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Any of you sons a bitches calls me grandpa... I'll kill ya.—Sergeant Major Basil Plumley, We Were Soldiers
"...how did Lord Thyngrim win the day?" asked the Warlord with some impatience. The Orks were getting closer. The Ancestor shook as he chuckled. "I cannot tell you how to win as he did, but if you don't mind uncomfortable truths, I can tell you how to avoid losing as he did."
"Now, what you're to do with your submachinegun? Here's no less than 200 meters to the adversary. Only ignorames and cowards fire SMG at such a range, and I with my rifle is going to pick off that officer now."--Before i properly inspected the figure he pointed at, it fell."Well, I don't kill them. I only hole. In a leg, arm, shoulder. Why would I need to kill them? I need only that they won't come to me, and won't kill me. As to them, they may live. Bullet is a tender, clean thing. So the wounds aren't bad--quickly heals and leaves no consequences--unlike ones from a crude and dirty shrapnel."
"And now this one... and this one... and also this one..." With each shot someone was dropped. While inserting a new clip, he told me as a greatest secret: "I'll not make it to the end of this magazine before the part of the line which i shoot at will lie on the ground. Sparse rifle fire without misses evokes panical fear." And really, the second clip dropped significant part of the line. Officers ran along it, shouted, raised men, but the third clip came into play and now those officers began to fall. Entire part of the line in the field of fire of Kozhevnikov's rifle squeezed into the ground.
"How many widows and orphans, Timofey Ivanovich, you made today"--I uttered musingly.
"Why, none at all."
—Pyotr Grigorenko, In the underground you can meet only rats (memoirs)