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Ok, this is the first Time I've ever posted my writing, soI hope you guys (and gals, of course) like it.
I should warn you, It does just begin somewhere in the middle, I find it easiest to wrire from the middle and then come back and do the start later.
Well, here it is:

“Waaagh!”
Major Hawking, of the 111th Croman gate guard regiment, second platoon, swore.
“Sergeants! Drive them back; fire in ranks, heavy weapons, hit the big ones first!”
The greenskins swarmed from the noxious mist, charging headlong out of the boggy water into ordered las-fire, and the autocannon teams punched heavy shells into the squad leader “Nobs”, the large calibre weapons punching through crude armour like fists through wet paper.

“Keep it up lads, don’t let them get close!”
Behind the ranked squads strode the three sentinels of recon squad A, their multilasers scything overhead and decimating the orkish rabble, leaderless now thanks to the efforts of the autocannon operators.
“they’re breaking, sir!” called sergeant Callas of third squad, and he was right, the over-muscled xenos were emerging less frequently now, and the major guessed his men had killed enough to dissuade the xenos from continiuing. Finally, the last dregs of the Greenies turned and ran, swallowed by the billowing mists.

“Sentinels, scout around, make sure they don’t come back!” He voxed; “status report: how many did we lose?”
“Two dead, sir, we also took three casualties, two are serious, and a few lads picked up bruises and shrapnel wounds from the grenade barrage,” Replied Callas, after conferring quickly with the other two squad leaders in the platoon.
“Ok, Callas, We’d better get the wounded back to base camp, and make sure the others see the platoon medic ASAP.”

Out in the marshes, major Hawking knew that any small wound could become infected, and shrapnel from orks was never clean in the first place. Which reminded him....
“Caen, tell me, have you ever seen orks use grenades like this?”
“No, sir,” replied the experienced sniper accompanying the major’s command squad. “Usually they just hit people with ‘em, or forget to pull the pins.”
“Aye, or to let go... But using them properly, that means ... something, new leaders or maybe clever orks...” Hawking paused.
“Clever orks sir?” Caen stopped at his CO’s glare and held his hands up. “No, I think you may be right sir, the frag warfare thing they did doesn’t seem right, definitely not for orks. From rebels or any other Xenos I’d not be surprised, but for orks this is way too advanced.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Major Hawking turned away and shouted for a vox operator.

Immediately from the fog came comms Trooper Debar, the heavy voxcaster forcing him to wade through the fetid pools of water instead of jumping across like the more nimble men, and the Major found himself admiring the man’s dogged determination.
“I need you to vox a sitrep back to HQ, with special regards to the grenade tactics the orks used, they should probably spread the word to the other platoons as well, let them know what’s out here.”
“On it, sir!” Debar responded, slinging the vox onto a dry patch of ground and tuning it to Command frequency.

Hawking left Debar to it, turning away in time to see the sentinel troop returning, like ungainly birds appearing ghost-like out of the mist. As the walkers came closer, he registered fresh chips and paint damage on all three of the hulls, and the multilaser barrels were still hissing as the slight drizzle of bitter rain fell and instantly boiled on the hot metal.
“Trouble?” he called to Ferguson, the scout sentinel leader.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle sir, they were regrouping a few hundred meters out, so me and the boys buzzed ‘em, then young Webb there, he popped the leader and they ran like a heretic with an Inquisitor on their backside.”
“Eloquently put, Ferguson, good work.”
“Aye sir” The maverick pilot saluted lazily and led his troop out on a second sweep.

“Sir!” the Major turned to see Debar waving to get his attention, and he hurried over, getting his boots full of filthy water in return for his haste. “What is it, Trooper?
“Sir, The Captain thanks you for the report and the warning, and he says he’s sending Vet. Squad 2 to assist. ETA three minutes.”
“I assume they’re not coming on foot then? We’re a good twenty minutes march from HQ.”
“No, sir, they’re coming in via chimera.”
The Major nodded, the chimeras were well suited to this terrain, as efficient and fast in water as out of it. “Tell them the support is much appreciated. Did we get fresh orders?”
“Yes sir, orders are as follows: Continue to map out marshes, objective is find the ork encampment where our little friends here,” he pointed at the floating corpse of a greenskin, “where they came from.”
Hawking spat towards the corpse in irritation.
“Great. More marsh stomping. Right, call Ferguson and his boys in, and get the men ready to move.”
“Sir, what about our wounded?”

The Major paused. The obvious answer was to send them back to HQ via the inbound chimera, but he wasn’t happy about giving up a valuable APC which might be needed here in their advance into the marsh. Of course, there was always the second option... “Debar, get me medicae Foster.”
He paused again.
“And tell Commissar Skaelt he might be needed.”

That's all I've written so far, but I might do more at a later date.
I'd like some comments to see if this is any good, It's not easy to get an opinion from someone who doesn't do 40k (I.E my family) so any comments and/or criticism is much appreciated.

This story is also in an article - search "nabrean" in articles to find it, although the spacing is worse.
I really would appreciate ANY feedback, Please?
Anyway, I have written more but I ain't putting it up untill I get some comments.

Ok, thanks for the PM, here's some I just finished, still angling for comments though people! Continiues from where I left off.

“I won’t let you kill these men, major, they did their duty, and if you execute them then will the others risk being wounded in the course of duty?” The medic’s voice was edging close to a shout.
“You want me to shoot him for disrespect sir?” asked Skaelt, his voice a monotone growl, legacy of the bolter round which had almost taken his head off at the neck several years earlier, and the Black-coated commissar reached toward his bolt pistol. Hawking postponed the motion with a raised palm.
“no need, commissar, I’m not about to have men shot for getting injured, but I need you to go with medicae foster back to HQ in the chimera.”
“Why? Are you trying to get rid of me, major?” Skaelt’s yellow-irised eyes narrowed in suspicion, making him look more hawk-like than ever.
“no , commissar, but you know what commissar Bormann is like, where others see a medic and seriously wounded infantry returning to base in an APC, he sees deserters with a stolen chimera.” The commissar nodded, Bormann had executed a med-evac team only two days before, for “fleeing the field of battle”, and he had also had the medic’s charges flogged for cowardice, something which had not endeared him to the men.
“So vox ahead, tell them you’re sending the men back.”
We can’t; vox went down when the storm started. You needn’t worry, commissar Varo will keep the men in line.” The drizzle from earlier on had progressed to a fully fledged electrical storm, also grounding any air support available to the ground troops.
“I’ll go, but as soon as I deliver the men back I’m coming right back here, and the medicae will be coming back as well.”
“What? Why? I can’t leave those men!” the medicae was interrupted by a massive thunderclap.
“Why not?” Asked major “there are medics at HQ, or are you concerned that they’re incompetent?”
“No, sir, sorry sir.” The medic replied bashfully, hanging his head, until freezing rain soaked the back of his neck and ran down the back of his flak armour. “Apology accepted. Commissar, you’re with me, the vets aren’t going to be happy about having to get their feet wet.”



“What? We’re an armoured fist squad! Without a transport, what’s the point of having we?” The veteran trooper’s id tags identified him as trooper Hengis.
“Shut up you det-head grox, major Hawking is in charge here, not you. Get your prom tanks and tell the others to move it. NOW!” The Veteran sergeant, Ernst Cohl, had a bark that would have put a drill instructor to shame, and the flame trooper Hengis sloped back into the chimera, shoulders hunched.
“So, armoured fists eh?” Asked Major Hawking, conversationally.
“Yes sir, armoured fist veterans, flamer speciality. Hengis there and trooper Ramillies both use standard infantry pattern flamers, and Janzen carries the heavy flamer.”
“Well, I’m afraid your boys are going to have to footslog it, at least until commissar Skaelt gets back.”
“Do them some good, major; they don’t get it completely easy because they’ve seen a few scraps.” “Good man, with any luck the rain should be all they need worry about.”
The veteran laughed and turned back to the chimera; “oh, I very much doubt that, major.”



The growl of the chimeras’ engine was loud inside, but Skarrow Skaelt could still hear the groans of the wounded men in the troop compartment, but at least sat next to the driver he could distract himself by monitoring vox traffic. The moaning from behind didn’t worry him unduly; he’d heard far worse over his commission, not least the sound of a bolter round punching through his own flesh. He involuntarily rubbed his scarred throat and offered silent thanks for men like medicae foster, without which he would be nothing more than a smeared entry in the munitorium K.I.A register.
“Commissar, sir, auspex is picking up movement!” the driver sang out, a note of concern in his voice. “Ours?” asked Skaelt, without much hope.
“No, sir, its big and metallic, tank sized. Not ours.” The driver looked around at him. “I think we might be in trouble here, sir, this crate’s only equipped with a multilaser, If they’re fielding heavy armour...” he let the sentence hang.
“Relax, I’m not about to shoot you for knowing your limits. Besides, someone has to drive this thing.” He thought for a moment. “Ok, we go in close enough to get a look at what’s there, if we can, we’ll immobilize it then run for base, call in an airstrike later. Clear?” the driver grinned.
“Yes sir, tell the lads behind to hang on, it may get rough...”

hey nice story.like how you build up suspension.

Cheers, I'm writing more as we speak, hopefully I'll have some more ready by tonight.

The rain had caused the water levels to rise in the swamp, and the guardsmen in their black fatigues and grey armour were forced to wade through the bog, worryingly, Major Hawking realised that the autocannon teams wouldn’t be able to deploy their heavy weapons, and he was grateful that he had the sentinels, and the veterans with their burners in the point of their formation.
Casting around with his magnoculars, he spied a craggy plateaux rising from the murk, rocky sides rising a few meters above the still rising water. “Lads! We bear north-east twenty degrees; move your arses before we end up swimming!”
“All right, you ‘eard the major, git you-selves movin’, ya useless sods!” Sergeant Balkan of second squad bellowed at his men, and the other sergeants exhorted their men forward, albeit less aggressively.”
Within moments the efficient discipline of the guardsmen had the men up on the outcrop, setting up defensive lines and heavy weapon nests. Sandbag it up boys, were here for the duration, and I want us ready for any unwelcome visitors!
Teams of men began to fill the empty sandbag they all carried with silty mud, stacking them up to give the troopers some semblance of hard cover. The sentinels couldn’t climb the vertical walls of the plateau, so Hawkins sent them to scout around and map out the best route for when they moved out.
“Major, a word, if you don’t mind” Hawkins turned to greet commissar Varo, a man he had a great respect for, ever since he had seen the man fight his way through nearly twenty heavily armed cultists to reach a fugitive psyker who had blasted a Leman Russ battle tank to ash, Varo had shot the psyker’s leg off with his plasma pistol before administering the coup-de-grace with his powersword. “Go ahead, commissar.”
“May I say that I’m somewhat confused by your decision to stop here when you have orders to the contrary...” Major Hawkins swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of the plasma weapon holstered at the commissar’s waist, ready for a quick draw. “Good question commissar, the way of it is that if we go any further today we aren’t going to be any use in a fight.”
“I don’t follow.” Hawkins bit his lip; he’d faced down Orks, Dark Eldar, even Chaos Marines, but at the commissar was possibly the most fearsome thing had ever met. “Our autocannon teams can’t deploy underwater, and the men are getting wet, cold and tired, if they stay in the water then they’re liable to get sick. I know my orders, but my orders don’t include drowning my men.”
The commissar nodded, “good to know you’re on the wavelength major, drowned men, sick men, they’re no good to me or the god-emperor. But as soon as they’re ready, we will be moving on.”
“As was always my intention, commissar.” Varo nodded again and turned on his heel, marching off and haranguing some men who were setting up a tent too close to the perimeter.
Already, the men had started camp stoves and begun to brew up caffeine in Billy cans, sheltering under tarps which bowed a little under the downpour.
All around the makeshift encampment the marshes spread as far as the eye could see, and the fog, having lifted a little in the rain, no longer masked the surroundings so comprehensively, so the major expected at least some warning of any roving bands of greenskins. He wondered for a moment where Commissar Skaelt was, but was interrupted by a sudden cry “Orks closing from the north!”
Hawking cursed, but was drowned out by a barbarous roar from behind. The orks had them surrounded.

“DRIVE FASTER!” Skaelt howled as the chimera plunged through deep pools of filth at high speed, and he could hear the rattle of high-calibre rounds impacting on the chimeras rear armour.
The driver had brought the chimera in towards the metallic contact on auspex, and they were just getting into visual range when a swarm of ork war buggies had somehow picked up their trail. Only the rugged APS’s amphibious capabilities had kept the ork war machines from closing, the half-tracked vehicles slowed by thick mud.
A fresh rain of solid slugs pattered off the turret, and Skaelt hauled himself into it, powering the potent laser weapon up and rotating the multilaser around to face their pursuers.
“Eat this, greenskin scum! In the name of the emperor!” Skaelt triggered the heavy weapon, the blazing hail of lasfire buckling the armour on the front war buggy, to little effect. A missile corkscrewed from a jury-rigged rack on the back of one of the other vehicles, impacting just wide of the thinner rear armour which stood between their valuable cargo and orkish bullets. The commissar cursed and spun the turret, still firing, this time one of the beams struck the missile rack.
The resulting explosion threw the buggy a good ten feet into the air, a flaming wreck, and by some great fortune, one of the thick front tyres flew off and bounced into the cockpit of the closer buggy, pulping the driver. Out of control, the war buggy careened into a deep pool, sinking almost immediately.
Skaelt blinked, thanked the emperor for his providence, before a bullet hit the multilaser, fouling the barrels and causing the gun to grind to a halt. So, the balance is restored, thought Skaelt darkly.

“Major! Artillery incoming!” came the warning, moments before the shell screamed out of the heavens, the blast tossing several troopers skyward in a welter of fire and gravel shards.
Hawking coughed, the dust coating his damp fatigues with greyish cement. ”where are my sentinels?” he barked into the vox, “Ferguson? Ferguson, come in!”
The vox spat static.
Ferguson either wasn’t responding- unlikely, in a situation like this, or he was dead. “Damn it!” he howled.


The orks had arrived in ridiculous numbers. With heavy support, at least one looted leman Russ, possibly two. Thus far the Croman Guard had held the greenskin back, but the autocannons were running low on ammo, and the plateau was being bracketed by artillery.

“Commissar!” the fearsome Varo turned, still screaming the imperial creed at the top of his lungs. “We need to break out of this! You’re up, take read’s squad, punch towards home base, I’ll take rearguard with Cohl and the veterans.”

“Yessir! You men! Bayonets and frags! MOVE!”, and with a cry which reached above the sounds of the orkish assault, Varo charged, followed by Sergeant Read of 3rd squad and his men, the war cry of Croman on their lips. “For Croman! For the hundred-eleventh! For the Emperor!”

“What in the warp are you doing?”
“Sir, with all due respect, shut up and let me drive!”

Skaelt raised an eyebrow, but let it slide, busy hanging on as the chimera slewed 180 degrees and drove headfirst at their pursuers.
Through the vision slit Skaelt saw vividly the face of the ork driver, before a crashing, grating collision and a moment of violent motion. The driver laughed a tense, slightly unstable laugh and triggered the hull heavy bolter, punching the wreckage from the front glacis plate as he reversed suddenly.

Struggling to keep his composure, Skaelt desperately cast about for their remaining enemy. There, but something was wrong, the last warbuggy was keeping its distance. Yet again the commissar was struck by the bizarre behaviour of the orks on Nabreon. Too tactical, too much thought. A little disturbed, Skaelt tapped the driver on one shoulder pad. “Head for base, I’ll keep an eye on him”
“Yes sir. But...” he paused
“But?” prompted the commissar.
“I don’t like it sir, never seen an ork shy away from a fight before.”
“Hah, xenos are all cowards at heart lad, don’t let it trouble you.” But Skaelt’s bravado was false, and he wondered how Commissar Varo was coping.

Rancid blood spurted high into the air, and his powersword swept in a tight figure-of-eight, removing the orks arms, then a rising sweep cutting from armpit to opposite shoulder.
The choppa-wielding Ork collapsed to the boggy ground and Varo discharged his plasma pistol into the space his blade work had carved, incinerating two more xenos. “Forward! Break them asunder! The emperor watches over you, falter now and be damned!” His schola progenium schooled voice rang out, defiant against the infernal hooting and baying of his foes.

Beside him, Sergeant Read hacked away with his chainsword, with little grace but brutal efficiency, and on the left, flame-trooper Burkett poured jets of flame at head height, deterring even the insane greenskins from getting closer , on the left flank the men were using their lasguns, drilling tight bursts of las into the orks , but on the right, things were visceral and close, the men had slung their rifles and were going at it with bayonets and combat blades, pistols and even entrenching tools, but their fighting was slowing, their fury unable to sustain this pace of warfare.

Thus far they hadn’t lost a man through sheer discipline and stubbornness, but even Varo himself, a monster in combat, was beginning to tire, slowing down. And the grunt troopers didn’t have the benefit of training from the best tutors the imperium had to offer, or power weapons for that matter.

Exhorting his men to further fury, Varo pushed on. But he knew, sooner or later, numbers would tell. And when that happened, even a morale officer like Commissar Varo would have to admit that they were doomed.

really good so far.

I swear i commented on this...
Ahh well i'll do it now.
It's some good stuff, the chunks are a little short but i can apreciate why they might be.

Thanks for the comments, the chunks are quite short because I find it easier to keep up momentum that way, But I'll bear that in mind.
Here's a little I finished yesterday, enjoy!


“Fuel levels at half, sir!”
“Fuel at one-quarter!”
“Running on fumes here, sir!”
Cohls flame troopers called out in chorus, Major Hawking cursed and threw his last frag grenade.
The flamers had reaped a heavy toll on the ork foot soldiers but with their tanks running dry the greenskins were closing in.
“Pull back! We’ve stayed as long as we can! Follow the main party!” Cohl and his men peeled away, charging after their comrades, denying the orks the chance to charge.

Hawking led with his Cadian officer-pattern powersword, flanked by voxtrooper Debar who was using his pride and joy – the chainsword he had been gifted in the ash wastes of Parakash Primus by a dying Valhallan officer.

A few steps behind followed Caen, who was using a dropped lasrifle to snap shots into the faces of their foes, his sniper rifle too cumbersome for melee work.
Two of Cohls’ men had shotguns and the brutal blasts from the combat guns pulped orkish flesh and burst thick skulls like ripe fruit.

“Show ‘em how to use frags properly, boys!” called Cohl, blazing away with his laspistol, and a rain of grenades flew ahead of the party, gritty, muffled thumps sounded and the pressure from the front eased a little, the veterans took advantage and pushed into the gaps they had blasted.

Ahead could be seen the strobing lasfire of the furious running fire fight that the Cromans were unleashing on the Xenos scumbags.

A bolter boomed at close range and one of the veterans dropped, a melon-sized exit wound gaping in his back. Hawking was about to call for a medic when he remembered that his medic was a fair few kilometres away, the Major had to content himself with neutralising the shooter with a headshot from his laspistol.

Hawking found himself missing his standard bearer, corporal Tannic, who was back in a sickbed at Nabreon HQ; he’d contracted some strange swamp fever earlier in the campaign.
His presence was missed; the Major knew that his men fought better under the colours of their home world.

He also cursed the necessary loss of commissar Skaelt, whose steady aim and fiery oratory might have made this tactical retreat more than the rout it was fast becoming.

The punching thrust of Varo and the rest of the company were being bogged down, and there was no visible end to the tides of relentless orks.
“Sir! Inbound flyer!”
“Is it one of ours?” asked Hawking with little hope.
“Not a chance in hell, sir”
Hawking’s response involved a long stream of invective and several brutal eviscerating sweeps of his blade. “God-emperor, give me a break!”



Commissar Skaelt was sat on a bunk in the HQ infirmary, on the nearest beds were the injured men he had delivered moments earlier, he was now busy arguing with a medicae orderly. “A break?”

“Yes, commissar, your left radius is broken and your ulna is badly fractured. I can’t countenance you returning to the combat zone unless it becomes completely necessary."

Skaelt hadn’t even realised he’d damaged the arm until they’d driven past the perimeter gates; he wasn’t even sure exactly how he’d done it.

“NECESSARY?” Skaelt barked furiously. “NECESSARY? I will not have my men put at risk because of this pathetic excuse of an injury! Am I very likely to drop dead?”

The medicae spluttered uncertainly. “Well, no, but...”
“Well, there you are then, I’m returning to my company, arm or no arm.” From the look on his face the medicae knew that short of sedation there was no way he’d keep the commissar here. He sighed resignedly and reached for his data slate.

Moments later, commissar Skaelt had been cleared to return, this time though, he would be fully prepared for the orks. And Emperor help the man, or xeno, who stood between him and getting back to his men.