by BradHB
July 16, 2010
...
Commissar Gerhart flicked a clod of earth from his black leather trenchcoat and stared out over no-man’s land. The percussive rumbling of the artillery ten miles back had finally subsided, and an eerie silence descended. If he strained, he could just about hear the grumbling and snarling of the Greenskins in the far distance. Thirty fething days on this Emperor forsaken planet, and all they had to show for it was a lot of spent ammo casings, crap stuck to his coat and a bit of a cough.
Sgt. Hoyt stepped alongside him, peering up over the edge of the trench. “Sons of bitches are dug in like Armageddon ticks. This will require careful planning.”