Thunder

Thunder. Not-thunder.
Thunder. Not-thunder.
The business of artillery was deceptively simple, make a big boom, far away. It was also logistics, getting the big guns moved to the right place, aimed at the right target, and fed with prodigious amounts of ammunition. The earth-shakers of battery 7 and 8 were pounding the greenskins over the horizon. Cynthia's job was to keep them doing that, despite the rumors of a pack of ork vehicles heading their way. Batteries 1 through 6 had to stop before their barrels overheated and started curving. One and two would be ready in an hour, three and four in five, seven, five and six were just back from repairs, but she only had two crews right now, finding loaders was never a problem, but a proper artilleryman(or woman) was harder to find and train, and current policy was that the loaders were backup aimers, all of them, the training bill was expensive, but not as much as an earthshaker being silent for lack of aiming.
Her best aimer was doing math, he loved math. Probably more than he loved her, she resented him for that. But, as they had mentioned, in therapy, math had no moods to account for. You'd think knowing someone for 20 years now, they wouldn't need couples therapy, but they did... Lucky for Cynthia, Van Stoat was a warrant officer, and wasn't considered in her line of command. Where has all the time gone?, she asked herself, I remember when Dacapo was riding on his mom's bike, and Niels was doodling with her, crayons on paper.
Niels, Dacapo and her had had stories told about them too, inevitable when the commanding officer, senior commissar and several other officers were either related, childhood friends, or even married pairs.