Marsh Silas II: Bloody Platoon

Chapter 36

"I am tired of your excuses, Cross!"

Marsh Silas stood aimlessly in front of Colonel Isaev and a retinue of his staff officers. His personal headquarters at Galen Airfield, built in the rear of Battlegroup Sonnen's entrenchments, was so warm. Candles burned on the walls, a menial stoked the coals burning in a hearth, and the lamp packs cast an inviting amber ambience. Even with its barren rockcrete floor and walls, the bunker seemed so soft—Marsh thought he could fall asleep on his feet. He blinked sleepily and lowered his pipe. A bitter smile tugged at his crooked lips.

"Sir, I am not taking my men out on those trench raids. No support, not even flares or smoke? It is not only pointless, it's madness."
"Don't you dare criticize me, Cross. I am a colonel, you are a lieutenant, you know nothing of true command."

"Aye, what do I know about the battle when my men and I are up at the front at all times and you reside here?" muttered Marsh.

"Do not test me, Guardsmen. You still draw breath only because you have von Bracken's eye. I might just have you shot and bear the Warden-Colonel's ire."

"Sir, the execution of soldiers is not as light a matter as you might think," said Commissar Carstensen, standing beside Marsh. The articles dictate quite clearly that you cannot shoot a man just for offering tactical input. Lieutenant Cross has quite accurately pointed out that the expenditure of resources and manpower for raids which produce no meaningful results is a strategic misstep."

"And you!" Isaev slammed his hand on the field desk and pointed menacingly at her. "You defend him, twisting words round' and round'! Do not think me blind to your acts also: your regimental spirit is gone and you seek only to fund that ridiculous schola. Going over my head, consorting with an officer of another regiment, you are far above your station, madam! Why, I should have you shot! Neither of you have given up names for the decimation of the regiment, nor that rat Hyram. You pathetic things, you've not the stomach for real war."

He sat back down, growled at nothing in particular, then ran his hand over his bald head. "You will not worm your way out of this one! One hour, Cross, in one hour you better move down that trench and relieve that station! Fail to obey, and I'll take away your platoon. Now, go!"

Marsh and Carstensen saluted stiffly and went to the bunker exit. "Where are those decimation listings? Good, I want them scheduled for 1600 hours..." They exited the bunker and entered the wet, morning air. Raindrops drummed on Marsh's helmet and soaked his khaki scarf. It snuffed out the ash in the bowl of his pipe.

"Thule and his Chapter Master, us and our Colonel. He grows more unhinged," said Carstensen. "His decimation will be unpopular; he believes it will improve conduct but it will only create further suspicion he is mishandling the regiment. If he is careless, he will be shot."

"If it comes to that, I pray it is your bolt pistol that does it." He emptied his pipe and tucked it away. "I do not know how von Bracken will see our toiling in all this. I wonder if the Emperor even sees. Throne, that schola seems so far away; I do not know how we can expect to get anymore men out of this hell alive." Carstensen didn't speak, just wrapped her arm his and kissed his cheek. Marsh nodded slowly. "We must go on. Darling, go back to the platoon, make them ready. I just need a little time to think." Carstensen nodded, kissed him on his bearded cheek, and departed. Marsh Silas slumped against the bunker wall and looked over the airfield. Just another minute, he thought, in someplace that is not just mud.

"Cross." Marsh's eyelids snapped back open. Isenhour stood nearby. Despite the gray, overcast sky, the weak sunlight behind the clouds struck the Scout Sergeant's helmet and cast a shadow over his eyes. He was bundled up in his own poor-weather jacket and his boots were caked with mud. "I require you." Groaning, Marsh pushed himself off the wall. Sores on his back from rough sleeping at the frontline ached. The warmth from the bunker was fleeting and the wet cold remained lodged in his bones. His first steps were staggered.