Wars weren't fought like this. At least no conflict worthy of song and respect could ever be fought like this. Static emplacements and endless watching and waiting and waiting and watching. It was enough to drive a warrior mad with boredom more effectively than warp-influence ever could. A warrior deserved to feel the ground shake beneath his feet with the thunder of hooves, or at least the squeal of tough wheel rubber. The wind catching their hair. Even running towards the enemy on foot, alone was beginning to seem more and more preferable than continuing this plan. And there was no respect to be found for an enemy who hid behind walls of iron and stone like cowards rather than meet their enemy in the open fields of war. Too afraid to risk their lives in true duels of skill. 

It was only due to his physco-indoctrination and warrior training that his chogorian spirit did not take control of his body to leap over the top of the trenches, or eat one of his own bolt rounds in an effort to alleviate his frustrations. 

The silencing of thunderous fire promised a short, if unsatisfying relief to his boredom. The enemy was coming. As pathetic creatures that they may be. There was no honour to be found killing the crazed cultists of the arch-enemy. So polluted with warp insanity that the tactics of their former guardsman training barely applied, to say nothing of their discipline. The bolt round that would end their life was greater than their personal worth, and with so many heretics to kill it was quickly proving to be a waste of munitions. The only satisfaction to be found in this butchery was the knowledge that the lives of traitors was being ended en mass. A small comfort. 

Taking his stance in the trench, body turned and legs spread for optimum balance, once more Cholon cursed the claustrophobic nature of trench warfare. He barely had room to to anything more than this. The mortal guardsman arrayed around the titan in white armour, marred by earth and grime and pollutants in the air of the once bustling imperial city. And while Cholon new that his presence gave the men courage and a degree of inspiration (if nothing else to play on their sense of pride against showing cowardice before a space marine)Their very presence constricted him into further claustrophobia, though where they had to climb a foot or two up the inclined edge of the trench to peek over the edge and line up their rifles. Cholon merely had to stand and aim. Already a head and shoulders higher than the trench.

That head in turn was attempted to pierce the screen of smoke and dust thrown up by the bombardments. Looking for any sign of the approaching enemy. Ruby red lenses had a particularly sinister glare when coupled with the stern looking respirator plate of the helm. He longed to remove it and feel the meagre wind against his skin but his intimidating height also gave opportunity to snipers, and he was still not immune to bullets hitting his skull. 

Cholon didn't bother to respond verbally. Merely sending a confirmation blip through his helmet that he heard his battle brothers words. He was in too sour of a mood for speech.