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My Thermos Cup. By Lord Eraendal
+++ There is occasional swearing but limited to certain situations. The story also contains violence and occasional adult themes and references.+++
You may ignore this below nonsense and go on directly to the story.
A hopefully short story on the short life of a guardsmen that hopefully tells you about how they are treated.
Oh, I don't own anything gobbo or space marine or easily owned Necron* related.
*(Laughing madly)I laugh at your pitiful attempts to tarnish the great Imperium of Mankind with your weak...(Spaces marines get blasted by a few Gauss flayers) unbeliveably strong Gauss weaponry...(jumps in Rhino and makes a run for it before being sat on by a teleporting Monolith)
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It was my turn for observation now. Dammit. Stuck out in the freezing cold with nought but my vest and a failing thermos cup. Ah well. At least the thermos and the ale inside it saves my skin and the lives of the other 789 men who live with me. I stare around as I take a few steps into the biting cold and observe a guardsmen foolish enough to take of his glove and accidentally hold his lasgun. I wonder if he was one of the new recruits who haven't been informed of how dangerous it is to hold metal in this temperature. heh. Last time a recruit did that, the medicae had to cut the hand off. Poor guy. Which reminded me of the time wher-No...no time for that. I take my lasgun from my hurting shoulder and with months of continous trench lookouts, I expertly swing it into my firing hole and begin my hard time outside. Well..its not that bad really. I mean it is nice to get some nice air (if you can call freezing air, fresh) instead of hauling your weight around fixing the cavalry. And it's a good opportunity to have a nice chat with the other guardsmen before a sergeant shouts at you to get back to duty. But then again I already miss the comforting warmth (if you call 5 degrees above freezing point warm) of my bunker.
Yeah.. You get the point. Cimerre's damn cold. The briefing I got about Cimerre was something about a warpstorm flinging this icy ball from it's sun and depositing it in dead, cold space.
So anyway, now begins my shift.
It's beautiful in a sense.. sort of eerily beautiful.. like the people here. The gentle pale slopes with the snow and all.. really gives you a type of calm. And everything's so white. It's like the Inquisition decided to Exterminatus the planet but ran out of bombs and used bleach instead. But with everything, once you get used to it, it's just one more place where you might die.. The landscape I am guarding over is distracted by a small jet streaking rather dangerously low above my head and roars down and begins its descent towards a landing point... It's a Valkyrie bearing the insignia of the Imperial Guard.
Four things could happen now.
The Valkyrie could be full of nice dehydrated food or supplies or reinforcements or Emperor forbid... commandeered by a lot of bloody traitors looking for a death or glory charge deep behind enemy lines.
Traitors.. the very bloody reason why Imperial Command decided a few divisions of men...me included will be stuck in some barren wasteland for the next few months. My attention shifts back into this reality and I look at what in the name of the Emperor might be unloaded from this Valkyrie.
Well... It was actually a mixture of the first three options. A few crates there and there and a mumbling lot of conscripts. Ok. Not that bad. The sergeant who just told me off for drinking from my thermos and not looking out for traitors now heads towards the group of conscripts. I try to feel sorry for those conscripts because the sergeant coming towards them was never really nice. My thoughts are comfirmed as a conscript falls down.. and then over the barricades.. and then cliff.. after being talked to by the sergeant. Poor man. He still stood up after the fall though, and saluted back to the sergeant with a perfect parade salute. Good man.
A bell resonates clearly through the frost-bitten air...meaning my shifts over. At last. I hook my lasgun back on my webbing and begin the short trudge back to my relatively warm bunker. It takes a few tries for the frozen door to open but once it is I jump over to the wonderfully warm bed I know will be waiting for me.. so wonderfully warm.. the coarse but warm and all blanket.. the fluffy pillow...
A few stunned faces look at the ruined cardhouse under me and then at me and then I tell them to kiss Kroot arse. That was bloody MY bed and damn them to the warp if they tried to build a cardhouse on it ever again. One of them, a lance by the name of Kakarot tells me in nice words that I might have just killed off the careful work of three or so hours. I reply with a shrug and was going to tell them to go see if they could peep up some Sisters instead of building some cardhouse but his arms suddenly had me in a deadlock, much to the amusement of the rest of the section.
'Might not be wise to flatten our cardhouse.. cause next time, I'm gonna dangle you bare infront of the sisters. Y'hear me?'
'You'd just wish it was me dangling you infront of them Sisters. Cause you'd be pretty desperate by now.. what with lil' Syveran being posted off to-'
Kakarot sighed and dropped me on the cold plasteel floor. 'yeah.. true.. Throne damn you. How I miss her. Maybe I will go to the Sister's dorms.. and have a bit of fun.'
The section chuckles and returns to their normal activities. The last recruit to have joined this section got flashed naked in front of the Sisters and unfortunately, when some hard commissar and his buddy Inquisitor was just visiting. I don't really know what happened to the poor recruit but Gyran, a penitent gone good, told me he had seen one of those poor arco-flagellants that looked a helluva lot like the recruit. I lean back and brush off most of the cards before unscrewing the lid to my flask. The flask itself cost more than me, being made of silver slag that came from some friggin melted-down Ecclesiarchy relic. Could've been just me but the Emperor blessed anything that went in the flask and made it as twice as strong when it came out.
+++
Section Two, mine section of which proudly stood in Platoon Two, stood at extreme attention when the Lord Castellan coordinating the attempt to take back the continent went to visit us and 'boost'.. and I say boost in those funny things.. our morale.
The Castellan himself was a decent man or so the rumors I heard have said. Decent as in the Lord didn't have the sense to send off us in some futile attempt to take back the Hive Polaris..firmly under traitor control or reach the PDF outpost. Which was damn smart of him to do so, since a crack regiment of Armoured Fist troops had gone there and never came back. Rumors were that an Inquisitor had disappeared along with them as well. So.. if one of those stuck-up holy bastards couldn't defeat whatever was in the outpost... then I couldn't eithe-
'Guardsmen!!!!'. Castellan had a large voice. 'Those of the Emperor..! Chosen as His Guardians of His Flock..! Humble yet invincible in your proud numbers..!!!'
That last bit was true. We were deadmeat individually but when a few thousand lasbeams were being aimed at something, even those Emperor-damned Traitor Astartes usually ran. And so the speech went on for a few minutes before old man Chips took the stage. Old was an understatement. Colonel Chips was atleast two to three hundred bloody years old and the legend surrounding our company had the old man lording it over one of the Astartes during a drinking match because of his age. Throne bless him.
His voice was more softer but in a fatherly sort of way and helped reassure the cowards in our battalion. Like my Corporal Rilling. Coward.
'May the Emperor bless our Lord Castellan!'
You knew when Chips was saying crap. I can swear infront of the Holy Emperor that Chips didn't mean that.
'Battalion twenty..fifth!! Attention !.. Battalion!!.. At ease. Captains and their HQ are to report to the fifth level, area ten. Sergeants, platoon HQ's take your platoon's box and spread the equipment throughout your platoon. Section commanders take note of the manual and make sure every last man..', Chips glanced at the Medicae detachment, 'and woman knows how to operate the gear.'
'Of note, the battalion will assemble here at attention at 0700 hours day after tommorow and deploy at 0800. Weapons and gear familiarization schedules will be handed out to your sergeants, sergeants, I repeat, make sure every last soldier here collects their issue! ... battalion! attention! ..'
Seven hundred and eighty-eight people stood to attention.
'Dismissed!!'
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The precious shotgun I was holding in my hands was something akin to one of the Medicae girls. It looked so damn nice that it was a poor shame to bring it out into the field. Even the shotgun shells were individually engraved with small litanies like, 'Only in Death does Duty end' or 'Courtesy of the Emperor'. Of course, these were friggin officer-issue only and I reluctantly passed it back to a lieutenant from Six Company. Section commanders though, which meant Rilling, received new-issue flamer-pistol things that were supposed to work in the sub-zero temperature. Gyran, although officially a penitent who had been forgiven and blessed by the Emperor, had one hand on a damn fine Stormtrooper-issue hellgun and his other , moving, hand on a medicae's chest who apparently liked him enough to steal a hellgun from the stormtrooper quarters. Everyone else was issued coarse greatcoats that were decently warm and a bucket of white paint per platoon to paint over any bits without the snow camo.
After a few mishaps involving Rilling's new flamer-pistol and the shockingly flammable white paint, 2nd Platoon and our section was set and ready.
+++
0700 The next, next day of which I can't be bothered finding the 41st millenium equivalent to the 21st century word, 'Tuesday'.
'Guardsmen!!'
'you have assembled here for briefing for a strategic venture into possible hostile territory. As you know, we have received reinforcements a couple of days ago and IG command and intel suggests we conduct another strike at the rebel-held city. As you know, that city has been a damned thing in the upcoming campaign to take the west continent back...' the Lord Castellan paused, took a sip from his not so banged up thermos and continued, 'IG and the remnants of the PDF have searched through holofiles and they've found out about the mass storage of foodstuff and other material that will help us and fill your damn stomachs up. Ok, usually the strike at this city would involve a standard siege with Imperial artillery regiments, but the damn tank corps and...the artillery are stuck in the big mudflats south of here so you'll have to slug it out on foot and take the city yourself. Companies two, three and four will be riding to the city via a contingent of Chimaera's... those companies will deploy from the Chim's as shock troops. All other companies with exception of five will lead in once contact has been established. Company Six will drop in by air as neccessary.... I will personally lead Company One and a small detachment of honoured Black Templars into the heart of the hive by Astartes Thunderhawks..'
The Castellan waited for a silent show of respect and, more respect at himself leading the Astartes into the hive but the battalion kept it's time-honoured traditions of making any newcomer feel bad. Accordingly, no-one 'ooohhed' or 'aaahed' at the Lord's statement and amazingly, a shockingly mohawked sergeant actually coughed. Mr Castellan paused at the lack of respect for his command over Space Marines and probably made a mental note to ditch our regiment into some penitent crusade. Oh well.
'At 0800 hours we will deploy into formations, Lance Anphelion pattern, into possible hostile territory. Safety for the operation is.. two..two..three..seven..four. Orbital-based Imperial Strategos and Command have pointed to Hive Darceus which if taken will provide a staging point for further attacks on the mainland-'
I had thought the Castellan to be a decent man but I'm not sure if I can control the urge to put a round through his head.
'as well as provide transfer points through the dock facilities located in the hive.'
Or control the urge to unleash those small Ork xenoforms on the man's groin.
Hive Darceus? Emperor damn the bloody Castellan for making us slog it out at Darceus. The one hive which happens to be fortified with thick, adamantine walls that normal guardsmen just can't get through. Why not Hive Eneyn like everyone thought? Why on the Golden Throne would we attack Darceus?
'Warriors of the Emperor! Faith is our shield! Vengeance our sword!'
Damn, his voice was loud. Should scream loudly then, when he dies.
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It all starts of rather well with Sidney stumbling a few times and pissing his pants (piss freezes) but after we get off to a nice rythmn and start marching towards Hill 2 everything is as smooth as a well-oiled and well-Mechanicus cared for cogitator.
After a few forced hours of marching through the muddy snow, the bright twin moons have risen to their peak and cast a soft glow to the surroundings. The bits of snow that still drift now drift slowly and I will admit, quite nicely. As I think of it, it's a friggin pity that a place like this could be infected by Chaos filth. It really is. Corporal Rilling pauses the section and we immediately freeze in our positions. We've been endlessly shouted at by Imperial Command that it's better to freeze to death, and not let the enemy see you, than not freeze and let the enemy find your position. So we freeze.
Out in the soft gloom of the outside, it's hard to see anything directly but movement is the one thing that's easy to pick up in the moonlight. And even Rilling can see the silhouettes of about ten or so things advancing slowly towards us.
Immediately, the section checks and shoulders their lasguns with the exception of Gyran who shouldered a neat hellgun with mag-scope and Rilling who raised his little flamer thing. We then silently move into whatever cover we can find. Sidney, the section vox, lightly taps the mic of his vox-caster three times thus sending the pre-arranged contact signal. Then surprisingly, we see the ten shadows that have been walking towards us slow down and see one person take off his helmet. A mohawk, hiding behind the helmet, springs up and we know then that the shadows in the distance was the sergeant who coughed during the Castellan's speech.
It was a close encounter of sorts and the section generally gets pissed at Rilling. Sidney gets pissed as well and has to talk very silently into the vox to cancel the contact signal. There was every chance that we could've been attacked by our own men or even worse, get an orbital strike ordered on our position. That would've been bad.
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After Rilling gets appropriately punished by company command for the inept contact signal, we set off once more. The ground gets more marshier and soft and most of us now make squelching noises as we pull our boots from the mud all around us. It's horrible, it is.
A vox command from battalion HQ comes in. Our platoon was to meet up with the Chimaera's now waiting in the land across the mudflats. The rest of our company as well as companies three and four would do the same. It was a three or four kilometre trudge to the thing but it'd take longer due to the damn mud everywhere. So our section keeps on walking on for fear that they might miss the comparatively warm insides of the Chimaera and a comfortable ride to the hive.
We've nearly reached the ends of the mudflats and have come across some old trenches from some long-forgotten attempt to take back Hive Darceus. The section sees a few remains there and there and we even see a Leman Russ which is damn near in perfect working order... apart from it being stuck halfway in mud. I wish that we don't get some order to pull the thing out and salvage it because hell, I'm not even sure one of those Astartes can. The section advances more slowly though.. and Gyran holds his hellgun close to his body. Rilling holds his flamer-pistol tight in some firing position and I know he's gonna crack because there's bits of frozen sweat everywhere on him. The mud is pure chaos.. and I'm slowly sinking into the stuff. There'll be more casualties from walking in this Emperor-damned s**t than attacking every hive on every planet there will..
Corporal Rilling stops again and motions at a nearby Leman Russ. The things been battered by millions of Earthshaker shells or something but it still provides good cover and Rilling again points at the tank and signals that contact with the enemy has been made. Our section doesn't believe him but the tension being built up is too much.
The section sinks into a less conspicious position. The soft ambience of the moons has dimmed and it's oddly silent. But whatever light is left is enough for us to see a few ominous shadows around the tank. Sidney points out slowly at the mud along a small hill of mud and Ervin fits on his scope, scavenged from a burnt out Chimaera while Gyran takes out a stolen rangefinder and sets a timer on a (stolen) mass-explosive grenade he's brought along. Rilling nods with as much authority as he can at Sidney and Sidney, sighing, taps the mic three times.
After a few moments of pure silence, Gyran whispers something into Ervins ear and they both nod their heads by a few fractions of a centimetre. They then both signal in unison to Rilling that the silhouettes trudging around the shell are probably patrol or reconnaissance groups sent out by the heretics. Rilling responds with a nod and a silently mouthed curse.
Rilling and our section advances but before our boot's have even squelched once from the mud, a flaring burst of light from the tank... and then bolt explosions start throwing great pillars of mud up everywhere. s**t. All hell breaks loose as our section returns volleys of un-disciplined lasfire at the tank while bolt shells and some type of autogun round starts splashing into the mud around us. Then a great bang as Gyran's grenade goes off just right behind the tank.
Silence settles and the section reloads while Gyran takes out another of those wonderful (again, stolen) grenades, just in cas-
Explosions start ringing in my ears and suddenly, the air's come alive with hails and hails of lasers burning the space above, beyond, to the left and to the right of me. It's hell. I stumble in the small craters left by the bolt shells and start taking more precise shots at the bursts of light near the tank. Snow, our newest recruit yet, is flinged from some explosion straight onto me while his left arm lands on my head a few seconds later. The blood coming from both detached limb and body starts streaming off onto me and desperately, I try to somehow stem the flow of blood while shooting off at the damn traitors. A field dressing has nearly gone across the main part of the torso when some crude cylinder rolls into the crater Snow and I have occupied. A millisecond passes before I jump out of the crater. A second passes and the explosive force from the cylinder makes my vision go red. The cylinder, grenade, has widened the crater by quite a bit and I lunge back in, after remembering Snow was in the crater as well. But Snow is no longer in there but in pieces, everywhere.
I rise up, with a feeling of hopelessness and a distant thought reminds me that I once thought riding in the inside of a Chimaera to the objective instead of walking through the mud would be the finest thing yet. A hell-round nearly singes my shoulderpad off to the shoulder itself and I see Gyran, laughing madly as he drags me up and then he launches himself at the incoming horde of traitors. His hellgun is firing madly and in his other hand, is the Rilling's flamer-pistol. Rilling must be dead then. Somehow, I dodge the rounds being sent at me and grab my lasgun of the floor just in time for me to drive the butt of the gun into the neck of some traitor. Angry is an understatement for what I'm feeling right now and I drive my knee into the traitor's groin before holding the barrel of my lasgun to his stomach and switching the mode to hot-shot and emptying the whole cell into his stomach.
An acrid stench of burnt flesh and stomach acid rises up and I throw up into the flailing traitor before stepping on him to dodge a bayonet sent at me from another b*****d traitor. His bayonet comes back at my head and it takes off a good deal of plasteel from my helmet. Flinching back, I try to evade the next blow but it slices clean through my flak vest. It becomes a flak jacket and for a moment, the loss of the vest infuriates me to a wild degree. A side of me I've never seen or talked to grabbed the bayonet with bare hands and plunges it into the traitors skull. I register the blood coming from my cut hands and stand still in shock. And then another wild, heavy explosion. And then smoke.
And then smoke... Not the thin clear smoke you get when lounging around and drinking too close to the Basilisks, but thick heavy smoke when the Basilisks jam and you have to help with clearing it up because you were the nearest person there. And when Basilisks jam...well they do a bloody good job of it as well. The smoke starts stinging at the cuts I have across my hands and I flail around like one of the traitors around me.
Kakarot runs past me but goes back and looks at me in utter confusion before tapping my head hard with his lasgun.
'..you a flamin' idiot?! Get on with it! Come on!'
And he pushes his lasgun into my hands and whips out a nasty-looking bayonet and autopistol for himself before pointing at an incoming traitor, frothing at the mouth and eyes filled with pain. I see something in those eyes and falter with the lasguns trigger nearly depressed. The traitor nearly has his clawed hands onto me but he yelps off like a mad dog. He falls and writhes in agony before looking up weakly and dying. The lasgun in my hand puts burning holes through his head and I don't lose any tears over that. Just one more who gave up the little hope that the Emperor gave and decided to trust in no-one but himself and the bloody chaos gods.
The lasgun's cell is still half-full and barely warm so I decide not to change cells as I try to chase after Kakarot, the mad idiot. He's thrashing about as three or four traitors try to insert knives into his many orifices but the lance-corporal is doing a bloody good job at dodging the blades and while I stand there, shooting at any traitor trying to stab something into me, he finishes off the four and limps back to me.
'Throne.. that should be the last of them...'
The smoke has cleared and a few spot-fires from Rilling's flamer-pistol has conveniently made a good fiery pyre for it's former owner and set the rest of the bodies, dead bodies, into unrecognizable ashes.
A lump of mud rises before the two of us and I've nearly put a las-round through the thing when I realise it's just Sidney with his vox-caster covered in mud. He must have fallen down and decided to stay there during the brief firefight. Bastardized coward. Ervin comes through with a smoking hellgun and a brace of autopistols I've never seen before dangles from his webbing. Everyone else, except for Snow and Rilling are alive and are quickly dusting away the blood-soaked mud and the memories of why the mud was soaked. The few comparatively new recruits, Ryson, Yalter and Mark have now gone through their first fight and are proper guardsmen now.
I stand up, reciting the Litany of Faith and thank the Emperor that most of us are alive. Yalter, his blonde hair now running with the horrible mud and his pale face so more pronounced by the dark gloom around us shudders and holds his lasgun tight as we march off through the pile of dead cultists to the waiting transports. Kakarot does notice him and he offers a few words and a lho-stick. Sidney jumps at the lho-stick but only receives a swift jab from Kakarot that smashes him into the ground. The new recruits and the old soldiers laugh at the failed attempt but the difference between the laughter is that the new recruits laughed at Sidney and the old soldiers knew Sidney didn't smoke at all. He only lunged at the lho-stick to make the recruits laugh and feel better. Kakarot pauses to help Sidney up from the mud and then as one, Section Two marchs on. Minus Corporal Rilling. But no-one really cared about the coward.
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We've nearly reached the edges of the mudflats when a passing Basilisk brings great joy to the section. For one, we've no energy to waste after the bloody fight and all we want is some piece and quiet, even if it means travelling on the Basilisk's barrel. Second, the driver of the artillery piece was nice enough to uncover a few bottles of pinepear whiskey originally intended to replace the shortage of medical alcohol. Fortunately, the whiskey was returned to its original use and was quickly consumed by the section and Basilisk crew that weren't driving. Third and perhaps more important to us than the dear whiskey, the Basilisk had gone over several anti-personnel mines that wouldn't done it no harm but would have reduced this section to a fine red mist. However, after the section and crew are singing merrily away into the day, we've generally agreed that the staying drunk is far more important than staying alive.
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Our section arrive at the operation's start point slightly drunk but our sergeant doesn't notice. Or chooses not to. In the end, I'd think it be nice to die drunk then realise you're dying which is why I think why the sergeant didn't say anything to us. Better to let us die happy and inebriated. He was a good sergeant.
The companies of battalion twenty-five were mostly assembled on a two-kilometre something slab of granite that had slowly worn down after the constant artillery barrages and fighting. There used to be a slick cover of ice on the granite, making it bloody slippery but the assembled mobile artillery and the warm or not so warm breath of a few hundred men has turned the ice into a slushy, knee-deep pool. And we stood there in the knee-deep, slowly freezing again water for a few minutes before we were given the glorious order of marching towards the hive. We march ahead, led by our Sergeant Markhor and behind him, Lance-corporal Kakarot. No one questions the absence of Rilling and that's just as well. While we march to the now looming Hive Darceus, the guardsman in our platoon recite or whisper their final prayers to themselves or their loved ones. I personally prefered not to since most of my family were glassed in a Tau version of the Exterminatus so I didn't have anything really to pray for. Being with the regiment, occasionally peeping at and then sometimes, just sometimes dating a Sister was enough.
I checked the lasgun in my hand out of boredom as the regiment marched the final ten kilometres to the hive and it was in proper working order. A techpriest might have mumbled ominously about the cold weather affecting the las-cell or the slightly contraband sketch of a Sister on the side but it didn't cause me any worry. Before we'd even reach the hive, statistics would make sure that someone would die and I'd be able to take their weapon if mine failed. Life as a guardsman just worked that way.
A few Thunderhawks zoom past us and magically appearing from camo netting, a group of Chimeras await us for our final push at Hive Darceus. Our platoon mounts up and by way of massive loudspeakers, the order is given to advance. And immediately, without warning, large explosions erupt from the hive as the telltale sound of a Earthshaker shell roars down on the advancing line of Chimeras. The whole section probably thinks that it's our own artillery firing at the wrong targets, having had supporting artillery on nearly everything other mission but we soon learn and scream as the one shell is followed by hundreds of Chimera shells slamming down upon the Chimeras. I take out my thermos cup and take a long draught from it before passing it around to keep the drunk stupor that the section so desperately needs to keep calm. They take the strong stuff down with abandon, and soon empty it to my annoyance. The thermos cup is back in my webbing when the Chimera our section is lurches to a sudden halt and with a red light filling the troop compartment, we bail with our guns at ready.
Which was friggin fortunate since all we can do is run with our lasguns, hellgun for Gyran and flamer for kakarot, shooting wildly as some type of wild beast tears the new recruit, Ryson up with two vicious fangs and then somehow swallows the poor recruit and his lasgun. The beast then lunges across at Kakarot and he dives out of the way while the line of Chimeras now break and stumble into one disorganized hash. The lance-corporal nearly gets run over by a spinning Chimera and rolls to the side to burn off what I take to be the nose of the beast. It whines in pain and jumps to the side to take another charge at that wily human. Then it discovers what made the spinning Chimera spin. And so do we. And we all scream, Guardsman and beast alike at the huge, mechanical monstrosity towering above us.
One of its distorted, claws smashes into a Chimera and it bursts into flames, flying into the beast. The beast obviously dies and the giant spider-like machine seems to grin at us with some giant tube for its m-
I hear Gyran yell something about being ambushed and see Kakarot pulling the recruits out of the mud before something horrible from the Empyrean swings his gauntleted hand out and impacts on the lance-corporal. He lands fifty metres away with a cracked face. The thing then comes towards the rest of the section with more, equally twisted comrades and the spider-machine thing then slowly walks with the thing.
Only one thought remains.
That it was going to kill m-
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What appears to be the end.
notes - Guardsman Second Class Hank Ghers was recorded as killed in action following the failed assault on Hive Darceus. Probes sent by the Inquisitorial detachment deployed in Cimerre found evidence of Chaos involvement and more specifically, the damned traitor space marine legions. He was also posthumously awarded the Crucis Sector Ribbon as an acknowledgement of his service in the Crucius Sector Crusade.
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