Just as the first wave disembarked from their transports and launched their selves into the enemy the second wave rolled across no-man's land, in the form of three dozen Centaur carriers whom brought forth heavily armoured Grenadiers tasked with taking out enemy strong points and bunkers.
The enemy trenches might be cleared of the enemy with some ease now, but the remaining bunkers would be a tougher challenge for the regular infantry lacking the equipment for such a thing. As the Centaurs closed in on the fray they could see that a Gorgon was turned into a blazing inferno as a lucky lascannon shot punctured the fuel tanks of one of the sponson- mounted flamers, which in turn reached the main fuel tanks.
The Centaurs slew to a halt, the small squads of grenadiers jumping free and into the cover of the enemy trenches as quickly as they could under the heavy weight of their equipment and armour. From there onwards they followed the trail of dead, shoving their selves to the front of the fighting, their external vox speakers screaming as they went along.
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The enemy was upon them and only one directive remained: hold them off at all cost! The trenches were easily overtaken by the massed artillery and infantry charges, the bunkers and strong points were a different matter. They were designed to withstand enemy artillery and remain standing.
Long thin firing slits were cranked open, their metal hatches grinding down as weapons were hoisted into position, a plethora of heavy weapons poking from each pillbox, bunker and strong point. Each location had interlocked firing lanes, creating effective kill zones that were hard to get through.
Yet the enemy kept on coming!
Undeterred by their own casualties they kept up the assault, entire squads scythed down as they stepped into the kill zones with reckless abandon for their own lives. The gunners inside the bunkers kept their cool, gunning down any that strayed into their sights. This would be easy.
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Several men were cut down as they tried to cross the opening, scythed down by a pillbox with several stubbers. Grenadiers now joined the blooded guardsmen, issuing the order to stay put. Someone called out for smoke and several canisters were thrown into the open, the men impatiently waiting for them to pop and create a thick smoke screen. Jostling through the ranks of guardsmen eager to assault the pillbox were several Grenadiers, barking orders to stand aside so that they could take point. One of them carried a flamer, elbowing himself a way to the point position.
'Go!' barked their sergeant, the demi-squad of Grenadiers running from cover and into the smoke, tracers blindly screaming through it as the gunners tried to keep the area suppressed. Several of them were hit, their bulky carapace armour clanging as a round pinged off. One of them got hit, several rounds chewing into his torso.
The survivors made it to the other side, one of them clamping magnetic melta bombs to the bunker door as the others kept watch. The door was fused open, molten slag dripping inwards as a sinister greatcoat clad soldier with heavy armour and a metallic skull mask stepped into the opening, a flamer gripped in his hands. One gout of promethium was all that was needed to reduce the occupants of the pillbox into shrieking ragdolls as they danced to and fro in a blaze.
'Clear,' was all the Grenadier said as he moved on to the next enemy strongpoint. Their work had only just begun. One hole was not enough, in order to succeed they would need to take out more enemy bunkers.
Slowly, over the course of the day, the bunkers were taken out, one by one. And by the end of the day the signal was sent back to the lines, mission accomplished - line cleared.
The advance could begin in earnest.
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