Chapter 672 Cannon Fodder
Standard Terra Calendar, 942.M41
Planet Armageddon, Main Continent, Hades Hive
Six months after the siege ——
When he saw that simple letter of appointment, Hartmann Paul still couldn’t believe that he had become a true regiment leader—even though his regiments were all broken up. It is composed of remnant defeated generals and teenagers over 14 years old who have temporary symptoms.
Their designation is the 9th Hades Infantry Regiment, which sounds pretty good, but in fact their equipment is very poor. About half of them can only carry crude live ammunition weapons, and their heavy firepower is limited to two heavy explosive rounds. and several logging guns.
For this reason, the soldiers often complained that they were "cannon fodder", but in fact, this was not as bad as when hundreds of child soldiers appeared in front of Hartman. He felt as if he had become a nanny. of.
What's even worse is that the Zhongchao Rail Transit Hub they were ordered to defend seems to be under attack by the enemy recently - after six months of fierce fighting, the bottom layer of the Hades Nest has basically fallen. , the remaining humans can only continue to resist stubbornly in the middle nest with high walls.
However, not all places are protected by protective walls, such as this transportation hub, but the advantage is that its location is relatively high, which can form a certain degree of suppression.
Although the Season of Shadows has passed, the darkness of Armageddon's night sky is still as dull as the tattered military uniforms everyone wears day after day.
Suddenly, the dawn sun pierced the night sky like a dagger, and it was as quiet as a knife cutting a hole, and the dull red light penetrated the black sky.
Finally, the sun rose, casting a cold yellow-brown light on the continuous trenches.
The red star is huge, like a roasted rotten fruit, and the light of dawn shines on the earth thousands of miles away like lightning.
Hartmann Paul woke up, feeling extremely sore in his limbs and body.
He crawled out of the makeshift shelter he had dug in the trench, his boots kissing the gray mud of the trench where the mud shield that had originally covered it was missing.
He originally looked flabby, but after months of hard work, he now looks as strong as an ox, with some fresh tattoos on his broad, hairy arms and a thick, fluffy beard.
Wearing a military uniform with black belts, he stood up with a yawn.
In the trenches, beneath sandbags, gabion walls and sharp rolls of rusty barbed wire, the soldiers also rose to the beat of drums.
Coughing, gasping and soft screams are intertwined, like the voices of ghosts wandering in the early morning.
The matches were lit under the low sloping parapet: everyone was checking their weapons, and the artillerymen were also maintaining the old antiques, wiping off the moisture on them - the firing device was pulled out repeatedly Pushed the gun barrel again.
Meanwhile, the soldiers on night watch began to retire to their cages.
The woke soldiers walked out of the temporary resting place, lined up in the camp, and received their food rations.
Although there are no specific regulations, the military camp also has its own rules. The veterans are always in the front row, and the child soldiers are always at the end.
"Hello, sir!"
Amidst the salutes,
Hartmann walked hard in the mud, looking into the long and winding trenches, trying to see where the sleepy, pale, and exhausted sentries were coming back from.
Ten kilometers away, between the huge unloading platform and the front assembly plant, lights flickered on the huge communication line tower.
In the dark and secret corner of the guard post, the sentry in a camouflage cloak stood upright, with dry dirt still on his body.
Then the sleepy sentinels felt themselves being tapped. It turned out to be the replacement of the shift, so they joked with each other and exchanged cigarettes.
The night sentry is a hard job because it is really tiring, but it is very important, because what the greenskins like most is night raids - those beasts have endless strength, no matter what There's always something new to do day or night.
For example, they killed a guy two days ago who was trying to sneak into the kitchen and pour shit into their food.
Looking at the sentinels, Hartman felt that they were like ghosts returning to their graves—or that they were all ghosts.
Under the parapet of the trench, the cook was burning something similar to coffee in a worn-out small plate on the fusion stove. A pungent smell immediately wafted into Hartman's nose, arousing his Notice.
Of course, there is no coffee in this place. At most, there are only "coffee-like" things. Of course, only the God Emperor knows how far this thing is related to coffee.
“Give me some of that stuff.” Colonel Hartmann, who had been promoted, quickly walked through the trenches and came to the cook. This old guy was in his fifties, with a thin and solid body, not very healthy, and his left ear was bagged. The gauze was picked up from the ruins by Hartmann. It is said that he once had a prominent position in Zhongchao,
Is the owner of a luxury hotel.
But now, to hell with any status, everyone is the same.
"Okay, sir."
The old man nodded and handed Hartman a crooked metal cup. His old eyes were full of weariness.
"How many things are there in the warehouse?"
Hartman pursed his lips, holding the cup in his left hand, enjoying the warm cup.
This old man is not only a cook, but also their logistics director, because Hartman is completely unfamiliar with this area.
“Not much left, there are still twenty boxes of protein blocks, and only five bags of corpse starch left——”
Then his voice was interrupted,
In the orange sky, a group of crimson fighter jets screamed past the trenches and flew north.
Soon, the forged temples of the Mechanicum on the horizon spit out heavy firelight, and the interiors of these industrial cathedrals were burning with blazing flames.
A second later, the dry wind carried the loud sound of bombing.
Hartman sipped his drink and watched the fighters fly away. The void shield of the hive could only cover the spire of the hive, so the green-skinned fighters carried out bombings almost every day.
Everyone is surprised.
After returning to the ground, he realized that the stuff in the cup was really hard to drink.
Hartman couldn't help
murmured to the cook:
"It's really good." Something."
Shaked his head,
Hartman lowered his voice and said to the old cook:
“From the next meal onwards, everyone’s ration will be reduced by half.”
“Ah? Sir, it was already reduced by half before, and everyone is almost there. If you don't eat me alive, I'm afraid you won't be able to see me cooking the next meal."
"Everyone is joking, but we all know it."
"Is it possible later? No more supplies?”
Hartman didn't answer, just laughed coldly.
“Stop asking, just do what you should do.”
Suddenly, he thought of something, asked the other party to get closer to him, and then said in a very low voice:
"At night, secretly make some for those little brats and ask their captain to pick them up at their own time."
"I understand."
After drinking coffee, he walked another kilometer along the winding trench and saw a soldier awakened by the loud bang of a laser gun hitting a sandbag at close range, followed by bursts of shouts and curses.
It turned out that someone was shooting the rats, and the rats that could not be removed were biting the plastic sealed boxes containing food with their lizard-like teeth.
(End of this chapter)