Life expectancy: 30 minutes

But he wasn't ready, he could never have been ready for what was about to befall him. He gripped his weapon tightly, his insulated gloves squeaking against the polished wooden handle, his finger trembling on the trigger. He faced his comrades with haunted eyes, all knowing full well what was expected of them, he turned to his sergeant with the same look, but the old, scarred, veteran just nodded at the brooding figure in the shadows. The private tried not to glance at the man as he murmured litanies of devotion from his chap book, while resting his free hand on the butt of his pistol. The threat was clear and the private turned away, once more facing the drab, grimy ramp not three inches from his face. He could smell the pungent oil dripping from its hinges, the sweat of his unit , crammed into this clanking, stuffy contraption, he could even detect a faint aroma of the balms and oils with which their rifles were anointed. But all such trivial detections were forced from his thoughts as a sharp lurch of the transport's cabin announced its deceleration. The anxious guardsman silently thanked his sergeant's wisdom when he had instructed them to make use of the restraints provided. He would not want to dive into battle, already injured and distracted.
His mood soured once more at the thought of battle. As an infantry grunt he knew his place in the grand scheme of things and what that meant for his life expectancy. He was a part of the first wave, the spearhead into the centre of the enemy lines. Theirs was the task of opening fire upon the sallied ranks of the foe and begin the invasion. In other words, they were the cannon fodder.
The first few units to be mown down by the enemy's guns before the guard's superior numbers came into effect and overwhelmed them. Which was all well and good for the Imperium, but what about those loyal, honest soldiers who served on the front line? Men who had lived their whole lives devoted to the Emperor, even found the courage to sign up for recruitment, sacrificing the hope of ever seeing their homes and families again, in order to dedicate themselves fully to servitude in the Imperium's armies, and for what? All that sacrifice and devotion, and what was their reward? An insignificant death where their only purpose is to serve as human shields for those infantry that the Officers had deemed more worthy of survival, that's what. How could actual human beings be so callous?  Wasting human life, viewing certain people as expendable, 'acceptable losses' they called them. It was unethical, it was sick, but unfortunately, it was the grim reality of war.
And on this depressing epiphany, the Chimera ground to a halt, its tracks slewing in the mud and filth of yet another, nameless battlefield, already rich with the thick decay of death. The ramp creaked open, slowly, allowing a shaft of pale, sickly yellow light to pierce the gloom within. The soldiers were dazzled, but the sergeant employed his rifle butt and boot heels in coaxing them into the light. The commissar followed after them, stowing his book and drawing his glittering sabre from its elegant scabbard. The soldiers dared not dally on the cusp of no man's land, and did what every instinct screamed at them to do: they charged, recklessly and frenziedly into the massed ranks of enemy infantry, rifles blasting a constant tattoo- krak-a-krak-a-krak, the sound of ionized air, their voices booming over the collective din of battle, the hiss and thump of artillery being loaded and fired, the sound of thousands of boots marching and sprinting across no-man's-land, and of course the ever present screaming. The agonized death cries of the first wave of soldiers, howling and gurgling as lungs filled with blood or necks snapped backwards, and the fallen bodies of these brave heroes just lay where they fell, to be trampled underfoot by friend and foe, their lecherous hands still grasping their weapons, their faces frozen in Rictus' of pain and anger.
Private Anthony Rustig was the very first to fall, a las bolt going straight through his bare throat, his corpse the first to christen this fresh hell with loyalist blood. The only recognition of his sacrifice was the commissar's boot in his ribs as he sought to dislodge him from the ramp, all his death had achieved was to impede his comrade's progress, as they ran to meet their end.

Private Breeg regarded his fallen comrade on the ramp before him, his face was covered for the most part by his leather gas mask, but his eyes, those baleful, empty eyes, still contained the sheer paralyzing terror of a dying man. These sightless eyes, he knew, would remain with him forever. The Commissar glanced back at the transport and noticed Breeg, faltering upon the precipice of battle. "You dare retreat before the enemies of the Imperium?" His tone was one of loathing and disgust. Breeg, struck by the sudden realization of the officer's intent, surged forwards, lasgun blazing, his comrade's memory forgotten in the face of his own destruction.
He panted heavily through his rebreather, the air stinging his throat, his breaths were short and ragged, his heart thundered beneath his embroidered great coat and his hand cramped upon the handle of his fire arm, his finger locked upon the trigger. Pure self preservation was drove him on, all other thoughts were incomprehensible when faced with the incardinate slaughter before him; men collapsing at unnatural angles, full chunks of their chests' or heads' blown out by shells, forced to charge across the bodies of his own men, mud slicked, blood stained faces glaring at him in silent accusation, and then there was the psychological effect of the ten thousand enemy soldiers arrayed before him. Bearing down upon him as he stumbled up to meet them upon a steep incline of gravel and dirt. He prayed to the golden throne that he wouldn't slip, or stumble, for even such inconsequential mistakes could very well cost him his life. As his morale plunged, he glanced about him for the Commissar, the lone figure of power and zeal that would inspire the hearts of his charges to feats of valour and glory.
Sure enough Breeg spotted the distinctive black uniform of the officer, his sabre carving a swathe of heretics from his path, while his plasma pistol provided righteous cleansing upon these unholy heathens foolish enough to get so close. But for his hefty toll of kills, the Commissar was beset upon on all sides. Breeg felt himself hardened by his superiors' mettle, and was outraged that such vermin would seek to befall him. He did not hesitate this time, he'd had enough. He had been in this war five minutes and already they had broken him to the point of despair. He roared with bestial rage and finally laid his hands upon the enemy, his gauntlet closing about a trooper's neck from behind, while his other arm drove his bayonet tipped rifle through his spine. He felt the thrill of battle course through him, adrenaline surging in his veins. He shot another point blank in the face, his wound cauterizing instantly, but leaving a fist sized exit wound at the back of his skull. Breeg clubbed another to the ground and broke his neck with a stomp. He ducked to avoid a slash at his chest and swung his rifle low to catch another's legs then using him as a shield to block his assailant's shots, before tossing the foe at him and following through with his bayonet, while the man was distracted Breeg drove the blade through his mouth and up into his brain. In the thick press of bodies, gunfire was next to useless, so he wielded his lasgun like a pole arm, utilizing its bayonet as a spear tip, hacking, slashing, and carving the unholy turncoats with righteous fire in his eyes and murder in his heart. His words descended into barbaric snarls and grunts as he powered on through the hordes, scarcely noticing the superficial wounds he caught along the way.
Already Breeg had wrought a hefty toll of kills, his frenzied press through the heretics due in no small part to the fact that he had gone unnoticed as he had hung back from the main advance, his fresh charge catching them in the flank as they had all gathered about the commissar and his men.
Breeg gave into the animalistic fury burning within him, tapping into the pure savagery that lay in the heart of every man, the deaths of his men, the pain of his wounds, the audacity of the foe and their sheer existence driving him mad with bloodlust.
He screamed again and again as he tore them apart, with his bayonet, his gun, and his bronze gauntlet. He went for eyes, for noses, the back of knees, groins, any weak spot that could be exploited in close combat, he wielded his lasgun like a thug, riding his adrenaline induced high and releasing all his pent up terror and disgust in the form of violence, his years of training amoung the first born regiments pushed from his fore brain as he allowed murderous intent to fuel his every action.
But soon the foe's numbers would win out, they would overwhelm him and his commissar in short order, and then kill more of his comrades, he punched his fist into a man's open wound and tore muscle, stamping his fallen form into the dirt. But he was going to stop as many as he could, each kill in the Emperor's name would save the life of its intended target. So he pressed his advantage, laying into the backs of the enemy, the closeness and amount of the enemy preventing them from turning to meet this new threat. With a guttural howl he disemboweled a final knot of heretics and suddenly he was back to back with his Commissar. Neither spoke, nor even acknowledged one another's company, they simply fought on. Their rears now protected they utilized the freedom to more deftly massacre the oncoming horde. But now he had reached his goal, Breeg's body was failing him, his wounds, though superficial, were numerous and blood loss was overcoming him, robbing him of the adrenaline that had fuelled him to this point. The Commissar too, was overwhelmed, but his decades of experience along with a plasma pistol and carapace armour, had allowed him to survive this long.
Breeg was faltering, he was receiving more and more wounds as the muscles in his limbs tightened, his heart rate pounding above normal levels, he was on death's doorstep, the thought itself was quite sobering, and he felt solace in that. So he braced his legs, straightened his back, and breathed deep, holding what may be his last breath, then let it out in a thunderous roar, tearing the mask from his face, he slashed a throat open, he broke noses, carved limbs from torsos', and blasted las fire into their ranks. The Commissar himself allowed a grim smile to light his features and managed a final utterance through the closed comm channel, "You're a Son of Vostroya, lad-Ugh!- A Firstborn!- Avenge your brothers-ah!- and fulfill our debt to the G-". But Commissar Straken of Vostroya would never finish consoling his charge, as the foe pressed in about him, hacking the power fist and arm from his body in a shower of viscera, and mauling him with unholy shrieks of delight. Despite this crippling loss, Breeg had the confidence that only a man at peace with his fate could have, his bestial rage tempered by his wounds, he fell back upon his training, fighting with discipline and honour. The end of the Commissar's speech upon his lips: "and fulfill our debt to the God Emperor, In the name of Vostroya! And the Emperor! Foul heretics will be purged! Primo Victoria!"
The young soldier's voice echoed across press of bodies, the foe increasing in number and gradually overpowering not only Breeg, but those Vostroyans still left from the first wave.
A seething tide of gruesome brown uniforms, surrounding tiny specks of red and gold, holding a staggered but resistant front line, as the second convoy of Chimera APC's, resplendent in gold and beige, slewed to a halt behind them.
The costly, unrelenting cycle starting over once more.