Chapter 2: Capture on Felucia
Death before dishonour, no surrender, not one step back, fight to the last man, die for the Republic, lay down your lives for the Empire! At one time or another, during twenty five years of reluctant military service, I've had all of the above idiotic and suicidal battle cries bellowed in my ear. Generally by someone who is speaking into a communicator, whilst sitting in a command bunker several miles behind me, drinking a mug of stim-tea and thinking "wars hell". Many of my commanders and comrades over the years seemed to have got it into their heads that there was no such thing as surrendering to the clankers (or later the rebels). I expect that the historical dramas you may have seen on the holovids have probably given you the same idea. Well let me tell you that given the choice between the certain death of fighting to the last gasp and the near certain death of throwing myself on the tender mercies of some super battle droid, perfectly capable of crushing my skull like a rotten egg, I'll take the droid every time!
As it happens I've been obliged to make the decision of whether to run, hide, surrender or (Force help me!) fight, on numerous occasions. I have generally opted for either the first or the second option, as you can by no means be certain that the snarling rebel, bearing down on you, his DH-17 rifle spewing blaster bolts and screaming blue murder, is in any mood to listen to your shrikes for mercy (as you may have guessed I am writing with a specific incident in mind). As for fighting my way out of the jaws of death, well I've done that more times than I care to mention! Often quite literally in the case of wampas, reanimated genosians, rancors and on one occasion an acklay. Speaking of arguably the vilest inhabitants of that hideous jungle planet Felucia, it was on that swamp world of flies and fever that I was for the first time taken prisoner (officially anyway, I don't count Geonosis).
As I look back over the first two paragraphs of this latest attempt to create something that resembles a coherent account of a colourful episode in my eventful career, I am forced to admit that they read rather badly. However, after some fretting, I've decided to let them stand as they are. If they sound to you like the ramblings of an old man, well there's a good reason for that! Looking back on events from retirement it's often easy to allow one's mind wander; and besides, I've never been much good at introductions. Let us simply get to the matter at hand; namely how I came to be a prisoner of war, and the events that took place during and after my period of captivity. I suppose a little background information is necessary however. In a nutshell the Separatists, under dear old General Grievous, has that Force-forsaken lump of marsh mud Felucia firmly in their iron grasp and therefore the Jedi, in their divine wisdom, decide to launch an invasion to wrestle it back. The expeditionary force was under the command of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker and Ahsoka Tano, which of course meant the 501st and 212th Legions were the poor sods tasked with clearing out hells back garden.
Naturally the campaign was a complete, unmitigated disaster from the word go. Grievous once again proved himself to be a first rate military strategist and the Confederacy demonstrated that, when you're fighting on a planet where every gulp of putrid air you breath and every drop of filthy water you drink carries with it dysentery, malaria, yellow fever and much worse, it pays to field troops which are contemptuously immune to such petty mortal weaknesses as disease. I myself came down with a case of malaria that was very nearly the end of me (they go in for mosquitoes the size of your damn hand on that dratted world you know) and by the time of the final action of the First Battle of Felucia I had only sufficiently recovered to be fit for light duties. Usually this would have meant that I ended up shuffling datapads in a nice safe command post somewhere, but as it was all hands to the pumps, I was allocated the unenviable task of being one the gunners of a Juggernaut tank.
Now, although I've fought in my fair share of space battles and been behind the controls of some pretty serious armoured fighting vehicles in my time, I'm an infantryman at heart. This isn't because I enjoy facing down droidekas, spider droids and all the other horrors of the battlefield with nothing more than a blaster pistol and a prayer, but simply because I prefer it to the alternative. You see to my way of thinking tanks, even with all their armour and firepower, equal just one thing; fire magnets. If I had a credit for every time I've seen some lumbering AT-TE burst into flames and explode like a firework factory I'd be a very rich clone indeed. But as I didn't have a choice in the matter I bowed to the inevitable and at least took solace in the fact that I would be able to spend the battle snug behind five inches of thermally resistant armour plating (hoping that a well placed rocket wasn't about to turn my shelter into a pile of blazing scrap). You can therefore imagine the strength of my feelings when I discovered that the turret I would be manning was not to be one of the relatively safe internal ones, but instead the roof mounted anti-personal cannon above the driving compartment. I couldn't have been a bigger target if I'd painted myself turquoise and danced whilst whistling 'May the Force Save the Republic'!
So there I was, hunkered down behind the heavy blaster that was my charge and trying to keep as much of myself behind the weapon, and out of way of the hailstorm of incoming fire, as possible. Beside me, on the roof of the turbo tank, weaving a complex defensive pattern with her lightsaber, stood my commander; the Jedi Padawan Ahsoka Tano. She had been assigned the task of leading a recon patrol into the jungle, although whether to discover the location of the Separatists main force or to try to find a way out of the death trap we found ourselves in, I really have no idea (although knowing my old commanders I expect the former). Generally I was not averse to being so close to the Padawan, especially when one of her most appealing features was essentially at my eye level, and it just goes to show how rattled I was that I didn't even think to leer at my young commander's derrière. Slashing with her lightsaber left and right, the green blade frequently passing within a hairs breadth of my head she laughed "finally, a proper battle! I was getting so sick of all that skirmishing and sneaking about! This is more like it, eh Hawk?"
"Will you watch what you're doing with that glow-stick, Force damn it?" I bellowed in terror, ducking instinctively (although probably unnecessarily) as the weapon hissed over my helmet for the hundredth time in the last few minutes. Luckily for me my screams of fright were drowned out by a deafening explosion that ripped though the air as one of our armoured vehicles went up in flames.
When my ears had stopped ringing I, and apparently Ahsoka, simultaneously became aware of a voice issuing from her wrist communicator. "Ahsoka, what is your location?" Even over the tide of battle I recognized the voice as that of the general of the 212th, Obi-Wan Kenobi; he of the always wise and consequently highly irritating advice.
After athletically dodging a dozen or so blaster bolts she shouted into her communicator "about six clicks east master. We've engaged the enemy and we've got them on the run!" a statement which was both a gross inaccuracy and displayed a level of optimism which bordered on clinical insanity. Sitting where I was, blazing away for all I was worth at wave after wave of oncoming battle droids, backed up by AAT tanks, I felt considerably less sanguine about our position.
You can imagine the flood of relief that I experienced when I made out Kenobi saying determinedly "they're here to extract us, we're leaving". He was referring to the long awaited relief force under Jedi General Plo Koon, which most of us had long since given up hope of ever being able to break through the Sep blockade.
"Wh...What!" exclaimed a mortified Ahsoka "We can't retreat now master, I've broken through! They're calling the retreat!" Although I couldn't make out Kenobi's rejoinder to my commander's fatuous interpretation of the situation I can guess the gist of it, as she shouted "Master Skywalker told me never to let up when the tinnies are on the run!" If the girl wanted to indulge in her fantasy of victory she was welcome to it, but I wasn't going to stick around to say I told you so. When our transport arrived it would be the infantry grunts that would be nearest to, and therefore first into, the LAATs. Well Hawk my lad, I said to myself, it's time to be off.
Suddenly I slumped over the controls for the heavy blaster and started groaning in acute agony. Ahsoka broke off her argument with her senior officer to duck down beside me, a worried expression immediately replacing the look of frustration that had been occupying her angelic features moments before. "Hawk are you alright? Are you hit?"
"The fever..." I moaned pathetically "its b-back". Looking up I managed to croak "but I can still f-fight, I can..."
"No" exclaimed Ahsoka at once, just as I had known she would, "get inside and find a medic. You" this shouted to another trooper who had just climbed out of the turbo tank's hatch "take over".
Theatrically I crawled, protesting feebly, out of my gunner's chair and towards the trap door my replacement had just emerged from. I managed weakly to clamber down the ladder and found myself in a narrow and deserted metal corridor. An observer would no doubt have been surprised when the clone, who but moments before had been doubled up in pain and clutching the wall for support, straighten himself and then sprinted towards the nearest exterior exit. I passed no one during my bid for freedom and soon found myself swinging open a thick steel hatch, dropping a few feet to the soft marshy earth of Felucia and then taking stock of my bearings.
Having already lost several vehicles are scout convoy was reduced to just two AT-TEs and of course the towering Juggernaut. Are infantry were keeping in well behind the tanks, utilising them for cover and advancing cautiously in their wakes. Realizing that I was somewhat exposed I immediately began to run past the thundering wheels of the Juggernaut, each higher than I was tall, towards the rear of the vehicle and the relative safety that it offered. I was almost there when my luck, which had held firm thus far, ran out. A blaster bolt hissed past my ear, missing me by inches, closely followed by a second. This time the shooter found his mark. The energy projectile just nicked the side of my helmet, only inflicting a minor scar on an already much abused piece of armour. But the force of the impact was nevertheless sufficient to knock me off my feet, crashing to the ground as if I'd been punched by a gamorrean. My head swimming I lay in the thick undergrowth, my vision blurring and unable to do anything more energetic than groan.
I don't know how long I lay there; dully aware of the rumble of the Juggernaut and the steady pounding of the AT-TEs reverberating through the ground beneath me, but it cannot have been for more than a minute or two. Suddenly, even in my shell-shocked state, I became aware of a new noise, a dull throbbing murmur in the air. The vibrations from the tanks had stopped and I became aware of distant shouting. Pushing myself up on one elbow I tried to see what was going on and at first failed to comprehend the scene before me. Sure enough the small armoured column had ground to a halt, the vehicles path blocked by...what? Had a line of trucks appeared out of nowhere, or had the Separatist somehow built a barricade to slow the advance? Suddenly, with a thrill of horror that turned my guts to lead and cleared by head quicker that a freezing shower, I realized what I was seeing. Kenobi had arrived to airlift our forces to safety.
Even as I watched I could see clones and a small red figure who had to be Ahsoka running towards the waiting doors of the transports. Struggling to my feet I forced myself to sprit towards the LAATs, my head pounding and my heart thrashing about in my throat. The irony of the situation was horribly plain to see, although I didn't stop to contemplate it at the time. If I'd been a brave bloody hero like Rex I'd be sitting snugly in a drop ship, whereas, thanks to my own cowardice, here I was running like hell and praying to the Force to save my unworthy hide. I was barely half way to the Larties when I heard a sound that chilled my very marrow and elicited a petrified scream. The dull roar of the crafts engines firing up and launching them skywards. In a matter of seconds they were circling over head and I was left hopelessly trapped.
"Come back here you bastards!" I shrieked, almost as furious as I was terrified "come back you..." the tirade of profanity that I was about to unleash, the like of which this galaxy or any other has never before seen, was silenced by a monumental explosion. Without the suppressing fire of our heavy weapons the Separatists were able to turn their full fury on our tanks and did so without delay. The Juggernaut blew up with such ferocity that the resulting shock wave smashed both our AT-TEs off their sturdy legs and picked yours truly up like a rag doll and flung me bodily a hundred yards through the air.
Even with my body armour and the soft spongy soil of Felucia, it's a miracle that I didn't break every bone in my body. As it happened I received nothing more serious or permanent than a ringing head ache and a remarkable collection of bruises. If I'd been shell-shocked before, it was nothing to how I felt now. The whole world seemed to swim before my eyes and my vision darkened to such an extent that I felt certain that I was about to black out. Partly because of my condition and partly because of the aforementioned soft earth of the planet I didn't notice the approaching footsteps until suddenly I found myself looking up into the expressionless faceplates of what seemed like hundreds of battle droids. As I lay there on my back, starring down the barrels of a dozen E-5 blaster rifles, I knew with an absolute certainty that I've rarely experienced the like of that I was about to die. Generally there's some chance, some harebrained gamble that you can take in a forlorn hope of extending your life for a few more blissful seconds. But there's no arguing with a volley of blaster bolts at point blank range.
Shutting my eyes and gritting my teeth, I lay and awaited the hail of fiery death about to descend upon me. Silently I cursed which ever bloody Kaminoan had fished me out of a test tube back on Kamino all those years ago and doomed me to a life of war. Suddenly, as if from a great distance away, I heard through my still ringing ears a droid ask one of its comrades "err do we take prisoners?"
"I don't know, perhaps we should ask the lieutenant" answered one of the robotic soldiers, in the slightly confused tone so common to battle droids.
Before I was even able to begin to digest the hope inspiring conversation being held over my prostrate form the ranks of droids surrounding me parted and a figure stepped into my blurred, but rapidly clearing, vision. He was a Neimoidian, a few inches shorter than I was, wearing a bronze breastplate over grey-blue combat fatigues, a bronze cabasset helmet and wielding a Separatist SE-14 blaster pistol. "What's going on here?" he asked in a curt, efficient voice.
"Lieutenant Drazil, one of the clones is still alive. Should we kill him?" asked one of the interchangeable droids above me.
Even as I was about to squeak a plea for mercy Lieutenant Drazil, and I never met a finer officer in all my days, answered "of course not! He is a prisoner of war; he shall be handed over to the proper authorities for incarceration". Turning to me he asked "clone; what is your name, rank and number?"
With a titanic effort I managed to struggle to my feet and with an equally astonishing exertion succeeded in not throwing up all over my saviour's boots. "M-my name is Hawk, my rank captain and my number is CC-7713" I stammered.
Extending a dark green leather glove towards me (or looking back now I suppose it may have been his skin, it's hard to tell with Neimoidians) he said firmly, but politely "your pistol please captain, and any other weapons you may be carrying". If I'd been a death or glory chap like Cody or Rex I would probably have chosen that moment to try to shoot my way out, or at the very least not handed over the combat knife I keep hidden behind my breastplate. However I'm definitely no hero and I had no wish to sour my captor's opinion of me by trying to sneak a weapon past them, so I immediately did as the Neimoidian asked.
Taking my DC-17 blaster and knife Lieutenant Drazil stowed them in a pouch in his fatigues, looked me in the eye and then said "Captain Hawk, for you the war is over".
Force; if only he'd been right!
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoyed reading the first chapter of this fic, I enjoyed writing it. By the way, in case anyone is wondering, a cabasset helmet (the helmet worn by the Neimoidian officer) is actually the name of a real helmet popular in Italy during the Renaissance. I used the name because I felt that it best describes the design of the helmets worn by soldiers of the Neimoidian Gunnery Battalion.