Rough Rider with Boomstick
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His breath rasped in his throat. He could feel his muscles protest at the exertion, the stinging pain that haunted his eyes, the hollow emptiness within his body. Mud slapped at his boots, splashing over his gaiters and fatigues. An aquila, hung from a steel chain, pounded against the flak armour. He was sheeted in dried blood that had belonged to both friend and foe. On his upper arm white chevrons peered out from amidst the dirt and gore.
A stream of bullets from an Ork fighta-bomba tore through the mud just a few paces from him, followed by the guttural, burning roar of engines. The Sergeant paid it no heed, intent only on crossing the final few yards. A sudden chorus of screams came from the forward trench. Body parts, casually tossed into the sky by the bomb, mixed with the smoke. A red rain fell upon the trench, blood spattering the Guardsmen who fired and loaded without pause, their world confined to two foot of trench, their lasgun and the Orks that rushed towards them as a never ending tide. Their faces were drawn and haggard, stubble lining jaws, eyes sunken into red sockets. Hardly any of these men had slept in the past three days, yet even though their minds were fogged by fatigue and their bodies driven almost to the limit of their endurance, they still fired their weapons. Heavy bolters hammered at the Orks from their emplacements, whilst the hollow pop of grenade launchers resounded along the length of the trench. In some places, where the Orks had reached the lines, flame throwers had incinerated them in vast numbers, the promethium turning them into walking infernos.
The Sergeant, his heart pounding, leapt on to the gun platform, shoved the dead Guardsman away from the weapon. He slipped his shoulders into the harness. The ammunition counters listed the magazines as half-full. From the platforms elevated position he aimed the weapons at the horde and pressed the triggers. The autocannons opened up with a series of thunderous explosions, the large calibre shells streaking over the trenches to thump into the mass of Orks.
A flicker of movement caught his eye and he swung the twin-linked autocannons up, tracking the Ork bomba. Shells tore up at the aircraft, some punching through it. The Sergeant shouted, a tired empty sound, his fingers holding the triggers back as brass casings flew from the ejection ports, spinning and cavorting amidst the fog and cacophony of battle. Then the cannons were silent. The Sergeant howled in disbelief.
Wobbling, the Ork bomba dropped its payload and it was all the Sergeant could do to watch the stick of bombs fall, trembling, shaking. Huge balls of fire tore apart Guardsmen and Ork alike, the heavy bombs ripping up sections of the trenches.
A Guardsman appeared beside the autocannons, tossing the empty drums aside and ramming fresh magazines into their place. The ammunition counters blipped red for a moment and then shone green. The Sergeant pumped the triggers, raking the Orks.
The line of Guardsmen gave way. They had fought almost non-stop for a week, their Regiments dwindling in numbers as each day gave up its yield of corpses. The second line of trenches had quickly become the forward trench, new emplacements were dug, heavy weapons shifted to support the defensive line, but after two days that trench had fallen. Eventually they had been left with two of the rearmost trenches, held by Guardsmen who had lost their squads and companies, adrift from their regiments. Officers took command of sections of trenches, caring only that each man fought. Each and every Guardsman understood that these were the last trenches and if they fell, the battle was lost.
Even with that knowledge in mind, they broke. They had done more than could have been asked of any Guardsman. The casualties for this battle might have been in their hundreds of thousands but they had inflicted at least five times as many casualties on the Orks if not more. Now, however, they broke, scrambling out of their trenches to be gunned down or pounced on by the jubilant Orks.
There was a sharp whine as a bullet struck the autocannons gunshield. The Guardsman, standing ready with fresh magazines, fell backwards without a sound, a neat red hole cresting his forehead. The Sergeant didn't notice, his only care in the world that the cannons were firing, their heavy shells smashing through the Orks, tearing them apart, passing through multiple green bodies. Then came the ominous clicks. His hand slapped at the ammunition counter, but the magazines were empty. Steam coiled and rose from the heated barrels and breeches.
Looking up the Sergeant quickly ducked out of the harness and ran, his feet carrying him through the mud towards the banners where the command platoon tried to rally the fleeing Guardsmen. Their position, ringed with sandbags and heavy bolters, gave the Sergeant the illusion of safety. He passed the bodies of fallen Guardsmen and tripped on the corpse of a commissar. He sprawled, twisted round and his hands found the commissars bolter. By instinct he reached inside the corpses coat and plucked a spare magazine from the dead mans belt. He pushed himself up and ran, throwing himself at the hill side. Already the heavy bolters were hammering their defiant message at the Orks.
The Sergeant turned and walked backwards up the slope, bolter raised.Thud-thud, thud-thud. Bolt shells spat from the weapon in two round bursts, each bolt ripping into the massed Orks, smashing deep into green flesh, exploding in gouts of blood and gore. His boots thumped against the sandbag wall then hands were hauling him to safety. He lay where he landed, chest heaving, eyes staring up at the red sky. Suddenly he didn't want to move. Exhaustion washed through his body.
“Sergeant! You hit?” The Sergeant looked up at a haggard Guardsman who was crouched over him, the white badge of a medical orderly bright on his helmet. He shook his head and rolled on to his hands and knees. His body protested at each movement, his mind telling him to lay back down, to let the battle carry on without him. All he wanted to do was to lay down and sleep. The noise of battle seemed muted, a distant affair. His hand swiped at his aquila, gripping it in his fist as he rose to his feet. He pushed his way to the sandbag wall, hefted the bolter and opened up. The weapon roared defiantly with each shell it spat from its muzzle, the metal sleeves spinning out from the weapons flank. The weapon clicked as the hammer came down on an empty breech. His fingers found the release button and the heavy magazine fell to the ground. He slammed the spare magazine into the well.
He fell backwards, a hammer blow smashing into his gut, just beneath the armour. He fetched up sprawled against an ammunition crate. Carefully, he twisted his body round, until his back was against the crates, legs spread in front of him. He stared in disbelief at the red blood that welled out of the large hole in his fatigues. It shone bright and wet as blood spilt over his clothing, slipping over the webbing belt and pooling in the crotch of his fatigues. His finger prodded at the wound and the leather clad hand came away bloody and wet. It was strange, he realised, that he felt no pain. His head lolled back against the ammunition crate. He felt detached as he watched the left hand heavy bolter cease firing, the loader hurriedly searching through discarded ammunition tins until he snatched up his las weapon and opened fire. The gunner swore, drew a laspistol and died as his head disintegrated, a slugger bullet dashing apart his skull. With the first heavy bolter now silent, the Orks leapt the sandbag wall to be met by a brave Guardsman who stood his ground, flamer spewing burning promethium until a cleaver tore his head from his shoulders. The medical orderly died next, a massive club crushing his head as he crouched beside a wounded guardsman. Blood spurted high into the sky, falling in a wet, red rain.
With a grimace the Sergeant lifted the bolter and pumped the trigger, firing indiscriminately into the green mass, the weapons muzzle lowering further and further as his strength left him. When the hammer fell once more on an empty chamber, he let the weapon fall, his gloved hand reaching for his aquila.
He closed his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He felt cold.
Emperor, let it be quick.
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