This is the first book since book two in the series that felt like a true "bridge" novel. It takes us from the horrors of Gereon, and shows us how "the Gereon 12" fit back into life in the Imperial Guard after being stranded on an enemy-held world for almost two years. The book really excels at capturing the bleak, sinking feeling of things spiraling out of your control, even when you did exactly what you were supposed to do. For the sake of spoilers, I won't get into specifics but the Gereon 12 don't come back in glory in the eyes of the Imperium, even if the Ghosts revere them as if they are heroes in the truest sense: Unkillable. Superhuman. Almost mythic.
As these 9 of the Gereon 12 return, they get the welcome they deserved:
The tailgate on the fifth truck slammed down. Dark figures jumped clear onto the track. There was
a moment’s pause, and then they began to stroll down into the post, in a loose formation, black-clad
figures slowly looming out of the winnowing dust. Walking in step, slow and steady, weapons slung
casually over their shoulders.
Rawne. Feygor. Varl. Beltayn. Mkoll. Criid. Brostin. Larkin. Bonin.
Their faces were set and hard. Their new uniforms, displaying the pins of the Eighty-First First,
were bright and fresh. A slow smile dug its way across Lucien Wilder’s face. He’d seen some
bastards in his time, and many of the best were in the Belladon’s ranks.
But he’d never seen such a casual display of utter cool. He liked these troopers already. Coming
home when they were believed lost. Coming home, asking for trouble. The slow pace, the lazy stride.
Throne damn it, they were heroes before they had even started.
Wilder heard a sound, a sound that started slowly then grew. Clapping. The Ghosts around the post
were clapping and it became frenzied. Without really knowing why, the Belladon joined in,
applauding the heroes home. Shouts, whoops, whistles, cheers."
- His Last Command (Abnett, page 101-102):
Unfortunately, and understandably, the Gereon mission caused our beloved Ghosts to come back scarred, and haunted. It's hard for them to mesh back into their previous lives as Imperial Guard, probably made worse by all the changes that happened while they were away (spoiler alert).
After their return, and insertion into their handpicked unit, the story really picks ups. And I don't mean that the action picks up (which it coincidentally does) but the real story slowly starts falling into place. It stops being just a "bridge" novel and becomes something spectacular. The story was great, the fight scenes were amazing, but the conflict between the old Ghosts, the new Belladon troopers, and the returning Gereon 12 was just a masterclass of conflict without "fighting". The scenes are tense, and the writing is quick.
Even Gaunt with his reassignment and "spy" assigned to him was fun and maddening at the same time. The story worked, and it worked well. Gaunt, the Gereon 12, and the rest of the Ghosts slowly work their way back into an overarching mission that becomes a really fantastic story in "The Lost" series. It makes a beautiful play on the title of the "His Last Command" as well. The line is dropped in the novel a couple times and each time it takes on a new meaning and weight. And the final time...the weight is heavy.
His Last Command really answered the question how could soldiers from a Chaos-held world really return and be entrusted to fit back into the Imperial Guard. It was believable, it was maddening, and sad, and at times heartbreaking, but it felt real, and the book truly built itself, page by page, into an amazing story and addition to the adventures of Gaunt's Ghosts.
Most memorable scene - 81st First E Compnay comes to the rescue of the Scouting Party
His Last Command, (Abnett, page 148-149):
“Eighty-First First!” Maggs yelled out. “Eighty-First First!” He was pointing back into the open
country behind them.
“Holy feth,” said Caober.
The soldiers of E Company were yelling as they came charging in around either side of the house.
The cry they made was incoherent, but the intent, the passion, unmistakable. Warriors of the Imperium,
blood up, with the enemy in sight. The scouts saw the flash of fixed blades against the dark
battledress of the running figures.
“Now that’s a sight,” said Bonin.
There would be no time for finesse, Rawne realised. This was going to be a pitched battle in the
antique sense of the word, infantry line against infantry line. There was no cover, no terrain for
ranged fighting, and no room for flanking moves. Face to face, hand to hand, the way wars used to be
fought.
E Company had the slope on their side. They poured over the rim of it, running towards the enemy,
firing shots from weapons that they were brandishing like spears. The Blood Pact seemed to balk en
masse, as if they could not quite understand what was happening. Those at the top of the slope froze in
dismay, those further back hesitated because they couldn’t see what was coming.
The lines struck with a visceral, crunching impact of bodies, helmets and battle-plating. The
sounds of shooting, shouting and striking became frenetic.
Caffran and Guheen ran into the ruin with the scouts. Both were lugging launcher tubes. Dunik
followed, carrying a drum of rockets.
“Welcome to my world,” Caober said to Guheen.
“That your handiwork?” Bonin asked Caffran, who was loading up another rocket.
Caffran glanced at the headless stalk-tank smouldering beyond the wall. “Yes. Bit of a risk at the
range I had, but I thought you’d appreciate the effort.”
Guheen had already shouldered his tread-fether and taken aim at the second tank. “Ease!” he
yelled. The men around him opened their mouths to help with the discomfort of the pressure punch.
Guheen’s tread-fether barked out a hot backwash of flame and spat a rocket into the shoulder of the
second tank. It shook with the impact, badly damaged but still active.
“Load me!” Guheen shouted to Dunik.
Caffran was crouching by the wall with his own tube. “Ease!” he warned, and fired. His streaking
rocket hit the second tank and finished the work Guheen had begun. The main body section blew apart
with huge force, probably helped by the detonation of the tank’s own munitions, and dozens of the
Blood Pact around it were roasted in the firewash.
“Aim for the third tank,” Mkoll told Caffran. The formidable plasma mount had opened up, slicing
beam-energy mercilessly into the ranks of E Company. The air was suddenly ripe with the smell of
cooked blood and bone.
Rockets squealed out from several points in the E Company spread. A Belladon trooper called
Harwen scored the winning shot. The third tank went up, its oversized head spinning away,
decapitated, still firing plasma beams wildly like a firecracker as it bounced amongst the Blood Pact
lines.
Rawne and Feygor were right in the thick of it, lost in the punching, whirling, deafening violence
of the fight. Rawne shot those he could shoot, and smashed his bayonet into those who were too close.
The last proper action he’d seen had been back during the last days on Gereon, and he’d briefly
forgotten the way killing had come to feel. This slaughter quickly reminded him.
Once, combat had been about pride and fury for Elim Rawne, the honest, hot-blooded endeavour
of a fighting infantry man. Such a romantic notion, that seemed to him now. He recalled Gaunt and
Colm Corbec debating the styles and types of combat, as if it came in different flavours or intensities,
like love or sleep.
Today, his blood was cold, his pulse barely elevated. His blood was always cold. Gereon had
done that to him. On Gereon, every single fight, from the full-blown open battles to the savage blade-
brawls of infiltration missions, had been about survival, merciless survival, totally undressed of
sentiment, honour or quarter. He’d learned to use everything, every opening, every advantage. He
kicked, stabbed, crushed, stamped, bit and gouged; he ripped his straight silver into backs and sides
and buttocks, he’d butchered men who had already fallen wounded, or who had turned to run.
Rawne had never been a particularly honourable man, but now his soul was cold and hollow,
utterly devoid of honour or courage. Fighting had simply become a mechanical absolute; it no longer
had degrees. Rawne either fought or did not fight, killed or did not kill. Combat’s purpose had been
reduced to a point where it was simply a way to ensure he was still alive when everything around him
was dead. He had no use for caution, no use for fear.
Feygor, fighting at his commander’s back, was much the same. Death was no longer something he
feared. It was something he used, a gift he dished out to those that opposed him. Death was just a tool,
an instrument. The only thing Murt Feygor was afraid of anymore was being afraid.
Near to them, struggling in the melee, Meryn became aware of the sheer fury he was witnessing. It
took his breath away to see the two men, so completely unchecked by fear. When Mkoll and Bonin
broke through the scrum of bodies to lay in beside Rawne and his adjutant, Meryn faltered completely
and backed away. He hated the archenemy with a passion, but his own courage and intent seemed to
leak away when he saw the Blood Pact broken apart by these daemons.
Daemons. Daemons. Not Ghosts at all. Not even human.