Making Heroes of Men

The tortured death cries of the left flank cut through the morning
mist like razors. The first strike had come where the Colonel had
predicted. But there was little time to lament the passing of the
comrades as the wall of chitin hit hard and fast across the entire
line.

Hooks and claws wrenching limbs from bodies, and piercing
thrusts spilling intestinal tracks in the mud and turf. Never before
have I seen such a fearsome sight. The intensity of these creatures is
unparalleled in any other species; their thirst for the kill, their
unemotional necessity to spill blood. It’s inhuman.

Yet still the battle line held. I could not believe that
mere men could receive such a charge and still stand their ground.
Where a man fell another took his place, rebuffing the assaults and
holding the line firm. This wasn’t the desperate struggle of a man
fighting for his life, nor was it the impeccable resilience exhibited
by the Adeptus Astartes. This was two platoons of men doing everything
they can to protect their homes, their families. They would not break.
They could not break.

As I stand here recording this entry, some two hundred
metres behind the battle line, the smell of blood and sweat is
overpowering. The screams fill my ears, screams of death, of defiance,
and the ever-present chatter of the bugs.

The other side of the battle line, stretching away across
the plains and into the desert beyond is a sea of tyranids. A swarming
mass of destruction, pushing forward relentlessly. Surrounded by
hundreds of smaller bugs the larger creatures present themselves; the
terrifying Carnifex rolling back it’s head and letting out the most
twisted scream I’ve ever heard; the unnaturally intelligent Hive
Tyrant, directing the flow of the swarm, pausing only to fire it’s vile
bioweapon into the centre of the line; the hideous beast name the Red
Terror, stalking down the left flank, pushing on towards the brave
defenders. What could possibly stop these vile monstrosities?

From behind me a squadron of armoured transports, Chimerax
class I believe, roll past and form a secondary line midway between
myself and the wall of death. The rear doors drop down and out pour the
heavy support squads. Two men teams lugging their unwieldy weapons up
the small embankment. After scant moments checking their equipment the
first shot rings out. A short burst from an autocannon taking down one
of the larger warriors. Other shots follow; a lascannon blast rips the
head from a lictor and then the most glorious sight I’ve seen since my
arrival on this forsaken planet. One guardsmen, heavy set with hair far
longer than regulations permit rocks back with recoil. The krak missile
sears over the heads of the guardsmen and bugs alike, striking the
Tyrant full in the chest. The creature reels back with the blast,
knocked off its’ feet and crushing two termagants who were skulking
behind.

The heavy weapons squads let out a mighty cheer. Their
comrades to involved in combat to see the shot, but the cries of their
brothers spur them on and they redouble their efforts.

But still the bugs come. How can this be? If the tyrant is
dead who is co-ordinating the attack? It is known that the tyranid
forces have strong instincts that can direct their actions when they
are not in contact with the hive mind, but they still move as a single
unit. The termagants and hormagants at the front of the fighting are
strafing apart, leaving a large wedge in the centre of the battle line.
The Lieutenant holds his men steady, to charge into the gap would mean
certain death, but why have they parted? Then the answer comes. From
the very rear of the swarm charging down the centre at tremendous
speeds come the Stealers.

They dwarf a normal man. Even the mighty Battle Brothers of
the Space Marine Legions would have to look up to face these beasts.
Four arms waving wildly, all tipped in three pronged claws, all
beckoning the guardsmen to their inevitable death. No ordinary man
could survive the impending onslaught.

“There!” calls out one of the missile launcher loaders. His
arm pointing to the right of the swarm. And true enough, there in the
trees at the edge of the plain, surrounded by some sort of entourage is
another Tyrant. All four lascannons draw beads on the beast and open
fire. Their shots all flail wild, but they fire again and again.
Meanwhile the autocannons, heavy bolters and missile launchers are
directing their fire at the Genestealers. If they hit the line full
strength it’s over. The Colonel is running across the back of the line
from his position on the left flank, where the fighting is thickest.
He’s screaming at the Chimerax drivers, pointing at the centre of the
battle line. With a mighty roar all three transports burst into life
and roll down the embankment to the battle line.

They won’t last long against the claws of the stealers, but
they’ll last a lot longer than flak armour. If those lascannons can
take out the tyrant maybe the swarm will be disorientated enough for
the reserves to move in and push them back.

On the right the tyrant’s retinue has been whittled down to
only a couple. The tyrant would be long dead but those cursed guards
keep throwing themselves into the line of fire, sacrificing their lives
so the tyrant survives. It’s a curious trait in these killers. It’s
almost a nurturing characteristic, as if they were evolved to defend
rather than attack. However their evolution proves inadequate against
the mighty firepower of the Imperial Guard and the last one falls to
the ground, a smoking hole in it’s chest cavity. All four lascannons
mark their targets and fire simultaneously. The Hive Tyrant veritably
explodes, showering the trees with purple ichor.

Immediately the loss presents itself in the swarm. The bugs
at the rear start to mill around, too far from the fighting to be drawn
in, most begin attacking each other. Instinctive animosity shows as the
termagants and hormagaunts begins attacking each other.

The Genestealer threat is now only metres from the front
line. The massed heavy weaponry has reduced the swarm size by half, but
still they come, and still they pose a great danger. The first five
crash into the Chimerax squadron, sinking their claws into the armoured
hull, ripping away the heavy bolters and access hatches. I was correct;
these transports will only last a matter of moments before they are
shredded.

“NOW” yells the Colonel. Again he’s waving in my general
direction, this time at the heavy weapons crews. Acting on orders I was
not privy to, all nine heavy weapons open fire, but not at the now
obscured tyranid threat. This time they’re targeting their own
transports! The combined fire soon penetrates the soft rear armour of
the vehicles and within seconds of the Colonel’s order a massive
explosion marks the simultaneous destruction of all three Chimera
variants.

When the smoke has cleared not only are the three wrecks
wracked with flames, they are also covered in alien blood. All twenty
stealers were caught in the explosion and not one is left standing.
Again the heavy weapons teams let out a cheer. I look for the Colonel
to catch his reaction, but he’s already embedded in the middle of the
left flank, his power sword swinging over his head as he cleaves apart
the aliens with relative ease.

At last the reserve squads charge forward, bolstering both
flanks, the centre of the battle line now protected by three smoking
Chimerax. With the extra surge the remaining tyranids are actually
being forced back. I find it incomprehensible. These men are going hand
to hand with tyranid monsters and actually showing a possibility of
winning.

Again a rumbling over my left shoulder catches my
attention. It’s the 8th armoured division. Great news, for this surely
means they were successful on the south ridge. The squadrons of Leman
Russ battle tanks form an assault line and open fire. The huge battle
cannons lob shells the size of a tyranid warrior’s head into the midst
of the swarm. The constant bombardment soon begins to scatter the
swarm; huge holes are opening in their numbers. Where once a vicious
group of hormagaunts stood is now only a crater.

Within only a few minutes the remnants of a once foreboding
hive swarm is scattered, fleeing towards the desert. Those embedded in
the action too overcome by the heat of the battle to comprehend fight
on, taking down many a good soldier in the process.

22 minutes after the arrival of the 8th the ominous task of
counting the dead can begin. The battle is over. The guardsmen were
victorious, though I use that word only in the sense that they are
still alive. Out of the three platoons involved in this battle, I think
I can see only one or two men walking upright. The rest are crawling or
hobbling away from the plains, using their lasguns as crutches where
possible. The death toll is tremendous on either side, approximately
80% on our side.

However today I have witnessed a great display of the
indomitable strength of the human spirit. Though outnumbered and out
classed in hand to hand, these men fought bravely, or maybe
foolhardily, against a fearsome foe and survived. Their homes are safe
and their families alive.

Of all the men present today I have three men to recommend
for honours. The Colonel obviously must once again receive the highest
commendation for his leadership and skill. The lascannon operator, one
Pvt F. Jayden, is recommended for marksmanship befitting guardsman.
Without his excellence this battle may well have gone to a rather more
sinister outcome. Finally I suggest that the missile loader, Pvt T.
Harke, is transferred to the nearest training school to be inducted
into a scout company. His keen observation under the heat of an intense
battle should be duly noted and I believe his talents could be better
used elsewhere.

Thus I conclude this report, a testament to the fighting men of the 7th Kataan Division, Kataan IV.

J. Defst, Honours Commission, Imperial Guard Division.

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