Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
As Sergeant Harris led his men of Valhalla through the shattered ruins of a once-prosperous city, he suffered niggly seeds of doubt as to the worthwhile nature of his mission. He was but a simple leader of nine other men who obeyed his every word and
command, but was their any point in their obedience? Was he misleading then without realising.
Harris frequently suffered from bouts of self-doubt. He had seen wars and battles and the casualties and fallout from the said conflicts. Cities, such as this one, razed to the ground. Honourable men stripped of everything: physical and spiritual. Injustices against the good and honest people. He had fought to restore pride, honour and amongst other things, boundary disputes, frequently emerging the victor. Under the right circumstances, war had a knack of setting your mind away from other matters, and when you emerged from it triumphant, any doubts you may have had would certainly have been put away. But they always returned - in the quieter moments, or when everything you had fought so hard for was destroyed in front of you. It didn't always happen in wartime, either.
Here was Sergeant Harris, having another period of doubt. His squad had been patrolling the city in more or less solidarity; their confidence had been restored by the Leman Russ tank that showed itself and willingly tagged along with them. However,
that was -their- confidence. While Harris would feel confident if any Ork pirate tried to show itself to that tank, he did not feel confident with his own state of mind.
The city had once been more or less thriving, Harris had heard. Just another city. So, what had been the point in such prosperity if it had only ended with the city's destruction? Had those that had worked so hard worked in vain? Is there any point in
waking up in the morning and living a full life if you only see toil, bloodshed and heartbreak? Was this city to be rebuilt? The patience, perseverance and work of those who lived here: was it to be rewarded? Would they get another chance? That depended on the Valhallen regiment's purge of the Ork raiders that, though effectively defeated,
still roamed the city in pirate bands and made any attempt at a fresh start impossible. Harris once again wondered if there was any point.
As one would expect of a settlement that had a permanent population of zero and no habitable buildings, there had been little activity for Harris's isolated squads. Other men were roaming the streets, on the same mission, but they were not to be seen regularly. The Ork presence was not that threatening.
Harris approached a building that had been blown in half. Or was it a quarter? What had those pipes and silos been used for when the other three quarters had been part of the whole building? Had there been any floors on top of this empty one? Harris suspected so, but was not in a position to dwell on it. He was a military sergeant, not an architect.
A brief scan of his surroundings revealed...only three of his men were with him. S**t!
"Stop!" blurted Harris, and those three did. In a split-second he worked out what had happened. There was a drone of a certain tank, and a familiar patter of footsteps at varying paces. They were nearby, but heading away. Harris new what had happened.
The Leman Russ had taken a slight detour, and was now two buildings away to his left-hand side. His men, thinking that they would still be close to their sergeant, or that he would follow (pah!), had chosen to follow the safety that the tank supposedly ensured. While they were not too far away, there was a danger that they would end up getting split. Being in the smaller group, Harris did not want that to happen.
"Men, stop!" he shouted with as much authority as he could muster, in a tone that while loud would not echo needlessly off the ruined walls. While the tank trundled onwards, the rest of the squad stopped and looked towards the direction of the voice. Instantly understanding it was their sergeant and what he meant, their body language showed a certain, "Ooops, we've done it again".
Quick as a flash, Harris had an idea. An insignificant one, but still an idea. He signalled for the closest man in the second group to come to him. As the man came over, Harris noticed that the tank had stopped moving too. So much the better.
"Murray, tell your friends over there to carry on in that direction. Make sure the tank stays with them. There's a mass of rubble in the middle of the clearing just out from here. I want to catch it in a pincer movement. Understand?"
Harris gave Murray no chance to get a word in edgeways, though Murray would not have needed to do that. He understood exactly what his superior was thinking. Mounds of rubble under, in, on and around the structure in the clearing would provide an
ambush opportunity for whatever Ork felt stupid and desperate enough to take advantage of it. Seeing as this area was not blessed with vantage points, the dangerous ruin was an opportunity nonetheless. Murray understood and nodded. Just as he
turned away, Harris grunted for him to stop. He turned back...
"You stay with me," said Harris. Murray was carrying the squad's flamer. Ideal for this small job. Besides, the other group had the tank and the mortar. Overkill?
Murray went back to his group, exchanged a few words with the nearest man, and came back. As they sorted things out between themselves, Harris gave the signal for his four men to occupy the ruin he had been examining a few moments earlier. Murray, poised at the ready with the flamer, nipped up onto the walkway which ran at shoulder height along the wall. He went along to the end, which was but a few yards away from the debris they were targeting, and lay down flat, flamer aimed and ready. "Damn fool", thought Harris, "he's a sitting duck". Yet, there was him and three others who were now in position to support him.
Another private, Gers, had skirted low along the floor, skipping amongst patches of rubble and piping, until he leapt out and went to Murray's position, just below him. Just ripe for a grenade, thought Harris. The other two had chosen a wiser route, and were flat on the floor, further back and away from the wall, lasguns at the ready but in no position where they could be easily shot at. Harris himself crouched behind a large, heavy pipe that came out of the silo just behind Gers. He toyed with a grenade briefly, considering it's uses, as he heard the rumble of the tank and faint patter of men. Looking out, he could not actually see the tank. It must have lagged behind in the street, while three of the men crouched behind a nearby wall, obviously waiting to act on their sergeant's command. The mortar crew were nearby, loaded and ready. Harris waited.
A few seconds later, it appeared that his tactic had not been as fanciful as he had first anticipated, and would actually be put to use. A flash of something - what he couldn't make out - flew out from somewhere behind the ruined structure and down the street where Harris had suspected the tank had stayed. A clang of metal and murmurs from the other group proved him right.
Harris prepared himself for an explosion but none came. Whatever the projectile had been, it had not been enough to destroy the tank. A second of action and rapid thought told Harris that this was enemy action and he must act. He jumped up and screamed - a traditional signal to attack. Under more controlled circumstances Harris would not have done this, but everything was spontaneous. Three seconds after he had seen that flash, his squad were now in action.
Even though there were no enemies to be immediately seen, the squad reacted. Murray and Gers were on the brink of unleashing flaming hell, such was their readiness. The other two in the building dashed forwards. Across from them, the mortar crew unleashed their payload - they had already targeted the mound and the mortar flew from it's holder. The three men behind the wall were ready to run, the closest one poking his head around the corner. The tank was moving and it too was targeting the
building and it's surroundings.
Again, everything was split-second. No sooner had the squad made its first reactions, the Orks made themselves visible. Some - Harris counted six - burst from the inside of the rubble. So, he had been right, they had been hiding in there. But not in any way that made them immediately dangerous. They wouldn't have been able to aim their guns from in there. But they were out now and were able to aim and fire. Four more leapt out from nooks and crannies in the tiny but still useful shell of that building, one carrying a hefty gun that they must have believed could damage the tank. No time to wax lyrical about the enemy, in the blink of an eye they'd come out and were a threat. Unlucky for them, Harris and his men had reacted quicker.
The mortar landed a second or two after it'd been fired - just inside the largest wall and in the middle of the smaller group of Orks. The one with the big gun disappeared down the rear side of the slope, while two others were lost in the explosion. A second later, the third joined them in a bigger mass of confusion - the Leman Russ had fired it's battlecannon at them and now there was no hope for them. The few blasts of lasfire that entered the fray just added insult to injury, and a fatal injury at that. Debris went flying in all directions, and fortunately some into the heads of the nearby group of six Orks. Unfortunately, Ork heads are notoriously difficult to damage, and the unexpected attack from the rear did little more than disorientate those that had fallen victim to it. In this skirmish though, seconds counted and Harris knew that disorientation meant death out
here. Without aiming properly, Harris fired his bolt pistol at the Orks. Murray jumped up and fired his flamer into the air - flames soared skywards and landed on the nearby greenskins. All lasfire from near and far members at the squad was directed at whoever was the closest and was not wearing a Valhallen uniform.
Suddenly everything slowed down. So much had happened so suddenly, and in reality in continued to do so, but now Harris knew exactly what was happening, where, why and how it was, it all became more controlled. Four Orks had been killed more or less
instantly. The six less were being peppered and fried. All was won, and so easily. Without knowing it, the doubt that Harris had been feeling was completely dissipated.
One man to his right fell. The man called Dickinson. Harris knew exactly why but this unfortunate occurrence threw everything into disarray again. The Orks were not dropping like flies as he thought, but there were one or two at the back who were
escaping the brunt of the Guardsmen’s force, and they were returning fire. Result: Dickinson dead. S**t.
Harris ran out and immediately cursed himself for doing so, but it was too late. He dived floorwards and fired his bolt pistol and the nearest standing figure, ignoring the three in front of him who were on fire. His rounds did hit one who was on fire though, and then he promptly ran out of ammunition. Right in front of three Orks who were hurt but still a threat, able to kill and he was in front of them with no backup. S**t! Harris rolled back to his original hiding place, desperately trying to reload his gun - the coldness of the air making his fingers numb and the task difficult. Another cry - another of his men
dead. What were the Orks doing? Where they chasing him? Shooting him? Maybe running away? How close where they? What were his comrades doing?
The last question was answered instantly. Murray jumped over him and ran screaming towards the Orks, flamer pouring fiery death. Gers stood his ground and fired. The three men from behind the wall were out of their hiding place and running towards the danger zone, also firing. God don't let them hit each other, thought Harris. The Leman Russ loomed from around the corner and it's turret turned towards the terror. God, don't let him start firing too.
By now Harris was curled up in a foetal position, having given up reloading his gun. He still had his chainsword, but did not know what the hell was happening. Firing, shouting, cursing, crying. Voices meant nothing to him. Who was killing who, he didn't know. For what was only a few more seconds but felt like forever, Harris stayed where he was. Finally, silence. Silence other than the wind and flames.
He was tapped on the shoulder. Obviously, things were safe now. His men had won without him. But at what cost? Harris had to find out. Feeling indignant at being caught hiding, he simply got up. It was his second-in charge, Burr, that had got to him.
"Thank goodness sir", he started, "we thought you'd been hit too. Stop fretting now, it's alright. It's over".
Harris said nothing, but looked over Burr's shoulder. Murray was looking straight at him. What he was thinking Harris didn't know, but seeing as he was the first man he expected to die, he was thankful that Murray was still alive. The squad was more or less grouped together. Harris counted heads. Five men, Burr and himself.
"How is Dickinson? McBrain? Di'Anno? F*****g hell, have you checked?" Harris ran over to the group and the three limp bodies. Burr cursed under his breath.
"McBrain is dead. Dickinson might not pull through. though I'd say Di'Anno might". Stratton, the private who was an amateur yet still professional medic in the squad, had already passed his judgement on the casualties. Once again, a plan of action
raced through Harris's mind. One, probably two casualties, and another who was in danger. He cursed the lack of a comm-link, which would have guaranteed the safety of at least one man. Instead, he would need to use the longer way. He want over to the
ruins which, by now, were simply more than ruined.
"I'm going to contact whoever I can. Hang on". Harris sat down and tapped into his radio. He would contact whoever was closest, and sort things out from there. Static, them wailing bleeps, then more static that cleared into a proper connection.
"S106 Sergeant Wilcock" came through the earpiece.
"Wilcock, it's Harris". He cursed again. "S104," he blurted as he remembered the correct procedure. He got straight to the point. "Have you got a comm-link with you?"
"No, but I can get in touch with Sullivan" - Wilcock also threw beuracratic procedure to the wind - "or alternatively the lieutenant. What's happened, Harris?"
"I've got three men down. Did you hear the explosions? Three men down. Situation good but I've got three men down. Is there a medic nearby?"
"Woah, hang on. Nearest medic is with the lieutenant, luckily. Ok, I'll get him to you. Position?"
Harris, in his head, praised the way Wilcock did not waste time with questions and got to the point. Ask questions later. Good man. If only others did not waste time and lives like Wilcock did not. Harris cursed again regardless. He had not checked his position.
"Rance, map!" he called to the mortar crewman, who came running as fast as he could. Harris checked the map.
"HGKR 1845" he said to the mouthpiece. Wilcock acknowledged and cut out. He would sort everything else out himself. Stratton was doing what he could to help Dickinson and Di'Anno, though it would be down to the medic to save lives. The lieutenant would not waste time getting here. Neither did Harris's men, who took positions in the nearby ruins. The Leman Russ pulled away from where it's been. Harris simply sat down and contemplated thoughts that he had been thinking not one minute before......
command, but was their any point in their obedience? Was he misleading then without realising.
Harris frequently suffered from bouts of self-doubt. He had seen wars and battles and the casualties and fallout from the said conflicts. Cities, such as this one, razed to the ground. Honourable men stripped of everything: physical and spiritual. Injustices against the good and honest people. He had fought to restore pride, honour and amongst other things, boundary disputes, frequently emerging the victor. Under the right circumstances, war had a knack of setting your mind away from other matters, and when you emerged from it triumphant, any doubts you may have had would certainly have been put away. But they always returned - in the quieter moments, or when everything you had fought so hard for was destroyed in front of you. It didn't always happen in wartime, either.
Here was Sergeant Harris, having another period of doubt. His squad had been patrolling the city in more or less solidarity; their confidence had been restored by the Leman Russ tank that showed itself and willingly tagged along with them. However,
that was -their- confidence. While Harris would feel confident if any Ork pirate tried to show itself to that tank, he did not feel confident with his own state of mind.
The city had once been more or less thriving, Harris had heard. Just another city. So, what had been the point in such prosperity if it had only ended with the city's destruction? Had those that had worked so hard worked in vain? Is there any point in
waking up in the morning and living a full life if you only see toil, bloodshed and heartbreak? Was this city to be rebuilt? The patience, perseverance and work of those who lived here: was it to be rewarded? Would they get another chance? That depended on the Valhallen regiment's purge of the Ork raiders that, though effectively defeated,
still roamed the city in pirate bands and made any attempt at a fresh start impossible. Harris once again wondered if there was any point.
As one would expect of a settlement that had a permanent population of zero and no habitable buildings, there had been little activity for Harris's isolated squads. Other men were roaming the streets, on the same mission, but they were not to be seen regularly. The Ork presence was not that threatening.
Harris approached a building that had been blown in half. Or was it a quarter? What had those pipes and silos been used for when the other three quarters had been part of the whole building? Had there been any floors on top of this empty one? Harris suspected so, but was not in a position to dwell on it. He was a military sergeant, not an architect.
A brief scan of his surroundings revealed...only three of his men were with him. S**t!
"Stop!" blurted Harris, and those three did. In a split-second he worked out what had happened. There was a drone of a certain tank, and a familiar patter of footsteps at varying paces. They were nearby, but heading away. Harris new what had happened.
The Leman Russ had taken a slight detour, and was now two buildings away to his left-hand side. His men, thinking that they would still be close to their sergeant, or that he would follow (pah!), had chosen to follow the safety that the tank supposedly ensured. While they were not too far away, there was a danger that they would end up getting split. Being in the smaller group, Harris did not want that to happen.
"Men, stop!" he shouted with as much authority as he could muster, in a tone that while loud would not echo needlessly off the ruined walls. While the tank trundled onwards, the rest of the squad stopped and looked towards the direction of the voice. Instantly understanding it was their sergeant and what he meant, their body language showed a certain, "Ooops, we've done it again".
Quick as a flash, Harris had an idea. An insignificant one, but still an idea. He signalled for the closest man in the second group to come to him. As the man came over, Harris noticed that the tank had stopped moving too. So much the better.
"Murray, tell your friends over there to carry on in that direction. Make sure the tank stays with them. There's a mass of rubble in the middle of the clearing just out from here. I want to catch it in a pincer movement. Understand?"
Harris gave Murray no chance to get a word in edgeways, though Murray would not have needed to do that. He understood exactly what his superior was thinking. Mounds of rubble under, in, on and around the structure in the clearing would provide an
ambush opportunity for whatever Ork felt stupid and desperate enough to take advantage of it. Seeing as this area was not blessed with vantage points, the dangerous ruin was an opportunity nonetheless. Murray understood and nodded. Just as he
turned away, Harris grunted for him to stop. He turned back...
"You stay with me," said Harris. Murray was carrying the squad's flamer. Ideal for this small job. Besides, the other group had the tank and the mortar. Overkill?
Murray went back to his group, exchanged a few words with the nearest man, and came back. As they sorted things out between themselves, Harris gave the signal for his four men to occupy the ruin he had been examining a few moments earlier. Murray, poised at the ready with the flamer, nipped up onto the walkway which ran at shoulder height along the wall. He went along to the end, which was but a few yards away from the debris they were targeting, and lay down flat, flamer aimed and ready. "Damn fool", thought Harris, "he's a sitting duck". Yet, there was him and three others who were now in position to support him.
Another private, Gers, had skirted low along the floor, skipping amongst patches of rubble and piping, until he leapt out and went to Murray's position, just below him. Just ripe for a grenade, thought Harris. The other two had chosen a wiser route, and were flat on the floor, further back and away from the wall, lasguns at the ready but in no position where they could be easily shot at. Harris himself crouched behind a large, heavy pipe that came out of the silo just behind Gers. He toyed with a grenade briefly, considering it's uses, as he heard the rumble of the tank and faint patter of men. Looking out, he could not actually see the tank. It must have lagged behind in the street, while three of the men crouched behind a nearby wall, obviously waiting to act on their sergeant's command. The mortar crew were nearby, loaded and ready. Harris waited.
A few seconds later, it appeared that his tactic had not been as fanciful as he had first anticipated, and would actually be put to use. A flash of something - what he couldn't make out - flew out from somewhere behind the ruined structure and down the street where Harris had suspected the tank had stayed. A clang of metal and murmurs from the other group proved him right.
Harris prepared himself for an explosion but none came. Whatever the projectile had been, it had not been enough to destroy the tank. A second of action and rapid thought told Harris that this was enemy action and he must act. He jumped up and screamed - a traditional signal to attack. Under more controlled circumstances Harris would not have done this, but everything was spontaneous. Three seconds after he had seen that flash, his squad were now in action.
Even though there were no enemies to be immediately seen, the squad reacted. Murray and Gers were on the brink of unleashing flaming hell, such was their readiness. The other two in the building dashed forwards. Across from them, the mortar crew unleashed their payload - they had already targeted the mound and the mortar flew from it's holder. The three men behind the wall were ready to run, the closest one poking his head around the corner. The tank was moving and it too was targeting the
building and it's surroundings.
Again, everything was split-second. No sooner had the squad made its first reactions, the Orks made themselves visible. Some - Harris counted six - burst from the inside of the rubble. So, he had been right, they had been hiding in there. But not in any way that made them immediately dangerous. They wouldn't have been able to aim their guns from in there. But they were out now and were able to aim and fire. Four more leapt out from nooks and crannies in the tiny but still useful shell of that building, one carrying a hefty gun that they must have believed could damage the tank. No time to wax lyrical about the enemy, in the blink of an eye they'd come out and were a threat. Unlucky for them, Harris and his men had reacted quicker.
The mortar landed a second or two after it'd been fired - just inside the largest wall and in the middle of the smaller group of Orks. The one with the big gun disappeared down the rear side of the slope, while two others were lost in the explosion. A second later, the third joined them in a bigger mass of confusion - the Leman Russ had fired it's battlecannon at them and now there was no hope for them. The few blasts of lasfire that entered the fray just added insult to injury, and a fatal injury at that. Debris went flying in all directions, and fortunately some into the heads of the nearby group of six Orks. Unfortunately, Ork heads are notoriously difficult to damage, and the unexpected attack from the rear did little more than disorientate those that had fallen victim to it. In this skirmish though, seconds counted and Harris knew that disorientation meant death out
here. Without aiming properly, Harris fired his bolt pistol at the Orks. Murray jumped up and fired his flamer into the air - flames soared skywards and landed on the nearby greenskins. All lasfire from near and far members at the squad was directed at whoever was the closest and was not wearing a Valhallen uniform.
Suddenly everything slowed down. So much had happened so suddenly, and in reality in continued to do so, but now Harris knew exactly what was happening, where, why and how it was, it all became more controlled. Four Orks had been killed more or less
instantly. The six less were being peppered and fried. All was won, and so easily. Without knowing it, the doubt that Harris had been feeling was completely dissipated.
One man to his right fell. The man called Dickinson. Harris knew exactly why but this unfortunate occurrence threw everything into disarray again. The Orks were not dropping like flies as he thought, but there were one or two at the back who were
escaping the brunt of the Guardsmen’s force, and they were returning fire. Result: Dickinson dead. S**t.
Harris ran out and immediately cursed himself for doing so, but it was too late. He dived floorwards and fired his bolt pistol and the nearest standing figure, ignoring the three in front of him who were on fire. His rounds did hit one who was on fire though, and then he promptly ran out of ammunition. Right in front of three Orks who were hurt but still a threat, able to kill and he was in front of them with no backup. S**t! Harris rolled back to his original hiding place, desperately trying to reload his gun - the coldness of the air making his fingers numb and the task difficult. Another cry - another of his men
dead. What were the Orks doing? Where they chasing him? Shooting him? Maybe running away? How close where they? What were his comrades doing?
The last question was answered instantly. Murray jumped over him and ran screaming towards the Orks, flamer pouring fiery death. Gers stood his ground and fired. The three men from behind the wall were out of their hiding place and running towards the danger zone, also firing. God don't let them hit each other, thought Harris. The Leman Russ loomed from around the corner and it's turret turned towards the terror. God, don't let him start firing too.
By now Harris was curled up in a foetal position, having given up reloading his gun. He still had his chainsword, but did not know what the hell was happening. Firing, shouting, cursing, crying. Voices meant nothing to him. Who was killing who, he didn't know. For what was only a few more seconds but felt like forever, Harris stayed where he was. Finally, silence. Silence other than the wind and flames.
He was tapped on the shoulder. Obviously, things were safe now. His men had won without him. But at what cost? Harris had to find out. Feeling indignant at being caught hiding, he simply got up. It was his second-in charge, Burr, that had got to him.
"Thank goodness sir", he started, "we thought you'd been hit too. Stop fretting now, it's alright. It's over".
Harris said nothing, but looked over Burr's shoulder. Murray was looking straight at him. What he was thinking Harris didn't know, but seeing as he was the first man he expected to die, he was thankful that Murray was still alive. The squad was more or less grouped together. Harris counted heads. Five men, Burr and himself.
"How is Dickinson? McBrain? Di'Anno? F*****g hell, have you checked?" Harris ran over to the group and the three limp bodies. Burr cursed under his breath.
"McBrain is dead. Dickinson might not pull through. though I'd say Di'Anno might". Stratton, the private who was an amateur yet still professional medic in the squad, had already passed his judgement on the casualties. Once again, a plan of action
raced through Harris's mind. One, probably two casualties, and another who was in danger. He cursed the lack of a comm-link, which would have guaranteed the safety of at least one man. Instead, he would need to use the longer way. He want over to the
ruins which, by now, were simply more than ruined.
"I'm going to contact whoever I can. Hang on". Harris sat down and tapped into his radio. He would contact whoever was closest, and sort things out from there. Static, them wailing bleeps, then more static that cleared into a proper connection.
"S106 Sergeant Wilcock" came through the earpiece.
"Wilcock, it's Harris". He cursed again. "S104," he blurted as he remembered the correct procedure. He got straight to the point. "Have you got a comm-link with you?"
"No, but I can get in touch with Sullivan" - Wilcock also threw beuracratic procedure to the wind - "or alternatively the lieutenant. What's happened, Harris?"
"I've got three men down. Did you hear the explosions? Three men down. Situation good but I've got three men down. Is there a medic nearby?"
"Woah, hang on. Nearest medic is with the lieutenant, luckily. Ok, I'll get him to you. Position?"
Harris, in his head, praised the way Wilcock did not waste time with questions and got to the point. Ask questions later. Good man. If only others did not waste time and lives like Wilcock did not. Harris cursed again regardless. He had not checked his position.
"Rance, map!" he called to the mortar crewman, who came running as fast as he could. Harris checked the map.
"HGKR 1845" he said to the mouthpiece. Wilcock acknowledged and cut out. He would sort everything else out himself. Stratton was doing what he could to help Dickinson and Di'Anno, though it would be down to the medic to save lives. The lieutenant would not waste time getting here. Neither did Harris's men, who took positions in the nearby ruins. The Leman Russ pulled away from where it's been. Harris simply sat down and contemplated thoughts that he had been thinking not one minute before......
