Chapter 15: Defense of Mawson Ride, Part 1
Raindrops slid steadily off Taylor's helmet, tracing slow paths down the sides of his eyes, as if he were weeping silently.
He lay prone in the dirt, peering through his telescope at the enemy positions, murmuring into his data tablet, "b36a5, b36a5…" He repeated the code several times, watching intently.
Not far before him, the ominous groans and metallic creaks came from a massive orc mecha. Painted in crude yellow, with a blue and white skull icon scrawled on its side, the behemoth wielded a gigantic chainsaw gear for a right hand—a weapon designed for brutal close combat.
It stood roughly ten meters tall, just shorter than a Knight Titan, and it was accompanied by two or three similar machines on patrol.
These orcs worked in small groups tasked with reconnaissance—what they coldly called "surveillance missions." Their job was to poke and prod at human defenses, seeking any weak points to exploit.
Taylor knew that green-skinned beasts piloted the large mechas, while smaller green machines—similar in color but only five or six meters tall—scuttled alongside them. These were called Killing Cans, smaller reconnaissance and skirmish units, driven by orcs' foul pets that emitted disgusting flatulent noises.
The smaller mechas were a problem easily solved by explosives, but the larger Fear Can machines could only be neutralized with melta guns—high-energy weapons designed to melt enemy armor at close range.
Taylor, however, had taken cover in a front-line bunker camouflaged with branches and foliage. He was far from comfortable.
The defensive line consisted of small groups of three soldiers spaced about ten meters apart, scattered along countless holes and trenches making up the Makino Line. Each group covered a small flat trench, with members watching one another's flanks. If light infantry charged one position, nearby soldiers could deliver supporting fire.
The Makino Line was a fortress of sacrifice and stubborn bravery. Victory was won through bloodshed and unwavering resolve.
Taylor himself resented hiding in his smelly, rain-drenched pit, but the orders were crystal clear: hold position. Despite the glamorous reputation as a feudal aristocrat and war hero, he was, first and foremost, a soldier.
Old man Tychus—the grizzled commissar who had always seemed like a father figure to Taylor—understood that the death of a hero could devastate morale. So, to protect his soldiers, he placed Taylor in a quieter sector of the front.
Taylor was glad for it.
Unpacking his military rations, he squeezed the sticky, grayish paste into his mouth. Its flavor was an unpleasant mix that reminded him of salty toothpaste. According to the label, his meal was "Norman's Grilled Fish" flavored.
A tiny warning on the package caught his eye: [Please do not consume continuously for more than one week. Overdose may cause diarrhea, vomiting, dizziness, and shock.]
If the Empire went to the trouble of printing that disclaimer, Taylor guessed the side effects might be even worse than described.
He glanced around, rolling his eyes. If he was stuck in that mud pit for more than three days without relief, he swore he'd run off.
The canvas tarps offered no shelter—constant rain had soaked them through, leaving his back wet and the choking scent of mud thick in the air.
Still, the task wasn't completely worthless.
Taylor alternated between eating and watching the orc mechas from his hole.
Suddenly, a distant growl rippled through the rain—a deep, vibrating roar.
Then came a rapid buzzing overhead, followed by a hailstorm of high-explosive armor-piercing shells raining down in front of the enemy machines.
The orc pilot froze, the massive mecha grinding to a halt as a towering mushroom cloud blossomed nearby.
The Empire's bombs, packing the righteous fury of the Emperor, instantaneously obliterated multiple enemy mechas.
Their blackened wreckage plummeted silently to the earth, leaving only raindrops as sound.
Taylor savored the sight. It was his only entertainment these bleak days.
He could watch those accursed alien machines detonate endlessly, and each blast bolstered his fragile sense of security.
In both his lifetimes, he'd been haunted by the terror of insufficient firepower.
But now, knowing a well-equipped artillery regiment—the Vlaxia 58th—was ready to respond to his call at any moment gave him hope.
The muddy hole was surprisingly bearable, bigger than expected with about three square meters of space.
Aside from persistent dampness and the relentless rain, he had a wet sleeping bag and two small local rodents—cute scavengers he'd roped to his rifle with shoelaces and fed scraps when bored.
Their waste he discreetly disposed of under cover of night.
This hole was freer than camp—except for the orcs lurking just across the street.
If not for the constant threat of death, Taylor might have taken up woodcarving or lost himself in a book here.
He toyed with the two rats briefly before reporting the position of the next orc mecha group.
Life was rough, but once you adapted, it wasn't so bad.
Several days later, Taylor tallied the number of mechas he'd helped destroy—at least ten.
A soldier on the radio told him he'd likely receive a Purple Heart Badge.
Taylor didn't care much about medals, but the badge brought prestige and a generous allowance—treasures coveted by many nobles.
The Terra Star Badge, even rarer, could be traded for a manor on a paradise world.
If the Military Affairs Department discovered such unofficial exchanges, severe punishment would follow—including investigations and punitive actions even against loyal soldiers.
Top honors such as the Terra Star were reserved for heroes who fought Chaos Space Marines and led their comrades into hell.
Taylor figured Terra belonged to legends and gods, not mortals like himself.
When the next shift's soldier arrived—a young man from the 36th Skadi Regiment—he regarded Taylor with reverence.
"Sir, I'm here to relieve you! The Military Affairs Department will be awarding badges to our regiment soon. You should receive quite a few!"
Taylor climbed out of the mud pit slowly, eyes narrowing.
"What for? What did I do?"
The soldier grinned, "You're confirmed for the Winged Skull—for Command Honor—and the Iron Eagle for Die Hard."
"The medal ceremony will try to raise morale before the decisive battle."
Taylor frowned, skeptical. "What good are medals? What we need is soldiers and heavy weapons, not ornaments."
"But sir," the soldier urged, "the Space Marines will bear those insignias!"
"They're deploying to this battlefield—ready to tear through enemy lines!"
Taylor's thoughts spun quietly.
The arrival of Space Marines meant only one thing.
This war had escalated beyond the capabilities of mere mortals.