Fifteen Hours(科幻战争)-第19部分

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“And　if　any　of　us　are　dead　by　then？”　Bulaven　asked。　“Or　too　badly　wounded　to　move　on　their
own？　What　then；　new　fish？”
“Then　the　three　most　important　things　are　the　demolition　charge；　the　flamer；　and　the　spare　fuel
canister；　in　that　order。　Other　than　that　we　will　help　the　wounded　if　we　can。　If　not；　we　will　leave　them
behind。”
“Remember　that　one；　new　fish。　It　is　important。　Now；　where　will　we　fall　back　to？”
“To　the　sandbag　emplacement　above　this　dugout；”　Larn　said；　repeating　everything　Bulaven　had
drilled　into　him　while　they　waited　for　the　shelling　to　stop。　“After　that；　it　is　like　Sergeant　Chelkar　was
saying。　We　do　not　fall　back　any　farther。　Once　we　are　at　the　emplacements；　we　stand　or　die。”
“Very　good；　new　fish；”　Davir　said　sarcastically　from　the　side　of　them。　“It　sounds　like　you　have
got　it。”
Abruptly；　the　shellfire　stopped。　The　brief　silence　that　followed　it　felt　strange　and　eerie　after　so　long
a　bombardment。
“Go！　Go！　Go！”　Sergeant　Chelkar　yelled；　as　beside　him　Vladek　threw　open　the　door　to　the　dugout
and　the　assembled　Vardans　ran　pell…mell　up　the　steps　toward　the　surface。　“Get　to　your　trenches！”
Before　he　even　knew　it　Larn　was　above　ground；　emerging　blinking　into　the　cold　grey　light　of　the
sun　outside　to　turn　and　sprint　towards　the　firing　trench　with　Bulaven　and　the　others　beside　him　as
the　rest　of　the　Vardans　spread　out　to　run　for　their　own　positions。　Then；　with　barely　a　few　metres
gone；　he　heard　Corporal　Grishen’s　voice　in　his　ear　through　his　comm…bead。
“Auspex　reports　activity　in　the　enemy　lines；”　Grishen　said；　frantic　through　a　squall　of　static。
“The　orks　are　moving。”
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Larn　could　already　see　them。　On　the　other　side　of　no…man’s　land；　a　horde　of　orks　had　risen　up
and　were　now　charging　screaming　towards　them。　For　a　moment　Larn　heard　a　still　small　voice　in　his
head　questioning　what　he　was　doing；　running　towards　the　orks　when　every　fibre　of　his　being　told
him　he　should　be　running　away　from　them　as　fast　as　his　legs　could　take　him　but　he　ignored　it。
Ignored　it　and　raced　instead　towards　the　trench　to　take　his　place　with　the　other　members　of　the
fireteam　as　they　made　ready　to　repel　the　assault。
“Five　hundred　metres；”　Scholar　said；　already　squinting　at　the　oncoming　orks　through　a　targeter
by　the　time　Larn　threw　himself　into　the　trench　and　took　his　place　on　the　firing　step　beside　Bulaven。
“Remember；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said。　“When　you　hear　the　order　to　fall　back；　you　grab　a　spare
fuel　canister　and　stay　close　to　me。”
“Yes；　new　fish；”　Davir　said　from　across　him。　“And　while　you’re　at　it；　don’t　go　losing　your
lasgun　again。　I　will　let　you　into　a　secret：　your　helmet　is　for　protecting　your　head；　not　for　the　hitting
of　gretchin。　Now；　get　ready；　puppy。　Time　to　show　the　orks　your　claws。”
“Four　hundred　metres；”　Scholar　said。
Remembering　this　time　to　click　off　the　safety　catch；　Larn　hurriedly　ran　through　his　pre…battle
ritual；　silently　reciting　the　Litany　of　the　Lasgun　in　his　mind　before　adding　a　quick　prayer　to　the
Emperor　for　good　measure。　Beside　him　he　saw　Davir；　Scholar　and　Zeebers　sighting　in　on　the　orks；
while　to　the　side　of　them　Bulaven　checked　the　pump　pressure　on　his　flamer。　Then；　from　behind　him；
he　heard　the　sound　of　mortars　being　fired　and　knew　the　battle　was　about　to　begin　in　earnest。
“Three　hundred　metres；”　Scholar　yelled。　“On　my　mark…　fire！”
Lasbeams。　Mortars。　Auto…cannon　rounds。　Frag　missiles。　From　all　across　the　line　the　Vardans　opened
up　with　everything　they　had。　All　the　while；　as　Davir；　Scholar　and　Zeebers　fired　their　lasguns　from
the　side　of　him　Larn　fired　with　them；　remembering　to　aim　high　for　the　orks　as　Repzik　had　once　told
him。　And　through　it　all；　the　orks　kept　coming。
There　are　more　of　them　this　time；　Larn　thought。　Ten　times　more　at　least　than　when　I　was　in　the
trench　with　Repzik。　Sweet　Emperor！　And　we　barely　managed　to　hold　out　then！
“One　hundred　and　twenty　metres；”　Scholar　said；　the　orks　having　seemed　to　cover　the　intervening
distance　between　them　with　impossible　swiftness。　“Change　magazines　and　switch　to　rapid　fire。”
The　orks　came　closer。　Some　of　them　were　already　gruesomely　wounded　by　the　Vardans’
remorseless　hail　of　fire；　all　of　them　were　red…eyed　and　eager　in　an　apparently　endless　barbaric　tide。
“Fifty　metres；”　Scholar’s　voice　counted　down　calmly。　“Forty　metres。　Thirty。”
“Any　time　now　would　be　good；　fatman；”　Davir　said　to　Bulaven。　“Are　you　actually　going　to　use
that　damn　flamer；　or　just　wait　until　the　orks　get　close　enough　for　you　to　try　and　fart　them　to　death
instead？”
In　response；　Bulaven　lifted　the　nozzle　of　the　flamer；　extending　himself　to　his　full　height　to　point
the　barrel　over　the　trench　parapet　and　unleash　an　expanding　cone　of　yellow…black　fire　towards　the
closest　enemy　group。　Screaming；　the　orks　disappeared　in　a　burning　agonised　haze　while　Bulaven
sprayed　bright　fire　at　their　comrades　around　them。　Soon；　all　Larn　could　see　directly　ahead　of　him
was　a　rising　curtain　of　flame　while　the　air　grew　thick　with　smoke　and　the　sickly　odour　of　burning
Xenos　flesh。
“Shoot　to　the　sides；　new　fish！”　Davir　yelled。　“Bulaven　can　deal　with　the　orks　ahead　of　us　—　it’s
our　job　to　stop　the　others　flanking　round　them！”
Following　Davir’s　lead；　Larn　began　to　shoot　at　the　orks　charging　towards　them　from　the　right　of
the　curtain　of　fire　created　by　the　flamer　while　Scholar　and　Zeebers　shot　at　those　on　the　left。　For　an
instant；　seeing　the　carnage　inflicted　on　the　orks；　Larn　thought　he　could　see　the　beginnings　of　the
greenskins’　charge　starting　to　falter。　We　are　winning；　he　thought；　exultant。　We　have　beaten　them。
There　is　no　way　for　the　orks　to　get　past　the　flamer。
And　then；　abruptly；　the　tongue　of　fire　jetting　from　the　flamer　spluttered　and　died。
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“Canister’s　empty；”　Bulaven　said；　hands　already　at　the　fuel　line。　“Reloading。”
“Grenades；”　Davir　yelled；　his　own　hands　at　the　grenades　on　his　belt。
While　Bulaven　transferred　the　fuel　line　from　one　canister　to　another；　the　others　threw　two
grenades　each　towards　the　orks。　By　the　time　the　last　of　the　grenades　had　exploded；　the　line　was
attached　and　Bulaven’s　flamer　was　once　more　spewing　fire。　More　orks　died　but　it　seemed　to　make
no　difference。　As　though　they　had　been　given　fresh　impetus　by　the　brief　cessation　in　the　flamer’s
attentions；　the　horde　of　orks　crashed　relentlessly　nearer；　some　enveloped　from　head…to…toe　in　flame
and　yet　still　they　kept　coming。　Thirty　metres　became　twenty…five。　Twenty…five　became　twenty。
Twenty…
“Fall　back！”　Davir　yelled。　“The　bastards　are　right　on　top　of　us。　Scholar；　arm　the　demolition
charge。　The　rest　of　you　fall　back。”
The　retreat　began。
Scrambling　over　the　rear　trench　wall　with　his　lasgun　slung　across　his　shoulder　and　dragging　the
heavy　weight　of　a　spare　flamer　canister　behind　him；　Larn　began　to　run　for　the　dugout　emplacement
while　Scholar　threw　the　demolition　charge　at　the　advancing　orks。
“Faster；　new　fish。”　Scholar　ran　past　Larn；　his　long　legs　eating　up　the　distance。　“It’s　only　a　four
second　delay！”
Suddenly；　Larn　heard　a　tremendous　explosion　behind　him　as　clods　of　earth　flew　past　his　head。
For　a　moment；　caught　at　the　furthest　edge　of　the　blast；　he　stumbled　and　almost　fell　forward；　only　to
be　saved　as　the　weight　of　the　canister　served　as　an　accidental　counterweight　behind　him。　Then；　as　he
tried　to　heft　the　canister　on　to　his　shoulder　and　pick　up　pace；　he　felt　a　painful　blow　at　the　back　of　his
head；　the　jarring　force　of　it　sending　him　spinning　towards　the　ground。
Landing　in　the　frozen　mud；　Larn　felt　a　warm　wetness　spreading　across　his　scalp。　Putting　his
hand　to　his　head；　when　he　brought　it　away　again　he　saw　red　blood　staining　his　fingers。　He　saw　his
helmet　lying　upside　down　on　the　ground　before　him　—　a　large　dent　left　in　its　side　by　whatever
unknown　missile　had　knocked　it　from　his　head。　Incongruously；　as　he　rose　shakily　to　his　feet；　he
wondered　what　would　have　happened　to　him　if　he　had　fastened　his　helmet　strap　instead　of　leaving　it
loose。　Then；　the　guttural　bellow　of　an　alien　war　cry　behind　him　put　the　thought　abruptly　from　his
mind。
Whirling　to　look；　Larn　saw　an　ork　charging　towards　him　with　an　enormous　pistol　in　one　hand
and　a　broad…bladed　cleaver　in　the　other。　The　creature　was　huge：　its　body　inhumanly　and
disproportionately　muscled。　Larn　saw　a　jutting　jaw；　yellowed；　sickle…shaped　tusks；　a　line　of　three
severed　human　heads　hanging　like　grotesque　spectators　from　a　trophy　harness　above　the　monster’s
shoulders。　He　heard　a　bullet　scream　past　him　as　the　pistol　fired。　As　though　of　its　own　volition　his
lasgun　responded；　the　first　lasblast　flying　wide　over　the　ork’s　shoulder　to　hit　one　of　the　trophies。
Steadying　himself；　Larn　fired　again；　hitting　his　enemy　in　the　chest。　Unfazed；　the　ork　did　not　miss
a　step。　Larn　shot　at　it　again；　firing　off　a　rapid　series　of　blasts　that　hit　the　creature　in　the　neck；　the
shoulder；　the　chest　again；　then　the　face。　Until　finally；　just　as　Larn　began　to　fear　coming　within　reach
of　its　jagged　blade；　the　ork　gave　a　last　enraged　bellow；　collapsed；　and　died。　Though　whatever　brief
sense　of　elation　Larn　felt　at　his　victory　quickly　evaporated　as　he　saw　more　greenskins　come
charging　towards　him　in　the　dead　ork’s　wake。
“Get　a　move　on；　new　fish！”　he　heard　a　voice　yell　behind　him　as　a　hand　grabbed　his　shoulder。
“Damnation！　Are　you　trying　to　take　on　the　whole　damn　ork　mob　on　your　own？”
It　was　Davir。　Firing　his　lasgun　one…handed　towards　the　approaching　orks；　Davir　began　to　tug
Larn　in　the　direction　of　the　dugouts。　Realising　he　had　dropped　the　flamer　canister　when　he　had
fallen；　his　head　still　groggy　from　the　blow；　for　a　moment　Larn　tried　to　resist　as　his　eyes　scanned
around　in　search　of　the　canister。
“It　is　too　late　for　that；　new　fish。”　Davir　shouted；　pulling　hard　now　at　his　shoulder。　“Leave　it。　I
need　that　canister　right　where　it　is。”
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Giving　in；　Larn　turned　to　flee　with　Davir　at　his　side；　catching　a　last　sight　of　the　fallen　canister
lost　among　the　legs　of　the　screaming　phalanx　of　oncoming　orks。　Then；　turning　briefly　back　as　they
ran　towards　the　emplacements；　Davir　fired　a　snap　shot　toward　it　—　the　lasbeam　ruptured　the
canister’s　body　and　it　exploded　in　a　plume　of　orange　flame；　incinerating　the　orks　around　it　and
buying　him　and　Larn　time　enough　to　reach　their　destination。
“You　see　there；　new　fish？”　Davir　said　as　the　outstretched　hands　of　eager　Guardsmen　helped
them　to　safety。　“I　told　you　I　wanted　the　canister　right　where　it　was。　Oh；　and　I　saw　you　feeling　at
your　head　earlier？　You　needn’t　worry　in　that　regard：　it　is　still　attached。　Though　for　all　that　you　seem
to　use　it；　you　might　as　well　have　left　it　with　the　orks。”
“You　came　back　for　me…”　Larn　said　incredulously。　“Even　after　what　Bulaven　said　about
leaving　the　wounded；　you　came　back　and　saved　me…”
“I　wouldn’t　get　too　starry…eyed　about　it；　new　fish；”　Davir　said。　“What　I　really　wanted　to　save
was　the　flamer　canister　—　events　just　got　ahead　of　me；　is　all。　Now；　shut　up　and　start　shooting。　You
have　killed　one　ork。　Only　another　twenty　or　so　thousand　to　go。”
They　were　out　of　grenades。　They　had　used　the　last　of　the　flamer　fuel。　The　auto…cannons；　missile
launchers　and　lascannons　had　fallen　silent。　Even　the　las…packs　were　running　short。　And　still；　no
matter　how　many　screaming　greenskins　died；　the　ork　assault　refused　to　falter。
Standing　on　the　firing　step　along　one　wall　of　the　emplacement；　the　barrel　of　his　lasgun　so　hot　in
his　hand　now　it　burnt　his　fingers；　Larn　fired　a　lasbeam　into　the　face　of　an　ork　as　it　tried　to　climb　over
the　bodies　of　the　dead　towards　him。　Then　another；　and　another。　Firing　without　thought　or　pause；
barely　even　needing　to　aim　so　thick　was　the　press　of　alien　bodies　charging　towards　him　in　wave
after　screaming　wave。　They　were　surrounded　now；　cut　off　from　the　other　emplacements　by　vast
throngs　of　orks；　each　emplacement　a　besieged　and　lonely　outcrop　amid　an　endless　churning　sea　of
savage　green　flesh。
From　the　corners　of　his　eye　Larn　caught　glimpses　of　the　others　around　him。　He　saw　Bulaven；　a
lasgun　in　his　hands　taken　from　another　fallen　Guardsman。　He　saw　Davir。　Scholar。　Zeebers。　He　saw
Chelkar；　his　expression　cool　and　detached；　working　the　slide　of　his　shotgun　to　send　round　after
round　into　the　enemy。　He　saw　Vladek。　Medical　Officer　Svenk。　The　cook；　Trooper　Skench；　a
laspistol　blazing　in　his　one　remaining　hand　as　he　stood　beside　the　others。　He　saw　their　faces：　Scholar
drawn　yet　steadfast；　Bulaven　dutiful；　Zeebers　nervous；　Davir　spitting　obscene　and　angry　oaths　at　the
advancing　orks。　He　saw　steely　determination　and　a　refusal　to　go　easily　to　death。　As　he　saw　it；　Larn
felt　a　fleeting　shame　that　he　had　doubted　these　men　when　he　had　first　met　them。　Whatever　their
manner　they　were　all　what　a　Guardsman　should　be。　Brave。　Resolute。　Unbending　in　the　face　of　the
enemy。　These　were　the　men　on　which　the　Imperium　had　been　built。　The　men　who　had　fought　its
every　battle。　Won　its　every　victory。　Today；　they　were　hopelessly　outnumbered。
Today；　it　was　their　final　stand。
“I’m　out！”　Davir　yelled；　pulling　the　last　expended　power　pack　from　his　lasgun　and　flinging　it
towards　the　orks　as　his　other　hand　went　for　the　laspistol　on　his　hip。
All　about　him；　it　was　the　same　for　the　others。　Around　him；　Larn　saw　the　Vardans　draw　pistols　or
fix　bayonets；　while　he　wondered　how　many　shots　he　had　left　in　his　own　power　pack。　Five？　Ten？
Fifteen？　Then；　just　as　he　rejected　the　idea　of　saving　the　last　shot　for　himself；　the　question　was
answered　as　he　pulled　the　trigger　and　heard　a　final　despairing　whine　from　his　lasgun　as　it　died。
This　is　it；　he　thought；　his　hands　moving　with　nightmare　slowness　to　attach　his　bayonet　to　the
lasgun　as　an　ork　raised　a　bloodstained　cleaver　and　charged　towards　him。　Merciful　Emperor；　please！
It　is　so　unfair。　I　can’t　die　here。　You　have　to　save　me。
Abruptly；　as　though　halted　in　its　tracks　by　his　silent　prayer；　the　ork　stopped　and　raised　a　bestial
face　to　look　up　towards　the　sky。　For　an　instant；　Larn　was　left　dumbstruck。　Then；　he　heard　a　sound
and　suddenly　knew　what　had　given　the　ork　pause。　As　from　the　sky　above　them；　there　came　a
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cacophony　of　shrill　and　strident　screams　which　at　that　moment　sounded　to　Larn　every　bit　as　sweet　as
the　voices　of　a　choir　of　angels。
Shellfire；　he　thought；　recognising　the　sound。　Hellbreakers。　They　are　giving　us　artillery　support
at　last！　We　are　saved！
“Into　the　dugout；　new　fish；”　he　heard　Bulaven’s　voice　beside　him。　“Quickly！　We　have　to　get　to
cover！”
Racing　to　the　entrance　of　the　dugout　with　the　Vardans；　Larn　stumbled　down　the　steps　to　safety
just　as　the　ground　began　to　shake　with　explosions。　Breathing　heavily　and　bolting　the　door　behind
them　to　prevent　the　orks　from　following；　they　stood　there　for　long　minutes　of　silence。　Listening；　as
shells　shrieked　and　roared　and　boomed　above　them。
“It　makes　a　refreshing　change　don’t　you　think；　new　fish？”　Davir　said；　after　a　while　as　the
bombardment　continued。　“For　our　own　side　to　be　shooting　at　the　orks　rather　than　us；　I　mean。　Now；
assuming　Battery　Command　keep　this　up　long　enough；　I　would　say　that　is　the　last　we　will　see　of　this
particular　ork　assault。”
He　was　right。　Hearing　the　shelling　finally　end　after　several　minutes；　the　Vardans　cautiously
emerged　from　the　dugout　with　Larn　beside　them　to　be　greeted　by　the　sight　of　a　battlefield　now　left
deserted　save　for　the　mounds　of　the　sundered　bodies　of　the　dead。　The　orks　had　fled。　The　battle　was
over。　Looking　out　at　the　scene　of　carnage　and　devastation　before　him；　Larn　felt　a　sudden　dizzying
sense　of　joyful　exhilaration。
Against　all　expectation；　he　was　still　alive。
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CHAPTER　FIFTEEN
22：35　hours　Central　Broucheroc　Time
The　Corpse…Pyres　—　Matters　of　Disposal　and　the　Varied　Uses　of　an　Entrenching　Tool　—　To　See　a
Perfect　Sun
By　necessity；　he　had　long　ago　become　inured　to　the　stench　of　burning　flesh。
Sweating　at　the　heat；　Militia　Auxiliary　Herand　Troil　used　the　hook　of　the　long　pole　in　his　hands
to　push　another　ork　body　into　the　enormous　burning　mound　of　corpses　before　him；　then　stepped
away　for　a　moment　to　catch　his　breath。　Finding　it　difficult　to　breathe　through　the　charcoal…filled
filtration　tube　of　his　gas　mask；　he　pulled　it　back　from　his　face；　opening　his　mouth　wide　to　gulp　at　the
smoky　air　around　him。　Inadvertently　swallowing　a　drifting　fragment　of　ash　he　coughed；　retching　at
the　taste　as　he　tried　to　summon　enough　spittle　to　clean　his　throat；　before　hawking　up　a　greasy　wad　of
brown　phlegm　and　spitting　it　towards　the　fire。
I　am　getting　old；　he　thought。　I’ve　only　been　working　my　shift　three　hours　now；　and　already　I’m
exhausted。　Ten　years　ago　I　seem　to　remember　having　more　staying　power　than　that。
Ten　years；　he　thought　again。　Has　it　really　been　that　long？　Can　it　really　have　been　so　long　since　I
came　to　work　on　the　corpse…pyres？
Weighed　down　by　a　sudden　sadness；　Troil　looked　around　him　at　the　place　where　he　had　spent
virtually　every　waking　moment　of　his　life　since　being　press…ganged　into　service　with　the　militia　at
the　age　of　sixty。　He　was　standing　on　a　hillside；　the　ground　beneath　his　feet　barren　after　so　many
fires；　surrounded　on　all　sides　by　tall　mounds　of　burning　ork　corpses。　Through　the　smoke　and　ash　he
could　see　other　auxiliaries　in　masks　tending　to　the　pyres　with　long　hooks；　their　figures　little　more
than　silhouettes　through　the　burning　haze。　Looking　at　it；　he　was　struck　once　more　by　grief。　Grief　not
for　the　orks；　but　for　himself。　Grief　for　the　life　he　had　lost。　Grief　for　his　family　and　his　loved　ones
long　dead。　Grief　for　his　days　spent　working　on　the　corpse…pyres。　Most　of　all　though；　he　felt　grief　for
the　city　of　Broucheroc　and　the　horror　the　war　had　made　of　it。
It　was　a　beautiful　place　once；　this　city；　he　thought。　Not　beautiful　as　most　people　think　of　these
things　perhaps。　But　it　was　alive　and　vital　with　an　energy；　an　industry；　a　character　all　its　own。　All
that　is　gone　now　though。　Gone　and　lost　for　good；　taken　away　by　the　war。　Now　it　might　as　well　be　a
city　of　the　dead。
Sighing；　finding　his　eyes　starting　to　water　at　the　smoke；　Troil　pulled　his　mask　down　back　in
place　and　began　to　walk　towards　the　corpse…pyres　to　resume　his　labours。　As　he　did；　he　spared　a　last
glance　down　the　hillside　towards　the　endless　lines　of　other　auxiliaries　dragging　ork　bodies　up　the
slope　towards　him。　He　did　not　linger　on　the　sight　though　because　he　expected　it。
The　flow　of　bodies　for　the　pyres　never　stopped。　This　was　Broucheroc。　Here；　there　were　always
more　corpses。
“You　need　to　put　your　spade　here；　new　fish；”　Bulaven　said；　standing　over　the　body　of　a　dead　ork　and
pressing　the　blade　of　his　entrenching　tool　against　its　throat。　“Next；　you　draw　the　spade　head　back
and　forth　a　bit　to　cut　through　the　skin。　Then；　you　put　your　weight　on　it。　Here；　let　me　show　you　how
it　is　done。”
Standing　beside　him；　Larn　watched　as　Bulaven　stamped　down　to　push　the　sharpened　spade　head
partway　through　the　thick　muscles　of　the　ork’s　neck。　Then；　occasionally　wriggling　the　spade　around
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to　slice　through　the　worst　of　the　tendons　and　break　the　spinal　vertebrae；　the　big　man　stamped　down
on　the　spade　several　more　times　until　the　creature’s　head　had　been　completely　severed。
“There。　You　see？　Granted；　ork　skin　can　be　tougher　than　reptile　hide　…　especially　on　the　big　ones。
But　if　you　keep　your　spade　head　nice　and　sharp；　and　remember　to　let　your　body　weight　do　the　work；
their　heads　come　off　pretty　easy。　All　right；　new　fish。