The Trench

It had been a mistake, throwing us into that meaningless slaughter. Not sure who's to blame for the massacre, can't say it matters now. The attack on the Mimbo ridge wrecked our battalion. That cursed ridge was eventually bombed and shelled into oblivion, but not before ours joined the heaps of dead. We landed on Mimban with 562 Troopers. Between the sustained bombardment at the tarmac and this fruitless assault, there were only 216 of us fit for duty remaining in our battalion.

Orders were mixed up or misinterpreted or purposely changed. The veteran battalion was supposed to make that assault and we were to take their place holding the line. Well, not so much an assault as a reconnaissance in force. The veterans were supposed to feint an engagement and gauge the enemy's remaining numbers. Once concluded, they were to return to the trenches. We charged them directly –headlong into their blasters and paid dearly. I suppose consolation can be taken in the fact that the observers were able to get an accurate count of the enemy's strength and pinpoint their positions. Our artillery blasted the bugs to hell.

I leaned against the parapet, my head just below the top to deprive a sniper's bolt their target. My task was sentry duty –owing to the fact I was not wounded. The veteran battalion had shifted down the line to cover a more vulnerable section of trenches. That section left vacated by another newly arrived, inexperienced battalion that also received miscommunicated orders to charge. Poor bastards, their lot suffered ninety-eight percent casualties. Our battalion had enough Troopers, it was determined, to hold our position until more reinforcements could be brought forward.

Occasionally, I poked my head up slowly at the sound of a crack, or a boot splashing in a water filled hole. All throughout the night, survivors trickled back into our lines. I assisted a few returning Troopers, those wounded, climb into the trench. The screams of wounded were the worst sounds that echoed across that landscape. Their howls forming a wretched chorus to serenade the night. Faint, long, sobbing moans of agony and despairing shrieks. Troopers begging for help, for their families, or simply someone to just end their suffering. It was apparent that dozens of Troopers with severe wounds had crawled through the mud for refuge in the shell holes. And now, because of the heavy rain, the water was rising around them. They were slowly drowning, too injured or spent to escape –screamed for help that would not come. I planted my face in the sandbags of the parapet at one point, just wanted the screaming to stop.

A hand on my shoulder –damn near had me jump straight out of the trench from the sudden fright. I nervously turned to see the lieutenant. The clone stood still and clasped his hands behind his back. There seemed to be no expression on his face

"Nothing can be done for those bro-, erh…Troopers out there," he spoke, grimly. "Mimbos are out there right now, waiting for us to send the medics, stretcher bearers to collect our wounded. Figure you can guess what happens…"

He didn't make eye contact while addressing me –gaze extended beyond into the waste. Those awful cries, the welcome call for my first night on Mimban. I have never been able to get them out of my head. You felt helpless, hating yourself for there was nothing you could do to help those left wounded, dying out there. The best remedy was to endure the torment, for you had no alternative.

"Mimbos will be gone by daybreak," said the lieutenant. "Crawled back into their holes to rest and devise their next attack. They see better in the dark, from all that living underground. Damn near blind in direct sunlight."

The lieutenant paused for a moment. He cocked his head upward to the thick clouds.

"Not like much sunlight gets through anyways," he said. "Keep your head down, eyes and ears open. Don't want those bugs crawling over the parapet to slit our throats while we sleep, eh?"

At that last dismal remark, the lieutenant turned his back and slowly made his way through the trench to check on the other sentries. I let myself fall onto the firing step of this fortified post in the line where I stood watch, what we called a sap. The rain fell incessantly, seeming to penetrate the water resistant raincloak. I pulled a waterlogged blanket from the mud in the bottom of the trench and wrapped it around my body. I was shivering so bad, I just wanted to get warm. Everything was soaked through, the uniform, the boots, the socks, the undergarments.

My pack was lost somewhere in the waste, during the assault. Think just about everyone lost theirs. A few platoons were ordered to drop packs just before going over the top, but not ours. Didn't matter. Fresh Troopers bringing new equipment and gear –it was all taken by the veterans, who cast off their ratted and torn articles. Those of us that returned, now had to make use of their tattered kit. I became separated from my blaster, as well. I picked up the one I'm now using since there were plenty dropped by the wounded. I was exhausted. I hadn't slept since I rose for the formation call in the transport ship. What I wouldn't give for a night in one of those plush beds they advertise in the holos for fancy Coruscant hotels. I'd settle for that durasteel-hard bunk back at the training barracks.

When day broke, black sky transforming to the sickly cloud enveloped orange, the sights that met our gaze were so horrible and ghastly. Heads, arms, and legs protruded from the mud at every yard and who knows how many bodies the ground swallowed. At least thirty corpses were visible in the shell hole to my front, and beneath its putrid waters other victims must be lying killed and drowned.

I was relieved of sentry duty and allowed to retire. To my back, from the sap, were the underground dugouts that burrowed into the rear wall of the trench, where those not on watch were fast asleep. The stairs descended two meters and opened to a room that could fit maybe forty Troopers comfortably. Bunk beds had been hauled in from the main camp and arranged in neat rows to afford a place to rest one's head. There weren't enough beds to go around, and several of the lower berths were saturated in the ankle high water. Crates and planks and chairs were fashioned into beds to keep Troopers from having to sit in the muck. You were still soaked from the rain outside, and it was so miserably cold you didn't feel much like doing anything but sit and be miserable.

Sergeant Dystraay of my platoon was leaning idly against the wall that led into the dugout –pointed out to me the Trooper I was to wake who would take my spot as sentry.

"Try and stay dry," the sergeant said, almost sardonic. "Don't want to lose another Trooper. Especially to sickness for something stupid."

Dystraay wasn't a personable fellow, could've just been how he was, or the way the Imperial Army molded him. I trudged through the morass, my feet frozen and steps laborious from the muck. Nudging the Trooper several times to wake them. They shifted in the bunk, clumsily trying to get up while wearing that terrible respirator and maneuver with the upper berth only centimeters above. Grumbling, the Trooper pulled himself to his feet and I quickly climbed into their vacated spot, the bunk just above the soaking lowest one. There were two other Troopers crammed in the berth, so we made do. Couldn't have been sent to a tropical world?

Four hours of sleep was all I was able to manage. Ration call was what woke me, and I honestly couldn't complain. Two quartermaster orderlies walked along the trench with an elongated crate carried between the pair. They would stop at those gathered in a motley grouping, allowed us to pick the readi-ration packs contained within. A couple of nutrition bars and a pouch of noodles. Not the most delicious of food, but it comes with a self-contained heating mixture to warm your meal. It was nice just to be warm for once. We'd come to refer to times like this as our "better days".

I found a seat on the firing step and went about consuming my meal. The planet afforded a brief respite from the downpour. I don't think anybody said more than two words to each other. What you heard came from officers calling out to a subordinate or a headquarters runner working their way through the line, asking directions to the unit's command post. Not like there was much to say, we had the shit kicked out of us. Some were coming to terms that death was not some faint possibility, but our reality. Others had their nerves shot and just wore that comatose expression.

It was an awkward way to eat, trying to shovel the spoon into your mouth while pulling the respirator away from your face. Spores were kicked up by all the running around the no man's land and the shooting, so they were especially thick and choking this morning.

A few spoonfuls in, and I see I am seated with Dystraay to my right. The sergeant held a datapad in his hand –reading the text on the screen. Couldn't make out what it was, but he also had a holoemitter. The hologram flashed an image, a man, wife, an elder son, and a younger daughter. I failed to notice I was gawking at the family portrait until Dystraay turned his head. I quickly diverted my gaze, but my staring had not gone unnoticed.

"My family," said Dystraay, holding the holoemitter outstretched for me to take.

Politely, I accepted the device. The sergeant shifted his seat, not appearing in his usual persona. He was more affable it seemed.

"My eldest, Latrmus," Dystraay began, a sense of pride in his words. "Accepted to the cadet class at the Corellian War College next semester. This re-deployment to Mimban is what got him a spot ahead of the waitlist. Lieutenant was able to run my record up the chain, impress enough brass to pull some strings. Glad the service is paying off."

I smiled, though obscured by the respirator, not entirely sure how to respond to the sergeant's oversharing. There wasn't anything I could offer to show in return. I had nobody back home, didn't really have a "back home".

"My wife, Yeslei, and that's my princess, Lorebri," the sergeant continued, pointing each out. "She starts secondary next cycle. Tells me every day she's going to be a doctor. Or at least she did. Haven't been granted a leave long enough to see them in two standard years."

I took a moment to examine the family, all posing together for the official portrait. Dystraay was in his service formal uniform, the rest of the family in their finest dress. A rigid smile on his face –yet it seemed to be a facade of a relaxed and content family man.

"Maider, isn't it?" Dystraay asked, rather clarified.

"Y-yes sergeant," I managed, choking through the respirator.

"How old are you son?"

Not being sure how to reply, I went ahead with what the recruiter reminded me to answer if ever asked. He said it was best for all if I gave that response.

"Eighteen, sergeant," I answered.

Dystraay gave a crooked smile –saw right through it.

"I'm not going to report you," he said. "Wouldn't do any good. They wouldn't discharge you for that, especially since you're already here."

The sergeant gestured to the surrounding warscape.

"Dunno, I think seventeen by this point?" I replied, trying to make light of everything. "My homeworld never quite matched up with the Galactic standard calendar."

"You do look about my son's age," Dystraay nodded. "What a dammed shame, eh? Seems you two could be friends, but rather, here's where we find ourselves. Oh well, maybe one day I'll introduce you…"

A shout from further down the line, the lieutenant calling the NCOs to assemble. Dystraay did not say anything after that –packing his mess tin away to hurriedly move. I passed the emitter back into his hand and in an instant the sergeant was gone.

Not the conversation I expected from Dystraay. He was the antithesis of a pleasant individual. The entire voyage over on the transport he did nothing but discipline Troopers. He cut rather the brutish figure, stocky build, sunken eyes, and stern demeanor. Yet there was a completely different side to Sergeant Dystraay. He let his guise fall to show off his family enthusiastically and proudly. Didn't seem like such a bad guy.

We received our orders later that afternoon. Our battalion was moved back to a support trench spaced twenty meters behind the frontline. A rested battalion was brought forward, and we were assigned as their reserve. Mostly, they manned the line while we filled the necessary auxiliary roles, such as digging and shoring up the works, or running supplies, ammunition, and the like. We had to dig constantly –shoveled the heaps of mud the rain washed into our works. If you didn't dig, the mud would swallow you whole.

I was with Haurn in a disused section of trench. She was another of the lucky ones who survived that suicide assault. If you can call it luck. Both side walls collapsed and cut off its link to an adjacent communications trench. One of the engineers said they wanted it reconnected, so here we were digging. Haurn, I sort of knew. We were in the same training company and transferred together into the battalion deployed to Mimban. She wasn't bad looking, kind of cute, but damn could she be mean if you got her worked up.

"This digging is for droids," I heard Haurn mutter. "Or at the very least, sappers."

The digging was grueling and backbreaking. The mud fouled up the droids they sent out to dig –they weren't much help. We had sappers and engineers, but not enough to be everywhere. Mimbo snipers would blast the operators of heavy machinery. So, entrenching tool in hand, you had to make a go of it

"Must've been nice growing up somewhere with droids," I replied, as I dug.

"What, your homeworld didn't have droids?" Haurn said.

"I didn't see my first working droid until the War, the ones around our settlement had long been picked apart. Once the Empire setup, only the very wealthy could afford them, or you'd see the ones in Imperial service. They just slow you down anyways."

"You really are a bumpkin," Haurn said, smiling. "Too good to be a farmer? That why you're here?"

"Can't farm what won't grow. Euruta was a dead-end backwater. The Empire offered me a chance to get out and I took it."

"An optimist. Believing in the Empire…Just sucks they sent you to the other ass-end of the Galaxy."

I couldn't hide a laugh at Haurn's comment. True, Mimban was an active warzone, the climate was insufferable, and death stalked you at every turn, but it was still better than Euruta. We both returned to flinging the heaps of mud out of the trench and piling it up to rebuild the defensive parapet.

"What made you join?" I asked Haurn.

She stopped her digging only to scowl. The question offended her in some way. I had the unsettling feeling she was about to windup the entrenching tool and crack my skull open with it. I thought it prudent to not press the matter further. She seemed to indicate that she wasn't interested in talking about it. So, I turned my attention back to the entrenching work that needed to be done.

"So, where the hell is Euruta anyway?" Haurn's question caused me to look up.

She was staring directly at me, leaning against the wall of the trench, with her steely eyes and turned up smile set against her short cropped golden hair and bronzed complexion. Setting aside my entrenching tool, I took a seat on an empty ammunition box.

"That undesirable tract between Kessel and the Hutts," I replied, in a lighthearted jab at how undesirable that spot truly was.

"Shit, I couldn't imagine who'd be a worse neighbor," Haurn said.

"Just depended on the day."

We both laughed and indulged in a break from the exhausting labor. Both Haurn and I had removed our respirators to acclimate ourselves to the atmosphere. It was recommended each new Trooper perform this controlled exposure to adapt their lungs for Mimban and its spores. Plus, it was just nice to sit and talk –not having to shiver in silent misery while listening to the screams of the dying.

"The Clone Wars make it to Euruta?" Haurn asked.

"Yeah, towards the end," I responded.

"Your lot get to pick a side or was the choice made for you?"

"Separatists arrived in the closing days looking to setup a base. They didn't seem so bad, helped rebuild and repair things around my settlement, like our water processor. We had been without a doctor for a time, so they donated a med droid. Not like the Republic had done us any favors in the past."

"Both sides were full of shit. Glad they both lost out, but I can't say what we got is much better."

Haurn was visibly incensed –kicking her boot angrily in the mud. Her gaze sank away from mine and into the sky above.

"The Separatists were the best thing to happen to Euruta," I spoke up. "I'd probably still be on that shit rock if they hadn't come. They finally got people besides slavers to take notice of our world. The damn Republic never gave a shit."

I never thought of myself as the political type, yet here I was discussing politics and the balance of power.

"Anyway, the Separatists laid the groundwork for the Empire," I found myself arguing. "The Republic couldn't be bothered to help us. They wouldn't stop the slavers, offer us work, or even representation in the Senate. I'm glad it's gone, and I hope it never returns. The Empire were the ones who brought us opportunity. They built our city, provided work, and improved the standard of living from what it was. Life was never great, but things are better. Not a single slaver has set foot on Euruta since the Empire came into existence. And it was the Empire that gave me the chance to do more with my life."

"You call this a chance to do more?" Haurn snarled, moving her head about to indicate Mimban was not exactly a step forward.

"I wouldn't call Mimban ideal, but it got me off of Euruta."

I touched a nerve with that.

"Some of us are not so willingly in Imperial service," Haurn responded, frustrated.

"Hey, look I'm sorry, didn't mean to…" I tried to back off the question, but she interrupted.

"The Republic, the Separatists, now the Empire, they're all the same. People in power making wild promises while the rest are made to suffer."

Haurn backed off her fired rhetoric and sank into her seat. She hung her head low and shuffled her boots in the mud, not aggressively as before. It took Haurn a few moments to form her words before she continued,

"My family comes from a long line of traditionalists, who want a Mandalore returned to its ancient, warrior ways. My father ran afoul of the puppet government on Mandalore and the Imperial's head stooge, Gar Saxon. Saxon had my father, and others like him, executed. To prevent the children from taking up the struggle or seeking revenge –we were all shipped off to the Imperial Army once we reached military age. The Empire needed soldiers and the puppet government needed to be rid of us. I'm here paying for the sins of my father as part of the 'Generational Punitive Measures', as they're calling it."

Haurn turned her glare back toward me and we made eye contact. She let out a most unexpected smile and began to laugh, as if humored by what was said.

"So, I know your story," Haurn began. "And you now know mine. I didn't realize we were competing to see who had the more miserable childhood."

Completing her retort, she stood, grasped the entrenching tool, and offered an outstretched hand. Seizing upon it, she helped pull me to my feet where we both laughed at the circumstances of our respective upbringings. Shortly thereafter, we resumed our work repairing the trench.

The 224th Imperial Armored Division had existed on Mimban, in some form or another since the Clone War. Back then, the Mimbos were fighting with us. Funny how they switched sides. We're engaged in a primitive style of warfare. The planet's conditions negated the effectiveness of our technologies –played hell with our sensors. The mud takes its toll on our equipment and people. The atmosphere blinded the pilots, and the harsh weather frequently grounded the TIEs.

The strategy we are using on Mimban is ludicrous. Our Imperial forces established bases at critical sectors: Camp Forward, Landing Zone Echo, and so on. We have two goals, protect hyperbaride mining assets and pacify the Mimbos. The bases protected the mining assets, which drew out the Mimbos desperately wanting us gone. We'd kill as many as we could to break their resistance. They'd kill as many of us as they could to weaken our resolve. Patrols would go on "search and destroy" missions against hostile, often elusive targets –some accomplished their objectives, most came back empty handed, a few were never seen again. For the rest of us, it was holding the line. The Empire was too vast, too numerous, it would be a matter of time until the Mimbos capitulated or were driven to extinction. So, we dug our trenches and fortified our lines –wipe out as many of the bugs as we could.

The days come and go on Mimban. Really, with the darkened sky it is hard to discern sometimes. Our sector has been relatively quiet as of late. No all-out assaults ordered if that's what you mean. Mostly, it has been exchanging blaster fire at night with Mimbos who crawl too close.

I get woken up by a hand shaking me in the crowded bunk. It was expected and I hoped to get an hour of rest before the sun went down. Dystraay was there, his hand grasped my forearm. Through my not quite cognizant vision, I could also see Haurn standing with another kid, can't quite remember his name.

"Maider," Dystraay said. "Get up, we're going."

The three of us, Haurn, myself, and the kid followed Dystraay through the zagged communications trench until we were almost to the front. The sergeant stopped us and turned to speak.

"We're going out into the waste to plant listening probes," said Dystraay. "It will let the intel droids scan for any Mimbos burrowing under the ground or crawling through the mud. Stick close to me while we're out there. If we get separated, don't panic, don't shout, and don't fragging move. Stay where you are, and I'll come find you. We won't be the only ones out there; these are bug hours. Don't shoot, bash them to death, strangle them, drown them in the pools of muddy water, but don't shoot. That will only bring more."

Dystraay finished and conducted us onward. His words left us with a feeling of uneasiness. We understood that he didn't want us making any sounds. The small grouping of Troopers of the frontline battalion were huddled around the sap. A corporal among their number nodded to Dystraay and the rest positioned themselves on the firing step, like they were ready to get to shooting.

"Leave those here," Dystraay addressed our trio, pointing to our E-10s.

We did as he said, unslinging them from our shoulders and leaving them in a prepared rifle rack against the trench wall. A look of consternation gripped our expressions about leaving the rifles, then the corporal lifted a small crate onto an outcropping carved in the parapet. The corporal pulled the lid back and started issuing out SE-14 blaster pistols –one to me and then to the kid. When it came to Haurn, she held up a hand to refuse.

"No thanks," she said. "I've got my own."

Haurn pulled a WESTAR-34 blaster from a holster on her belt covered by the rain cloak. I suppose it was hers from back home and smuggled into the service. The blued finish of the weapon's barrel did not shimmer in the night's darkness, though it was still a thing of beauty. Dystraay let out a silent whistle to show he was impressed. I think all were envious.

"There's a wrecked AT Hauler six hundred meters to our front," Dystraay started in a whisper. "We're making for that. Crawl two by two. Like I said, if you get separated, stay where you are, and I will come to you. If things go to shit and everyone starts shooting, keep your head down and make your way back to our lines. Abandon the equipment if you have to, despite what command says, it is cheaper to replace gear than Troopers."

We were each motioned to collect a knapsack. The knapsacks had a rigid shape and a protective shell over what contained the intricate electronics that comprised the sensor probe. We slung them on our backs and took the time to drop our miscellaneous gear that would weigh us down, the respirators, rifle power packs. I discarded the entrenching tool on my belt when Dystraay stopped me –picking up the tool.

"You'll want that," he said, holding the tool outstretched. "The blade on your entrenching tool will make nasty work of a Mimbo's neck. I'm giving you the blasters because I don't want to leave you completely screwed. You come a across a bug, you use that entrenching tool, it'll take their head clean off. In future, make sure you keep that spade end sharpened, it'll be your only friend out here."

I felt my fingers nervously tighten around the club handle of the entrenching tool. The blaster pistol I tucked into my belt, but the tool I kept in hand. Dystraay was first up the ladder and over the embrasure –crawling prone. I followed, then Haurn, and the kid. We advanced as we had discussed, close to the sergeant, slowly, silently. It was agonizing to crawl even one meter. On flat, open country, you could have walked the distance in a matter of minutes. It took hours for us to drag ourselves all the way there.

We had a horrific time of it. The bodies of the dead still littered the field. They were bloated and putrefying, their smell fetid and sickening. You could barely breathe it was so terrible. And they were so numerous. Every time you pulled yourself forward, you bumped into a corpse. You had to haul yourself over it to move. Many were the ones from our battalion, but not all. Countless were in various forms of decay, you did not want to think what exactly it was you felt your hands pull through, your legs brush against. To touch was terrible, but to see with my own eyes, the horror. The taste in the air, I couldn't describe that.

As we forced our way through the waste, what a horrible sight met my eyes. On top of a corpse without a head or a torso, and underneath some who were still alive, though with limbs torn off or horribly maimed, they looked at us with bleeding, desolate eyes. How could anyone still be alive out here? They'd been on their own out here, no food, rancid water, no treatment for their wounds. The soft cries and moans of these poor, hopeless Troopers. They didn't possess the energy to create much noise. We had no other avenue to avoid these piles of mutilated comrades and there was nothing that could be done for them. This was a reconnaissance, not a recovery.

A contorted hand shot out from the darkness and seized onto the sergeant's raincloak. The poor girl it belonged to begged for help from Dystraay, imploring we take her out of this place. Her voice was growing desperate and louder –loud enough to bring attention to our party. The grip was strong enough to stop Dystraay and he turned to the poor wretch. Placing a finger to his mouth to calm her in a soothing manner, the sergeant lifted his vibroblade. It was a swift motion in two parts. Dystraay placed his hand over the wounded Trooper's mouth to keep her quiet, as he plunged the blade into her gut. She hadn't the strength to resist and in a few moments collapsed, lifelessly into the mud. We kept quiet and just pressed forward. It was the coldest calculation to reason. They were as good as dead, like how you kick away a drowning victim who tries to pull you under. I don't know, had to have someone explain that reference to me.

The sun of Mimban began to trickle its haze through the obfuscation in the sky. No better timing, for just to our front was the towering landing arm of the AT Hauler –jutted upwards as a lone monolith in the field of carnage. Dystraay was first to roll into the crater made from the crash landing of the craft. I followed after Haurn, and we took a moment to just sit up and stretch our exhausted limbs. The crater where we sat was situated a good three meters deep, so as to afford us cover from any sniper fire.

I looked around at Haurn, the sergeant, and then I realized there were only three of us. That kid, the one whose name I never learned wasn't there. Maybe he became separated and followed Dystraay's order to stay put, or maybe the waste had claimed another. We never did find out.

"Don't think about that now," said Dystraay to regain our focus. "Haurn, plant your sensor to cover the left. Maider, yours to cover the right. I'll take front."

We each moved to our respective positions. Not much to planting these sensors. You pull off the protective transport shell to reveal the device. It has these two telescoping metal rods on the bottom. Those you extend and then just drive the device into the ground with the rods piercing the mud. They act as stakes but also seismic probes to measure tremors caused by Mimbos tunneling. The sensors are also equipped with passive scanning features to detect enemy movement and feed reports directly back to intelligence droids at headquarters. This was our early warning system.

Our tasks completed, the sensors were automated, our only job now was to make it back. We gathered with Dystraay for word on what to do next. The sergeant motioned us over to the access hatch to the AT Hauler. The outside fuselage appeared in relatively good shape, appearing to have landed on its ventral section then skidding several meters to where it came to rest. The wear on the wrecked craft indicated it had been there for some time –not recently shot down. Reaching up a hand, Dystraay opened a panel to reveal a keypad. A quick entry of a four-digit number code and the manual release lever swung down. Grasping the handle, Dystraay pulled it downwards and we watched in astonishment as the access hatch opened.

We were ushered in with Dystraay closing and locking the hatch from the inside. The interior looked worn but seemed to be fully enclosed. The cockpit viewport was covered in mud, where the front section had burrowed into the ground upon the crash. We could not see out, nor could anything see in. Durasteel plates were attached over the transparisteel viewports to further reinforce them. What seemed to be the oddest part of all, the interior looked like it had been inhabited. There were sleeping rolls, ration crates, stocked medical supplies. It was all neatly stacked –done post-crash.

"We'll camp here for a few hours," said Dystraay. "Get some sleep before we make our way back to our lines. I'll take the first watch."

"What is this place?" Haurn asked.

"Officially, Listening Post Alpha three-one-niner," replied Dystraay, powering on a small heater. "To those need-to-know Troopers, it's the Nest. Command isn't exactly aware of the amenities here, and we like to keep it that way. This is the only consolation for coming on these wasteland recon crawls."

The warmth put off by that heater was the most welcome feeling, when you spend days shivering and miserable in wet, cold uniforms. The wrecked craft was drawing just enough solar energy from its damaged arrays to provide power to minimal systems. It was minimal and there was enough shielding in the fuselage to prevent detection by the Mimbos on their crude sensors. There were so many wrecked AT Haulers, walkers, old turbo tanks, and LAATs leftover from the War that they paid no mind to this one. For the Imperials slogging away in miserable conditions, it was the closest you got to a veritable paradise. The warmth and bedrolls out of the mud were enough to have me asleep in only a matter of minutes. Dystraay let us rest while he took a seat in the old pilot's chair. Last time in a while, I'd get a good rest like this.

The darkness came sooner than we would have liked. The feeling was mutual about wanting to remain in the wrecked craft. A quick meal from some stored rations and we prepared to move out. Dystraay mentioned something about having gone to look for that kid but couldn't find him. He did tell us to keep our eyes open in case we came across him on the way back. Was not looking forward to the return to our lines, crawling over the bodies.

With blaster pistols in our belts and entrenching tools in hand, we started the trek. It was every bit as awful having to traverse through the entanglements of corpses, especially having just departed the relatively civilized comforts we enjoyed within the hauler. And so, we pressed on through the gore, the mangled bodies, and the stench of death.

Two hours into the crawl, the sun was gone, and night perpetuated the darkness. Dystraay had point and I was just behind when I felt the heel of his boot kick me in the shoulder. It was our signal to stop. It caught me so sudden I failed to pass on the gesture to Haurn just behind. She crashed into me not expecting the sudden halt. We only had one reason to stop like this, exposed in the waste. Dystraay believed he spotted Mimbos. We were dead silent –attune our ears to listen for any movement. A foot splashed in a puddle just a few meters to our front left. We heard a body being shifted, pouches opening. It was coming from the bottom of a large bomb crater. Dystraay kicked me again, but with the opposite foot, as a command to quietly follow. I correctly relayed it to Haurn.

A faint glow came into view that only dimly lit the sight in front. The light was not bright enough to bring the gaze of artillery spotters. We crept closer to it and arrived on the precipice of the crater. Before our very eyes were four Mimbos. Two of the Mimbos were crouched, holding their refurbished blaster rifles. The third was fidgeting with a small handheld illuminator, like they couldn't figure out how to turn it off. They were clicking away in their tongue at this third one, like chastising them for having turned the light on. The final Mimbo was rummaging through the lifeless body of a Trooper, going through his pockets, belt pouches, and knapsack. The sight was abhorrent. These Mimbos, these bugs, treating our dead in such a manner.

Best way to put it, I was mad. I clenched tightly to the handle of the entrenching tool, the hatred towards these Mimbos just flowed through me. I felt like I could no longer tolerate this behavior to continue. That these bugs needed to be eradicated. I locked eyes with Dystraay, half expecting him to try to hold me back. There was no reservation in the eyes of the sergeant, for it appeared he too desired retribution. Turning to check on Haurn, she was already on her feet –leapt before us onto the enemy.

The first Mimbo, kneeling with its blaster, let out a guttural shriek, as Haurn bashed its head repeatedly with the spade of her entrenching tool. I was next, tackling the second nearest Mimbo, who attempted to lift their blaster rifle to fire. Dystraay went in after, but I lost sight of what he was doing. The collision with the Mimbo sent the entrenching tool flying from my hand, though the bug dropped their rifle in the melee. It was a contest of brute strength –no weapon to aid either of us in the struggle to the death. The Mimbanese species have a much frailer build when compared to humans, but the spores on this forsaken world slow us down and about even the physical odds. This was no gentlemen's exchange of fists, but a brawl in the mud.

The Mimbo landed several hard punches to my jaw and left side of my torso. I went for the bug's neck, trying to strangle my opponent. I didn't feel the pain really, I hardly remember killing this Mimbo, as the contest was over in a matter of moments. My next recollection was squeezing the Mimbo firmly around its neck while holding its head under a pool of water that collected in the bottom of the crater. Its body went limp, and I could no longer feel its fingers desperately digging into my wrists.

Haurn had just about flattened the skull of the Mimbo she attacked. The bone structure had collapsed. Bits of its brains began to seep out from wounds torn through its head and its blood covered Haurn's uniform. We both came to the realization our opponents were dead and Dystraay might need our help. When we turned, we saw the third Mimbo lying motionless with a vibroblade protruding from its chest. Dystraay was with the fourth Mimbo. The sergeant's left forearm wrapped around the bug's neck –pulled taught by his right hand. His back was pressed into the side of the muddy crater with a flailing Mimbo secured in a choke hold. Dystraay kept the pressure until he felt the bug's windpipe crush. And it was over.

The bodies of the Mimbos were left where they fell. We took a moment to gather ourselves around the body of the Trooper. I pulled the poor fellow's raincloak over his head. This was our tribute to the fallen, the only funeral he'd probably receive. In a way it was a funeral for all the Troopers whose bodies covered this ground, the ones never to be recovered, even for the kid with our party who we lost. You felt so sick, so disgusted with yourself having to callously pick your way through their bodies to crawl, so frustrated that they were being left out here like this. It was no way to end.

With the dawn rising, we knew we had to make it back to our lines at haste. A final nod, we were out of the crater and on the move. Just a few hundred yards we crossed and were amongst the Troopers in the frontline trench. I was exhausted from it all and, without a care, just let myself collapse onto the firing step. Dystraay gave us his nod of approval before he set off to make his report to the officer of the day. The corporal demanded I return the pistol, which I did. I lacked the energy to fight him on it anyways. From there, Haurn and I hobbled back to our dugout in the support trench with the rest of our shattered battalion, ready to endure another round of uncertainty. Would we make it another day or was death standing by to collect what was owed?

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