Guardsmen break in different places. In aggregate, however, educated prediction is possible. There is a significant corpus of data. The Schola Progenium offers contrasting opinions on the faultlines of a regiment’s fighting spirit at the wrong end of a siege. These breaking points are a carefully studied topic. The death, of course. Yes, the food. The waiting. Feet frozen or blistered or ushered into early rot by ankle-high trenchwater over soft, slow weeks.
All commissars are united in the knowledge that the greatest weapon of the Imperial Guard is their faith. But the first thing a good commissar learns in the field is that you cannot fire heavy artillery if you do not have ammunition.
This commissar is a good commissar. He is callous of his men, firm in his faith, and troubled by the six-hour silence from the entrenched cannon positions that have kept a numberless horde of heretics at bay for a lunar cycle. Our commissar is under siege in a frozen backwater far from his home. I promise you, we do not need his name. In the grand scheme of things it will not matter.
Our commissar is counting.
Thirty-five thousand cultists crushed beneath the weight of Imperial firepower in the frozen badlands around this hive city where the Emperor’s Finest have dug in to make their stand.
Eight thousand gleaming brass shells, thick around as two guardsmen on standard rations, hurled forth to blossom the tundra outside the city walls, and visit His judgement wherever they happen to land.
Three hundred and fifty nine standard minutes since the mortars’ final salvo.
Five artillery emplacements still fit to fire, if there was anything to load them with.
Three seconds. Less.
The commissar looks up from his chronometer. Up into the sky. A ragged hymn rises from the remnants of his company. He notes the time and snaps it shut.
The final supplies they can hope to receive drift down to the city, gently parachuting over the heads of a writhing mob that seems to reach the horizon. A couple are lost to clouds of razor-flak. The final resupply from the munitorum. Airdropped crates stamped with the Imperial Eagle, meticulously packed with the ammunition that will make or break this siege in these final hours, descending from the heavens like the Emperor’s own breath. The pilot will doubtless be shot from the sky in moments, and his life is well-spent.
In siegecraft, as in comedy, veterans will wink and tell you that timing is everything. Survivorship bias. Ignore them. The niceties of timing are a distant second to polished material.
Our commissar permits himself a thin smile as the troops set about the crates with crowbars and trench shovels. His men are less restrained, but faith manifests in many ways. Guardsmen shout, sing, and give thanks to the Emperor. Fistfuls of wadding fly piecemeal over their heads as they crowd around their bounty, tearing into it like rats at a ration pack.
They hold their fresh supplies aloft, and, in this moment of relief, dare to grin at their superior officer. They whoop and cheer as his grim smile widens. Never let it be said that he did not rise to the moment. He even squeezed a twinkle of paternal indulgence into his eye. He beams. Hardly the done thing, but why not? All the crates are open, and it is plain they will all be dead by dawn.
‘Look, sir! Look! Socks!’
