McDow's Mission - 40k Story

[Herbiie]

Takes most inspiration (Especially Imperial Guard Training Camp 28495, which looks remarkably like Malta Barracks, and McDow is very similar to one of my instructors, although less violent.) from my own Basic Training with the Territorials. Not 100% finished but would like any comments you have

McDow’s Mission
Part 1: The Replacement

Lance Corporal Steven McDow of the 45^th Cadian Regiment strode over the blood smeared dead grass, ignoring the bullets from the group of Orks to his right as he fired his lasgun at the green skinned heavy weapons team , which had entrenched itself in an old ruined farmhouse and was laying a withering fire onto McDow’s platoon. The Imperial soldier brought his weapon to his shoulder as he fired three well aimed shots into an Ork machine gunner, before dropping the weapon back down to his hip to spray the rest of his power cell into the building, the hot lasers starting small fires where they struck.

His fire team was following him, ducking from the bullets and also firing into the farmhouse, which had begun to spout great columns of smoke as the fires from the laser strikes joined together to gut the building with red hot flames. The man behind McDow went down to an Ork bullet as the veteran Lance Corporal rammed a new power cell into his gun. Even before he could begin firing he saw it was not needed – the Orks in the farm house were already pulling back, saving their green skins to fight another day. McDow waved the two surviving members of his fire team down to the grass, as he himself went prone and crawled to the casualty. It was the team’s vox operator. McDow ordered one of his men to deal with the casualty as he dragged the comms pack towards him, and requested an immediate air strike on the Ork position on his right. Throwing the receiver down without bothering to get confirmation of the strike, he brought his lasgun back into the firing position and began to suppress the Orks. Even before he had to reload a Valkyrie screamed out of the heavy clouds that engulfed the planet, to unleash a hail of rockets which tore the Orks to pieces. As the Valkyrie pulled away, the Ork position replaced by a pillar of smoke, McDow signalled his fireteam forward once more.

The Lieutenant was usually good looking. His blonde hair was grown long, longer than a soldier of the Imperial Guard’s hair normally would be, but then again, this wasn’t an ordinary campaign. The Officer’s boyish face usually was enlivened by an infectious grin; now though, it was drawn and nervous. He sat outside of his Commander’s tent, expecting, quite logically, to be treated as a fool by his superior, all because of the proposition he was about to make. The long grey weapon in his hand – an old and noble power sword, seemed to wait with a practised menace as he stroked it to calm his nerves. In his mouth was a cigarette, real tobacco being a luxury the Guard had, the only luxury in the entire mess of this blood soaked campaign. Lieutenant William Henrick was outside his officer’s tent for a simple reason – 3^rd squad of his platoon, 2 Platoon, had very few men left, dangerously few, and its commander had been killed. He was there to suggest the promotion of a certain Lance Corporal, an unpopular move with his officer, Captain Charlie Delford, who, rumour had it, had been the one to demote the twenty five year veteran from Sergeant, all those years ago.

“Sir!” William straightened as Captain Delford peered out of his tent,
“Henrick, come in, come in. I’m busy, so I’m afraid this’ll have to be quick Lieutenant.” Delford closed the tent after William had ducked through, and turned to sit behind his desk, piled high with paper work. He began to continue writing his report of the morning’s action. William took a deep breath, and began.
“Sir, I would like to recommend Lance Corporal McDow for promotion. His Squad’s commander was killed this morning, and he managed to lead his fire team in a highly successful assault on a Xenos position that had my entire platoon pinned down.”
Delford stared with outraged eyes at the young lieutenant, unable it seemed, to speak. When he did – he spoke softly, each word crackling with barely suppressed anger,
“Why do you think,” he paused, seemingly disgusted by his own words, “McDow, would be fit for command?” the Captain demanded of his lieutenant. Henrick knew it was an act; Delford wouldn’t seriously be considering McDow for promotion, would he? Perhaps Delford’s heart had been changed by the long campaign?
“Well sir, his performance on the battlefield is exemplary, every objective his fire team is given is met quickly and efficiently. Off the battlefield he is good at keeping discipline, and his men, well, his men would follow him to hell sir, and back again. Furthermore – they’d follow him to hell and expect to win. Sir.”

Once more Delford was lost for words, and Henrick knew he’d made a mistake.
“That man will never be promoted until he learns his place. He is a lance corporal damn it, and no matter what his performance on the battlefield he must give the due respect to his superiors. Recommendation refused. Get out.” Henrick was neither shocked nor surprised at the answer,
“Sir.” He answered, before smartly turning around and marching out of the tent, wondering once more what the tough veteran had done to earn such animosity from the Captain.

McDow peered through his binoculars at the edge of jungle, just nine hundred yards away, where the Orks were regrouping. He knew it wouldn’t be long before they came back, they always did. Behind him, the bodies of the green skins killed that morning were being burnt. He turned back to his squad with a sigh, and then his face hardened as he addressed his men,
“Westward! Get your bleeding helmet on now; what do you think you are? A Catachan? Wright, do your damn chin strap up, do you think you’re a Jungie too? If the Emperor, praise his name, had you lot with him when he raided Horus’s flagship he wouldn’t of made it five damn metres! By the Primarchs, you call yourselves Cadians?” the squad grinned at the display of insult and discipline. Westward and Wright obediently replaced their helmets and tightened the straps. They’d fought alongside McDow for at least a year now, and, though he shouted and cursed at them, they knew he’d see them right when the bullets are flying.

Just then, a stab of lightning came from the dark clouds that blanketed the once green planet. A heartbeat later the thunder came, along with the rain. It was usually raining. A hard slashing rain that caused the Cadian Guardsmen to huddle at the bottom of their trench, awaiting the inevitable Ork counter attack. They were the 45^th Cadians, part of the Omega Battle group that fought on the luxury world of Trinoth 5, veteran soldiers to a man who were confident of their abilities. In the past year they had fought pretty much constantly, only having a break when they were in their trenches, allowing the Imperial Navy to hammer the Ork positions before they advanced. Usually the Guard waited for the Orks to attack them, but the Omega Battle group, lead by General Cornwallis, conducted offensive operations against the Orks, using the fleet and Basilisk batteries to soften the approach. Tanks didn’t work now; the rain softened the ground so much that the great machines got bogged down. This was an Infantryman’s war.

When the Orks of Waaagh! Bludgutz had first made planetfall, the world had been a sunny place where lack of water was actually a problem. The skies were darkened as a strange side effect of repeated orbital bombardment. Even if this war was ever won, it was doubtful that the planet would once again produce the large amounts of luxuries that it did before.

A Valkyrie slowly drifted to the ground behind McDow’s position, its jets blasting the dead grass into the air. Its ramp was lowered, and from it emerged two men of the 45^th. One was Lieutenant Henrick, the other was a young man, a boy even, who couldn’t have been over the age of nineteen. His uniform was clean, his boots polished, and the end of his lasgun was shining. In comparison to the veterans, with their dirty coats, mud caked boots, and weapons blackened by repeated firing on full power, he seemed of a different world. Which, of course, he was, thought McDow drily. The boy looked as if he’d just passed basic. Probably a replacement, and though McDow’s squad was down to half strength, he hoped the raw recruit wasn’t destined for him. The ones just out of training were worst, so sure of themselves, sure that everything they’d been taught was correct, that they were ill prepared for the realities of war, especially against the Orks.

It seemed McDow’s hopes were futile, as Henrick lead the boy towards the trench,
“Lance Corporal? I’m afraid Delford refused to promote you again, but I’ve got some good news, this here is James Sipple, he’s new to your squad, and he’s already been telling me of the incorrect procedures of our base, and given me tips to improve our fighting ability! Have fun!” with that Henrick walked off to his command dug out a few yards behind the main line. Sipple stood at the edge of the trench and wondered what he’d got himself into, scared by the sight of the five pale, scruffy, and muddy men. McDow was over six foot tall, his short brown hair concealed by his battered bowl helmet. All of the men’s skin was as pale as bones, there being no sun to darken it. They were slumped on the ground, except for one who was on guard, surrounded by their equipment, with a tiny fire heating their rations in the centre. Their knuckles were scuffed, and all of them bore scars, none quite as obvious as McDow’s, which ran from his cheek bone to his mouth, a vivid red slash contrasting starkly with his bleached bone skin.

The rest of the soldiers had long hair; and all except for one’s blonde. They looked young, but their eyes were old and tired, as if they had seen much during their lives and didn’t particularly want to see any more. Which was true, come to think of it.
“I’d get down here before some Ork sharpshooter gets you, they don’t have many, but by the Emperor they’re good.” Said John Belle, the Squad’s Medic.
“Shut up Belle, and Supple, or whatever your name is, get down here now, I’d hate to have to clean our nice shiny trench because you got yourself shot.” Growled McDow
“It’s Sipple, Lance Corporal.” The recruit said as he jumped into the trench.
“You call me Boss, like the rest of ‘em. Davis! You’re meant to be on stag damnit, don’t look at me; watch the damn line you soft git! I don’t want to be overrun by greenskins because of your undying affection towards me!” Grinning once more, Davis, the Squad’s new Vox Operator, turned to stare at the jungle.

The hours passed by, Sipple crouched at the bottom of the trench unhappily contemplating life, awed and shocked in equal measure by the disregard for the field manual displayed by his new comrades. He’d even learnt that the Commissars didn’t execute soldiers on the battlefield any more, Tommy Westward explaining that it wasn’t really needed for the veteran units, all of the cowards had already been killed, and anyway, if McDow caught you hiding or running away you’d wish the commissars would kill you. Westward was the only one to talk to Sipple, he himself having been a replacement early on in the war, he knew how hard it was to integrate into the squad.
“Don’t worry yourself mate, get through your first battle and they’ll treat you normal, like. Just have to survive, that’s all there is to this business, forget everything you were taught, you learn from us. We’ve survived so far, so we must be doing something right, see?”
“Right.” Said Sipple, though he was thinking that his training had prepared him for war, what did he have to learn?

As the weather grew steadily drearier, and the rain drummed on Sipple’s helmet, the young soldier thought more and more of where he grew up, of his family, and his training. His childhood had been spent on the northern continent, among the lakes and mountains there. His family had lived in a small town, his mother a nurse at the local Medical facility, his father, of course, an old soldier. Living on Cadia during the 13^th Black Crusade, where the evil servants of chaos had invaded from the depths of the eye of terror, a huge warp anomaly inside which were horrors unknown to young Sipple, was difficult. Soldiers were continually marching through the small town, and Sipple’s mother had been very busy dealing with casualties from the frontline in the hospital. Until the age of sixteen life had been good to James, he went to school, hung around with friends, chased girls, and listened eagerly to the stories of the Cadian soldiers back from the war – all the while expecting Chaos Space Marines to appear in the bright sky and tear the world to pieces. At sixteen, however, this was changed. Because Cadia is so close to the heart of Chaos it is a Fortress world. It is surrounded by orbital defences that can be seen from the surface. That means only one thing for a sixteen year old male – conscription.


On some worlds, conscription is met with sadness, weeping mothers, boys being forced into the service. However, on Cadia, conscription has been in place for as long as anybody can remember, and now it is even a source of pride for young men and their families. From as early as the age of three, young boys are taught basic military structure. At the age of ten, they join the cadet forces, playing games in the woods with stun guns, learning basic military tactics, how to use and take care of weaponry, and how to survive in the field. Most of all, they are taught discipline. To a Cadian, discipline is all. Discipline wins battles. So, two weeks after his sixteenth birthday, with all the friends of his childhood, Sipple had marched away to join the army. He remembered the march well, how all the girls of the town had been waving them goodbye – he remembered one girl in particular. Alice Walsk. A beautiful, thin, blue eyed, fair haired girl who had been with James for as long as he could recall. Sipple thrust that memory away – the thought of their parting by the river was still as painful now as it was three years ago.

He’d marched away, to Imperial Guard Training Camp 28495. The gate opened magnetically, and on the right of the path, just inside the entrance, was an old field gun, over a thousand years old, on a plinth, surrounded by white painted chains, and, as Sipple entered the camp for the first time, currently being cleaned by two Imperial Soldiers, dressed in green shirts and trousers, their black boots shining. Behind the gun were the water and gas tanks, which supplied the base with its heating and sanitary facilities. On the left was the Mess Hall, its walls made of wooden planks, and its roof made from corrugated iron. Sipple marched a few metres further into the camp and he drew level with another, similarly constructed, building, this time with a clock tower on top, and a small mirrored window, presumably the guard room, on its side. Sipple was marched in front of the building, with a veranda at the entrance, and which a sign labelled Head Quarters, onto a small parade square. Sipple’s fellow recruits, about sixty in all, took up half of the square, while in the other half, a group of twenty or so soldiers, guarded by three corporals, packed their kit into their packs after an inspection, and began to clean their rifles.

On two sides of the square was the perimeter fence, just a metal grid with razor wire at the top, and a trench running along the inside. On one side, obviously, was the Head Quarter’s veranda. On the remaining length were two large huts, built in the same way as the mess hall and head quarters, with a path running between them, and another between the Mess Hall and the hut closest to the gate. The buildings seemed to be designed as a corridor with large rooms coming off, but with a gap between each cabin the size of the rooms themselves. These gaps were left to the open air, and there were two on each building. In one of the gaps more green uniformed soldiers were evidently being taught how to use their rifles correctly. It occurred to James that the green uniformed men were recruits, while their trainers wore the woodland camouflage of the 45^th Cadian regiment. Sipple didn’t have time to look around the camp for long, as an officer, tall and strong, stood on the veranda and gave them a welcoming speech. Sipple could remember his time at camp 28495 well.

Thinking back, what with the other training camps and facilities Sipple had been too, it hadn’t been a truly terrible place, it was even fairly relaxed, by Cadian standards. However, every minute of every day for the whole six months he spent there, the camp gave of the impression that if you put a foot wrong it could become very strict, very quickly. It was there he learnt the basics of drill, how to stand still for hours on end, not moving or talking. He learnt everything about the Cadia pattern lasgun, how to fire it, how to clean it, all of the characteristics of the weapon. They stayed in 34 man rooms, a bunk bed between two, and a locker each. The billets were split in two by a thin wall. There was a gap, about a metre wide, between each bed, while a central passage, perhaps two metres wide, ran through the middle. The buildings with the gaps turned out to be square, with two gaps on each side. The one closest to the gate was the accommodation. Each cabin was a billet, each named after famous battles of the 45^th Cadians. In the centre were the ablutions. Every morning they’d be up at 0600h, though usually they woke up earlier to give themselves time for a proper wash, and at 0630h they had a room inspection. The corporals would stride up and down the perfectly turned out beds, each with two recruits standing one behind the other to the right of it. No matter how well the recruits made the beds and cleaned the rooms the corporals always found something to complain about for the first two months, after that, the recruits found themselves able to tidy the room to the exacting standards of the instructors, and have a wash, all in the half hour between reveille and inspection.

After inspection, at 0700h, every day, was breakfast. The camp housed over one hundred and fifty recruits at any one time, though the mess hall was only big enough to seat forty, and so the recruits, unless they were lucky and got to the front, spent most of the hour allotted for breakfast queuing. Once they were given their meals they usually only had minutes to finish it, even if they went in first the instructors, who all eat while the recruits are preparing for inspection, bawled at them that it wasn’t a business lunch and to get a bloody move on. Then, after 15 minutes to make sure their kit is perfectly turned out, at 0815h it would be muster parade, and at 0830h PT – Physical Training. The rest of the day was different each time, although once a week they would go out on exercise and put the skills they learnt into practise. Thinking back, Sipple rather enjoyed himself there, although if he’d been able to go back and tell himself he was enjoying it, Sipple would have laughed at himself and not believed him. Throughout the six months, some of the recruits dropped out. Those who couldn’t hack it were sent into the Planetary Defence Force, others died. Twelve of the sixty recruits died, and twenty seven were sent to the PDF. Three of the ones who died were killed by accident during live firing exercises, one committed suicide, two more died while cleaning their weapons, both doing their drills incorrectly. Three were killed as a result of the survival exercises, one man fell to his death during the climbing training, and two more died of exhaustion during PT sessions. Those that survived and weren’t sent to the PDF were the cream of the crop, the best recruits of their cadre, and were filled with an arrogance that was shattered when they went to complete phase two of their basic training. Sipple smiled at the memory of arriving on the orbital defence platforms -

The vox crackled, throwing Sipple out of his memory induced trance.
“Here they come lads, stand to! Stand to!”
The first explosion hit the line of the jungle, tossing two large green bodies into the air. Then the Ork attack blasted from the twisted trees, while artillery pieces manned by tiny gretchin were wheeled into place. Charlie Company’s mortar platoon opened fire, the explosions from the three 98mm Cadia Pattern mortars sending limbs flying. An Ork fighter bomber fired two missiles at the imperial line, one landing short, the other exploding just behind McDow, showering him in mud. As it pulled away, the crude plane was torn in two by a Valkyrie’s cannon, which then swerved, and dived towards the ground, unleashing a storm of missiles into an Ork artillery battery. The jet swung upwards just before it hit the ground, chased by another fighter bomber that fired a missile into the Valkyrie’s wing.
“Hold your fire lads, aim for their chests, these boys don’t stand a chance!” McDow called confidently to his men. Sipple was shaking as he aimed his lasgun over the trench’s parapet. A heavy bolter to the squad’s left opened fire, tearing into the green skins as the Xenos artillery opened fire, covering the Imperial guard’s trenches in explosions. The men were dug in deep however, and suffered remarkably few casualties from the enthusiastic, if inaccurate, fire.

By now Orks were stopping to unleash a hail of bullets from their various weapons, the Orks of Waaagh Bludgutz being fond of firing their weapons. One round hit the parapet in front of McDow, who barely blinked as he was showered in yellow, dead grass.
“Get ready lads, make sure you hit your targets or standby alright?” McDow ordered,
“Standby for what?” Sipple asked Westward,
“Best not to ask mate.” The veteran soldier replied simply.

Closer and closer the green skinned menace came, screaming and shouting as they advanced across the yellowed earth. Still the Guardsmen held their fire, until the Orks came to within three hundred metres, then, and only then, did McDow give the order to open fire.

Nervously, and still shaking, Sipple pulled the trigger of his lasgun. He saw the thin red beam fly over the shoulder of one of the green skins, so he aimed lower and fired again, this time hitting the Ork in the stomach. It made little difference to the Ork, and Sipple fired again and again to no effect, and the young soldier could feel the panic rising within him. In desperation he unloaded the rest of his cell on automatic, spraying the lasers everywhere yet still not taking down a single enemy. The others were having no such problems, and the Orks were dropping like flies. Sipple tried to unclip the power cell. On the third attempt he managed it, dropping the steaming magazine to the ground, before attempting to draw another from his pouch. McDow noticed his plight, and with a disgusted scowl he took Sipple’s weapon and thrust a cell home before throwing it back at the youth and firing into the green mass.

The Orks had been stopped now, and were content to sit back and fire their ridiculously noisy weapons at the guardsmen. Then the rain stopped. A buzz, so high pitched it was barely audible, began to sound quietly in everyone’s ear. The vox sets stopped working. McDow growled at his squad to take cover. The buzz grew in intensity, and Sipple wondered what magic the Orks were brewing.

The first beam of light slammed into the Ork line, a massive explosion followed, throwing bodies into the air. Another struck down like the wrath of the Emperor himself, disintegrating a score of green skins who had been laying down a heavy fire onto McDow’s position. The orbital bombardment continued for half an hour, burning the grass around the green skins, frying them until there was nothing left. McDow peered over the lip of the trench, took off his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow, replaced it, and grinned at his men,
“Good job lads.”
Sipple vomited at the bottom of the trench. The fear was dying down now, yet McDow had told the young lad that he’d suffer from delayed shock. He said that everyone got it from time to time, even himself. McDow also told Sipple that he’d done well,
“Didn’t run away now, did you lad? That’s all we could hope for from a lizard like you in any case.”
Sipple still shook, before gulping down water from his canteen. Well, his first battle. It had hardly lasted fifteen minutes before the orbital bombardment finished it. From the way the veterans laughed and went back to eating their rations, Sipple got the impression that in a few weeks time, he would probably barely remember it. He sat back in the trench, reliving the horror that his weapon didn’t affect the beasts, not wishing to risk the displeasure or scorn of his comrades by asking for help. Sipple felt very alone.

A few minutes after the orbital bombardment, the rain came back. It hammered on the edge of the trench, and landed with a hiss on the hot barrels of the lasguns and mortars.
“Tommy?” Sipple’s voice sounded incredibly young and scared, so he tried again, “Tom?”
“What?”
“When do you reckon we’ll move out?”
“No idea mate, get some sleep, the jungies’ll move out first anyway.” Tom replied, before wrapping himself in his great coat and trying to sleep. James lay back, the rain now pattering on his face, closed his eyes and went back to the train of the thought he had been carrying before the battle.
Sipple remembered.

***

It was the first time the young recruits had been on a space ship. It was only an old Valkyrie, but the boys were giddy and excited anyway. From the small round windows they could see where they would be spending the next year of their lives, the phase 2 of their training, the Orbital Defences of Cadia. The platform they were approaching had a vast number, 62, painted on the side, ten times the height of the headquarters at camp 28495. They didn’t know much about the defences, only that each platform was the size of a city, and had huge training simulation decks, where different terrain could be loaded at the press of a button.

The Valkyrie swung gracefully towards an opening in the platform’s side, just under the huge number. It touched down with a jolt, the boys’ safety harnesses the only things stopping them from falling out of their seats. The lads took their kit bags from the over head lockers, and ran down the ramp to see their new training camp.

It was grey. Very grey. All of the walls were painted grey, the floor was a darker grey, with odd bits of yellow and black warning stripes, and the roof was grey. The soldiers, walking around the hangar on different tasks, wore grey uniforms. The recruits felt very strange in their green uniforms, the same uniforms they had worn at camp 28495. A loud and authoritative voice called out across the hangar, addressing the sergeant who accompanied the recruits,
“Are these sorry runts the latest batch from 28495?”
“Yessir.”
“Good, follow me sorry runts!”

The voice belonged to an officer, who led them through crowded corridors to their new rooms. They seemed like luxury compared to camp 28495. There were proper beds, with proper mattresses, and proper sheets. At 28495 they’d slept under rough blankets. Each bed had a locker built into the wall next to it, and, at the push of a button, the beds folded up into the wall, while still keeping the sheets in the same condition as they were. There were also only five men to a room, a single fire team. The boys with Sipple were all from camp 28495, who’d been formed into a twenty one strong platoon. One had been selected for officer training, and he led the platoon, which consisted of two squads of two fire teams. Each fire team had a fire team leader, and one of the fire team leaders also led the squad.

The first time they entered their grey rooms; new uniforms were piled neatly on the beds. Grey uniforms. They were plain grey, rather than the patterned grey of the 45^th Cadian Starship camouflage, again telling the boys that they still had a long way to go. However, they also knew that their chances of getting into the 45^th Cadian Regiment were much better than they had been when they went to camp 28495, if they could get through the first six months then they can get through the rest of it.

At Orbital Platform 62 they had no daily routine; each fire team would take it in turns to stand guard on the armoury and airlocks. When they weren’t guarding things, learning how to be bored, they were training. Learning how to fight. Being bored and fighting were the two major pass times of the Imperial Guard. The massive training simulator decks became new homes for the recruits of camp 28495, as well as the other hundred or so boys who were so quickly becoming men. They learnt how to fight in forests, cites, death worlds, jungles, waste lands, deserts and on glaciers. They learnt how to conduct raids, how to plan and carry out amphibious assaults, how to attack dismounting from Valkyries, or chimera troop carriers. They learnt, and they increased their fitness, adapting their bodies to become used to harsher environments. They became soldiers. But not Guardsmen.

Still, they thought of themselves as Guardsmen, and it wasn’t long before they were in their final 3 months, in which they took a more active role on the platform. They guarded the hangars, patrolled the corridors, kept the new arrivals in check, and even went onboard the small star frigates that endlessly patrolled the region. And, of course, they trained. And trained. Finally, three months later, the time came for their final test exercise.

That last test was back on the planet. It lasted for three weeks, and the want-to-be Guardsmen were tested on everything. Marksmanship, dismounting drills, city fighting, everything. Most now passed, the weaklings had been forced out during their arduous time at camp 28495, and the idiots had gone to the PDF while at Platform 62. Sipple passed, with ease, and it didn’t seem long before he was on his passing out parade. For the first time in a year and a half, Sipple saw his family again, and had a room to himself. Although, the girls of the village, including the beautiful Alice Walsk, now a nurse at the same facility as James’ mother, also went to the passing out parade, so he still hadn’t slept by himself.

You would have thought, with Basic Training over, that Sipple’s days of training facilities were done. No, he still had four months of post-pass out training, designed to bring him in line with the 45^th’s own specialisations. The 45^th were a spearhead Guard regiment, designed to be amongst the first to make planetfall after the Adeptus Astartes – the super humans that were the Space Marines. So Sipple became highly skilled in the art of offensive operations, how to assault enemy held trenches, amphibious assaults, and assaulting from Valkyries. He was made to feel as though he was an expert on offensive warfare, although now, under the punishing rain of Trinoth 5, the first seeds of doubt were sown in his mind. Perhaps there was more to war than he first imagined. After this, it took three months for Sipple, along with a hundred or so other recruits, to reach his new posting – the Omega Battlegroup.


A boot knocked Sipple’s helmet. It was Tommy. Sipple had been sleeping.
“Get up mate, we’re moving out in a minute. Jungies left us a half hour ago. Good bloody riddance, don’t need them here, making the place look untidy, eh?”
“Where’re we going?”
“Onwards mate, got to push these green bastards out of the jungle, there’s supposedly a plantation in there that’s full of the gits.”
“Right. So will the Catachans clear it?”
“Don’t bet on it mate. Now get up.”

Sipple dragged himself to his feet, rubbing his bleary eyes, rolled his blanket up and slung it across his shoulder, with his great coat rolled against his waist, as he had been taught.
“Listen,” said Harry Davis, the new Vox Operator, said, “There’s not much point in keeping your blanket, we’re rarely staying still enough to use it, just use your great coat, not like we ever wear them.” Despite this advice, Sipple kept his blanket. He pulled on his helmet as McDow returned from the Platoon Commander, who’d managed to keep the brutal Lance Corporal in charge of 3^rd Squad by simply not appointing another Squad Leader, and hoping that no one would notice in the chaos of the campaign.
“Alright you lizards, this is the deal. About twenty miles away, in the jungle, is a plantation. Tobacco or cocoa or something. Place called Trunby farm. The greenies are using it as a base for their damn artillery. Get your bloody guns, the platoon’s leading the advance, and we’re on point. Sipple, are you bloody sunbathing or what? Get that damn blanket off. If we’d had blockheads like you on Medusa we would never have got off that damn rock! By the Emperor if you lizards don’t get up and out of that trench in five seconds, I’ll make the Inquisition seem like PDF punishment drill. Come on – you move like old people having sex! Move it!”

The squad heaved themselves out of their trench, and headed into the Ork infested jungle.


To Be Continued...

© Jason A Herbert 2012.


Got about 2 pages of Part 2 done, but won't post it up until I've done all of it xD

[Captain Corrigan]

Well, first of all, its nice to see some new activity in this subforum, I was starting to feel like I was all alone. I haven't read all of it yet (much as I would like to, I have exams for the rest of the week and if I'm going to get anything done tonight then I need to move quickly.) Therefore i can only comment on what I did read, and that I liked. It seems to me similar to Sharpe, and has much of the same appeal of those books. I shall post up a more detailed critique at a later date, but overall I look forward to more.

-Corrigan

[Herbiie]

Yeah, I write a lot of stories (This is my first 40k one though) and my Style is very close to Bernard Cornwell, if you want to analyse it (I had to for my coursework, studying English Language) then it's really Bernard Cornwell's style with a subtle hint of Terry Pratchett (With some of the more off hand comments) - they're my two favourite authors so it makes sense!

Thanks Have begun to read some of yours too but I'm moving house this weekend so don't have much time!

[Captain Corrigan]

Now that I've remembered my promise to give more useful feedback, I've returned to the thread. As a side point while I remember (my memory has the storage capacity of a matchbox, without the matches taken out first) I was lucky enough to get to meet Bernard Cornwell last October after hearing him speak at Winchester Cathedral. A very interesting man.

Anyhow, back onto feedback. As I said, I like it lots, it has a good flow to it and barring a couple of grammatical issues (not mistakes as such, more that other punctuation might be more appropriate in one or two examples) it seems a very well constructed piece. There were one or two sections which could have scanned better, such as:

The first beam of light slammed into the Ork line, a massive explosion followed, throwing bodies into the air. Another struck down like the wrath of the Emperor himself, disintegrating a score of green skins who had been laying down a heavy fire onto McDow’s position. The orbital bombardment continued for half an hour, burning the grass around the green skins, frying them until there was nothing left.

For me, that could read better if done as

The first beam of light slammed into the Ork line, the impact followed by a massive explosion that hurled bodies into the air. Another struck home with the destructive force of a thunderstorm, and the guns firing on McDow's position fell silent as the greenskins manning them disintegrated. The orbital bombardment continued for half an hour...

Now I have taken a couple of minor liberties there in rearranging the sentences and changing some adjectives etc (and the simile, mainly because I couldn't find a way of getting that to scan properly in my head), but I think that probably works a bit better.

Hope I've helped.

-Corrigan

[Idomisei]

A very nice piece to read.
I'm on my mobile phone at the moment so I don't think I can criticise it very well.
I'll do that later when I can read it properly.
In the mean time: moarrrrr plox! ;-)

Idomisei

[Herbiie]

This part is by no means finished, posting it up so you guys can comment & that:

Part 2: Trunby Farm

The rain hammered down, smashing the leaves and branches of the canopy far above to thunder down onto the guardsmen. Westward looked up into the trees, letting the rain wash his face, before turning back to stare into the undergrowth. They’d already heard an ambush up ahead, which they supposed was the Catachans getting killed by the greenskin kommandos, the elite Ork stealth specialists that the Tactica Imperium is convinced do not exist. It was rumoured that the kommandos can turn themselves invisible, but Westward believed they were simply good at concealing themselves. He’d been fighting on this blood soaked planet for three years, and had fought the Orks before on Medusa. He thought himself to be fairly expert on Orks, and he knew that some enjoyed driving as quickly as possible, others loved to try and rip their enemies limbs apart, and others simply stood back and fired their weapons. He assumed Kommandos got their entertainment from ambushes, and slitting throats.

And these throat slitting, sneaky, camouflaged bastards were in the jungle. Tommy could feel their eyes watching them as they passed, and he stared into the trees, daring an Ork to appear. They marched, and marched. Every half a mile or so they stopped, letting the stragglers catch up, and the heavily laden vox operators and heavy weapons teams get their breath back. The going was slow, the Guardsmen pushing their way through the thick branches of the jungle. Their feet were beginning to burn as they thrust themselves forward, blisters forming and popping, blood saturating their boots. After two miles or so they came across the first ambush site. Two Catachans, neither with helmets on, lay by the track that had been cut by the jungie’s sentinels, the long legged walkers being the only vehicles that worked on the mud laden planet, both with their throats laid open to the drenched sky, the rain water washing the wounds so they looked unnatural and white. Another Catachan was on the ground a few yards away, a hole in his chest large enough to punch a fist through, and a blackened figure showed that at least one of the kommandos had been killed; its body purged by a flamer to make sure it was dead. The Orks are notoriously hard to kill, with some being shot multiple times by large calibre heavy weapons, only to wake up hours later, and jumping straight at the closest target. So the Omega Battlegroup had learnt to burn all the corpses they found, just to be sure. Sipple vomited as he past them, while Westward kept glancing at the maggots that had begun to gather in the open wounds of the guardsmen. McDow didn’t even look down as he stepped past the dead.

They stumbled across similar scenes multiple times as the Catachans ran into ambushes, each one sharpening the paranoia that every member of the squad felt, except possibly McDow. The guardsmen stared into the jungle, jumped at every movement. Sipple, in his nervous state, even blew a snake to pieces when it writhed across a branch. McDow simply scowled at the recruit, and pressed on, seemingly unconcerned by the horror that gripped the rest of the platoon.

It didn’t help that the next squad was over a hundred metres behind them, barely visible through the thick rain. If the squad was ambushed, help wouldn’t arrive until it was too late. It was that, or have the whole platoon go down in one ambush, the 45th having learnt from bitter experience that a series of small ambushes is preferable to one larger ambush, and that the kommandos were loathe to waste effort ambushing a small group. They marched with bayonets fixed.

When the first ambush came, the squad were lucky. Very lucky. McDow, as always, was leading from the front, followed by Davis, then Westward and Sipple, with Belle and Wright bringing up the rear. A greenskin rose from the right hand side, from a patch of leaves that Westward had thought nothing of, right behind McDow, one hand reaching around to grab the veteran’s mouth, the other holding a large, jagged, rusty knife, ready to end the Lance Corporal’s life. But McDow had survived countless ambushes, and as soon as the Ork leapt he was spinning round, ripping a bolt pistol out of a thigh holster on his right leg, and putting a single explosive round into the beast’s eye. Black blood and grey brains covered Davis and the short haired guardsman as the Ork slumped to the ground. Westward turned towards a crashing sound on his left to see another creature tearing through a tree to attack him, and unloaded a whole power cell into the Ork’s body, then bayoneting it when it fell. An Ork’s weapon barked a short burst behind him, then there was silence. The squad waited, but it seemed as if the Kommandos were gone. The squad continued to wait, crouched, with their weapons raised, as the rest of the platoon caught up. To make sure no more greenskins waited in the dark trees a flamer was used to burn the undergrowth away, as well as the two Xenos corpses, and then the platoon pressed on, towards Trunby.


It came as a blessed relief when they reached the harbour area for the night. They had only gone five miles is as many hours. After digging small holes and shell scrapes, the exhausted soldiers slumped into the shelters, spreading their great coats over themselves as they ate, slept, and cleaned their weapons. The short pattern lasgun was fairly simple to clean, its internal parts are entirely enclosed, and so it only requires a wipe and a quick oiling to bring it from being coated in mud to become serviceable once more. The whole process only took a matter of minutes. Westward enjoyed it, it was simple and he could let his mind wander as he took care to scrape every scrap of mud off of the weapon.

Westward was twenty five years old, still young, although many Cadians were slaughtered in the eternal battle between the stars long before their twenty fifth birthday. He’d seen many campaigns, not least the great battles on Medusa V. He’d survived the Yulg massacre, held the forts on Gemin Prime, saw the line break at the Battle of Parallax. He’d even witnessed firsthand the destruction that the Leviathan Hive Fleet brought in its path. He’d battled the arcane forces of Chaos, desperately held against the Tyranids, and duelled with the firepower of the Tau. Yet most of all, he’d stood his ground, with nothing more than lasgun and bayonet, against the Orks. The greenskin menace that never stopped, that always returned to fight again.

World after world was consumed by them, and the more forces the great Imperium of Man committed to stop an Ork Waaagh, the more Orks were attracted to the battle. It was a never ending cycle, which only the cleansing fire of exterminatus could break. Yet here the Imperium was, at it again. Although this time, there was a difference: General Cornwallis. General Cornwallis led the Battlegroup, the Omega Battlegroup. He had under his direct command a billion guardsmen, and over a million regiments. He had a hundred Emperor class battleships, and a horde of cruisers, frigates and destroyers guarding the planet’s orbit. While this blockade ensured no new Ork reinforcements could blast their way through to the planet’s surface, his foot soldiers swarmed forward with lasguns and bayonets and sheer courage to slaughter the Orks. Since the Omega Battlegroup had arrived, taking over from the almost annihilated garrison, just over half the planet had been reclaimed. Cornwallis expected at least another year of vicious fighting before the Orks were finally pushed off of the planet, and Westward would, hopefully, be marching all the way. That or dead, or even worse wounded as so many others are, sent to the overcrowded medical facilities on overcrowded planets.

Tom could barely even remember growing up, although his basic training experience will stay with him forever – just like everyone else’s will. Though every Cadian’s training is almost exactly the same, they all spend time swapping stories of instructors and exercises, all trying to outdo one another, and prove that they had the worst time. Some of the stories were even true.


The guardsmen of the 45th were doing this now. Each squad had dug their own fire trench, facing outwards. McDow was with the platoon commander, filling in a form for Lieutenant Henrick to add to his daily report back to company headquarters, so they were free to talk about him behind his back.
“McDow’s not too bad,” said Wright, “I had a Corporal in basic who was much worse. Used to wake us up each morning by throwing a photogrenade into the billet at six, dead on – even on our first night at base.” Sipple was out on sentry, alongside Belle, so Westward, Davis, and Wright were huddled in their trench, great coats pegged down over the top to keep the worst of the rain off.
“Want to make up a name for this corporal, like you always do?” Davis smiled as he mocked the younger man.
“Mate – you don’t know the half of it, you had a cushy camp I bet, luxury meals, sheets and the like. Some of us had to deal with some right bastards.”
Westward rested his head against the earth wall and listened to the banter, slowly drifting into sleep. He dreamt, dreamt of home, the town in which he grew up, and of long-dead friends.

A shout jerked him awake, two words that were so often said through the Guard, two words that struck fear into the hearts of the defenders of the Imperium across the Universe.

“Stand to! Stand to!” Stand to – grab your weapons, fix bayonets and hold your ground against the green storm.

Tom thrust the greatcoat over his head aside as Sipple and Belle slid into the trench. Five lasguns pointed over the lip of the trench to aim into the jungle. Anticipation flowed through Westward’s tired veins. His bayonet wavered as he tried to concentrate on the sights of his weapon. He realised he was holding his breath, and let it out slowly. It felt like an age before the first Ork appeared, but in reality it was only a few seconds. A high power shot from Tom’s lasgun sent the beast back into the trees clutching its stomach. Then all hell broke loose.


Fifty or so Orks charged out of the tree line, screaming as they fired their stubby pistols towards the soaking guardsmen. More stayed in the trees, plastering the Imperial line with bullets. With McDow nowhere to be seen, Westward screamed at the others to open fire. Lasers crisscrossed the burning tracers of the Ork munitions. Rain hissed into steam when it met the lead and super-heated light. Belle snatched a trio of quick shots into the chest of an advancing greenskin. It fell, then dragged itself back up again to continue its mad charge. The platoon’s heavy weapons team opened fire with their heavy bolters, the explosive rounds shredding the beasts, as if an invisible scythe was cutting them down.

Yet still they came, more pouring out of the trees. Almost a hundred Orks rushed towards the platoon from every direction. A guardsman ran from the command trench towards the squad, but three bullets tore into his leg. A soldier from a different squad ran to help him. He grabbed the fallen man’s body armour and slowly dragged him back towards the platoon’s chief medic. A rocket screamed out of the trees, landing a few metres short of Westward, throwing broken branches into the air. Another blasted past. It hit the wounded soldier, annihilating him and bloodily tearing his rescuer’s leg into scraps. A mortar fired, the round landing amongst a group of Orks, killing all of them and throwing green body parts high into the air. One of the greenskins ran straight at the squad’s trench, shrugging off the las bolts that hit it. It was a huge beast, saliva dripping from its open gaping jaw, its red eyes full of malice and hate, a massive metal claw over its right hand, and a pistol in its other. Closer and closer it got, the whole squad firing into it, their weapons seeming to do no damage, despite pitting the thing’s skin with smoking holes. Just before it leapt into the trench, a heavy bolter turned and smashed three rounds into the beast. Bits of Ork rained down into the trench, its claw almost decapitating Sipple.

More Orks closed on the trench. One was felled by a volley from the squad, but four more jumped towards them. Westward parried a wild slash from an Ork sword, then thrust forward with his bayonet. An axe glanced off of Belle’s helmet, forcing him to the ground. Wright hacked at another that had tripped and fallen into the bottom of the trench. Sipple was desperately trying to stop one from cutting him in two. Westward’s bayonet slid into the Ork in front of him’s thigh, then dodged its ragged dagger, tripping on the unlit stove behind him. Belle fired the rest of his power cell into the beast he was fighting, forcing it down. Before he could finish it off with his bayonet, another jumped and punched him in the face. Wright turned and stabbed forward with his bayonet, distracting the Ork attacking Sipple.

Westward made a wild swing with his bayonet, but the Ork standing above him caught the barrel of his lasgun and dragged it out of his hands, then raised its ugly weapon in its ugly hand, ready to thrust down. A bead of rain formed a droplet on the point of the jagged knife. The Ork had a scar over one eye. Its remaining eye was still a bright, evil red. One of its lower fangs was broken in half, and two fingers were missing from its right hand. Westward stared into its single eye, and saw a smile break out on its face as it thrust the dagger, chuckling, towards him.


McDow was with Lieutenant Henrick when the order to stand to was given. He turned from the young officer just as Westward shot the first Ork by the trees. His first reaction was to try to reach his squad, but the heavy fire erupting from the jungle forced him back into the command trench. He brought his lasgun into the aim and started to calmly take down targets. He shot an Ork armed with a huge double handed axe, then hit another with a rusty machine gun. McDow and a runner tried to reach the squad, but a bullet clanged off of McDow’s helmet to throw him back into the trench. The runner was hit halfway between the two trenches. Rockets, aimed at the command trench – marked out as a target by the vox antenna bristling all over it, spread explosions all over the Guard’s position. A man who tried to rescue the wounded runner was hit. McDow made another attempt to reach his squad as the Ork Nob charged towards them, but the blast from an explosion again threw him bodily back into the trench. He screamed at a heavy bolter crew to target the huge beast, and saw it explode under the bolter’s rounds. Bringing his rifle back up to his shoulder he snapped five more shots towards the Orks storming towards his squad’s position.
Then, suddenly, his men disappeared under green bodies. He saw an axe raised above the melee, the rain crashing off of it as it whipped back down. McDow turned to the young Lieutenant.

“Follow me sir!”


Westward twisted to one side as the knife came down, thumping into the trench floor an inch from his shoulder. Tom tried to kick the Ork’s legs from under it, but it was like trying to kick down a tank. With its freehand, the Ork grabbed Westward by the throat and lifted him into the air. Sipple and Wright both stabbed their bayonets into the stomach of another Ork, while Belle was pinned to the ground by a third beast.

McDow crashed into the trench like an avenging angel, his bayonet stabbing forward into the spine of the one-eyed Ork, who dropped Westward and turned to swat aside McDow, who simply fired a burst into its midriff, before stepping forward and thrusting his bayonet home into the Ork’s remaining eye. Lieutenant Henrick sliced once with his power sword. The head of an Ork fell on top of Belle, the creature’s lifeless form slumping into the back of the trench. The rest of the command team unleashed a vicious volley over the top of the fighting men’s head into more Orks who were coming to exploit the breach in the harbour area’s defences. The green bodies fell, sliding in the grass to leave trails of mud.

[Herbiie]

Ok now I have some time, going to write some more of this.

[Idomisei]

Can't give you proper feedback at the moment (I'm on my cellphone at work) but I'll look into this tommorow.
I've skimmed it a bit and it looks good (^_^)