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Mud.

It was everywhere. On his clothes, in his hair, in his ears, up his nostrils. If he took a p***, he’d half expect it to have a filthy brown tinge to it, such as it was on Farnast. The boots of 40,000 have a sure way of mixing up something nasty underfoot, and now he had to wade through it, like a shovel through a s*** barn. Some dirty cause this was, in more ways than one.

Darreon checked his webbing for the millionth time that hour and glanced around him at the dirty faces waiting in line. They were a rag-tag bunch for sure. Bits of armour here and there welded, beaten and nailed together. Rusty autoguns with plenty of clips stuffed into pockets. Bits of old uniform torn and tired, yet still on display as each man clung to what was left of his pride. That was all they had left really. The honour was gone, that’s a fact. They could probably name a time when they let it go and watched it tumble down into the abyss, forever lost to them. But pride they had, and it wasn’t just their uniform that showed it. There was a sparkle in the eye, one of dogged determination. Darreon thought he had it too, one that said he’d sooner lie down in front of a moving Russ than change the path he’d taken. He just wished there was a little less mud.

The artillery fire was punching away at the multitude of buildings not 100m from his position. A constant rumble and boom pounded at what was left of the concrete and battered the enemy into submission. Darreon tried to pierce the dust and fire that separated him from them, yet he had no idea what was really happening. He’d found that a lot since joining the 144. Soldiering had a s*** ton of sitting about waiting, then once the time came, it was all but over before he got his blood up. Waiting in a dirty ditch just about topped it for him though. Oh, the perks.

The artillery fire was beginning to slow. It was nearly time. The men around him all twitched in anticipation, thumbing the hilts of their weapons and beginning to sit upright. Darreon checked his gear for the million and oneth time, just to be sure.

‘Where’s your lid rookie?’ said Gard next to him.

’S***!’ Darreon shook his head in disbelief. All that pondering and he’d only gone and left his bloody helmet the Gods knew where.

‘Maybe you can borrow one off them!’ Gard nodded up and out the ditch to the ruins in the distance. A slow smile crept up the corner of his mouth.

‘Maybe I could borrow one off you?’ A similar smile crept up on Darreon. If it was his time via bullet to the head, very little he could do about it now.

A little further back under the cover of a small ruin, the access hatch of 9th Platoon’s Command Chimera banged open. A man with a grim metal mask emerged and surveyed his men before him. A hot, harsh voice took up the call as the artillery fire ceased: ‘MEN OF THE 144?’

In unison, they all rose. It was time. Their reply was fury before drawing arms and charging headlong into the ruins: ‘DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!’

Darreon slipped 3 times on the way in. F*****g mud.

Not a bad start! It's always good to see things from the perspective of a common soldier, and even more so from the perspective of one that's fallen to the Ruinous Powers

Are there going to be more parts of this?

Thanks answer is definitely yes! A little bit at a time though, most likely.

II

Gard clambered from the ditch and let his battle cry out, just like the rest of them. He threw himself forward, unslinging his two-handed hammer from his back. It sure wasn’t a pretty hammer, nothing like they made for those better born than himself, but in his hands, when he introduced the heavy end to something soft and breathing, the final result was much the same.

Darreon was already a few yards ahead of him trying to keep his head down as he made the sprint into the ruins. Gard had to smile at the sprightly little s***. He was like a stunted chicken trying to fold his skull back into his shoulders! He hoped he’d see the lad at the end of this one.

Bringing his mind back to the task, he was just 40 metres from the ruins now and could see the enemy breaking from cover and taking up arms. The first few shots started flying and a man went down next to him. Here we go.

20 metres. No idea whether he’d taken a hit yet, such was the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He picked a slight rise where a wall had caved in and a small group of men were desperately picking targets.

10 metres. Gard could see the whites in their eyes now. ‘Now is just about time to s*** yourselves fellas’ he shouted as his boot started up the rise.

6 metres. Two of them whipped their lasguns round and fired off helplessly. Again, no idea if he’d been hit or not. They’d need a demolisher cannon to stop him now.

3 metres. Gard planted his boot down on a column semi-shorn from the ruin. He launched himself in the air, his hammer held high, the roar from his lungs a storm. The front one raised his hands to shield himself in a futile attempt at deflecting a blow. Gard barrelled into him, then still in the air, brought his hammer down onto the head of the other.

On top of the first, he brought his hammer back in for a short blow and stamped it into the guardsman’s face. 1, 2, 3 times. Had to be sure, didn’t he? He glanced over at the second guardsman to find his helmet caved in, a deep red crater where there should have been skull and helmet. The guardsman's eyes were still staring up at Gard, an oddity, considering half his head had just been compressed.

Two more guardsman remained in their little nest, but they’d already been torn down by 5 bodies, and a bunch more were pilling in. Stab, smack, kick, spit, bite. It was a grim business this, and Gard bloody loved it.

He got to his feet and headed on through a semi-collapsed doorway, then rounded a corridor that opened back out into the street. The scene wasn’t anything that spectacular in all honesty. What was left of the Imperial Guard force was brutally outnumbered, the rest sleeping soundly under the rubble thanks to 9 hours of artillery bombardment. Still, win’s a win, quick as this one was.

Most of them were trying to surrender now, but little good it did. The 9th didn’t take prisoners. Forley was enjoying himself, laughing as he fanned his flamer across 5 guardsman on their knees surrendering. Weird one he was. By the Gods, the 144 had a bunch of freaks and nut-jobs making up the ranks. Made him wonder sometimes.

He turned to find Darreon perched on the mangled hatch of some tank in the road, rifling through the charred remains inside. He was glad to see the young lad alive. He was a bit naive, but seemed like a good sort. Good sorts were hard to come by in the 144.

He hopped down a short ledge and made his way over, when Darreon glanced over his shoulder and saw the big man approaching. He immediately span, roaring in joy, lifting something high into the air.

Gard couldn’t contain himself. High in the air, flapping around in Darreon’s fist, was the cap of a Commissar.

‘Sod helmets!’ he said.

I know its old but its good

III

The battle was done and half of 9th platoon had already began looting kit from the Imperial Guard now lying dead in the dirt. Bayonets and combat knives a little less rusty, boots not falling apart with proper laces, Imperial Aquilas hastily being scratched and filed off helmets and armour, laspistols and ammo clips being stuffed down jackets and into belts before the Enforcers came round and collected it all in for the armoury. All part of it really. Men left in the dirt, their equipment of more value than the lives they’d just given up. ‘The Emperor don’t protect much’ Darreon thought to himself.

He regarded the Commissar's hat he'd looted. Big pretentious thing it was really. Now he thought about it, he’d look damn stupid wearing the bloody thing on his head. No doubt any Guardsman who spotted it would aim for him now, thinking they’d bag someone of importance putting a las shot through his eye. But nonetheless, what a find! Made him and Gard chuckle a bit amongst this miserable s*** they’d found themselves in.

He didn’t really know why the 144 were on Farnast. Whenever he’d raised it with the others, they said it weren’t his place to know. ‘That’s for better men than us’ they’d said. Darreon weren’t quite sure he agreed with that, seemed to go against why they’d gone down this path in the first place. He weren’t so sure he’d call them better men neither.

Perching on a ledge swinging his heels around, he thumbed over his new hat whilst Gard fumbled through the webbing and pockets of an unfortunate Guardsman. The man parting with various odds and ends kept upon his person was a relatively young one, younger than Darreon in fact. He had a dirty great hole in his thigh, but other than that, he looked quite the part of innocence. His eyelids started to twitch slowly, a slight groan escaped from his lips, and Darreon noticed his chest rising and falling ever so slightly.

‘He’s still alive!’ Darreon beamed as he hopped down from the ledge.

He stopped himself on the way over, not quite sure why he was happy to see him alive. Why did he care? This was the enemy, someone who’d have cut his throat given half the chance. ‘Because that could have been you’ something said at the back of his mind. ‘You could be the one dead in the dirt, your life given up for the Corpse on the Throne. But no, you took a different path. One of freedom, victory, and more…’

The fleeting moment soon passed as Gard brought his hammer down into the young Guardsman’s face. A low thud, a slight shake, and that was that.

‘That makes it 3’ Gard said, ‘and 3 more than you lad’.

‘But I got a hat’ Darreon smiled back, as if that was all there was to it.

A quick, discreet whistle went up and suddenly it was all motion. Last bits of loot were pocketed, and the men were all on their feet making a p*** poor effort at looking busy, as if they hadn’t just robbed the corpses of 50 men. Into the street came that first line of ‘better men’, one who always had their backs (with a whip), always with inspiring words (spoken through a bolt pistol), ever the ones to maintain morale.

With knife drawn and the welcoming smile of iron fangs from a metal skull-helm came a beloved Enforcer of the 144, always a timely entrance like a fly to a carcass.

‘FORMATION!’ he screamed.

30 boots took all of 7 seconds to file in a disciplined order before the Enforcer. With rank complete, he remained where he was, slowly scanning his skull-helm from left to right, as if weighing his options on who to pick on today.

No-one knew exactly who the Enforcers were. They kept their helmets on always and reported directly to Balthazar, their platoon commander come serial killer. This one though, they’d taken to calling him Scant (behind his back of course) in wake of his obvious inadequacy with regards to height.

After a fair few moments, Scant selected his unfortunate victim and began the usual post-fight dressing down.

‘2nd squad. Where do enemy arms and armaments go when captured?’

‘144 armoury, sir!’

‘and where do they not go, 2nd squad?’

‘in our pockets, sir!’

‘Really?’ Scant and calmness, an unhappy couple.

Scant lifted his knife to the throat of his unfortunate victim. He’d picked Braddon, a lanky bugger, so Scant had to stretch a fair bit to keep the tip under his chin. The Renegade’s head held high though, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Braddon weren’t the type to be intimidated, even by one of them, so Scant slowly lowered his blade to the man’s waist and lifted up his jacket with it. Wedged in with the handle poking out was a laspistol sidearm, Guardsman issue. Guilty.

‘Then what the f*** is this?’ He screamed, smashing his elbow into Braddon’s stomach and flooring him.

‘What the f*** is wrong with you?’ he screamed darting from man to man, his knife still drawn, goading them to challenge his authority.

‘Can you not follow simple instructions? Should I carve them into your foreheads so you don’t forget?’

‘I’m not sure you’d reach, sir’ Darreon muttered under his breath. A stifled chuckle went up from those around him.

Scant stopped, turned, and shouldered his way through the line straight up to Darreon.

‘what the feathering f*** is this?’ the Enforcer screamed again.

Darreon’s brow furrowed for a moment, the innocent ‘who, me?’ a picture, then it dawned. The Commissar’s hat. It was on his head.

I'm liking this, keep up the good work!

*Que dramatic music*

Enjoying seeing this side of the coin! Well written, too.

Appreciate the kind words all I started it as there's a distinct lack of material on what a regular human gets up to fighting for the other side, yet it's a very significant part of the 40k lore. It's good to see that people appreciate seeing this side!

I read the third part just now, really enjoyed it!

That last sentence really nailed it, I can completely imagine the look Darreon's face when he realizes the gravity of the situation

IV

‘Think this is some kind of joke, boy?’ Scant snarled.

‘Not really, sir. I think it rather suits me’. More muffled laughter from those around him.

Scant had heard enough. He smashed the butt of his knife into Darreon’s nose and was on him. Darreon attempted to curl himself up for some protection, but Scant had lost it. Blow after blow rained down in a frenzy onto Darreon’s head over and over. It kept coming until the Enforcer slowed, breathing heavily, then stood up and stepped away. Through blurred and bloody vision, Darreon watched him go, glad it was over, until he saw something long and thin flash out to the side. Scant turned, his whip drawn, and it began again.

There wasn’t any real finesse to it, just pure rage and fury. High the whip coiled, those few moments that seem to stretch on longer than they should, then down it came so suddenly. He let out a cry from the first 3, then held it in, determined not to be seen as weak. By the 7th, he began to slip out of consciousness. A leering, fanged skull was his last image, whilst his brothers in arms looked on helplessly.

*

Gard clenched his fists in frustration. By the 12th lash, the boy’s back was a ruin. Blood, flesh and cloth had mangled into one, yet still Scant lashed at him. The rest of the squad had drawn a wide circle around the scene, none of them averting their eyes to the punishment being dealt out.

Shwap. Shwap. Shwap.

Gard was the first to break the silence. ‘Someone fetch Sergeant Fallon’.

‘He’s being de-briefed by Balthazar’.

‘Fetch. Sergeant. Fallon.’ he growled, his eyes still locked on the scene in front of him.

It ended on the 20th lash. Darreon was a still mess on the floor, his back a raw display for all. The Enforcer re-coiled his whip, retrieved his knife from the ground, and walked away without uttering another word.

Does that mean he gets to keep the hat? I would be awfully disappointed if the hat was taken

V

‘He said what?’ Sergeant Fallon clearly didn’t find Darreon’s little outburst as amusing as the rest of them. ‘Bloody deserved the lashing then, the cocky little swine. Next time he’ll keep his tongue behind his teeth’.

‘Not likely’ Gard thought to himself.

‘Patch the lad up and get him to the medic tent’. Fallon surveyed the bunch before him. ‘Leave ‘em for 30 mins’ he thought to himself ‘and they lose all grasp of discipline’. The 144 ran a fine line, and Fallon knew it. With their blood up and sent in for the right job, they were a damn effective bunch of soldiers, but the whole regiment were a kroot’s whisker away from cutting each others' throats open. Fallon was one of them keeping that knife in it’s sheath, so to speak, and whether they liked it or not, the Enforcers were doing the same job.

‘Gentleman, our gracious lord Balthazar has seen fit to reward us for our valiant display today’. 29 heads stopped and turned to Fallon in anticipation of the news.

‘2nd squad will lead squads 6th, 8th and 12th and push ahead from 9th platoon and the rest of the army. We leave at 0500 hours’.

29 groans were the unanimous response to the news. No doubt Darreon would make it 30 if he were up and about.

‘What about Darreon?’ someone called.

‘He’s got 9 hours’ said Fallon ‘and by the Gods, get rid of that f****** hat’.

SirSweetroll wrote:
Does that mean he gets to keep the hat? I would be awfully disappointed if the hat was taken

Sorry, the hat's gone!!

Just a short update for this one to finish off the chapter. Next chapter you'll have a psychopathic tank commander to read about!