embarrassment； while even Davir avoided Larn’s eyes as though feeling the same vague sense of
discomfort as the others。 Only Zeebers looked his way。 Staring back at him； Larn found himself
party to an unwelcome insight。 Zeebers hated him。 Though why； or for what reason； he could not
even begin to guess。
“What is this fifteen hours？” Larn said at last to break the silence。 “Repzik said something about
it just before the last attack。 And Corporal Vladek mentioned it as well。 He said he would issue me
e back to see him again in fifteen hours’ time。”
Long moments passed and no one answered。 Instead there was only more silence while Davir；
Scholar； and Bulaven looked uneasily at one another as though mentally drawing lots to decide
which of them would perform an unwelcome duty。 Until at length； still refusing to meet Larn’s eyes；
Davir finally spoke。
“Tell him； Scholar。”
In response Scholar fidgeted for a moment before； clearing his throat； he turned to face Larn
directly。
“It is a matter of statistics； new fish；” Scholar said with a pained expression。 “You must
understand that in many ways every marshal and general at headquarters is as much a bureaucrat as
the most pedantic scribe in the Administratum。 To them war is not just a thing of blood and death；
nor entirely a question of tactics and strategy。 To them； it is as much as anything a matter of
calculation。 A calculation based on casualty reports； rates of attrition； the numbers of units in the
field； estimates of the enemy’s strength； and so on； all the myriad facts and figures that； together；
can be used to establish a mathematics of slaughter。 Every day； from all over Broucheroc； these
figures are recorded； collated and sent to General Headquarters for the bean counters there to work
on them。 As for this fifteen hours that Zeebers mentioned； it is one of the products of these daily
calculations。”
“You are over complicating things again； Scholar；” Davir said。 “It does no good to sugar the pill
for the new fish。 He asked a direct question； you should answer him accordingly。”
“It is a matter of life expectancy； new fish；” Scholar sighed。 “Fifteen hours is the average length
of time a replacement Guardsman survives in Broucheroc after he has been posted to a combat unit
at the frontlines。”
“A replacement Guardsman？” Larn said； still unsure whether he fully understood what Scholar
had just told him。 “Like me； you mean？ Is that what you are telling me？ That’s how long you expect
me to survive here？ You think I am going to be dead inside fifteen hours？”
“Less than that； new fish；” Zeebers said； his tone smug and mocking。 “You must have been here
at least three hours by now。 Leaving you only twelve hours left。 Maybe less。 Why do you think
Vladek told you to return to him in fifteen hours？ He didn’t want to risk wasting a lot of good
equipment on a dead man。”
“Shut up； Zeebers；” Bulaven rumbled。 For a moment Zeebers glared back at him until； seeing
the angry expression on the big man’s face； he dropped his eyes to look down at the mud of the
trench floor in sullen silence。 “Tell him that isn’t the way it is； Scholar；” Bulaven began again； his
expression softening and his voice almost pleading。 “Explain it to him。 Tell him we have every faith
he will still be alive tomorrow。”
“What； you think we should lie to him？” Davir said to Bulaven。 “Zeebers here may be an evil
little shit with a big mouth； but at least he was telling the truth。 You think we should treat the new
fish like a child？ Tell him that everything will be all right？ That his kindly old uncles Davir； Scholar
57
and Bulaven will keep him safe from the mean and nasty orks？ Even after ten years of your fatheaded
stupidity； you never cease to amaze me； Bulaven。”
“It wouldn’t be lying； Davir；” Bulaven said sulkily。 “There is nothing wrong with giving a man
some hope。”
“Hope； my arse；” Davir spat。 “I keep telling you； fat…man： hope is a bitch with bloody claws。
You’d think after ten years in this damned hellhole you would have learned that lesson by now at
least。”
“All the same； Bulaven is not entirely wrong；” Scholar said； turning towards the others to join
the discussion。 “The new fish does indeed have some small cause for hope。 True。 General HQ may
have calculated the life expectancy of a replacement to be fifteen hours。 But that is only an average
figure。 Perhaps the new fish will be more fortunate。 He could survive longer。 He has already beaten
the odds once already by surviving that landing。”
“Phah。 Sometimes； Scholar； you can be as bad as Bulaven；” Davir said。 “But where he witters on
about hope and optimism； you act like you were still in the scholarium。 You would do better to
remind yourself we are in the real world here。 Your talk of odds and averages is all very well； but
this is Broucheroc。 It doesn’t matter that the new fish survived the landing。 Any more than it matters
whether or not you and Bulaven try to coddle him。 He is as good as a corpse already。 A dead man
walking。 Trust me； the orks will see to that。 There’s nothing they like better than a new fish； still wet
behind the ears and ready for the gutting。”
“All I am saying is that we are perhaps being too literal…minded when it comes to talking about
this figure fifteen hours；” Scholar said； all three of them so caught up in the heat of their argument
now that they ignored Larn as he stood there listening to them。 “It is not an absolute figure。 It is only
an average。 Why； for all we know； the new fish might end up surviving days； weeks； even years。”
“Years？” Davir said。 “You know you really are a wonder to me； Scholar。 I’ve never seen a man
talk so eloquently and at such length from his arse before。 You think the new fish is going to
manage to survive years in this place？ Next you will be telling me you expect Sector Command to
make Bulaven a general！ You obviously haven’t seen the new fish in action—”
“Stop it。” Larn said quietly； no longer willing to be talked about as though he were invisible。
“I’ve heard enough。 Stop calling me new fish。 My name is Larn。”
For a moment； as though surprised by the interruption； the other men in the trench simply
blinked and turned to look at him in silence。
“What？ You don’t like us calling you new fish； then？” Davir said after a time； sarcastically。 “We
have offended you perhaps？ Your feelings are hurt？”
“No；” said Larn； uncertainly。 “I… You don’t understand。 I just think you should use my name is
all。 My real name； I mean。 Larn。 Not new fish。”
“Really？” Davir said； gazing at him with cold eyes while Zeebers glared at him in hostility and
Scholar and Bulaven looked at him in sadness。 “Then； it is you who does not understand the facts of
life here； new fish。 You think I care what your name is？ I have enough baggage in my head already；
never mind learning something that will likely be written on a grave marker before the day is out。
You want me to remember your name？ Tell me it again in fifteen hours’ time。 By then； perhaps it
just may be worth knowing。”
58
CHAPTER NINE
15：55 hours Central Broucheroc Time
A Figure Moving Closer Through No…Man’s Land — Standing Watch with Bulaven — Matters of
Gretchin and Human Marksmanship — A Splash of Colour Amidst the Wasteland — Lessons on
How Best to Act as Bait
He had been moving slowly now for hours。
Crawling on his belly； painted from head to hind claws in grey clay with the long kustom barrel
of his blasta wrapped in layers of grey sacking； he crept forward a centimetre at a time through the
frozen mud of what the humies called no…man’s land。 Slow； like a slaver hunting a squig with a
grabba stik； he moved an inch and then waited。 He moved an inch and then waited。 He moved an
inch then and waited。 Over and over again； always careful in case his prey was watching。
Suddenly； seeing a glint in the distance ahead of him； he stopped。 Sure one of the humies’
spotters must have seen him； he tensed； expecting at any moment to feel the pain from a lasbeam or
hear the sound of a shot； but neither of them came。 He remained motionless。 Until； as the minutes
passed and he became convinced he was none the worse for wear； his journey began again。 Moving
slowly； inch by inch； across the frozen mud toward his destination。
Finally； perhaps halfway across no…man’s land； he reached the lip of a shallow shell crater。 For a
moment he looked at it。 Then； responding to some inner instinct he could have never named； he
crawled inside。 Out of sight now； he moved more quickly； crawling up the opposite slope of the
crater to look through the sights of his blasta in search of a target。 At first； nothing。 Then he saw a
head in a fur…shrouded helmet peeking out of a hole in the ground some way away and he knew the
instinct had been right。 He had found his kill。
Breathing through his nose； careful not to make any sudden moves that might spook his prey； he
aimed at it through his sights； his finger tightening incrementally on the blasta’s trigger。 As he did；
he felt a warm sensation rush through his head as something like a clear and coherent thought
occurred to him。
If he made this shot； the boss would be pleased…
“You shouldn’t take it too much to heart what Davir said before； new fish；” Bulaven said。 “He
didn’t mean anything by it。 It is just his way is all。”
Bulaven was standing on watch on the firing step； looking out into no…man’s land with Larn
beside him。 Meanwhile； in the firing trench below them； the other men were mostly quiet。 Wrapped
in an extra greatcoat in place of a blanket； his muffler pulled forward to cover most of his face；
Davir lay dozing with his back against some spare flamer canisters。 Beside him； Scholar sat silently
reading from the tattered pages of a battered and obviously well…used book。 Only Zeebers was
making anything much in the way of noise。 Sitting on the trench floor； he could be seen sharpening
the blade of his entrenching tool with a whetstone； the low scraping sound of the stone running over
the metal added a malicious counterpoint to the occasional hostile glances he periodically made in
Larn’s direction。
“Yes； that is a good trick； new fish；” Bulaven said； noticing that Larn was looking at Zeebers。 “If
you sharpen the blade of your entrenching tool it makes a good weapon if you find yourself in handto…
hand with an ork。 Better than a bayonet； anyway。 Of course； you need to be careful you don’t
59
sharpen the edges of the spade head too fine。 Otherwise； it can split if you actually have to dig the
earth with it。”
“Does it happen a lot？” Larn asked him； giving an involuntary shiver as he remembered his
earlier encounter with the gretchin。 “Going hand…to…hand with the orks； I mean？”
“Not so much if we can help it；” Bulaven said； tapping the imposing bulk of the heavy flamer by
his side。 “For myself； when it comes to killing orks I prefer to use my friend here。 Sometimes
though； the orks get in close and it can’t be helped。 Then you just have to kill them with laspistols；
knives； spade heads： whatever comes to hand。 But you don’t need to worry too much about that；
new fish。 Stay close to me； Scholar and Davir； and you’ll be all right。”