Sometimes, Giving Orders Isn't Easy.
"I can't believe I am doing this," One man who had seen the full glory of manned warfare over the course of a near a century muttered to himself. Before the Orks had taken Lativa, he had ridden with the Rough Riders in a local scuffle against, ironically enough, an infestation of Orks in a nearby system. He had been the second son of a Lighter manufacturer when that used to place his family among the most influential in Calavar, and that influence translated into being able to lead a half-regiment of Dragoons drafted from another planet that had riders worth drafting. In short, by trying to leverage his familial connections into the highest commission that he could, he ended up leading people he could barely understand, against an alien race he had never met and, to top it all, while unable to actually ride for shit.
It had been incredibly hard. It had been incredibly challenging. And making it work had taken many sacrifices. Sometimes literally at that. And it had been, in retrospect, the best years of his life.
He had gotten to know damn near every men in his unit as time passed, some 20 years of service clearing a wave of feral Orks in a planet whose name he no longer remember. His sole responsibility, to make sure the Orks died and that his men did the killing, fitted in well enough with his aspirations at that age. Ah, to be a 40 year old youngster. The Guard, such as they were in the system, were not worried about the scant few decades that it took to get the operation done. A minimal amount of men had been poised to get the work done and, Emperor-willing, the veterans that came out of the conflict would be experienced and blooded enough to send against real challenges in the greater Imperium.
Unlike, he and his officers had laughed in the privacy of their tents at that time, those stupid Orks.
If the man could go back in time and execute his younger self for stupidity, he would consign the papers in a heart beat and carry out the execution personally.
Lativa had been broken by that monstrous Waaaagh not much after the infestation had been declared done. The ship that brought their new orders did not turn out to be an Imperial Navy courier like they expected. It was, instead, a refugee ship broadcasting the Imperial Guard and Navy's last orders as the whole sub-sector was overrun.
Withdraw from Lativa immediately.
As small as the infestation on that planet had been, the ships allocated for their logistics needs had been but merchants basically conscripted into the job. Merchants who could not realistically be expected to abandon everything to take a few regiments in a trip that would most likely see them dead at the hands of the Green Skins. There had been some heads who thought to force them to do it, as good soldiers were always leery of disobeying orders without good enough reasons. But to what point? They had all been but abandoned, and their homes were there. Luckily, the man's family were still influential in Calavar at that time, and the thought of having a force that could fight off boarding Orks more then convinced the Merchants to take them there, horses and all.
Only to get to a world in turmoil as the news of the abandonment from Imperial forces hit everyone like a hammer. And whether he hated it or loved it, times of chaos made Imperial Guard units like his very attractive to people who wanted to use violence as a form of control. Sometimes, the man wondered what would have happened if his family hadn't allied themselves to the Hegemon beforehand. If he had been seduced by one of the other would-be-Hegemons into joining their ranks. But then, the fact that the Hegemon had won and that he had helped him do it was sign enough that the emperor did not wish for it to be that way, didn't it?
Eventually, as his skills and experience in actual protracted war showed through, he was promoted all the way to the position of General in the Hegemon's forces, his Dragoon boys all having either died or been put in charge of forces whose way of fighting they weren't familiar with, but their experience in organization and leading saw them succeed at anyway like he had been.
After the Crusade to take back the Sector from the Orks had finally began, he had even overseen the training and raising of many more, wondering if he would ever experience the joy of structuring a Rough Rider regiment again but for the most part content with the way life had gone.
His family was a military family now, providing Calavar with grit and flesh that helped lead it's men into victory. His old Imperial Guard unit was gone, the faces the descendants of his men all appearing in the youths drawn from warrior families.
And here was today, prepared to tell them that, for the good of Calavar, they were to deploy in Homma against the Ork to die against them and, in doing so, delay them. That these men, these beautiful sons and daughters of Calavar, were to be abandoned like the Imperial guard had done to him so long ago. He had never cared much for the decision then, seeing everything he had grown up with and loved thrown to the side because it was not important enough. And now he didn't care for the decision either but couldn't disregard it because their military intelligence didn't allow any of them to.
-He who protects everything protects nothing-
And now he had to give this speech. This death sentence to the children of those that had served him so long ago. This...betrayal.
The vid casters were on him, and the feed broadcasted to all the military forces in Calavar. He had actually fought to be the one to give them. It felt like the least he could do. The papers in his hand began with a number of greetings and invocations of help from the God-Emperor and, with dry lips and a dry mouth, he began.
"Beloved warriors of the Emperor and Calavar, the Throne shine on us all this day an-" He began to intone as he went throught the procedures, knowing full well that a lot of the soldiery would be tunning him out at this time, as most speeches began alike. His heart beat faster as he got to the relevant point of the message and he had to pause before he began.
"The rise of the Ork against the rightful yoke of mankind has been noted and a plan sure to succeed drafted. To the Waaagh striking Uniary, the following forces are being sent," He started, deligning the huge amount of men and ships that would quell the and hopefully extenguish the Ork forces in those places. Then he spoke of the minimal, but vital, forces being arrayed against the forces that dares strike against a Shrine World and lastly....
He got to the 2 armies and scant few squadrons assigned against Homna.
He paused.
He paused for a few seconds that then turned into an awkward silence as the general fought against his personal deamons. As the long simmering resentment that he had for the Imperial forces came to the fore and made him sick to his stomach.
"And to Homna-" He tried to start but choked up, fighting against his body to get the words out. He had sent men to die before. He had even sent them knowing full well that they would die, but never had he abandoned them. He had fought hard to be the one giving this missive, yet it was so thourghly tortorious.
"And to Homna," He tried again. It was only a few sentences long. Shorts ones too. It wasn't much they were sending.
"To Honma..." He groaned out, the words sticking to his wind pipe and not letting go. These men, the decendants of those who had followed him into his home hoping that he would reward them with homes for their families all seem to flash in his eyes. The Vid casters were getting nervious as they wondered if they should cut the feed, to avoid showing this apparent vulnerable moment of a man powerful enough to break them if he took umbrage. They were seconds away from turning off their video recording devices when, out of the sudden, the General slammed his hands into the table and made them jump.
"And to Honma....I'll be going to show those damnable green Xenos a bad time," He suddenly declared, going off-script so hard that his aides suddenly started looking at their copies to see if they had somehow missread them. The general didn't care; This...was the only way to make things right. And so, it would be.
"I have already made provisions and declarations for my concerns and business here on Calavar. The next few weeks will be the last time I see it as I plan to have my grave planted in Honma, hopefully buried in a mountain of Orks!" He gladly lied, knowing that there would be many issues with his family but at that moment not caring. They'd be fine without him, probably.
"Men and women of the 1st Garrison Army!" He yelled into the Vid Casters, making the people handling them reel back, "Men and women of the 2nd Line Army!"
"Shipmen of 1st and 4th patrol Squadron. Shipmen of the 1st Auxilary," He went on naming the scant few groups assigned to the suicide mission, "I need pale bearers, and witnesses to this stand. I need people that will dump dirt upon the mountain of Ork corpses and call it my tombstone. I need Martyrs that will stand by my side and you...you are the exalted few chosen for this role!"
He was standing up he realized and breathing hard as he finally calmed down. As highly placed as he was, he still had a layer of superiors that could court martial him for not following the script. Hell, the Hegemon would not even need any political posturing to justify butchering an order publicly.
But he knew they wouldn't. Not when he had essentially volunteered to lead men that would be leery of taking a suicide mission head on.
And, at long last, the old General felt....right.
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Oh boy, it's been a while hasn't it? While this isn't DaLinty, I hope that this is nonetheless welcome. A little look into what acting like a powerful enough Polity in 40k drives men to be like.
