Commissar-Lieutenant "Tertia" (Human, Commissar-Lieutenant); Armored 'Grenadiers' Platoon (Human, The Imperium of Man: Circa 007.M42)

You were born to two officers in the Imperial Guard, and as such taken into the 'Schola Progenum'. Many years of training, prayer and discipline followed, till at 25 you were Assigned as a Commissar to the Kastafor 4th Legion, 'The Steel Survivors', a legion composed entirely of the remnants of smaller units broken in the fires of war. You worked with the Grenadiers detachments of the 4th legion for a year, ending up being to execute the lieutenant of the platoon you were overseeing when he was seduced by a chaos cultist and began uttering blasphemies against the Immortal Emperor. At the time your unit was cut off from the rest of the legion and you remained in direct command for over a month, so when you're position was relived the command of 4th legion accorded you the dual rank of Commissar and Lieutenant.

Not long thereafter the 4th legion was dispatched to the Crusade Mission to retake 'Bellossus', a planet with a checkered history where a Chaos Sorcerer had seized control and declared himself 'Prince'. Your “Beachhead Outpost Landing Transport” made it as far as the atmosphere of that world when the sorcerer prince summoned up a localized warp storm and cast it adrift into another dimension. It resurfaced in the skies above a world which bore all the hallmarks of the system of Holy Terra, save there were no world-spanning cities: and no signs of other ships: where the skies of the Imperium's capitol are always thronged with ships of pilgrims, the black barges of the Inquisition, and the tens of thousands of transports which supply the needs of the Imperium's greatest planet and it's trillions of inhabitants.

However the command resolved to make the best of a bad situation: transports such as the one you now sat in were designed to serve as the nucleus of an imperial colony mission in situations just such as this, so they chose an area of the planet that looked relatively uninhabited yet scans showed to have abundant resources and set down. Thus your transport came to rest on the edges of the former state of Texas in what had once been the USA, the area was radioactive but so was most of the planet, so it seemed an acceptable location. There were deposits of Iron and Oil nearby, and the island you had come to rest on appeared to have formerly been occupied, so you would be able to farm and process materials here, so the Adeptus Mechanicus assured you, thought the warned the food would have to be throughly processed to remove the radiation. Still you were Guard's Men and Women and you were used to heavily processed 'food', so the location seemed ideal.

That was 3 weeks ago, it seems much less ideal now, but once one of these transports sets down it takes a Herculean effort and resources you simply don't have to get it back into space again.

Within 3 days you had scouted the area and found it infested with pale skinned deformed mutants, and as per standard protocol begun to purge them to make way for the pure and untainted servants of the Emperor.

By the end of the first week the mutants had fled the immediate vicinity or been slaughtered, and you began to set up oil drilling rigs to extract crude promethium to process for fuel, and recycle the ruins of the cities that lay close about.

By The end of the second week however that was in shambles. The mutants had returned. and in greater numbers, a hoard of tens of thousands baying for blood, and you had lost hundreds of Guard's men and women to the abominations not to mention most of the ground you had taken as well.

You started to push back, even as divisions in the high command threaten to put the whole colony effort in jeopardy, namely a very premature argument about who will become Governor and other leadership roles of the planet, but that's not a concern to you right now, your concern is fighting to push back the mutant hoard which puts the survival of pure blooded humans on this world at risk.

It is in this dark and grim mood that you awaken in the midst of your firebase on the outer edge of the ruins of Galveston Texas and go to get breakfast: the just under 50 Grenadiers under your command having once again been cut off by the enemy, and living on S-Rations dropped off by aircraft 2 days ago, which, as with EVERY such type of ration throughout history, are nutritious, but repetitive after a few weeks.

"Morning Mam, what manner of highly nutritious protein, vitamin, and carbohydrate slurry will you be preferring today?" The 'cook' for the unit queries as you enter the mess tent.

"'Chilly', as always." You declare, resolving to gag down another bowl of the over spiced and revolting 'food', and you use that word in the loosest possible sense. NO ONE wants to eat the 'Chilly' packets: ergo you do, to set an example, just as you have put yourself on 2/3 rations.

After having fought your gorge to the food down and won, you head to the partially functional chimera transport that serves as your command bunker. Everything works on the vehicle, except the drive system which is missing it's left tread from a crude land-mine, part of the reason you ordered the platoon to make camp here and hold their ground.

There will be fresh orders from HQ no doubt, you hope you have time for a shower...