm!" Grey mused to himself "Sit, Captain?" He pointed at the slope.
Grey slumped against the sandy ledge still feeling warn down from his recovery. Christy sat opposite on a large bolder. He pushed his left hand into his red jacket and pulled out a small hip flask and held the flask towards his commissar.
"I really shouldn't…" Grey insisted "but I will." he went to grab it and noticed Christy's hand appeared to be slightly webbed, he paused for a split second as he basically thought ‘Oh his hands disgusting, I don't want to drink that’ but Grey refused this thought and grabbed the flask and took a swig.
Grey started breathing in quickly in order to get cool air into his burning mouth, his tongue tingled, "What the throne is that?" he said in a very croaky voice.
"Wild Snake Cider, sir, it’s made from snake skin, fermented sand buries and a bit of the snake’s Venom" Christy took a sip and placed it back into his jacket
"No wonder you’re all so Blood Angel Brave!" Christy smiled at the compliment, "No seriously though, to bring the fight to the enemy in such close order drills. I'm very impressed. Oh, I must thank whoever dragged me out."
“It's okay, sir." Christy stood up.
"No really," Grey did the same "I must!"
"It was I, sir. When I saw you join our fight, I thought I'd keep an eye on you"
"You thought I'd end up in trouble you mean?” Grey spersoned. “Thank you, Captain."
"Sir?" The way Christy said the word made it seem like it was a question.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Why do you come out here? I mean, if you don't mind me asking? Why do I see you come out here and then return?"
"I don't really know," Grey shrugged. "I suppose it's my way of escape from this outpost. When I'm here, I'm not trapped, I'm free for a second; free from my orders, my commands, my rank, my responsibilities. Silly, really."
"No sir, I understand."
"Yes Captain, I suppose you probably do."
Grey started his way back up the hill, thinking about what he had just said. He also thought about what he was trying to escape from. Yet compared to Christy's list, the rejection, and the remarks the constant disproval, his problems seemed so small and insignificant.
=
Grey stood on the crest of the outpost with the rest of the command staff. The larger sun was directly above them and the secondary sun just setting.
Grey watched the enemy scrabbling their way over sandy the plains. The wind was strong and kicking up large sweeps of sand around the four hundred strong attackers. This was not a test of defences or a night raid. This was an organised mob.
"Ok men!" Captain Peal shouted at the top of his lungs "I fought Orks at Steel Rift Ridge," he joined the commissar at the top "an almost hopeless battle. But we did succeed!" he held his sword in the air, "My platoon was ambushed by Kroot on Kayman IV, outnumbered two to one but we did succeed!" his voice became even louder, "I was at the famous battle of Kape Luck against Kroot, outnumbered three to one, but we did succeed!" he paused "We will stand united, regardless of numbers and we shall succeed!" he grabbed the Imperial standard and waved it in the air as the guardsmen whistled and shouted.
Grey was wearing his black trench coat. His peaked cap was still missing from the night raid and instead to help instil fear in his own men, as well as the enemy, he had a rather imposing black eye patch. His bolt pistol had an extra large clip in it, meaning it no longer fitted in the holster so was on a strap over his shoulder. His curved power blade was still in his belt; instead he had his old shotgun resting on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Mr Peal" Grey rested his hand on Peal’s shoulder. "You give orders to the left flank, infantry please." Peal nodded and made his way to the flank.
With Peal on the left and Christy on the right, they might just stand a chance.
"Sir, That weapon does not befit an officer, Comrade Commissar. What is it, sir?" Bejor tried his best to critique him.
"It's a hand-reloading rifle. That takes shotgun ammo Mr Bejor, or a pump-action shotgun, I didn’t know you were a Priest of Mars, Major?"
"It's just a little crude don't you think sir? It hardly sets a good example"
"It's good at close range, good against un-armoured targets and it does not jam like the automatic shotgun, it is ideal, Mr Bejor."
"I have a bad feeling about this" Major Bejor whispered towards Grey. He seemed to Grey to be trying to change the argument he was losing, as if whispering automatically gave amenity.
"Major, I refuse to try and get the best from you, as I do not recognise that you have any skills worth utilising. Keep your mouth closed and stand still no matter what." Grey said in a stern but calm tone.
Bejor looked genuinely upset, "Yes, Comrade Commissar." he replied, whilst looking down at the floor.
With a platoon to each flank and a third platoon spread out behind the heavy weapon line across the front of the stronghold. All was as well as it could be.
After twenty minutes the heavy outgoing fire began.
"Commissar. Should we not step the infantry in front of the heavy teams?" Bejor asked, but he received no reply.
The ranks of lasgun fire began to join it. It was going well however, at this position Grey could not see the defilade at the bottom of the ridge.
"Red four with me" Grey called to a unit as he moved towards the ridge. The unit started giving sporadic fire at the cultists at the bottom of the ridge. The cultists held their hands up as they fell back down the hill, arms stretched out like beggars needing money.
"Commissar Grey!" Bejor called "Perhaps you should move away from the edge, Geanstealers will be here soon" but Grey ignored the suggestion "Commissar?"
Grey felt a hand grab his arm, he looked round and there was Bejor, "Please sir, let the infantry..." Bejor stopped talking and stared at the incoming enemy, the sharp teeth of the almost human hybrids, the purple tinged skin, the snarling grins and sharp claws. The blood drained from Bejor’s face. "Oh, throne…" he gulped "Oh throne!" he screamed.
"Mr Bejor," Grey pointed at him "Calm down, please."
"Oh Throne!" Bejor started running towards the rear of the camp, "Oh throne!"
Grey hoped Bejor would stop at the command post at the top of the hill, but he didn’t.
The men moved like rain, at first one drop, then a trickle of a few more, then quite a few and then it poured. That's what happened to the strong point.
As the ever growing crowed started moving towards the rear Grey knew an example must be given. Gun crews and infantry flocked behind Bejor leaving only a few behind; the Hundread and first didn’t even move. They just continued the firing drills.
Grey called to the Major as he tried to move his way to Bejor. But the Major continued to retreat, "Oh to hell with it!" Grey stopped and aimed his shotgun through the crowd towards the major. Grey squeezed the trigger; it caught a guardsman in the arm as he retreated into Grey’s path. Grey pulled the stock forwards, ejecting the empty cartridge onto the sandy ground and replacing in with a live one. Grey pulled the shotgun up to his chin and pushed himself in close to his weapon, it would be a long shot for the weapon. The second just caught Bejors left shoulder blade. The many tiny bits of mini exploding shot knocked the Major to the floor.
Bejor was dead when he hit the dusty ground. The other deserters continued to run. Grey knew that if the death of the Major did not do it nothing would, and they must be terminated until they rally.
Grey pulled the bolt pistol up sprayed the crowed of fleeing troops. Peppering them in mini-explosions. Instead of reloading he grabbed a discarded heavy bolter, span it round and started chopping down large groups of Guardsmen. Grey was furious and his rage had turned into a fury of bloodlust. He twisted the heavy weapon from left to right.
"Sir!" Grey felt a hand on his shoulder; he looked up and looked straight into Captain Peal’s eyes steering at him. He could see Peal was upset that his former comrades were being slaughtered by allied hands. "Please sir! We are low on ammunition!" Grey did not reply. He could see it in Peal’s eyes, Peal apologised that some of his regiments men had retreated.
"You are right Mr Peal." Grey eventually replied as he left the dug-in and retired to the top of the hill. As he walked he placed a second extra long clip into his bolt pistol.
Grey looked around him, from the command post at the top of the mound. The once full camp was almost empty; maybe a third of Bejor’s men had not fled. Grey looked over at the Hundred and First, not one had moved from their deployment.
"Third Squad, don't just stand there, get on those heavy weapons. You three as well!" Captain Christy shouted at some of his men as they instantly jumped into the abandoned heavy weapon positions and started giving fire.
Grey look into the distance, he could see more cultists, hybrids and Stealers crawling out of the mountains and crawling across the plains towards the position. He watched the mutants of the Hundred and First, all standing in rows, giving fire. One unit had left the hill and were in combat in a vain attempt to slow the advancing enemy.
Grey quickly estimated the enemy number to around 2,000 and his numbers of around 100. He also did some calculations in his head. Even if every shot killed one enemy, and each man in combat killed 5, they still would lose the battle.
"Sir what's that?" Captain peal asked. Grey just watched the unstoppable wave coming towards him, "Sir what is it?" Grey still didn't respond "Sir!"
Grey snapped out of his daydream "What's what, Mr Peal?"
"That humming sir, what is it?"
"Humming?" Grey listened carefully, trying to block out the gunfire, the screams of his men and the snarls of the approaching enemy. "You’re right, Mr Peal!" Grey couldn't hear the humming but could hear distant explosions.
Grey pulled his binoculars up to his eyes and looked out over the mountains, a small amount of little black dots were hovering above the mountains.
"Navy? Mr Peal, Navy! Get the radio!"
"Sir I believe Comm operator Karl is AWOL. We have a radio in the map tent." Peal informed him.
Grey looked over to Captain Christy, "Mr Christy! Grab a few heavy weapons and Draw back all units to the centre and form square around the command post!" Christ nodded.
Grey didn't look back as he started running towards the map and planning tent, but he knew Christy and Peal had it sorted. Grey pulled the cloth door back and ducked under it. He could see the radio but could feel a presence in the tent with him. Grey instantly calmed him self, he pulled his shotgun up and straightened his back. He breathed in slowly as he moved into the centre on the tent. Beads of sweat raced down his face. He could here scrabbling.
The table seamed to come alive next to him, as it lifted up, the contents on top fell to the ground. As the table pointed to the sky it began to fall backwards, the Genestealer leapt out from under it. Grey swung his shotgun round to meet his target but it was too close. Two of its four arms grabbed it as the other two started clawing at Greys chest.
One claw scraped almost harmlessly across some ammo clips, the other cut in deep. Grey pulled his booted foot up and heeled the stealer in the knee. The stealer steeped backwards one step, not enough to stop its attack or to trip it, but in the scuffle it loosened its grip. The shotgun came to rest at the Stealers face. The discharge destroyed the entire head of Grey’s assailant. Grey pulled the weapon back, reloading it and he began firing into any pieces of furniture that could hold a second advisory.
Grey dropped the now-empty shotgun and made his way to the radio.