Cold. It always had to be cold, didn't it? He froze time and again in trenches logged with snow and mud which had become a thick frost layer. Clutching his M36 with bayonet fixed, poised against the traitors. He froze there, the cratered snow plains as again and again they were thrown against prepared positions. He was a youth then, a 'Whiteshield'.

It was his first time on the front line and the first time he ever faced down Chaos. He recalled, that coldest winter where more than 75% of his unit died throwing themselves against the enemy or freezing as they defended against the counterattacks. And it was there he became a true Guardsman.

He jolted awake with the cold nipping at his skin, the nerves flaring with pinpricks of cold. Darkness met his eyes, the cold, waterlogged fabric clinging to his nostrils and mouth, constricting his breath, and his spine shivered when addressed. Whether the coldness of the water or the voice, he himself was not sure, but his mouth became ajar as he breathed in what he could with a deep gasp, his fogged memory recollecting, his training, the training of respite and silence in capture, and despite his bind, he spoke with clarity and purpose, voice muffled only by soaked fabric, not by sniveling or wavering of fear.

"Corporal Austen Corby, service number 4093375." He cut off his voice, and said not a word more.