His officer was a fool.
Upon reporting at midday his officer had informed him that an attack would commence that evening in response to the enemy assault the evening previous. He had been dumbstruck at the stupidity of the order, the sheer magnitude of the gap between what high command desired and the reality of the situation. There would be no attack; no real offense could be mounted with manpower what it was. Instead some sham of an attack would occur, the few men who actually still existed in the trenches either quickly retreating or not even leaving the trench at all.
After relaying this information to his officer he was assigned one of the few commissars left alive to ensure his squads' dedication to the evening's coming debacle. On paper he reported for two squads of the platoon. In reality he reported for himself. What the commissar would think of the arrangement he had no idea.
The commissar was younger than the officer. Fresh from the progenium, with an air of confidence and zeal uncommon to the men of the regular infantry. The man possessed all the qualities commissars usually possess: hawkish features, strong jaw and chin, furrowed and masculine brow. The only thing unusual about him was his inexperience, and the fact that he was still alive. Many soldiers in trench conflicts, if inexperienced, were wont to shoot commissars due to the politcial officers' abrasive nature. He had seen it happen himself; the commissar had called for an assault on the enemy lines, threatening the soldiers he was stationed with unless they did not comply. He managed to climb partway up the ladder to begin the attack before three men shot him until he was unrecognizable, stripped his clothing, and buried him in the mud.
They walked together back to his post. His feet burned white-hot with his infection and he resisted the urge to stomp and kick in order to facilitate the rubbing of his toes together. He looked over at the commissar's boots, clean, new, with waterproof lining. They were nice boots.
"What size shoe are you?" he said. The commissar seemed shocked to hear him speak and gave him a quizzical look. Then his demeanor returned to the steely gaze that he had been taught to project.
"Address me as sir, soldier. And my shoe size is irrelevant." He remained in silence the rest of the journey.
When they arrived, he headed toward his usual space, directly in front of his cubby. The commissar peered about, searching for other Guardsmen in the vicinity that might constitute a squad. He finally stopped, perturbed by the lack of living men. "Soldier, where is your unit?" A waving hand gestured toward the floor. The commissar frowned. "Soldier, what is your name?"
He thought a moment, the promethium fumes in the air stinging his nostrils and brain like so many pins and needles. It had been weeks since someone had asked for his name. He glanced down at his greatcoat, smeared with mud and the blood of the men lying around him. He had a nameplate somewhere, he knew, but he didn't know where. He looked to his feet at the corpse beneath him, his neighbor for so long. "Soldier, answer me." The commissar growled, impatient with the delay. He bent down and flipped the man over, the filth of the trench sucking at the man's face as it was uncovered. Rot rendered the face inhuman, cheeks agape with holes. He found the man's name pin, unclipped it, and stood up, wiping the mud from its surface, his back to the commissar all the while. "Soldier, face me!" The commissar unholstered his bolt pistol, half in anger, half in fear.
"Kilroy. My name is Kilroy. Sir." He clipped the pin to his lapel, and turned to face the commissar. Bolt pistol raised, the commissar's eyes were ablaze with suspicion.
"I will ask you once more, and I will brook no tomfoolery. Answer me; where are your men?"
"My men are dead, sir. Just like we will be, very soon." Kilroy turned his back to the commissar once more. "What is your name, sir?" The commissar lowered his weapon, shaken by the exchange, his greenness showing.
"Commissar Bertram Farallon. I suppose we shall be seeing much of each other over the next few days. I expect the, uh, finest courage from you, Kilroy. Emperor knows this offense will need it."
"What size shoe are you, sir?"