Commissar Griggs made his way along the trench toward his destination with grim purpose. Soldiers that looked up from their own bleak concerns quickly stepped aside to avoid getting too close. Commissar Griggs was an imposing man even in the most friendly of circumstances. He stood well over two meters tall, heavily built and was stronger than he looks, and he looked powerful enough already. Add a Commissar's uniform and scowl, and it's easy to understand people's reluctance to get in his way.
His scowl was especially deep at the moment. The needs of the current battle being fought in his sector dictated he take an action he hated doing. Reinforcements were desperately needed and Command had made it clear that none were available. Although he sorely felt it, there was no reluctance in his stride as he approached the medical facility. He stopped outside the door and straightened his uniform as much as possible, which wasn't a great deal. Trying to keep a tidy uniform in the trenches was a wasted effort and he put the idea down as useless many months ago. Coincidental with that, he developed a distrust of any officer that appeared in his sector with a clean uniform. It consistently showed that they had never been this close to real fighting before and almost always had no clue about what was really going on here or, more disappointingly, what to do about it.
He entered the receiving area and found it empty except for an extremely weary looking doctor in bloody scrubs sitting propped up on a chair with his eyes closed. The doctor opened one eye and closed it again. "Have a seat Commissar; someone will be with you shortly. If you made it here under your own power, you're automatically a low priority. There are no privileges of rank this close to the front."
"I'm not here for treatment; I have business to attend to in the recovery ward."
Faster than the Commissar would have thought possible, the doctor was out of his chair and blocking his way, all traces of fatigue had been replaced by a steely determination. "Enough is enough! I haven't fought to keep these men alive just to have you walk in here and blow some heads off to make examples! There are no self inflicted wounds in here. If you want to execute someone you'll have to go through me first and then I'll have this reported as high as I can make it go!"
Commissar Griggs looked down (literally, for he was a full head taller) at the doctor blocking his way. Both of them knew the doctor was not much of a barrier. He briefly considered proving that point, but discarded the idea as he realized that the doctor was no less putting his life on the line to do his duty than any man the Commissar fought beside with a lazgun in his hand. It was something he could respect. Instead, he did the last thing the doctor would have expected. He unbuckled his weapon harness and handed it over to the astonished doctor. "I'm not here to execute anyone. I must speak to them about the situation at the forward trench."
The doctor was at a total loss for words but quickly recovered. He let out a breath and hung his head wearily. "I'm sorry Commissar. It's been a difficult time back here as well and we're all very tired. You being a Commissar, I just assumed that,, Wait," his head came up to look Griggs in the eyes. "You want to talk to them about the forward trench? Surely you aren't going to ask,, By the Emperor, you can't! Haven't these men given enough?"
"You know it's bad because of the casualties you've had to work on. Actually, it's much worse. I wouldn't be here if I thought I had other alternatives."
The doctor sighed and hung his head, "Very well. Just one moment please." He tapped a com-link and requested an orderly. When the orderly arrived he put the Commissar's weapons on a desk top and said to the orderly, while looking directly at Griggs, "The Commissar is leaving these here." He then turned to the orderly; "He'll likely be very upset if they aren't here when he gets back. Please look after them." In other circumstances, the expression on the orderly's face might have been quite comical.
Commissar Griggs pushed past the doors to the recovery ward and strode purposefully toward the center of the room. Back straight, broad shoulders set, and hands clasped at the small of his back, he presented a very imposing figure. The rectangular room normally would have held about one hundred cots. Now it was crammed with nearly half again as many, all occupied and some held more than one. Like a ripple in a pond, conversations fell silent in a wave spreading outward from the Commissar. When he reached the center of the room, he had everyone's attention without having yet said a word. He drew a deep breath and began. "I will be brief and direct with you. The situation at the forward trench is not going well. In fact,,,"
Before he could continue, a voice from somewhere in the room interrupted him, "No Feth!"
Griggs chose to ignore the comment and press on. ",,, it's critical. I'm here to ask that any of you who feel you can contribute in any way, return to the front with me." He looked around the room, all eyes were on him but no one answered. They seemed to be expecting him to say more. He was about to continue when he was interrupted again.
"Feth! That's it? Where's all the zoat-shit Commissar rhetoric that we're so used to hearing? What about glory? What about duty? What about the big picture? Commissar speeches are always such a fething show. I could use some fething entertainment right now." Commissar Griggs followed the voice until he came to the cot where the soldier who was speaking was laying. It was easy to see where his courage was coming from. Judging from the amount of blood seeping through the bandage that covered his entire stomach area, he wasn't going to be alive in another 48 hours. The man glared hatred unflinchingly into the Commissars eyes. "And if we don't volunteer, how many of us do you think you'll need to murder in our beds to inspire the rest?"
Commissar Griggs glared back at him. Not because of the mans' insolence, but because he was right. He turned his back on the soldier and addressed the room. "Fair questions, so I'll give you fair answers. I'm too tired and too pressed for time to waste it on useless zoat-shit that you won't believe for a moment. Glory? The only glory left is surviving. Duty? You've already done your duty, that's how you got here. Big picture? There isn't one. All I can focus on are the men I fight beside. And, what will happen to you if you don't volunteer?" He turned to face the man on the cot again. "Nothing." He turned back to the room, "I won't waste a shell I might need later in battle and if the enemy breaks through, you'll be killed in your cots anyway. I will not command or order any of you to follow me. There will be no punishments for any that stay. You have all already fulfilled your duty by being wounded in battle. You have given a great deal already. Our need is desperate, so I have to ask, 'Can you give more?' Ask yourselves that question and answer it yourself. In the end, the only difference it might make is whether you die at the front with a weapon in your hands, or die here, lying helpless on a cot."
The room remained silent for a moment but then a soldier stood up and said simply, "I'll come." Griggs turned to face the man. His head was swathed in bandages from the nose up. He obviously was blinded. "Just give me a lasgun, point me in the right direction and tell me when to shoot. On full auto, I'm bound to his something."
Griggs nodded approvingly, "Good point, but I think you will be more useful on a com-set relaying messages. That will free up a man with eyes to go shoot."
To the Commissar's left another man spoke up, "Damn me if I'll be shown up by a blind man!" Griggs turned to see a man lying on a cot. Both his legs ended in bandaged stumps just above where his knees should have been. "Put me in the shooters seat on a heavy weapon." He grinned, "I won't run away."
From there, nearly everyone spoke up and wanted to do something to help. For each, Commissar Griggs quickly evaluated their injuries and made assessments on what he could do with them. In the end, all but a couple dozen of the worst injured who could not be moved, were being helped to the front by orderlies and each other.
As Commissar Griggs was leaving, he passed by the cot holding the man with the stomach wound. "So," the man called to him, "you've got your meat for the meat grinder. Feth me if I don't want to go too. Not for any high minded fething reason, I just hate lying here waiting to fething die. Can you find anything for me to do?" he asked miserably.
"There's one thing I can think of." And he turned and left the ward. He spoke briefly with the doctor on the way out. The doctor and the remaining orderly started moving the few occupied cots to the far end of the ward so that they were grouped together in one spot.
Commissar Griggs returned soon after the last cot was moved and had a large bundle under his arm. He set the bundle on the floor and scooted it under the mans' cot. He picked up a device that was attached to the bundle by a cord. He looked the man in the eyes and asked, "Do you have any delusions about what will happen the wounded in here if the enemy breaks through? I didn't think so. This is a manual detonator to the satchel charge I just slid under your cot. If you want the job, it will be your duty to see that no one suffers if we can't hold the front trench and they break through."
The wounded man grinned up at the Commissar, "And what's to stop me from setting it off while you're still standing there and blowing your fething arse to a million pieces?"
Griggs knelt beside the mans' cot, took his hand and slapped the detonator into it. "Not a fething thing."
The man barked a painful laugh, "Feth me, you're the first Commissar I even considered liking."
And with that, Commissar Griggs left the ward and returned to the desperate battle.