The humans were having ice cream sundaes, as much as they can eat, while their superiors reported to their allies about the battle, and their allies read the battle reports and all the horrors within.
"All the little angels rise up, rise up. All the little angels rise up high," the Terran Space Marine Corps were singing over ice cream sundaes with all the lashings. There weren't as many of them singing as had gone to Vrantamire, and that was why they were singing with broken voices and tears in their eyes. "See the little angels rise up, rise up. See the little angels rise up high..."
To that background, Commander Dev was reading the distilled version of the battle report. Condensed, cleansed, and coated in the sugar surface of bland technical jargon, it was dry and dull stuff.
Survivability of encounters with the hostiles was at a rate of sixty percent once the correct ammunition fabrication process was refined. The reporter writing it meant that the instant they had Slagomizer Brand laser cutters turning Those Bastard corpses into bullets, then everyone stopped dying so much. Also 'survived' counted those who were wounded or otherwise impaired for the rest of their lives. 'Survived' counted those in cryostasis who were waiting for their replacement organs to be printed and installed.