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This is my first short story. C&C more then welcome. I know my punctuation is probably way off but eh...be gental

Portrait of a Guardsman With Blood on His Hands

We only hold a quarter of the landing zone and already there are too many dead guardsmen to count. In one hellhole I see eight dead, legs and arms lying separate from their original owners. Their faces a frozen mask of the pain and violence they suffered. I continue my slow trudge through a mixture of mud and gore, with each step I can feel the sludge holding each foot as if pleading with me not go forward into the fate that lay ahead of me. As I make my way towards the front I pass a wounded guardsman, his face is sunken and pale. As my eyes meet his I realize the only light that’s left in them is from the reflection of his Lho-stick, I move on. I know I’m walking into a hell, a hell like no other, I know death is standing by. Yet I continue my trudge, gripping my Las a little tighter. I can hear the weapon fire in the distance calling to me like a lost friend, I find war is a fascinating thing no matter how much I fear it, it calls to me. As I approach I can now hear the screams of the dying and wounded. I see the steam rising from the trenches, smoke from burnt out pill boxes, flashes of las fire. I smell the discharge of magazines, piss and blood. It smells of death. Fear tries to reason with me to turn me around but, the excitement pulls me ever forward pulling me to a sprint towards the nearest trench. I brace my weapon setting my sites on the distant flashes across no-man’s land. Squeezing the cold trigger, feeling the slight recoil and hearing the hiss of las fire are all too re-assuring. To my left I hear a wet popping sound as if someone throwing an over ripe pumpkin on the ground. Warm sticky spray, speckle my neck and cheek as a lifeless guardsman drops. Lucky bastard, I secretly hope that when it is my time to go I fade just as quickly and pain free as that. At a glance all thoughts of death quickly evaporate as I spot a now ownerless rotator cannon. Its weight feels good in my hands, the barrels coming alive as it whirs up to speed, the steady thumping of solid projectiles being sent into the ranks of the enemy sending waves of delight through my body with every spent cartridge. Through all the noise I can hear a commissar screaming words of encouragement to the brave and promises of death to the cowards. I can feel the pressure of more bodies rushing into the trench beside me, the activity all around building to a crescendo. In the pit of my stomach I know what will happen next, I know before the order is given that we will be forced to charge. I know my chances of survival have been snuffed out, I except this. I will not hope for the best, I will charge and I will die.