Amazed； Larn saw a battle…scarred sergeant in a grey…black greatcoat stride past him leading a
ragtag band of Vardans in a counter…charge against the orks。 Moving at a slow walk； firing from the
hip with shotguns； lasguns and flamers blazing； they advanced towards the oncoming orks； taking a
gruesome toll of the enemy with every step towards them。 While before them orks screamed and
died； the sergeant led his men forward with bullets and lasbeams flying all around him； his pace
never faltering； his voice a clear beacon of authority among the confusion of battle。 Watching the
sergeant lead his men from the front； his every gesture calm and unafraid； Larn found himself
wondering if one of the long…dead saints of the Imperium had somehow regained human form and
now walked among them。 The sergeant seemed immortal。 Unkillable。 Like a hero from the tales
they told in the scholarium。
A legend； leading his men to victory。
“Forward！” the sergeant yelled； the counterattack gaining momentum as every man still alive in
the trenches gathered to advance beside him。 “Keep on firing。 Forward and advance！”
Following the sergeant’s lead the advance continued； the constant fire of the Vardan guns and
the slow measured pace of their progress seemed every bit as relentless and unstoppable as had the
orks’ charge earlier。 Until； wilting before the remorseless ferocity of the Vardans’ attack； the orks
did something which Larn had never thought he would live to see。
They turned and ran。
Watching the surviving orks run back towards their lines； Larn slowly became aware of a brief
hush falling across the battlefield as the Vardans’ advance halted and they stopped firing。 Soon； as it
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became plain the orks’ attack was ended； new sounds broke the silence： the cries of wounded men；
the shouts of their comrades calling for a medic； the noise of nervous laughter and disbelieving
oaths as other men found they were still very much alive。 Hearing those sounds； Larn felt the
tension abruptly leave him as the realisation hit him that he had survived。 Still kneeling over the
body of the dead gretchin； he looked down at the thing’s rained face in with sudden queasiness；
afraid he was going to vomit。 Then； he saw a shadow fall across him as a nearby Guardsman came
to stand beside him。
“You must be a new fish？” a cynical voice asked him。 “One of the new groxlings to the
slaughter they sent us in the lander？ I think this belongs to you。”
Looking up； Larn found himself staring at an ugly dwarfish Vardan with a shaven head and a
mouthful of stained and crooked teeth。 The Vardan was holding a lasgun in each hand； one of which
Larn recognised sheepishly as his own gun — the same weapon he had lost earlier。
“Here； new fish；” the rant said； giving him a sardonic broken…toothed smile as he tossed the
lasgun towards him。 “Next time you need to kill a gretch； you might try using this。”
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CHAPTER SEVEN
13：39 hours Central Broucheroc Time
The Field Station — Lessons in Futility； Parts One & Two — Friends & Heroes Awaiting Disposal
— Welcome to the 902ND Vardan — Corporal Vladek and the Distribution of Resources —
Meeting Sergeant Chelkar and an Addition to Davir’s Woes
Pausing for a moment to catch his breath while he waited for the stretcher bearers to bring another
patient； Surgeon…Major Martus Volpenz was surprised to realise how inured he had become to the
sound of men screaming。 Around him； the walls of the apothecarium field station reverberated with
it constantly。 He could hear men shouting； begging； moaning； shrieking； muttering profane oaths
and whispering half…remembered prayers。 Not for the first time； ever mindful that it was his calling
to alleviate the pain of others； the surgeon…major looked about him at the place where he practised
his craft and felt despair。
To a man less accustomed to it； the dimly lit interior of the field station’s main operating theatre
might have been mistaken for a scene from hell。 Along one wall of the station； hundreds of severely
wounded men lay in litters stacked four men high on a series of metal racks。 Against the other wall a
dozen exhausted surgeons worked feverishly to clear the most urgent cases from tables that stank
with the blood that stained every surface of the floors and walls。 For each man they healed； a dozen
more men waited amid the suffocating stink of blood and pus and death； desperately wailing and
pleading for help in a cacophony of suffering that never reached its end。
“Stomach wound；” his surgical assistant Jaleal said； breaking into his thoughts。 “He’s been given
morphia；” he added； checking the treatment notification tag on the patient’s ankle as the stretcherbearers
lifted the unconscious form of a wounded Guardsman onto the operating table before them。
“Two doses。”
Taking a pair of scissors； Jaleal removed the tag； before cutting away the Guardsman’s tunic in
blood…encrusted strips to reveal the wound hidden beneath it。 Then； taking a wet cloth from a bucket
at the foot of the table； he washed the worst of the blood away from the edges of the wound。
“Looks like a through and through；” he said。 “From the size of the wound I’d say an ork gun was
the culprit。 The blood’s dark。 Looks like his liver’s been punctured。”
“Give him some ether somnolentus。” Volpenz said； taking a scalpel from a tray of instruments
nearby as he stepped to the side of table。 “Standard dosage。”
“We have none；” Curlen； his other assistant； said。 “We used what was left on the last patient。”
“What about the other anaesthetics？” Volpenz said。 “The nitrous oxide？”
“Gone as well；” Jaleal said。 “If he wakes up we’ll just have to hold him down。”
“At least tell me we have some blood plasma left？” Volpenz said。 “If I have to go digging
around this man’s insides in search of a wound in his liver he’s going to bleed like a stuck pig。”
“Not a drop；” Jaleal said； shrugging in helplessness。 “Remember the sucking chest wound
twenty minutes ago？ He got the last of it。”
“How much blood is there in the overspill bag； Jaleal？” Volpenz asked。
Ducking his head under the table； Jaleal checked the contents of the transparent bag underneath
it designed to catch the blood bleeding out of the patient as it oozed along the disposal gutters set in
the table’s sides。
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“About half a litre；” he said； pulling the bag up from beneath the table。 “Maybe three…quarters。”
“All right；” Volpenz said。 “Replace that bag with a new one and use the contents of the one
you’ve got to autosanginuate him。”
“You want to transfuse him with his own blood？” Jaleal said。 “There’s barely enough in here to
keep a dog alive； never mind a man。”
“There’s no other choice；” Volpenz said； leaning forward with a practiced hand to make the first
incision。 “He’ll die anyway if this wound isn’t seen to。 Now； look sharp； gentlemen。 We’re going to
have to do this fast； before he bleeds to death。”
Cutting an incision to open the wound； Volpenz quickly peeled back the skin around it and fixed
a clamp in place to keep it open。 Then； while beside him Jaleal used his cloth to mop at the blood
welling in the wound cavity； Volpenz searched desperately for the source of the bleeding。 It was
hopeless。 There was so much blood in the wound he could hardly see a thing。
“Vital signs are weak；” Curlen said； his fingers at the man’s neck to feel his pulse。 “We’re losing
him。”
“Lift his legs up； Jaleal。 It’ll send more blood to his heart；” Volpenz said。 “I only need a few
more seconds。 There！ I think I’ve found it。 He’s got a tear in the main artery leading to the liver。”
Pushing his hands deep into the wound cavity Volpenz clamped the bleeding artery shut。 Only to
find his hopes frustrated as； abruptly； the cavity began to fill with blood once more。
“Damnation！ There must be another bleeder！ Curlen； how’s he doing？”
“I can’t find a pulse anymore； sir。 We could try to manually resuscitate him？”
“No；” Volpenz said； throwing his bloody scalpel down on the instrument tray in frustration。 “It
wouldn’t do any good。 He’s bled out。 The round probably hit a rib and caused bone fragments to
perforate his liver in a dozen places。 Clear the table。 We can’t save this one。”
Grabbing a piece of discarded cloth to clean his hands； Volpenz stepped away from the table；
pausing only to glance at the dead Guardsman as Curlen signalled for the stretcher bearers to take
him away。 How old was he； he thought。 He looks to be in his forties； but that means nothing here。
Broucheroc has a way of aging a man。 He might only be in his early thirties； even late twenties。
Then； as they lifted the dead man’s body from the table； Volpenz noticed an old scar in the patient’s
side。 He’s been wounded before； he thought。 And patched up。 I wonder； was it my work or someone
else。 Doesn’t matter now； I suppose。 Whoever saved the poor bastard’s life before； there was no
saving him this time。
Sighing； he turned away to gaze once more at the confines of the operating room around him。 As
he did； he realised how little good could be done there for the dying and suffering men who came to
the field station day after day。 It’s not the war or even the orks that kills most of them； he thought。
It’s the shortages。 We’re short of anaesthetics； antibiotics； plasma； even the most basic of medical
equipment。 Short it seems of everything except pain； death and futility。 Here in Broucheroc； these
things at least are never in short supply。
Then； as he made to throw away the cloth he had used to clean his hands； Volpenz noticed
something was written on it。 Looking at it more closely； he saw there was a name stencilled in the
cloth。 Repzik。 Abruptly； he realised the cloth must have come from the dead Guardsman’s tunic —
one of the pieces Jaleal had cut away earlier to reveal the man’s wound。 Repzik； Volpenz thought
sadly。 So that was what his name was。 Then； just as abruptly； he realised that it made no difference。
Whatever name the man had come here with； he did not need it now。
In the shadow of the dugout emplacements； a little way behind the trenches； the corpses of the men
killed in the last hour…and…a…half had been piled in a line three cadavers deep。 Their feet bootless；
their bodies stripped of their equipment； some with faces wrapped in concealing cloth； others with
dead features left naked to the biting cold： all of them laid haphazardly atop each other like so many
logs ready for the burning。 Like firewood； Larn thought as he stood gazing down on the dead bodies
of the men who had made the journey with him from Jumael IV。 Men he had known and liked。 Men
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who had crossed the unimaginable distances of the void only to waste their lives on the wrong
planet and in the wrong campaign。 His comrades； now reduced to nothing more than a temporary
landmark in the unforgiving and war…torn landscape he saw all about him。 For what？ To Larn； it
seemed the most pointless of the many horrors he had witnessed already in this desolate place。 A
lesson in utter futility。
Hearing the protesting squeal of a rusted axle； Larn turned to see four bent…backed old women
bundled in ragged layers of civilian dress pushing an empty handcart across the f