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He’d made his way up from the reserve trenches to the front line over the last couple of days – jostling with thousands of other guardsmen in the cramped spaces; squeezing through dugouts and along supply and communications trenches, at one point even crossing a huge crater which had vaporised what had once been labyrinthine mazes of earthworks, gun emplacements and bunkers. At last he had reached his staging area at about dinner time on the 2nd day, almost half a mile back from where the Imperial lines ended and the shell shattered no-mans land began. But even here the scream of shells passing overhead was almost constant, and a soft rain of mud, sometimes bloody, splattered into the trench and the guardsmen it contained as explosive rounds stormed around their position. To break the monotony, the gas alarm would sometimes sound, though why they still bothered with it, he didn’t know – a year of bitter fighting had left the atmosphere almost completely toxic and most people wore their breathing gear constantly, even to eat and sleep. Emperors teeth! I could hardly even remember what he looked like under the glass and rubber construction that was clamped permanently to his face.
Early on the third day now and he’d had to sleep standing up. The press of bodies had supported him and it was not until he’d been awake for several hours that he noticed the guardsman standing next to him was dead. Killed by falling shrapnel at some point during the night no doubt. He signalled the men around him and they tried to haul the body towards one of the aid stations, but the press was too tight and it proved impossible. He sighed, resigned to standing next to the corpse until they were ordered to move on to the next position. He attached a ration canister to the long trunk-like appendage of his breathing apparatus and siphoned his breakfast, grateful that his gas suit could handle the waste his body produced as he relieved himself as he ate.
Just after lunch on the third day the com bead built into his mask chimed the order to move onto the next staging area – obviously the attack had begun, though he had not particularly noticed any difference in the sounds of the artillery battle raging overhead, though he thought he had heard the rumble of tanks nearby earlier on in the day. The press of men in front of him stayed almost constant as they marched down the communications trenches towards the next emplacement they were to occupy. His legs were glad to the exercise – he’d been standing still for almost 18 hours at that point. His friend the corpse kept the pace quite well all things considered; marching on his shoulder all the way to the next set of featureless trenches they were to occupy. Again he sighed. At least he would have spare ration packs should things take much longer. He consulted the chronometer in his HUD as his stomach rumbled – almost time for dinner – his gloved fingers traced the raised pattern on the lids of the nutrient paste tins as he tried to select something to eat.
Another night spent packed in together as close as grox in the herding season. The chiming of his vox bead woke him to find his friend still stood at his side, ready to confront the enemy whenever the order was given. That kind of commitment to the Emperor was something that every guardsman should aspire to he thought as he shifted his lasgun slightly on its harness and prepared to move to the final attack position.
The noise of artillery as he marched along the attack trench would have been deafening had the helmet and mask he worn not blocked out most of it with it’s bulk. When his vox chimed he stopped marching. A second chime sounded and he turned to his left to face the assault ladders which had been fixed to the trench walls. His dead friend now stood in front of him. He’d slumped slightly as the company had turned, but he still remained resolute in the face of the mud and debris (human and otherwise) now raining down upon them with heavy, wet thuds. The men in the assault trench had to keep inclining their heads to shake off the detritus as it built up on the flat rims of their helmets before it got so heavy it threatened to bury them alive.
After about 2 hours there came the penultimate chime in his ears, and the men at the front face of the trench grasped the ladder rails and prepared to climb. He recited the litany of protection and the deaths of enemies as he waited for the final chime. A second later it came and the men at the front surged up the ladders, the men behind them immediately taking their place and scaling the trench wall as quickly as possible. The first men had now unslung their lasguns and were now marching across towards the enemy positions 2 minutes later it was his turn; he planted his foot on the bottom rung and as soon as the man in front had cleared his feet from the ladder, he started to ascend, unfortunately having to climb over the friendly corpse as he made his way to the top.
He stood on the lip of the trench as he readied his lasgun. He took his first step into no-mans land, his first step towards the inevitable Imperial victory. He slowly fell back into the trench, a lump of shrapnel the size of his forearm sticking out of his chest. He left a trail of blood in his wake as he toppled onto the heads and shoulders of the men waiting their turn to climb. Gradually he was passed from shoulder to shoulder until he was collected at the rear wall of the trench by a couple of stretcher bearers who were manning this section of the assault. He saw that almost half of the trench had been cleared of men already leaving a broad swathe of empty space where medics and stretcher teams carried the wounded back towards the reserve lines.
He smiled as his mask filled with blood and his vision faded – at least he wouldn’t have to make that trip again.
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