When he saw the simple letter of appointment, Hartmann Paul still couldn't believe that he had become a true regimental commander - even though his regiment was composed of defeated soldiers and temporary signs.
Composed of teenagers aged 14 and above.
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.
Therefore, 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.
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 Hades's nest has basically fallen, and the remaining humans can only
Can 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 like lightning on the earth thousands of miles away.
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 shields that had originally covered it were missing.
He originally looked weak, but after months of hard work, he now looks as strong as an ox, with some fresh tattoos on his broad, furry 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.
Coughs, gasps and soft screams mingled together, like the sounds of ghosts wandering around in the early morning.
Matches were lit under the low sloping parapet: everyone was checking their weapons, and the artillerymen were also maintaining the old antique guns, wiping off the moisture on them - the firing mechanism was repeatedly pulled out and pushed into the barrel.
At the same time, the soldiers responsible for the night watch began to sleep in their cages.
The soldiers who woke up 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 in the back.
"Hello, sir!"
In the midst of 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 a dark and secret corner of the guard post, a sentry in a camouflage cloak stood upright, with dry dirt still on his body.
Then the bleary-eyed sentries felt a tap on them, and it turned out that the replacement was coming, so they joked with each other and exchanged cigarettes.
The night sentry job 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 day or night, they can always do something.
New tricks.
For example, two days ago they killed a guy who was about to sneak into the kitchen and pour shit into their food.
Looking at the sentinels, Hartmann 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 small, worn-out plate on the fusion stove. A pungent smell immediately wafted into Hartmann's nose, drawing his attention.
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 trench and came to the cook. This old guy was over fifty, with a thin, solid body and not very healthy. His left ear was wrapped with gauze, which Hartmann picked up from the ruins.
It is said that he once had a prominent position in Zhongchao.
He 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 much more is there in the warehouse?"
Hartmann pursed his lips, holding the cup in his left hand, enjoying the warm cup.
This old man is not only the cook, but also their logistics director, because Hartman is completely unfamiliar with this area.
"There's 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 cast 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 fighter jets fly away. The void shield of the hive could only cover the spire of the hive, so green-skinned fighter jets bombed almost every day.
Everyone is surprised.
Back on the ground, I realized that the thing in the cup was really hard to drink,
Hartmann couldn't help
He muttered to the cook:
"What a damn good thing."
shook his head,
Hartmann lowered his voice and said to the old cook:
"From the next meal onwards everyone's ration will be halved."
"Ah? Sir, I've already reduced it by half before. Everyone almost ate me alive. If I reduce it again... I'm afraid you won't be able to see me cooking the next meal."
"Everyone is joking, but we all understand."
"Are there no supplies behind?"
Hartmann 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, you secretly make some for those brats and ask their captain to pick them up at their own time."
"Understood."
After drinking coffee, he walked another kilometer along the winding trench and saw a soldier awakened by the loud sound 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.