173.M41 - Hoth

Major Morgan Remarra strode forth throughout the battered trenches and fox holes prepared by Imperial Army soldiers and stormtroopers. Most of them were covered with bandages, their battle armour scorched or torn apart from either firefights or unexpected melees that their enemies, to their amazement and horror, were quite fond of doing. Many of them had broken or shattered helmets that Remarra could peer out their faces, grim visages held by weary eyes, parched lips and scarred cheeks. Their shaking, ringing hands gripped their blasters and heavy blasters. Teams were fortifying key positions with concrete, sandbags and portable mobile shield systems. In these grounds, heavy blasters, mortars and missile launchers were in place - ready to deliver the same torturous firepower that their foe were giving to them.

For all their preparations, many gave way when the Major and his escorts passed through. Years of military training had drilled into them the instinct of acknowledging superiors whenever they go. A few even tried to stand to attention and deliver proper salutes to Remarra even as the enemies' rumbling engines and gunshots were closing in. Remarra had to restrain them of course, attitude and behavioural protocols have no place in the proper battlefield.

Real soldiery is demonstrated in live combat, not on parades or drills, thought the Major.

He wore no uniform and had always been comfortable in the same rugged, worn combat armour that his troops were geared in. Remarra clutched the same blaster his soldiers were holding with his side blaster on his right hip as any other Imperial trooper would have had. Being of a higher rank entitled the Major to more privileges than his grunts could have had. He could have been commanding his companies on a bunker, where he would be surrounded by intel officers and a variety of droids as well as computers providing him video feeds, data reports and statistical figures to dictate the incoming battle. He could focus on the larger picture just as much as his superior generals are doing now.

'Major Remarra,' asked Captain Jarek Danvers in his cloaked, officer uniform. 'It is advisable that a higher ranking officer like you should be in our bunkers to coordinate our forces. Leave the fighting to your subordinates.'

'It is advisable, Captain, that you do not presume the actions or intentions of your superiors.' snapped back Remarra, his weary eyes focusing on his captain's proper attire and stiff posture with gloved hands behind his back.

'You don't have to risk yourself outside in this damn cold, Major,' responded Captain Danvers, snow falling off his cloak as he tailed behind the Major. 'We need a commanding officer, not another damn infantryman.'

'And that is what I am exactly doing, Captain.' replied Remarra, focused on doing a last-minute check on his blaster. 'Our men need a leader beside them, not an "officer" on a bunker pointing fingers at charts and maps in his desk that he can't see or feel for himself in the open.'

'The Empire will crush these upstart invaders!' growled the Captain as he covered his left with his right hand. 'We have nothing to be afraid of from these "guardsmen". Their shells and bullets against our blasters. Their wheels and treads against our skimmers and anti - gravity platforms. I think you know what I mean by this.'

The Major shook his head, warm vapour escaping his mouth in the freezing air of the ice planet. 'They outnumber us, Danvers. From the reports I have been receiving, they are always firing the first shots. Overwhelming artillery bombardments and strafing gunship missiles followed by rushing tanks and troop carriers. For the first time ever, we're not fighting hiding and scurrying rebels. We're fighting someone who more or less match, if not exceed, our strength.'

'And so, my Major?' snorted the Captain as he lightly shook off gathering snow from his shoulders. 'They are nothing but brutes. I have yet to see a single skimmer from them and I have not. In this age, we fight with technological sophistication like a laser scanner and not like a crude sledgehammer that they are doing!'

Remarra sighed, Typical Imperial. Always assuming superiority in every fight and thinking that technology will carry the day.

Taking out a pair of scanner - binoculars from his utility belt, Morgan looked out across the flat, snowy fields of Hoth. As the sun rose high in the skies tattered with missiles, laser streaks and barrelling plasma fires from Imperial tie fighters and the invaders' brick - like aircraft, the enemy was closing in. Snowing dustclouds emerged in the far horizon dozens of kilometres across, hostile armour with guns jutting out from their sides flanked by speeding troop carriers were advancing towards Remarra's fortified position.

Just in the rear though, the Major could faintly make out several of the enemy's gigantic tanks. Some had double gun barrels as grey smoke ascended from their engines while others had an extended tube much like an artillery gun with ridiculously - oversized squatted guns on their frontal hulls.

Let's hope our AT - ATs and Juggernauts can stand up to what they're bringing, reflected the Major one last time as artillery shells began landing near their trenches and emplacements, followed by furious gunships flying below the ranging aerial battle dropping missiles and bombs in addition.

'HERE THEY COME! PUSH THESE INVADERS BACK! FOR EMPEROR AND EMPIRE!' roared the good Major.