Chapter 2: The State of Mind
Three figures stood at the far end of the road.
Two Krieg guardsmen and a captain. They appeared to be talking, though it was more the captain barking orders than any real conversation.
Pale blue fatigues, ash-grey greatcoats, leather rebreather masks. They wore old-style steel helmets painted matte black with no insignia and two flimsy flak armor vests. White puttees wound around their calves had turned grey-black with mud. While the exact shade of uniform varied by regiment, the equipment standard remained the same across the Death Korps.
When Dos appeared, the captain simply looked at him and said nothing.
"Er... I am the new commissar. Does anyone know where the commissars' quarters are?" Dos sounded almost apologetic, not daring to ask the captain for guidance even though the man was clearly here to greet him. The name Krieg was simply too terrifying.
The captain flicked his hand. The two guards took Dos's bulging kitbags without a word.
"Follow," the captain said curtly.
Dos followed meekly behind him.
Much later, Dos would learn that no one had actually been assigned to meet him that day; running into those three had been pure chance. His arrival had drawn zero notice. But the real gut-punch was still to come.
All around lay neat rows of tents and trenches. Patrols of guardsmen and engineers moved in perfect order. The sight salved Dos's shattered nerves somewhat, yet Kriegers were taciturn by nature, and the whole camp felt lifeless.
Dos racked his brain for every tale he'd heard about the Death Korps of Krieg.
Once, Kriegers had been no different from Imperial citizens elsewhere, until a planetary governor, unable to bear the Imperium's crushing tithes, revolted. All Imperial pleas for negotiation vanished unanswered. The planet's last loyal regiment, the 83rd Imperial Guard under Colonel Jürten, faced hopeless odds against the traitor forces.
The famous words echoed through history: "If Krieg is not the Emperor's, then she belongs to no one."
Colonel Jürten detonated the planet's entire atomic stockpile. Nuclear winter transformed Krieg's once-prosperous industrial world into an irradiated wasteland no one wanted. The Departmento Munitorum marked it a worthless death world, and for five centuries no one looked its way, until the Department received a long-overdue transmission: "Rebellion crushed. Krieg returns to the Imperium."
Five hundred years of civil war had ended at last.
Since then, every Krieger was grown in a Vitae Womb, raised on the creed of penance, trained for war from birth. Bayonet drills began at emergence, and marksmanship training soon after. On the eve of adulthood came the Selection Trial.
Kriegers were divided into two groups and ordered to fight one another to the death. Only survivors joined the Death Korps. It struck Dos as monstrously unfair, yet the results spoke for themselves. Krieg regiments were hurled at the deadliest fronts, storming fortress after fortress without fail.
They did not fear death. Death was their destiny, their purpose, their redemption. Enemies dreaded them. Allied troops scarcely treated them as human. Privately, soldiers called them "walking corpses."
Thus, Dos, a commissar meant to inspire courage and maintain morale, became the most timid soul in the regiment.
After stowing his gear, he resolved to meet the commander of the 946th; colleagues ought to know one another, after all.
Following the principle of "bigger tent, higher rank," Dos somehow ended up at an ammunition dump. Outsiders couldn't tell these canvas shelters apart.
Out of options, he flagged down an engineer to guide him.
After navigating a maze of communication trenches, Dos stood before the Regimental Command tent. He drew a steadying breath and lifted the canvas flap.
Two lantern-style lamps lit the interior dimly. A massive map dominated the center table, dense with tactical symbols and scribbled notations. Bits of equipment hung everywhere, canteens, webbing, a camp cot, clearly the colonel's personal effects. Coming in from bright daylight, Dos's eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom.
"You're the new commissar?" the colonel asked.
Rubbing his eyes, Dos answered, "Yes, name's Dos. We'll be working together from now on."
Dos glanced at the last four digits stamped on the colonel's collar, 0361. Krieg officers used those numbers in place of names. In fact, a Krieger's name was just their serial number.
How tragic...
Colonel 0361 wore the standard-issue Krieg gas mask and an officer's peaked cap crowned with a winged skull and gold braid. Beneath the loose greatcoat, Death Rider armor peeked out, giving him a strikingly martial bearing. The difference between a Krieg officer's uniform and an ordinary trooper's was noticeable, yet in some ways the line remained blurred. Still, the gulf between ranks was unbridgeable; that much was beyond dispute.
Because of the mask, 0361's voice sounded muffled, as if he were suffering from a heavy cold, yet his tone was distinctive enough. You wouldn't mistake him for anyone else.
"Those are your new uniform and equipment." 0361 nodded toward one corner of the table.
Dos gave the coat and cap a once-over. A brand-new commissar's uniform, tailored from fine wool with cloth lining. Predominantly black and red, trimmed with gold cord and ornamental braid. The coat alone looked finer than anything a down-at-heel noble might wear.
The epaulettes bore the bright insignia of a full colonel, the same rank as 0361. Odd. A regimental commissar ought to be a lieutenant colonel at most. Perhaps Krieg was simply special in this regard. Dos had no idea.
He glanced at the rest of the kit: a power sword and a bolt pistol, complete with a shoulder rig. Both weapon and blade were top-grade pieces from Lucius Forge World. Even some celebrated Astra Militarum colonels and commissars never carried anything this fine.
"All this is for me?" Dos asked, incredulous. He didn't believe the Departmento Munitorum's bastards could be this generous.
"Strictly speaking, it belonged to the last commissar."
"..."
Dos fell silent. So the kit came with a death curse attached. "Still looks brand new," he muttered.
"Mm. He'd only held it a fortnight before his soul returned to the Golden Throne."
Dos wanted to slap himself. Just take the gear and shut up.
Now the gun and sword looked layered with accumulated bad luck. Would he become the next casualty? What a Tragedy for Imperium.
"Any idea why I was posted to the 946th? I skipped several grades straight from cadet to Regimental Commissar."
0361 said nothing, but Dos realized how stupid the question sounded. Had there been another commissar in the regiment, would he have been promoted at all?
"The Departmento Munitorum asked what I wanted in a new commissar. I said any cadet would do, the sooner the better."
Dos mentally translated: "Anyone with a pulse would suffice." If they hadn't been required to select from Schola Progenium graduates, they probably would have dragged in a sergeant and called it a day.
"You fuck—" Dos caught himself mid-curse. Luckily, he'd spoken in English. "Thank you so much." He said, smiling while grinding his molars.
"Hmm." Colonel 0361 reflected that cadet-to-commissar transfers were exceptionally rare. He'd done the man a considerable favor. A thank-you seemed appropriate.
"What does 'You Fuck' mean?"
"Er... may fortune follow you every day." Dos's face flushed, but the dim light spared him from 0361's notice.
"Right, I'll be off then." Dos prepared to make his escape.
"You Fuck, Commissar Dos."
The words made Dos's foot skid. He nearly fell flat. He ducked out of the tent without looking back.
Walking away, he muttered under his breath, "Don't get mad, don't get mad, Mum said never argue with idiots."
Only back in his billet could he properly assess his quarters: a camp bed, a lantern, a large clothes stand, no wardrobe. The sole piece of actual furniture was a full-length mirror, doubtless left by some predecessor. The accommodations were worse than the academy dormitory.
Dos folded his cadet uniform to use as extra padding on the thin mattress, donned the new commissar's coat, and buckled on the shoulder rig. He pulled the cap's peak low over his eyes, knocked the dried mud from his high boots, then studied himself in the mirror.
"Damn you, Dos, sharp handsome and now Commissar."
Dos had accepted reality. Krieg Regimental Commissar was still Regimental Commissar. Strip away the "Krieg" part, and he was still a colonel commissar. A Solar Auxilia colonel commissar held the same rank, didn't he?
The thought briefly inflated his ego, then reality punctured it like a balloon. Why should he live in constant terror when every colonel commissar held equivalent rank?
The fragile calm Dos had cobbled together shattered instantly.
[End of Chapter]
NOTE
Very well, comrades! If you liked what you've read so far, you'd better strap your belt tight and ADD THIS TO YOUR COLLECTION! Bookmark it, follow it, save it to your sacred data-slate - whatever it takes!
And you better be ready to march alongside our good Krieg boys... or girls? Ooh la la!
So stay tuned, keep your lasguns charged, and prepare for more trench warfare, bayonet charges, and maybe - just maybe - some actual human connection beneath all that fatalism.
FOR KRIEG! FOR THE EMPEROR!
The shovel is mightier than the sword... but we'll take both, thank you.