Old Sourpuss
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The acrid smoke of a recent battle filled the valley of Tyrok Fields. The sun was just starting to rise over the silent battlefield, giving an eerie glow to everything. Looking out over the land, one would never have guessed that just twelve short hours before, this was the site of one of the largest ambushes of the war on Cadia. Commander William Cunningham surveyed the destruction at his feet. He wasn’t the cause, but he was the solution. His men of the 7th Cadian Regiment had been at the heart of the ambush, having sustained large amounts of casualties. It wasn’t his fault, the forces of Chaos had infiltrated his regiment from the lowly grunts to the platoon commanders.
“Einhouse, casualty report.” Cunningham called out. A young man looked up from an injured man, dirt and grime covering most of his face.
“We lost all of Alpha platoon to the fighting, Bravo and Echo are without command. I haven’t heard back from Charlie or Delta. At this point, I’m assuming they’re completely gone.”
Cunningham turned around, “Numbers medic, We must report to Cadian High Command.”
The young medic looked down at his data slate, and tapped several times, calculating the losses. After a minute he replies. “Assuming we lost Charlie and Delta, our regiment stands at just over one hundred able bodied soldiers. Very few injuries were sustained, the forces of Chaos were not looking to leave survivors.”
Cunningham light an old cigar, picking up where he left off last night. “Thank you, Einhouse. Return to your duties. Cadia needs her soldiers ready to defend her, now more than ever.” With that, the medic left, moving on to the next injured soldier.
The Commander Cunningham turned swiftly, the scorched earth grinding underneath his boots, and headed towards the command tent. The tent looked to be one of the only things to survive the slaughter, probably erected after the first wave of fighting, he thought. Two armed guards stood outside the ten, each one gripping a special issue plasmagun. They swiftly saluted the commander as he passed by. “Carry on.” he says as he pushes open the flaps of the green tent. Inside he finds the company’s RTO pouring over a data slate, tapping furiously to input coordinates, and report the battle to Cadian High Command.
“Sir, my data slate must have gotten damaged in the fight, I can’t reach the high command.” The young radio officer looked up at Cunningham, a concerned look on his face. Offering his data slate to his commander, the young officer steps back, letting Cunningham take a closer look at the slate. “Everything seems to be fine, but any sort of response I send bounces right back to me.” he says. “I might have to relay our message through other RTOs. Let me try hailing the 8th regiment.” Cunningham stared down at the data slate, everything seemed to be functioning properly, but you never could tell. As he paced about the tent, he looked up every so often, the vox caster radioing anyone he could within the 8th regiment. Cunningham wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention, he would hear a full report when it was finished, so there was no reason to eavesdrop.
“Sir, word from the eighth is that High Command was taken out in the ambush. It seems we weren’t the only ones attacked.”
“Thank you Dobbins. Rally the men. We need to be ready to move out as soon as we can. Nothing is to be left out, I want to be ready to move as soon as we receive our orders.” Cunningham handed the data slate back to Dobbins, who put it away, and left the tent. The commander finally had a moment alone to think about what had transpired last night. Taking a deep puff from his cigar, he let the smoke fill the tent. It calmed him, being able to finish the cigar, it reminded him of a normalcy that he would not see for a long time.
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