Siege of Outpost 3-Bravo

It has been a week since I put Haurn aboard the outbound AT-Hauler. She was lucky to get out, as a severe storm blew in and will not break. Resupply flights are grounded at Camp Forward. The only ones willing to brave the weather, or crazy enough, are the TIE bombers. Hourly, the TIE bombers screech above our heads and drop their ordinance in the forest beyond. The weather and atmospheric ionization negates the effectiveness of the guided munition systems of the TIEs, so the pilots are eyeballing targets –razing the trees with drums of conflagrine and volleys of concussion missiles. Often, the bombers are flying above the cloud cover and storms when making these runs. Stars knows if they are hitting anything, the explosions are impressive enough. I suppose it is reassuring to know command has not forgotten about Outpost 3-Bravo.

The shelling is relentless. We are under fire constantly from Mimbo artillery dispersed in the swamps and surrounding forests. They are getting clever too, shifting the positions of their guns to escape our bombers and counter-battery fire. Life in the outpost cannot exist in the open, outside of dugouts, bunkers, and trenches. The ground shakes violently with every bomb, every shell and rocket. It feels as though the planet's surface will crack apart at any moment to devour all who tread upon this miserable world. One cannot sleep at night, kept awake by the unceasing chorus of blasts. Relentless are the sobs and cries of those who can no longer tolerate the bombardment –their minds turned to madness. They must be subdued, held down by comrades, lest they run directly into the fire. We are not fighting at this point, merely surviving, occupying this outpost.

Our ranks have swelled to nearly 2,500 against an enemy of undetermined strength. We are packed within the defensive works, burrow ourselves deeper like rodents with the additional holes we dig. The Mimbos tried to coordinate their assault, hit us with a bombardment then send in their infantry. We have enough Troopers to hold the line, repulse their attacks. The Empire is so invested in holding this outpost simply because the Mimbanese are so determined to take it. Command assumes it is important and, therefore, must be held no matter the cost in our lives.

My sapper's dugout was repurposed as a field dressing station, our bunks and table ripped out and the wounded packed inside along with overworked medics. Most of the 8843rd were dead or wounded. Officially, my battalion was relieved and set to rotate to the rear, but we need transport flights to take the last of us out and they aren't flying. It's not like I could leave, as I am a sapper, I've been temporarily reassigned to a company of the 741st regiment. Why can't I leave? There are no mines to clear, nobody is going anywhere. How am I even supposed to clear mines? I abandoned my mine detection equipment out on that patrol.

The week was predominantly spent in the reinforced bunker guarding the southwest corner of the outpost. Those two dozen of us in this bunker lay cramped on the floor, attempting to manage sleep. So confined are we it is impossible to walk without stepping on someone and being met with angry shouts. It's cold and damp within, the firing slit at the bunker's front prevents any retention of heat. The interior is in constant darkness, as any form of illumination will attract the attention of Mimbo artillery directly upon us. The Mimbo spotters are lousy, but we don't want to make their jobs too easy. The smell is terrible, everyone is sick, food and water need to be carefully managed. Respirator filters are hopelessly clogged and our masks practically useless.

I feel like I am deteriorating. Being out in the bush then returning to a base under siege –I have not had an opportunity to receive a new uniform or change out of this old one. My chest plate, tunic and trousers are still stained with Haurn's blood. I smell noticeably worse than the others. I am sure to take care of my feet, however, to avoid trench foot, which has already stricken many recruits. Dystraay always stressed changing your socks. He showed me a trick to wrap your feet. The foot wraps dry faster, they're more abundant, since you can easily make your own, and are often more comfortable than the socks issued by the Army. My skin has developed sores and boils, the "military dermatitis". It hurts insufferably with every move I make, but the medics won't spare any bacta for treatment. They reason my condition was preventable and only exacerbated through personal negligence. It also means I will not receive a priority casevac once flights resume, if they ever do.

The loneliness gets to me, though I am surrounded by Troopers, they are unfamiliar. Flelt, Baize, Rizdak took their chances, jumped aboard one of the last outbound flights. Brimmo was summoned to Camp Forward to deliver an official report on the patrol and the enemy strength encountered to Division headquarters. Dashnik was shot through the shoulder early on during the siege and was casevac'd. It's Haurn who I miss the most. Orvavo is still here, being a sapper, we enjoy the same fate. She tried sleeping her way onto a gunship, but I guess it didn't work out, as Orvavo was currently seated next to me in the bunker. We share a pack of cigarras, smoked under a raincloak to muffle the glow of the embers. The cigarras are the only source of comfort we have left. We talk for a bit –anything to occupy ourselves as each passing minute feels like hours. The greater your misery, the slower time passes in the trenches.

"How fortunate we are to find ourselves," quipped Orvavo. "Languishing in this damnable post, forsaken by our closest comrades. Thus is the fate of one in such an essential station as ours."

Orvavo did enjoy speaking in proper, lofty sentences. I guess that was the writer part of her, never went away. There were instances I could not understand a thing she was saying because of her use of enriched phrasing. For the most part, I assumed she liked to talk just for the sake of talking. Although, she helped proof several earlier passages of the accounts I have prepared. Her efforts should be recognized.

"Shame to hear about Pommavaz," Orvavo muttered, a sense of anguish in her tone. "He was a kind soul, great listener."

"I can imagine," was my reply. "Kriffing waste if you ask me. Pommy was a genius, so why volunteer for this?"

"Credits," Orvavo answered. "At least that is the version Dashnik told. Pommy was born into impoverished circumstances on a Corporate Sector world, though I am pressed to recall which. Unable to obtain a scholarship to a university. Irrespective of how intelligent one is, if you do not have credits in the Corporate Sector, you can bloody well kriff-off. Pommy enlisted in hopes the Empire would pay for Uni."

I took a long drag from the cigarra, hoped the tabac would distract my thoughts, to no success. Pommy's death just did not sit right with me. It was almost unfair. He had more to offer the Galaxy, the Empire, with his intellect, than I could. Yet, I am the one fate chose to survive.

"What is your arrangement with Haurn?" Orvavo inquired, with a nudge to my ribs from her elbow. "Is it true that you two are sleeping together?"

I scowled back at Orvavo, annoyed at the insinuation, though had not expected the question to be put so bluntly. I offered a "no" as a terse reply.

"Unfortunate," Orvavo responded, as she shifted to make her seat more comfortable. "She holds feelings for you, you do know, right?"

"Oh yeah," I grumbled in disbelief. "How'd you figure that?"

"Haurn confided in me, while we stood the overnight watch prior to your patrol. Though it seemed rather a consultation as opposed to an admission."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means Mandalorians primarily focus their energies on martial prowess, some find themselves lacking when it comes to forming intimate relationships."

"So, she asked for dating advice? What did you tell her?"

"I am afraid I have confessed too much," Orvavo retreated, though with a sly grin. "This was shared in confidence. Would you reciprocate her feelings, or is there someone back home? Which could complicate the situation."

"I don't have a back home," I grunted, Orvavo could prove irritating at times, and I wanted to shift the topic.

"Ah yes, you are the idealist volunteer, who decided to join the Empire because of the lack of opportunities in your backwater world?" Orvavo began. "You are the eidetic embodiment of the protagonist from my third play. It is humorous, you both share the same mannerisms, the same hopeless upbringing, and the belief salvation can only be obtained through faith in the system, but the staunch idealism is slowly eroding into indifference, circumstances didn't turn out as well as you would've hoped. Though, he was a stevedore on Balmorra during the Great Labour Troubles. Also, your hesitative romantic situation with Haurn is wonderfully analogous to Linjo's courtship."

"Yeah," I huffed, in response to Orvavo's patronizing analysis. "How'd it end? For your character."

"What do you mean? Does he win the girl's heart or live to the end of the story?"

"Does it matter?"

Orvavo smirked.

A shell impacted; the thunderous explosion violently shook the bunker. The roof cracked, a metal girder we placed to hold it up, collapsed and crushed a sleeping Trooper. Everyone leapt to their feet in the panic. A general alarm raised throughout the base, MIMBOS! Blaster fire erupted, accompanied by howls and more bombs. The bugs made another run on us. A grenade detonated by the opening slit in the bunker, killed the gunner of the E-Web placed there and severely wounded his assistant. The assistant gunner fell to the ground, clutched her face, which was ablaze from the grenade's incendiary contents. A high explosive mass shell must've landed right on top of us, collapsed the rear section of the bunker. This cutoff my escape route into the trenches. I moved over to the slit, could see the swarms of Mimbos trying to crawl their way through the mines and razor wire we strung up. You'd figure they would've trained their artillery to blast the obstructions and clear a path for their infantry, but again they had lousy spotters. It significantly hampered the bugs' advance.

There was a crate of thermal detonators we kept on the firing step in the bunker. I kicked open the lid and grabbed one after another, tossed them at the enemy. The thermal detonators exploded, blew apart the groups who bunched together. The Mimbos trained their blasters on the bunker, laid down suppression fire that forced me to duck. Orvavo and a few Troopers crawled over to me, two tried to get the E-Web working, but the incendiary grenade melted the firing components, and the weapon was inoperable. One of the Troopers carried a Z-6 rotary blaster cannon, like those clones you see in all the propaganda holos. The mark of a true idiot on Mimban. This individual hoisted the Z-6 up and fired a burst, then was forced to stop. The mud jammed the weapons gears, prevented the mechanism from rotating the barrels. They were a bitch to clean and maintain, the firepower offered was not worth the effort. The more robust T-21, though it lacked the rate of fire, didn't break down on you as easily. Why this individual didn't immediately ditch the Z-6 for a T-21 is beyond me. The Z-6 is impractical for Mimban, any combat theater really –only suitable for action hero holofilms. I pushed the Trooper to the ground, as they were standing exposed while attempting to fix their weapon.

"Dumbass!" I shouted, shoved a discarded E-10 into their hands. "Stop screwing around and make yourself useful."

I turned back to the firing slit, not a further thought given, and tossed another thermal detonator outside. The roar above was not incoming artillery, but that of a TIE bomber. Crazy bastard pilot flew low over the outpost, loosed a barrage of concussion missiles at the darkened forest to our front. Too damn close to be shooting that kind of ordinance blind. The trees were consumed by the inferno, nearly scalded our faces, my uniform practically heat dried. The bomber took a sharp bank to the left, dropped a payload of proton bombs, and pulled up. The entire continent felt like it shifted. It was enough to scare off this latest Mimbo assault and they withdrew. With the rear exit of the bunker still blocked, idiots still trying to dig their way out, I figured it might be safe enough to use the front. I hoisted myself on the firing step and rolled out through the bunker's slit, clambered across its outline, and hurled myself into the trench. Startled a few Troopers not expecting me to appear in this manner. Orvavo wasn't far behind, as she copied my method. I left the other Troopers in the trench to work digging out the collapsed bunker exit, for I now needed to find another dry place to sleep.

Bombs fall on us as frequently as the rain. How much hardware was left behind after the War? The Mimbos have access to a continuous supply of artillery pieces and shells. Each bug gun emplacement a TIE bomber roasts, three more appear to pop up to pick up the slack. We scurry along like rats through our network of entrenchments, linking our positions. No end in sight for this current storm, which hangs over us like someone left the spigot on. Again, my appeal to the medical officer for an evacuation was denied, though no flights have been accomplished since the last time I asked. He said he would have me shot if I come around the dressing station again, legitimately wounded or not. I haven't slept in two days, been in so much pain, disturbed by the explosions, cold and miserable. It's almost like the training days aboard Challenger-IV, unable to keep meals down, but at least they're not hitting me. To keep my sanity, I rotate between the bunkers and emplacements of the outpost, passing through the connecting trenches. It is something to keep me occupied, focused, the moving while evading incoming fire. I removed the corporal insignia from my uniform, so nobody bothers me, in case some Trooper wants to ask me a stupid question or an officer wants to request someone elevated to undertake an assignment they deem too important for the regular enlisted type.

The 741st, to which I am temporarily posted, is a reconstituted regiment. Heavy action and losses necessitated the replacements to bring the unit back to full strength. There are veterans in their ranks, but a sizable assemblage is comprised of recruits fresh from the depot. Many are under fire for the first time and their inexperience is prevalent. When we hunker in a dugout, to escape the barrage outside, the interior is filled with screams. Confined to the enclosed and cramped space, the recruits quickly lose their minds. The air, already naturally unbreathable, is putrid and suffocating. The tremors from each impact play havoc on the nerves, as do the bits of soil displaced from the ceiling. The helpless sensation of being trapped and buried can prove overwhelming, since it perpetuates day and night. Troopers take to banging their heads against the metal sheets that line the walls, when not sobbing uncontrollably. One or two will make a run for the door, a desperate attempt to escape to the open. These we must tackle to the ground and often restrain them, using bits of webbing or rifle slings for bonds. If we let them go, they clamber out of the trenches and into the shelling. In some way, we are the cruel ones. The poor sods want to escape the ordeal, but we won't let them, we bind them and force them to endure this never-ending torment. Hell, it's for their own good, right?

We face frontal assaults from the Mimbos at intervals. Many believe these to be probing efforts to locate the vulnerable sections of our lines, but the attacks seem too heavy handed lately to be force reconnaissance. I was caught in a particularly intense effort by the bugs when I happened upon a trench in the process of being overrun. One of our larger dugouts, served as the hospital, was destroyed by a direct hit from Mimbo artillery. Thinking there might be medical supplies and food to salvage from the ruins, I made my way over. The portion of trench, between me and the dugout, suffered heavy shelling by the Mimbos and was in terrible shape. Many of the Troopers holding this stretch were killed, the defensive works filled in and ground churned up to form a series of shallow depressions. The Mimbo attackers swarmed up the slope and jumped into the devastated trench –shooting and bayoneting the few survivors left. I opened fire on the closest Mimbo, shot them down. A dead Stormtrooper lay at my feet, though they had a bandolier of thermal detonators strapped across their chest. I snatched a thermal detonator, hurled the grenade, and blew up a few of the bugs. It was a nasty affair, the enemy was so close the barrel of my E-11 pressed into their bodies, as I pulled the trigger. A platoon of Stormtroopers was nearby and organized a counterassault. The Stormtroopers joined me in the effort to defend the line. When my blaster's charge ran out there was no opportune moment to reload, so I took my entrenching tool and went to work. Many a bug I cleaved, as I hacked my way through their number. It was madness, Stormtroopers brazenly ran into the fight, leapt onto the enemy, and commenced to a savage bloodletting.

The dead Mimbanese lay about us, those bugs still alive withdrew. I assisted the Stormtroopers in quickly rebuilding the works. The shallow craters offered little protection, as the trench was gone. Fearing another attack imminent, we gathered the corpses of our dead enemy, and even our own comrades, and piled them before us as shields against blaster fire. I laid there among the Stormtroopers, pressed against the stacked bodies with weapons trained forward. The lifeless face of a Mimbo stared directly at me, blood seeped from its slackened mouth. Another assault launched against our position. The Mimbanese cut a fortified avenue through the swamp that allowed them to approach mostly unseen to just before our line. When the bugs appeared, the platoon opened fire with everything we had. Two more times throughout the day, the enemy attacked this section, and we threw them back. We continued to hold, as more Troopers came up and went to work digging a new trench. I slipped away when the line was about waist deep. By that point, the Stormtroopers set to decapitating the Mimbo corpses of our impromptu fortifications and mounted the heads on posts, so as to be clearly visible. This was their terror tactic to the enemy. How the Stormtroopers went about the exercise so casually was truly morbid. I eventually made it to the collapsed hospital, though the choice remains were already scoured by opportunists.

There are efforts to bring in supplies, some rations and ammunition make it through, not enough to end our supply conservation. AT-Haulers will fly above the clouds and rapidly descend on the outpost. A pilot needs to come in fast and release the cargo container held by the hauler's magnetic locks, then quickly climb skywards, all while locked in a desperate struggle to maintain control of the vessel against the storm. On the ground, we would have to be over the container in an instant, strip it for the supplies inside, before the bug artillery blast it. The ionization disrupted navigation instruments, so pilots had to fly in manually. Given the bad weather, it is a feat few can accomplish successfully. The Mimbos had flak guns too, shot down many a bold pilot who tried to come to our aid. Not enough supplies are making it through.

A formation of six IPTs attempted the outpost run to deposit supplies and, hopefully, evacuate a few critically wounded. The rain blinded and the winds proved unfavorable for controlled flight. On approach, one of the IPTs lost its bearings, flew into a nearby hill. The Mimbos brought up their anti-craft guns, blanketed the skies with flak. Two IPTs were hit, subsequently crashed, two more aborted the mission and returned to Camp Forward. The last pilot, I suppose they wanted to be a hero, win a medal. They aligned for a landing. The air was choked with flak, we lit flares to outline the landing pad. A flak burst shredded the tail fin of the IPT, the pilot wrestled with the controls. Its descent was too fast, repulsor field must've taken damage in the burst, failed to arrest the plunge. The craft exploded upon impact in the center of the outpost. It was a common occurrence. The wrecked hulls of several transports littered the ground from so many failed attempts. If flights resumed, it would be difficult to coordinate landings with all the debris and hulks scattered about.

As we remained besieged at Outpost 3-Bravo, the Mimbos launched a general offensive against Imperial installations and mining operations. These were not conventional assaults with ground forces and supporting assets, our Army could fight a pitched battle, but rapid strikes against our forces culminating in the bugs withdrawing before we could organize a retaliatory effort. Thus, we would hunt for an enemy long dispersed, with valuable troops diverted in the futile search. We've faced these hit-and-run tactics before by the bugs, but not on this scale. The MLA communicated with their forces across Mimban and coordinated their operations. The priority strongpoints for the Empire are the hyperbaride refineries. Command was near paranoid about losing the refineries and they had to be held, all other considerations second. Consequently, when the bugs threatened the hyperbaride, our other sectors would be sacrificed.

The stubborn weather did not relent, as another week of misery passed. I've long since lost track of Orvavo. She's shacked up with the Lt. Colonel now in command of this post and shares the slightly improved conditions at the headquarters dugout. It was her way to alleviate the suffering. Command tried to lift the siege, prepared a relief column to breakthrough. It was a convoy of AT-DTs and a mechanized regiment carried on TX-225 assault tanks. If they bothered to allocate some A6s, the operation would've been a resounding success and I'd be back at Camp Forward by now. However, the A6s were unavailable, and the convoy set out. From the start, the relief column had to contend with the mud, which hampered progress. Once they crossed into the forest tracts of the G'han, their vehicles were confined to the single road and dense vegetation that hemmed them in on either side. Mimbos placed obstructions in their path and attacked when the Troopers dismounted to clear the impediments. The AT-DTs could not maneuver effectively, and they proved to be useless. Once the lead vehicle was disabled, it trapped the rest behind until the wreck could be moved aside, all while under intense blaster and rocket fire. The relief column made it within 8 kilometers before casualties and fierce bug resistance halted any further advance. They withdrew and we were left. The MLA's offensive has shifted Imperial focus to the protection of the mining facilities. Outpost 3-Bravo is no longer a priority. I am sure they could use the nearly two thousand Troopers holding this ground, and they'll fly us out once the weather conditions improve.

I was thinking of Haurn today, thinking about her a lot recently. I should have listened to her and jumped aboard that AT-Hauler. My logic for staying is stupid, the fear of the military police catching shirkers. There was plenty of time on that flight back to have Haurn inflict a convincing and non-crippling injury on me. The evacuation of the wounded and the battalion was so haphazard and disorganized, they would not even notice me disembark the hauler. Dammit, I should have climbed aboard. It is pointless to debate what I should have done; nothing can change that now. There appears to be no escape from this outpost. I just want to be with Haurn, have her hold me close and tell me everything will be alright.

The bombings continue at all hours. The only way I can manage any sleep is through sedatives I stole from a medic. My hands tremble as the ground shakes and I cannot get them to stop. I want a bloody shell to land on top of me and put me right out of this mess for good. I hear Mimbanese spoken in my head, the clicking noises of their language, only to turn and find nothing. I constantly see movement beyond the perimeter, the bugs coming close. When I do, I level my E-11 and start blasting, not sure if I have killed any.

I do not know if there will be any rescue, any relief. Facts are incomplete and disjointed, as is the news we are passed from superiors, wild rumors account for the rest. When you come across the body of a dead comrade, your first instinct is to rifle through their corpse, their kit, for any food. Little consideration is given to the respect of the deceased, and you end up cursing them if no suitable bounty is recovered. We receive ration bars from the rare supply-runs that make it through successfully, but I wish the Army would send us normal food. The ration bars are the energy type, the ones laced with amphetamines to give us the fighting strength. We don't want energy; we want to sleep. When you cannot stand the hunger any longer, you cannot help yourself and tear into one of these bars. We're finding the bodies of Troopers, dead from no visible wounds. Many suspect they die from exhaustion, kept awake from the shelling and further pushed by the ration bar, the heart gives out, unable to sustain the Trooper any longer. The medics refuse to acknowledge this phenomenon and insist the bars are safe to eat.

Orvavo was killed today. She had fallen out of favor with the regiment's commander and was subsequently dismissed from her billet in the regimental headquarters. A mortar round caught her, as she traversed the network of trenches in search of new accommodations. I covered her lifeless body with the tattered raincloak across her back. No shame in admitting that I took an unopened packet of ration noodles I found in her haversack. The food would've been picked off by others, regardless. I wonder if that governor on Tirahnn would ever receive news of Orvavo's death, being he condemned her fate.

Another push by the Mimbos tonight through a section of the southern defense line. We repelled them, inflicting many casualties. The enemy's ranks appear endless, as thousands more have joined the siege. The TIE bombers flying recklessly on ground attack runs are able to disrupt the Mimbo assaults, the key piece of support keeping us from being completely overrun.

Drinking water is critically short. A Mimbanese rocket destroyed our large cistern. We can collect all the rain we want, but it is unsafe for consumption since we have no means of filtration. Everyone is plagued by thirst. Those unable to withstand the urge pathetically sip from the water filled craters but are quickly sickened by the spore contaminates. Medics have ceased treating these individuals, as the scarce medical supplies are afforded to the combat wounded. Those poisoned by spores are treated no differently than those with self-inflicted injuries –viewed as attempting to escape their duty. I manage, however, as I have found where Dashnik stashed a batch of jerrycan gin and am greedily hoarding the potable drink to barter with desperate comrades.

This morning featured a peculiar sight. A Zeta-class cargo shuttle lined up for an approach on the outpost. This was a desperate attempt to deliver much needed supplies to us, the beleaguered defenders. The detachable cargo module of the Zeta-class could haul in enough provisions and ammunition to keep us going. Zeta shuttles are expensive, so this would be the only time command would authorize the stunt. The pilot came in fast and low from the east, not even rotating the wings upwards –drop the cargo container and punch it. Someone onboard the shuttle was blasting away with the craft's heavy laser canons. The surrounding landscape erupted, as the Mimbos turned every blaster to the sky to down the Imperial shuttle. The Zeta-class was too large a target, the mission too forlorn. A wing sheared off from the heavy fire, sections of the fuselage blasted apart. In a panic, the pilot misjudged the approach speed and pulled the container release too late. The module separated and tumbled end over end across an interior stretch of the outpost. The momentum was too great, and we watched with despair, the container crash and come to rest a few hundred meters beyond the perimeter. The shuttle took another series of hits before the damage was too severe to sustain flight. A collective groan erupted from our works, and those within view watched on helplessly while the Mimbos emptied the container of its bounty.

Days are indistinguishable now, so many have come and gone. I don't know how much longer we can hold out. Some time has passed since the Mimbos launched an infantry assault. Now, they mean to obliterate us through artillery. I suppose they want to force a capitulation, yet we stubbornly hold out. We are close to the end; many want to surrender and end the torment. The veterans realize there can be no surrender, the bugs will grant us no quarter and will offer no terms. The bombardment is considerably more frenzied, though not more accurate as it would seem. The Mimbos are frantic to throw as much ordinance at us as they can. They know if the weather breaks long enough, our consistency of air power will be sufficient to lift the siege.

We inevitably had a break in the weather. It is always bad when the weather breaks. I had been hunkered in a small dugout carved from the southern perimeter trench with three other Troopers. My uniform was covered in mud, torn in several places from so much wear, and soaked, for I was laying in the water that pooled in the dugout's bottom. The raincloak I put down as a ground cloth was so ragged it did little to keep me dry. I slithered out of the small burrow, not even big enough to sit up in, and stretched my sore back upwards once I stepped into the trench. The amount of filth that covered my person, I resembled more a destitute beggar than a Trooper of the Imperial Army. I had gone a few days without a meal. Reluctantly, I pulled a ration bar from my pocket and removed the wrapper. I was so bloody hungry, I didn't care about the energy boost, figured I could even it out with a shot from the stolen sedatives, still had one vial left. Should've paced myself, as I had consumed the entire bar before I realized it.

It was just after dawn and the artillery fell quiet. It was nice to enjoy the brief silence. I turned my gaze upward and saw a faint ray of light pierce the dissipating cloud cover. Then the shouts arose all along what was left of the tree line. A horde of Mimbos broke into a run, directly before our works. Hundreds of them, maybe a few thousand. They converged on the outpost from every side. It was a winner take all gamble, the Mimbos had to overrun our position before our air support could arrive to save us, since the storms moved off. Gone were the mines and wire entanglements to hold them back –long destroyed in the shelling. Maybe a dozen of us stood around, astonished by the sight before our eyes, as we attempted to process events. I do not remember thinking about what to do, been against too many bugs by this point to think anymore. There is a point where it becomes a mechanical process, the killing, you do not feel emotion or even regret for what you do. It was all reflex by now, I see a Mimbo, I point and shoot. My E-11 burned through charge packs, trigger pulled, bolt after bolt left the barrel. I watched the Mimbos fall, grinned wonderfully as they did. Other Troopers braced against the trench wall, fired over the parapet. We hurled what detonators we had into the opposition's ranks.

A lieutenant appeared with what looked to be a platoon sized body of Troopers –began wildly shouting orders. I did not pay much regard to the lieutenant, as she had nothing to share that was not abundantly clear. The Mimbos were to the front and needed to be shot, no need for some academy minted hack on their first deployment to tell me anything more than that. Attached to this lieutenant's chest webbing were two thermal detonators. Being I had thrown all at my disposal, I reached out a hand and took one from her kit, then lobbed it at the enemy. She watched stunned, as I did it a second time. I've thrown plenty of grenades by this point, I'm confident I would get better use out of them then this junior officer. Right away, the lieutenant could tell I was not one of her regular Troopers, my brash commandeering of explosives counter to their usual deportment. Her platoon of Troopers, though dirtied and muddied, still resembled soldiers. I looked feral. My helmet and chest armor were long since gone. The only bits of equipment left I bother to carry: the bandolier of blaster charges I wear across my chest, the entrenching tool and near-empty canteen on my belt, and, of course, my E-11. Do not ask me what happened to the lieutenant, we were in the thick of it and I do not know where the officer went.

I turned back to firing over the parapet. One of the grenades I threw took out a Mimbo squad. I saw a few bugs, writhing about in the mud, limbs sheared off from the blast, clutching the wounds where appendages were once connected. These Mimbos I did not bother to shoot, not out of pity or mercy, but out of usefulness. For every bug that lay wounded, at least two or more broke off the assault to render aid or attempt to carry their comrade away. This is the point where you turn the Mimbo wounded into bait. These Mimbo forces, they all come from the same prefecture, same villages, they almost all know each other. When one goes down, gets wounded, it is almost a certainty another will rush to their aid. It's a community thing, a natural reaction. Those are the ones you shoot at, wound them if you can, so it draws others in, and you keep the chain going.

We poured a murderous fire upon the enemy, cut down ranks of Mimbos, as they dashed headlong up the slopes before our position. For a moment, I thought we had the upper hand, until the bugs trained their artillery at this point. The shells impacted, far more accurate than I, or anyone else for that matter, expected. This was the large ordinance, blasted craters two meters deep, obliterated our works. I was thrown into the muddy waters collected in the bottom of the trench by a shell burst, mounds of dirt covered my head. The explosions muffled the screams of our own, as bodies were torn apart. The dirt weighed heavily on my shoulders and back, I felt myself suffocated. With the ration's boosted energy provided, I put forth an arm and dragged my agonized body forward, enough so I could escape the choking mud. The air was ablaze, my lungs felt scorched by every breath I drew. Bits of Troopers surrounded me, arms, legs, torsos without heads. I got myself to a seated position, leaned my back against a berm of muck, wiped the filth from my face. The artillery stopped; an odd stillness descended. It was a fleeting tranquility, as the screeched of bugs reverberated across the wrecked landscaped.

The Mimbos charged, their last reserves of infantry committed to this final push. I saw a figure leap over where I sat, then several others. The bugs were through our lines. I spotted a Trooper several meters from me, wounded and laying on his back. The wounded man, put up a hand to a passing Mimbo, his expression pleaded for aid. The bug ran the bayonet affixed to its blaster through the poor individual. Scenes like that were common when fighting the Mimbos, they brutalized our wounded when they happened upon any. It gave us cause to hate the Mimbanese, the bugs gave us no opportunities not to hate them.

The heavy exchange of small arms commenced. A blaster bolt cut down the Mimbo, as it withdrew its blade. More Troopers emerged from their burrows and dugouts, rushed forward to meet the enemy. I got to my knees, placed a hand on the berm to help pull myself up. A heavy boot stepped next to my hand and, when I looked up, a brutish Mimbo stood above with what looked like a vibro-ax arrayed in their grasp.

My eyes widened, a vibro-ax, really? There was barely enough time for me to react and roll out of the way, as the Mimbo brought the weapon down on the spot where I once knelt. I had my E-11 in hand, pointed it at the brute and squeezed the trigger. A distinct click was heard, but no accompanying beam. "Dank Farrik!" I cursed; the weapon jammed from the mud. The boot delivered a hard kick to my chest, knocked me onto my back. The brute worked to free its blade from the morass, as I cast aside my blaster for the entrenching tool on my belt. At once, I charged with the spade raised high. I brought the tool down to hack my foe, but a hand grasped my wrist, halted the attack. The brutish Mimbo, I thought its species weak, but this one possessed immense strength, held me there. My opponent was well over two meters tall, above the norm for the species, and built like a Wookiee. Its grasp tightened to the point the pain forced me to drop the spade, which fell to the ground. With its free hand, it clutched the front of my tunic and pulled me close, stared at me with its devoid eyes, bore its razor teeth in a bestial fashion. Winding its neck back, the brute threw its head forward and used it to bash mine. The row of horns on its brow perforated the flesh on my forehead and left a deep gash, which bled profusely. I let out a pathetic shriek from the terrible pain, my senses distorted. The brute released its grasp, let me fall, went to retrieve its vibro-ax still embedded in the mud.

A stray blaster round caught the brute through the shoulder, and it collapsed to its knees. It was wounded, but not entirely crippled or incapacitated. I tried to collect myself, maybe there was a chance I could make a run for it, but where to run? If you asked, I could not determine our side from theirs. But, as I splayed out my arm, my fingers touched the handle of the entrenching tool. This lit something deep inside me, I felt the will to survive, not resign myself to death, not at this outpost and not by this brutish Mimbo. Especially since Haurn was waiting for me. Getting back to her was my reason to make it through. I took the tool in my hand and forced myself to my feet. No bug was going to kill me, their kind was not up to the task. The contempt I held for their species only added fuel. I would kill this bug because it was a bug. I hoisted the tool over my head. The brute was down on its knee, a hand pressed to the shoulder wound. It turned just as I approached, the eyes offered a devoid glance, as I brought the entrenching tool down in a forceful swing. The spade embedded diagonally in the brute's face, partly caught by the brow horns, but enough was through the flesh. The thing hissed, as I removed the tool to strike it again. With a savage fury, driven by the barbarism I've forced upon myself adapting to this planet, I brought that spade down once more. The blade sliced through the brute's head, ejected bits of matter and skull. I withdrew the tool again and thrust the point forward. The point of my spade was also kept sharpened, thus turned it into a lethal stabbing weapon. I drove the spade's point into the neck of my foe. It penetrated the throat, severed the Mimbo's windpipe and sliced through a vein. The blood poured from the wound inflicted, as I withdrew the entrenching tool. The Mimbo choked, more blood seeped through the opening with each attempt to draw breath. The brute knew it was dying and managed enough strength to stare me down. It cracked a grotesque smirk, appeared to laugh, then collapsed into the mud. I pressed the point of the entrenching tool into the brute's chest, a final act to kill the thing.

A rocket landed only a few meters away. The warhead contained within was of a low yield, but the force of the blast threw me down into the mud. It broke the focus from this individual contest against the brute, as I turned my attention to the larger battle. More bugs dashed up the embankment and were in our perimeter. Troopers sought refuge in the many impact craters made by the bombardment and turned them into improvised fighting positions. Sections of our works had been overrun and Troopers withdrew into the interior of the outpost. There were stretches of trenches we still held, where comrades mounted a tenacious defense. They were surrounded by the Mimbo swarms and cut off from the rest of the outpost. Organization rapidly deteriorated, as Troopers could not locate officers and officers their commands. The casualty figures were indeterminable at this point, but they were high. Bombs impacted around, combatants from both sides lobbed grenades, fired blasters, or pummeled one another when proximity necessitated such action.

I ran from where I killed the brute and jumped into the first crater I found. Two Mudtroopers were braced on the edge and fired at the Mimbos, with a Stormtrooper blasting away with a DLT-19. There was a Mudtrooper at the bottom of the crater, curled up with his hands pressed to his ears. He rocked convulsively and screamed –all attempts to block the chaos from his senses. A second Stormtrooper, armor dirtied beyond the typical white appearance, lay motionless. Both their legs were missing, while a third Stormtrooper frantically tore off the armor in a bid to resuscitate their wounded comrade, pleading desperately to "hold on". It was a hollowed exertion, as they already succumbed to their wounds. A bolt struck the head of the Stormtrooper, who rendered aid, and they slumped over the lifeless body of their comrade. With the protection offered by this shell hole, I took the opportunity to clear the jam from my weapon. I pulled out the power pack, wiped the excess mud from its metallic conductors. Then, with my finger, picked out all the grime on the internal receptors. This damnable mud worked its way into every crevice imaginable. After a few tense moments, I had the mud cleaned off and replaced the power pack. The issue resolved, I pulled myself against the crater's edge to reengage the enemy.

The Stormtrooper with the DLT-19 screamed the vilest obscenities at the bugs, as he panned the weapon left to right and back –mowed down our foe to great effect. My weapon operable once more, I rejoined the fight. The Mimbos were so numerous, all one had to do was point their blaster in the direction of the enemy with favorable odds to strike a target. The bodies of the enemy stacked before us, as they ran headlong into our fire, so desperate was the push to capture this ground. We had ample protection in the crater, as opposed to the Mimbos, and could kill or wound many of their number without loss. The ground before us was exposed, left the bugs little defilade. I do not know how many bolts we fired, just remember the small stack of expended charge packs collected next to where I lay. The barrel of my E-11 began to glow from the heat and the intensity of the firing. I had to let the weapon cool, tossed a thermal detonator one of the Mudtroopers handed me.

The shrill purr of twin ion engines thundered above our heads. I looked up, saw maybe three or four squadrons of TIE bombers materialize from the skies. The squadrons broke their flight formations and commenced with their respective attack runs. Visibility was improved since the rains stopped and the pilots could sight the hordes of Mimbanese infantry. The bombers dropped their payloads, the usual proton bombs exchanged for canisters of conflagrine. An unending inferno encircled our position, cooked the Mimbos beyond. TIE fighters, a squadron escorting the bombers, joined the fray and strafed whatever targets they could find. The Stormtrooper in our crater had a comms unit, switched it on so we could hear the chatter. The bomber pilots could be heard laughing hysterically, in an almost juvenile manner, as their canisters exploded. Every sentence they spoke was interjected with profanities and slurs directed toward our foe. TIE bomber pilots had a reputation for boldness, but it was more than that, these guys were deranged. Still, I was glad they were on our side. Someone from our outpost, who knew what they were doing, was on the comms channel as well, directed the bombers against hostile ground targets and provided the best estimated coordinates for the Mimbo artillery positions. Air strikes of this intensity, at this close range, prompted the Mudtrooper next to me to pull a smoke grenade from her belt. She pulled the tab and tossed the grenade just outside of the crater. It was a visual signal to the pilots that we were friendly Imps, not bugs.

The Mimbos to our front sensed the tide was not in their favor, discouraged by so many of their number lost, the overwhelming air power. They withdrew. We kept a fire upon them, until the last bug disappeared from our view, down the slope of the perimeter, made a desperate escape from the bombs. A check of my bandolier, there were only two charge packs remaining, about two hundred shots each. It seems like a lot, but not so much when you're fighting for your life and spraying everything you have at the enemy in the desperate bid to stop their advance. The Stormtrooper with the DLT-19 stood watch over the brim of the crater, as I slumped down to light a cigarra. Now that we had a break, I suddenly met the consequence of consuming that entire ration bar. The bars help when you're in the midst of battle, when your sole focus is to stay alive, you aren't thinking. But when the fighting stops, you are no longer focused, your mind has time to think. Your hands begin to shake, your heart races so quickly you feel like you're going to be sick. Smoking the cigarra provides a modest distraction from the terrible sensation of restlessness.

"Don't suppose you have another one of those?" a Mudtrooper asked, her hand outstretched.

I obliged, the Trooper's face was worn, eyes reflected a cold gaze. She had done her time on Mimban, her disposition made that truth evident. I held out the hand torch to light the cigarra, she thanked me and told me her name was Callo. The second Mudtrooper, a recruit, went to hold up two fingers to indicate he wanted a smoke.

"Kriff-off!" Callo swore at the Trooper. "He's not running a bloody charity."

The recruit grunted from frustration, went back to keeping his watch toward the direction of the enemy, should the bugs be stupid enough to attempt another assault. Taking a drag from the cigarra, Callo pointed at my forehead. I touched a hand to the wound inflicted by that Mimbo brute, felt the sting, and saw the blood soak my palm. Callo instructed me to remain still, as she removed a strip of cloth from the medical satchel she carried.

"Sorry about this," Callo started. "Bacta ran out some time back."

Callo wrapped the cloth around my head, covered the wound, and stopped the bleeding as best as she could. I thanked her, though Callo said it was no trouble, as she was her company's medic.

"What company are you with?" Callo asked, striking up a conversation.

"Hell if I know," was my response. "I should've left when the eighty-eight forty-third was relieved. But since I'm a sapper, your colonel said I had to stay, help your lot out."

"So, you're the sapper Captain Timmapp was making the fuss about?" Callo offered a wily grin. "Ordered my whole platoon to spread out and find you."

"What'd the captain want?"

"Dunno. He got vaporized by a mortar round."

We enjoyed the smoke of the cigarras, the relaxed conversation. Callo was three months away from the end of her two years of service and looked forward to the discharge. She purposely avoided active participation in my search, no need for unnecessary risk this close to the end. Our peace was soon interrupted by the arrival of four Mudtroopers. We were unsure where they came from, as they crawled into the shell hole, a senior lieutenant leading their group. The addition of the new arrivals quickly reduced the available space of our position.

"What unit is this?" the senior lieutenant said, as he scanned our faces.

"What's left of third company," Callo answered. "Dispersed around this area."

"Orders are down from Lt. Colonel Senn," continued the lieutenant. "The outpost perimeter needs to be reestablished. Relief is inbound."

Immediately, the senior lieutenant was on his feet and waving to the Troopers in the surrounding craters to advance. We got up and followed his orders. Cautiously, we trudged the ground before us, so littered with bodies of Mimbos. Each step had to be considered, lest a misplaced tread would be caught on the appendage of a corpse. Every few meters, you'd have to stop and point your blaster to the ground, as a bug writhed in agony or twitched. It was a killing shot to finish them off. I think I put two or three down. Call it a mercy killing if that will help you read through these words and feel better, I do not care. The bugs were still alive, and we had not the resources to tend their wounds or take them prisoner.

Our perimeter no longer resembled proper trenches, the works mashed into heaps of dirt, blown to pieces, and linked by cuts in the ground. Mixed in was the detritus of war, shredded bits of uniform, broken weapons, and contorted parts of bodies, protruding through the surface of the mud. I settled into a spot against a mud berm, next to the lifeless remains of that Mimbanese brute. Realized I foolishly abandoned my entrenching tool, left it implanted in my foe after I delivered the killing blow. The tool retrieved, I gawked upon the devastation wrought by the TIE bombers. There were no forests left, only charred embers of trees and foliage. Combustible patches of conflagrine burned in the swamps, as the substance floated on the water. There was no existence in the void beyond our outpost, the terrain reduced to a landscape of death. Bodies in their hundreds, perhaps thousands littered the wastes. Many were charred and twisted into unnatural positions –response to being scalded by the dispersed incendiaries.

Figures emerged from holes and wandered about, most falling into place along the boundary defenses. A blaster would crack at intervals, as the last of the wretched bugs were dispatched. The TIE bombers continued their attacks, though further out from our position –indication the craft were in pursuit of a routed enemy. The sounds of battle were gradually replaced by the shouts of officers, barking commands to subordinates. I was down to my last cigarra, which slowly burned while clutched in my teeth. My weapon was trained in the direction of the enemy, though there was no chance the bugs would return. Officers called for details to collect the bodies of ours and bugs within the outpost perimeter. I gave the appearance of vigilance at my post in a successful bid to escape performing physical work. The grim task began, our dead were collected and arranged in rows in a sectioned off part of the base. It was yet undetermined if the effort would be made to transport their bodies back to Camp Forward or bury them here. The Mimbo corpses were irreverently tossed down the slopes beyond our works.

Cheers erupted when the first IPTs circled above the base. The bad weather held off and the transport flights could resume. IPTs and AT-Haulers quickly filled the skies, approached the redesignated landing pad to discharge reinforcements. The outpost was now a hive of activity. For my part, I decided I've had enough, I've done my time. There were plenty of fresh Troopers now on the perimeter line, with more arriving by transport, to hold against a foe that would not dare attack. Subtly, I removed the bandage from my head and aggravated the gash enough, so it bled. I hobbled over to where the casualties were being gathered. The medical orderly gave a cursory glance of my head, sent me over to a forming line of wounded. I sat down among a group of those assembled, the ones in critical condition were already being stuffed aboard transports, as they unloaded the reinforcements. There was a sergeant on a stretcher but propped up on his elbow. Despite his missing right leg, the sergeant was in high spirits and freely distributed cigarras, to which I indulged.

"We made it! We made it!" the sergeant jubilantly declared, unable to contain his excitement. "They fix me up with a prosthesis, transfer me to an instructor role at a depot, and it's a cushy gig until I can collect my lush discharge pension in three years."

The sergeant appeared to be taking the loss of his leg surprisingly well. I do suspect the painkillers may have influenced his disposition. The Empire would furnish him with an artificial limb, but his combat effectiveness was over. Sergeants with his experience would go on to serve as drill instructors, responsible for molding the next batch of Imperial recruits. He'd probably do a well enough job, until a past memory of Mimban triggers a regression and the only way to cope with the trauma is through brutalizing the recruits under his charge.

"What's next for you, mate?" the sergeant asked me. "You have someone waiting for you?"

The question gave me pause to think. I couldn't give a damn about anyone back home, but there was someone. Haurn was my someone waiting for me, I knew she was waiting. Dammit, I have gone through all of this, survived everything the bugs threw at me, I lived. Haurn was my purpose to hold on, to make it.

More flights came through. Medics loaded the sergeant onto an IPT, as he enthusiastically cheered. I waited several hours for my turn, constantly on standby as more critical patients were prioritized. It was the middle of the night before I could secure a spot. It seemed an ignominious end to the many months of toil and hardship I endured at that outpost. The flight was quiet, sitting in a compartment with the other wounded. We were happy to be alive. The thought occurred to me, as I realized the date. It was exactly one year since I enlisted. A year ago, I was just a boy on Euruta, but so much has transpired. I was ignorant then, believing I was signing on for an adventure. If only I knew. Exhausted, I leaned my head against the bulkhead of the craft and shut my eyes for a welcomed rest.

The Siege of Outpost 3-Bravo ended after thirty-seven days. The 741st Infantry Regiment and two companies of the 90th Stormtrooper Battalion participated in the bulk of the fighting after the relief of the 8843rd. The Empire suffered 806 killed and another 1,134 wounded. Nobody knows how many Mimbanese were killed, estimates put the figure at 3,000 with some as high as 10,000. Later broadcasts I heard from the Ministry of Information listed bug losses at well over 20,000. The latter figure I know to be quite impossible. Two days after I was flown out, Outpost 3-Bravo was abandoned with the evacuation of all Imperial troops. Headquarters boasted the objective was achieved and the position no longer held any strategic value. All over Mimban, the MLA targeted the hyperbaride refineries and Troopers were needed to secure those assets, not sitting isolated at some remote post. Only hours after the last Imperial left, the bugs moved in and occupied the ground. We didn't even waste a flight of TIEs to bomb them out, the outpost was theirs in the end.

I am not sure how to assess if what we did there was worth the effort. What was accomplished? Command declared it a successful operation, but what was successful? Our presence at the outpost blocked Mimbo supply routes coming from the G'han. Those routes are no longer blocked. I suppose it is useless to ponder the outcome, for nothing I can do will change how the events unfolded. I managed to survive, what more can be asked of me?

000

Coda

After a year on Mimban, a year of being blasted and bombed day and night, a year of being serenaded by the cries of the dying, you might want to know, do I still believe in the Empire? Dashnik asked me that very question. Not many in the Galaxy know what is happening on Mimban –HoloNet News only reports of counterinsurgency operations to restore Imperial authority to the planet. Casualty figures are unreported, most people think I am talking about the Clone War when I mention Mimban. Few care to know what is happening on that planet. Life beyond the trenches, the mud, the screeching bugs continues, not a moment's pause to consider where the hyperbaride that fuels society originates. Do I still believe in the Empire? I do. Mimban, after all, is the fault of the Republic, they left this conflict for the Empire to sort.

The Galaxy is a vast place, the farther out you go, the more dangerous and untamed it becomes. The great apathy of our Galactic Republic is made apparent. You had to fend for yourself while crime was rampant. The Republic was a rotten and bloated entity that offer the illusion of governance. Senators in their thousands huddled in their corrupt structure on Coruscant only to act with indecision, yet profit, while lawlessness was permitted to flourish unabated. Stars help you if your world ever came under pirate or slaver threat, for the Senate would not. The Separatist crisis and subsequent Clone War were the inevitable results of the legislative ignorance and vacillation. The Empire was the answer to the problems that plagued the Galaxy. No longer would the Senate's bureaucracy strangle decision making and arrest progress. When the Imperial flag unfurled high above your head, you knew Stormtroopers were there to squash the criminal element beneath their boots. Security, peace, and order were guaranteed by the might of the Empire. For once, you could lay your head down without fear of being snatched up by marauders in the night or raiders appearing to loot your village. Under the Republic, Senators would have to meet and discuss a response to a pirate raid, sometimes debating if the raid was even happening at all, while the ordinary citizen suffers at the hands of the violent criminals. The Empire did not debate, did not argue, the offenders were eradicated, swiftly.

To keep order and maintain stability the Empire required resources and manpower. I am a pragmatic individual; I saw an opportunity to be had. Euruta left me with no prospects outside of poverty. Serving the Empire was my chance to leave that world behind and see more, contribute to something greater than scavenging and scraping by. Of course, Mimban is not ideal, it is not where I want to be, but it is a means of advancement. Where the Republic rewarded you based on your connection to your Senator, the Empire rewards you for your deeds. I followed Captain Brimmo's orders and I won a medal. I serve my tour and I may heed the advice of what Dystraay told me those many months ago in the trench, seek officer school. Dashnik likewise told me to stick it through and I could apply my experience to joining the military's professional engineers. These are opportunities unfathomable and unobtainable for those who wanted to stay behind, resign themselves to the miserable existence on a backwater world. The goals were nonexistent under the Republic, certainly. Imperial service is my way to a better life, my only way. That is why I believe in the Empire. Though, I worry if the cost may be too great…

000