301.M36
KOP-09
13th regiment
The rumble of artillery shells echoed across the plains, a constant thunder that shook the earth beneath the trench lines. Hundreds of shells screamed overhead, fired from the Basilisks stationed far behind the front, slamming into the distant Ork positions in plumes of smoke and flame.
On the front line, a vast and intricate trench network stretched from horizon to horizon, a scar carved into the landscape. Guardsmen moved through the maze of mud and steel, some manning heavy bolters, others hauling crates of ammunition or tending to wounded comrades.
At one of the central forts embedded in the trench, a reinforced command bastion built into the earth, several officers stood atop a viewing platform. Their greatcoats flapped in the wind as they peered through binoculars, observing the distant carnage unfolding under the barrage.
"Why are we summoned from our vacation?" One of the officer ask. "According to the Codex, we should have earn our rest after fighting for 14 months straight."
"Quit your complaining," Another officer snapped, lowering his binoculars. His face was gaunt, worn by fatigue, but his voice carried the iron edge of command. "You're still breathing, aren't you? Be thankful you didn't die like most of us on Xentrax."
The mention of Xentrax cast a shadow over the group. The chatter stopped. A heavy silence fell as each officer recalled the nightmare of that campaign, where 80% of the regiment had been lost in the mire of an Ork-infested jungle world.
The first officer looked away, his lips tightening. Another officer crossed himself silently in the sign of the Aquila.
"Now," The second officer continue. "it's not just us that have been summoned back from our rest." He looks at the rest of the officers who's now looking at him.
"The 7th, 9th, and 11th Regiments have also been recalled. As we speak, they're also fighting the Orks like us."
"Then Captain," One of the younger looking officer said to him, the second officer. "Do you know why does all of us are recalled from our rest so quickly?"
The Captain shrugged. "I'm just a Major. You may think that I may be informed of the situation. But trust me, I'm just another cog in the machine. We follow orders, same as always."
Silence fell as the officers contemplated the situation, whether pondering how long they'd be mired in this fight against the Orks or why their rest had been cut short so abruptly. But such thoughts were soon broken by the arrival of a messenger, his boots splattered with mud as he sprinted up the trench.
"Captain, orders from the Colonel." The messenger saluted smartly and handed over a sealed parchment.
The Captain took the parchment with a gloved hand, nodding to dismiss the messenger. The young trooper gave a sharp salute before turning on his heel and jogging back down the trench.
Unfurling the parchment, the Captain's eyes scanned the orders quickly, his expression hardening with each passing second.
He folded the parchment crisply and looked up at the assembled officers.
"New order from the Colonel. The 13th regiment is to begin an advance tomorrow morning. Our company with the 34th to our north and 48th to our south will advance together."
The Captain looks towards the officers who's clearly eager despite the exhaustion etched into their faces. A flicker of grim pride passed through his features.
"We're the spearhead," He continued. "We're to breach the Ork trenchline, establish a forward firebase, and hold it until reinforcements can be brought up."
A younger officer stiffened. "We'll be in the open, sir. If their guns aren't destroyed before we reach the line—"
"Don't worry," The Captain said, cutting him off. "The Colonel already requested the 46th and 57th Bomber Squadrons to commence a full-scale bombing campaign throughout the night. By the time we move at dawn, the Orks should be too dazed or too dead to organize a proper defense."
A murmur of cautious relief spread among the officers.
"Prep the men. Check ammunition and vox lines. I want reports from each platoon before nightfall."
"Yes, Sir." All the officers give a crisp salute before turning back to their post.
The Captain watched them go, his hands clasped behind his back. As he stood there, the low, growing hum of engines reached his ears. He looked up.
Dozens of Marauder bombers streaked overhead in tight formations, their black silhouettes momentarily blotting out the darkening sky. The roar of their engines shook the very air, a sound that stirred something primal in every Guardsman within earshot. Moments later, distant flashes lit up the horizon, followed by the rolling thunder of bombs exploding on the Ork lines.
For eight relentless hours, the skies rained fire. Ork fortifications, trenches, and war machines were torn apart under the punishing bombardment. Now, as the final echoes faded into a smoke-choked dawn, it was time.
Along the vast trench network, the rhythmic stomp of boots echoed like a drumbeat. Guardsmen climbed ladders, tightened gear, and checked bayonets. The air was thick with the scent of promethium, oil, and anticipation. The growl of Chimera transports and the deeper rumble of Chimerro variants reverberated as engines roared to life, lined up in assault columns behind the trenches.
Sergeants barked orders, Commissars marched alongside with bolt pistols drawn, and vox-units crackled with final confirmations.
Just outside the command bastion, Captain is standing near a landing pad with his personal squad of Grenadier behind him, seemingly waiting for something. Behind him the the Grenadier, five Chimeras and one Salamander Command, engines still active, their exhaust vents billowing smoke into the already hazy morning air. The vehicles rumbled quietly, like hunting beasts waiting for the signal to pounce.
The Captain checked his chrono and then turned his gaze skyward. Within moments, a low hum grew into a rising roar, a wave of Valkyries, inbound.
Out of the clouds, a formation of three Valkyrie assault carriers emerged. The aircraft descended in a tight formation toward the landing pad, their hulls scorched and weather-worn from countless battles. The Valkyries flared its engines and came down smoothly, dust and grit spiraling outward from the wash.
The ramp hissed open.
From the Valkyries comes a group of carapace armored soldiers, armed with hellguns, plasma guns and grenade launchers.
"Welcome the front line, Emperor's finest." Captain said towards them.
One of the soldier move out of the group and give a crisp salute to the Captain.
"65th Kasrkin regiment, 6th platoon, Lieutenant Vortan." Kasrkin officer said sharply, while handing a datapad to the Captain. "Per High Command's directive, we are under your command for the duration of this offensive."
Kelsey returned the salute and accepted the data-slate, scanning it quickly. The orders were clear, the Kasrkin will be attached to his company for the duration of this operation.
"Captain Kelsey, 75th Company." He replied, glancing up at the Kasrkin, who had now begun fanning out with methodical precision.
"The offensive begins in two hours," Kelsey continued, handing back the slate. "You'll be attached to 2nd company. You'll be spearheading the attack with the grenadiers."
"Understood, sir." Vortan replied.
Kelsey nodded. "Come, my Chimeras will bring you and your men to the front line. You'll get a better look at the terrain before we move out."
Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel, moving towards the Salamanders Command. Lieutenant Vortan gave a short gesture to his squad, and the Kasrkin fell into step behind him like shadows.
They moved quickly toward the waiting transports. The Kasrkin enter the transports and man the pintle-mounted heavy stubbers.
As the convoys move through the trenches, Leman Russ battle tanks and Punisher that being maintain and prepared by the Enginseer and the crews for battle.
When the Chimeras arrived at the front, the Guardsmen already finished their preparation for the assault. More Guardsmen arrived with their bayonets fix, prep for the bloodbath ahead. Multiple Hellhounds also can be seen, ready to join in the attack.
As the Kasrkin disembarked and took their positions with practiced precision, their black carapace armor gleaming dully under the grey sky, the trenchline began to quiet. Not from fear, but from anticipation.
Throughout the sector, Commissars stepped forward, each clad in black greatcoats with crimson trim, their peaked caps unmistakable. They stood tall atop makeshift platforms, ammo crates, or sandbag mounds, surveying the gathered Guardsmen like hawks before a storm.
One Commissar unholstered his bolt pistol and raised it skyward.
"Guardsmen." He roared, his voice cutting through the rising wind and engine growls. "Before you lies a horde of abominations—filthy xenos who are the enemies of the Imperium, one that will burn your your homes burned, your kin slaughtered, and your faith desecrated!"
The lines of soldiers stood straighter, eyes narrowing. Bayonets gleamed. Fingers tightened around lasguns.
"The Emperor watches you! He watches your courage, your duty, your loyalty! There is no room for fear, no place for hesitation!"
He began pacing slowly before the front rank.
"You will charge when the horns sound. You will drive your bayonets into green flesh. You will not falter. And should any of you turn your back in cowardice…"
The bolt pistol snapped downward. A single click echoed across the trench.
"...then your death shall be swift and righteous. For betrayal of duty is betrayal of the Emperor."
Other Commissars echoed similar words along the line, some invoking saints, others reciting prayers of wrath.
As the words of the Commissars echoed through the trench, the thunderous roar of a Basilisk battery erupted behind the lines. The massive Earthshaker cannons fired in coordinated sequence, sending shockwaves through the mud-packed ground. Each blast hurled a shell high into the sky, its shriek like an iron banshee heralding death.
The first salvo struck far ahead, sending pillars of dirt, fire, and Ork bodies into the air. Then came another, and another, an unrelenting barrage designed to destroy the Orks' fortification before the charge began.
Captain Kelsey stood atop his Salamander's command hatch, looking out of his binoculars, scanning the lines.
"Sound the alarm." He said calmly. "Begin the attack."
"Yes, sir." A confirmation enter his ear from his earpiece.
After a couple of seconds, a shrill wail erupted across the battlefield—the assault alarm. Its piercing cry rose above the din of artillery and engines, echoing through every trench and dugout along the line. Vox-operators relayed the final orders, signal flags waved in practiced patterns, and the forward assault units surged into motion.
"Move! Move!" shouted squad leaders and sergeants, their voices barely audible over the growing roar of advancing armor and marching feet.
Guardsmen poured over the trench parapets like a human tide, bayonets fixed and lasguns charged. Behind them, the Hellhounds raced past the infantry, belching gouts of flame in test bursts, eager to clear the way with fire.
More Guardsmen filled up the empty place that just left by their previous owner. The Leman Russ and Punisher also move forward, take the Hellhounds previous position, waiting their turn to strike.
Sound of lasguns firing, explosion and the roar of flamers fill the air as the Imperial Guard crash into the Orks line.
Using their stronger and more enduring bodies, Orks almost always had the upper hand in close combat, slaughtering multiple Guardsmen before finally being brought down.
But the 13th Regiment was no ordinary force. Hardened through countless engagements against the Greenskins and well-versed in the teachings of the Codex, they knew how to kill Orks efficiently, minimizing losses where lesser regiments would have been overrun.
The Kasrkin platoon moved around tbe battleground, appear on the flanks of embattled squads and in the blind spots of the Orks' crude formations. Moving with lethal precision and coordination, the Kasrkin struck like blades in the dark, hellguns barking high-powered bursts, cutting down the largest and most dangerous Orks before they could cause havoc in the ranks.
Grenade launchers thumped steadily, sending frag rounds into thick clusters of Greenskins. Plasma bolts shrieked through the smoke, punching molten holes through crude armor and sending Ork bodies tumbling in pieces.
Back at the trench line, Captain Kelsey remained inside the Salamander Command vehicle, his mind interfaced with the cogitator unit, a rare and honored gift bestowed upon him for exemplary service in the Crusade. The device fed him a torrent of tactical data, allowing him to assess the shifting battlefront in moments.
"16th Company has secured Grid O-67 and is currently holding off an Ork counterattack," a vox-operator reported.
"3rd Company is still engaged in Grid K-2, requesting reinforcements," came another voice.
"55th Company is moving to fill the gap left by the 32nd," the data-stream continued.
Kelsey's eyes narrowed as the battlefield map adjusted, plotting the shifting lines and company movements in real time. The offensive was brutal, but it was working.
"Order the second wave to advance," Kelsey said in a hollow, calculating tone, eyes never leaving the glowing tactical map. "Deploy both 1st and 2nd Grenadier Platoons to the front. They are to push through the breach and expand the corridor."
"Acknowledged, sir."
Kelsey leaned back into his command chair, letting the cogitator's data feeds wash over him, streams of information flowing not only from his own platoons, but also from the flanking 34th and 48th companies.
With a faint exhale, he muttered under his breath, "At this rate, the battle will be over by nightfall."