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Before the Gretchins lay a wounded land. For the past hour their Orkish masters had poured shells into the area, and the smell of scorched earth still lingered in the air. Through the smoke and gas that drifted over the scarred landscape, they could just make out their goal - an ancient fortress, alone and forgotten on a desolate world. But now it was in use again, last refuge to a squad of the hated Space Marines.
Behind his Gretchin slaves, the Ork warlord Gutbrog Headripper drooled at the prospect of an easy victory. The Marines might be hiding inside the fortress, but they were vastly outnumbered. And he had a surprise in store. At his signal, an Ork Dreadnought lumbered forward, crushing two of the slower, more stupid Gretchins underfoot as it advanced.
The Gretchins cowered as the machine waved them forward with its metal arm. The heavy bolter on its other arm lent authority to the command, and they started to run forward. Death in battle was generally quick and sudden and might be avoided; the displeasure of their Orkish masters, on the other hand, led to a slower, more painful and completely inevitable death.
On the walls of the fort, Brother Jericho watched the Dreadnought. its progress was cautious; at least a dozen Gretchin slaves always walked in front of it in case of mines. The Dreadnought was now almost at the center of the minefield, and Jericho permitted himself a small, grim smile as he triggered the remote switch.
A split second later the ground beneath the Dreadnought erupted in a searing blast of rock and flame. Jericho watched narrowly as the lumbering shape slowly emerged from the smoke and flame; its armoured hide was blackened, twisted in places, and smeared with the remains of its Gretchin escort, but it appeared to be undmaged. But with each step its pace increased, and the surviving Gretchins were trampled or kicked aside as the kiling machine lurched out of control towards the fortress.
The dull, metallic crunch as the Dreadnought smashed into the fortress wall was followed a split-second later by the lower thud of the ejector mechanism vomiting the pilot's capsule out of the wreck. The silver-white globe arced through the air, and hit the rampart ten paces from Brother Jericho. It ruptured on impact, spilling the soft green-white body of its pilot onto the stone in a wave of steaming protoplasm.
Even as the cockpit-shell landed, Jericho was running towards it. A wave of protoplasmic fluid cloyed around his boots, and was already cooling to a viscous gel as he stood over the pale, shrivelled creature which lay helpless in a clot of organic slime, its spine ripped open to expose a glistening trail of cables.
Brother Jericho paused for a second, and glanced over the parapet. The attackers were getting closer. He unlimbered his bolter and, with economy of movement born of years of training, stepped on the pilot's throat as he turned to fire.
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I don't know and I let who care. -J.S.
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It's a Gretchin's life... 
Looks like GW is "revising" its fluff...again.