Specialist Snoghins was next through the breach. The tiny little man, carrying a bag with, notably, both his M36 and his Long Las sticking out of the top, meaning it was taller then him by a fair margin. He was in different place then most of the Guardsman. He was a Ratling. He'd been given a Long Las the moment he showed up, and been told to stay out from underfoot. The Navy didn't like the Ratlings, except around dinner time. Things had a habit of going missing when they were allowed out of their cargo bay. So he and few hundred tiny, garrulous fellows had been cooped up there, largely gambling what little they had, getting drunk off what they could scavenge, and cooking for people willing to offer up something. Because, even the Navy Lads knew. The Imperium had cooks galore, but you wanted to turn trash into diamonds, a Ratling Chef was the way to go. Every once in a while, an officer would come in, point at a few of the lads (sometimes just one, sometimes 12 or so) and tell them to follow him. They didn't come back. Integrated into units for the Imperium of Man, and sent to fight and die no doubt.<br/><br/>Snoghins turn had come 30 minutes ago, when he was plucked out, and told that he'd be attached to unit of Guardsman to act as scout and long range fire support. Snoghins didn't much care, and had followed along, and when the Cargo contained was pointed out to him, he walked inside.<br/><br/>"So, be my squad just you lassie, or are there a few dozen more of bigguns hiding under the bunks?"<br/><br/>The little fat man chortled, and took the lowest hammock (he still had to just to get into it) and placed his stuff under it.<br/><br/>"They tell you anything about what wes assigned to do?"