YEAR II: The Dawns of Mimban
This marked a low point in the War on Mimban. For eleven months we bled, taking back what should never have been lost. In the end, if you asked us what was gained, we were not sure we could answer.
The Front
I had forgotten how foul the air of this fetid planet assaulted the senses the moment I gasped an unfiltered breath. The rancid conditions of our works only fueled the noxious stench. I weaved my path through the myriad of communication and support trenches, guided by the markers haphazardly posted at the intersections. Idle troopers loafed about, indifferent to my presence, given I was dressed in a fresh uniform and issued new equipment. To them, I appeared as another replacement sent forward like so many to supplement the losses too commonly incurred. Though, that was hardly the truth, for I am into my second year of service on Mimban, I have tasted battle, spilled the blood of the Mimbanese, and lost several close friends.
Our works formed a fifty-kilometer front, before us stood Fortress Voran. Fortress Voran was the title given to the fortified region established to protect this mining operation zone. The hyperbaride mining gave Mimban its strategic importance. The rare mineral found on this cursed planet was highly prized and justified the effort expended. Back during the Clone War, the Republic and the Mimbanese fortified the major resource extraction sites around the planet –stop the Separatists from capturing the mines and keep the hyperbaride flowing. Voran was not a single bastion, but a network of fortifications, encompassing an area for seventy grid kilometers. The crux of the defense was the central processing plant, where the hyperbaride was refined and stored to be shipped off-world. It was a citadel, encased on all sides by reinforced battlements. The ancillary facilities, comprised of laborers' quarters, machine shops, warehouses, vehicle bays became forts, with their own defensive works and laser battery emplacements. Individual derricks, which extracted the hyperbaride from the ground, were protected by pillboxes and reinforced blockhouses. A single mining zone could have four hundred derricks. Trenches, razor wire, mines, and concealed bunkers were dispersed along the natural topography or at strategic points to protect against a sizable attacking force. And despite it all, Voran was critically undermanned, our division stretched too thin, command overconfident in the diminished garrison's ability to hold out. Then, the Mimbanese Liberation Army seized the entire zone with hardly a shot fired.
My destination is the frontline section held by my unit, the 8843rd Rifle Battalion. I am returning from my eight-week furlough spent on Coruscant. The trenches I passed through were freshly dug, erected two weeks prior and already sufficiently deep enough one could walk upright with their head well protected below the parapet. Thousands of Wookiees labored to construct our works in that time, digging the trenches and dugouts, reinforcing the walls with durasteel sheets to hold back the mud, and filling sandbags to line the parapets. I passed a few of the beasts, under the guard of grime-covered Stormtroopers, carrying ration and ammunition crates along the traverse from the support trench. We had to employ the Wookiees for labor, as droids were highly susceptible to the Mimbanese elements and constantly malfunctioned.
These trenches were built to stage the 10,000 Imperial troops and support personnel transferred to this operation. The Imperial Moff, who held oversight of Mimban, was furious upon learning of Voran's loss. The interruption deeply affected his resource quotas, which, I imagine, put him at odds with his superiors. Priority was the recapture and the restoration of production for Voran's hyperbaride. The troopers arrayed within the works prepared for the inevitable order to launch the offensive. There was an amalgamation of fresh recruits and the harden veterans, the latter of which I classified myself, who have seen their share of combat against the Mimbanese. I walked through the trench and could discern the veterancy status by the looks on their faces –recruits either showed excitement or fear, but the veterans, their expressions only conveyed resignation.
"MAKE WAY!" the shout arose, forced me to compress against the entry of a dugout to clear a path.
A line of stretcher bearers hurried quickly from the direction I was to travel. On the two dozen litters carried by the detail were the wounded, in a most sorry state. Most appear to have sustained shrapnel wounds, Mimbo rocket artillery exacted a heavy toll on ours. Their wrecked bodies riddled with metallic fragments, courtesy of the enemy's missiles. Others were severely scalded, the result of vicinity to a plasma-driven shell impact. I ducked along the stairs further into that dugout, as a fresh barrage of Mimbo rockets screeched toward our lines. The explosions barely missed the trench but threw up an unsettling amount of mud onto the heads of those beyond the protection of an underground refuge. It also caused a stretcher bearer to lose her footing and tumble forward, spilling the wounded individual from the litter in great pain. The desperate cry, further ahead, shouted "MEDIC!" as soon as the noises from the blasts dissipated.
The fire trench, which is the frontline that faces the enemy, was not arrayed in a straight line, but meandered at intervals to confine the damage if a shell landed in the works. So, as I proceeded, I had to weave along the cut, through firebays and stockpiles. I happened upon the fresh aftermath of a direct artillery strike. The parapet was gone, the walls partially collapsed, and the trench filled with freshly churned dirt. Upright travel was no longer possible, and one had to crouch in order to pass unobserved. Troopers, unharmed, braced themselves against what remained of the firing step, loosed bolts from their blasters in a frenzied expectation, should a Mimbo force take advantage of the conditions and launch a fast raid on our weakened section. This served as a deterrent and kept the enemy in their cover. Not a Mimbo capitalized on the opportunity, however. The grim task commenced by the support personnel who filed in –assisting wounded, or the collection of severed limbs scattered about the other wreckage. Some were buried under the mounds of caved in dirt, while comrades frantically dug them out. Hoping to achieve my assigned position, I crept low, passed the hot work, and returned to my business.
Word traveled to the rear echelon, of the damage inflicted by the Mimbanese rockets, and such injury was answered by a salvo from our artillery. AT-DTs fired from emplacements situated behind our third line of support trenches. The green-hue shells arched overhead. The ground shuddered upon each impact. The barrage was mostly ineffective, the atmospheric ionization of Mimban negated the usefulness of the range-finding sensors of our artillery spotters, who could only relay approximate coordinates from basic calculations and estimates. Command forbade the destruction of mining resources, so the guns had to take precautions from targeting the hyperbaride derricks, which the Mimbos concentrated around. Consequently, our rounds fell wide from their marks and the enemy remained relatively safe. Damned ineffective way to wage a war.
Back able to walk upright in an undamaged trench, I discovered a trooper, or rather a sapper, who appeared to have lost his way. The folded Z3-Sh mine detector strapped across his back indicated his role. My official duty on Mimban is as a sapper, to which I have received rudimentary training in minesweeping and that is the capacity I have so far executed. Being he was a fellow sapper, I struck up a conversation, hoping to glean some update as to the current events of the proposed operation. The most useful bit of information I would get was his name, Joror Tundy, owing to he was just arrived at the front. Tundy had an odd manner of speech and a devoid expression –though not consequence of combat fatigue. Rather, to put it bluntly, Tundy suffered from a marginal intellect. He was able to provide his unit assignment, the 8843rd, which was also my destination. I decided it was prudent to take him along, yet there was trepidation in my opinion of his ability to perform the duties of a minesweeper. The Army would provide accelerated training in minesweeping and hurriedly assign candidates to units regardless of their readiness or ability. It was all about numbers, getting units up to strength, if only on the record.
At last, we arrived in the sector of the line held by the 8843rd. I looked about, recognized a few, though they were individuals I never conversed with. Lots of unfamiliar faces. The battalion suffered forty percent casualties for our tour at that outpost. The replacements were recruits sent to us directly from the training depots scattered about the Empire. I am all too familiar with the training standards, or lack thereof, at those depots. Most of these recruits won't last long.
"What's this here!?" a trooper of the battalion announced. "New meat at the front."
The trooper sat up from the firing step and approached, two comrades of his closing in as well. They were replacements to be sure, as they clearly did not recognize me. I could surmise their intentions, systemic bullying was well established within the military and based on the length of one's service. I am not innocent of partaking in the practice as a perpetrator, for I have played the victim on many an occasion. The individuals mistook my companion and me for newly arrived replacements. Likely, they wished to assault us and take our kit to supplement their own. We could have avoided the incident altogether had I affixed my corporal's insignia, though I removed the rank pip from my sleeve to enjoy the anonymity of being another faceless trooper. Had they known I held rank, they would not have been so bold.
"Bad mite infestation along the line," another of the trio piped in. "We need to check your rucksacks. Make sure you aren't bringing any of the little parasites from the rear areas."
"You heard him," the third added. "Hand over the bags. We'll make it a quick look."
I rolled my eyes, first from the irritation the three caused, but then from the disbelief of Tundy's compliance. Tundy loosened an arm and was about to pull his rucksack from his back when I put up a hand to stop his act. I was not convinced if he wished to avoid the beating sure to be rendered if we did not acquiesce, or did he consider they were performing a legitimate inspection.
"Is that anyway to behave, fresh?" the first spoke, as all three tightened fists. "You thought the beatings at the depot were bad, wait till we're done with you. Then you'll learn some fragging manners."
I was curious as to how far they were willing to go, nevertheless, I readied for the confrontation. They talked, put up the appearance, but they were still new to Mimban. If they sought a brawl, I was happy to oblige. I moved my hand to grip the entrenching tool on my belt, prepared to draw the spade and employ it.
"MAIDER!" a familiar voice called.
It caught the attention of all present, as we turned to see its source. Though, I knew it could only be one person, Sonya Haurn. I felt a wave of emotion seeing her again. It had been nearly four months since I put her on the casevac from 3-Bravo. I have thought about the kiss she gave me just before the transport lifted off, and I have wanted nothing more in all this time then to hold her again. To the astonishment of the accosting party, Haurn strode through their encirclement and right up to me. I smiled, as she slapped a heavy hand across my face.
"You're a damned fool, Paulus Maider!" Haurn grunted. "You should've left with me, not stayed behind at that outpost! Then, while I am lying on that medical frigate, I find out you've gone on leave! To Coruscant!"
Bewilderment overtook the trio, while Tundy affixed his gaze upwards having spotted something of interest. Nervousness set in, as I overanalyzed Haurn's words. Then, she threw her arms around me, pulled me close, and embraced me tightly.
"Me'bana?" one of the trio asked surprisingly, in Mando'a.
Instantly, Haurn turned about and landed a hard punch, which felled the trooper onto his back. Sounding a fury of insults in Mando'a herself, Haurn repeatedly kicked the offending individual. His co-conspirators fled the altercation, as did he once the assault relented.
"Assholes!" Haurn announced, spit on the ground in frustration.
The reunion was interrupted, as the bugs launched a mortar barrage against our sector. I could tell right away they were mortars, given the distinct whirl the ordinance sounds as it hurls through the air. The bombs rained down, a deluge of explosive shrapnel. Fragments and splinters dispersed from the erupting munitions. Those closest to a blast were killed or horribly maimed by the metallic shards, as it minced their flesh. Shrieks arose from the ones unfortunately struck. The ferocity was not unlike anything I had been subjected to prior, though these mortars were not as heavy as some of the larger artillery the bugs could muster. We did not want to chance being in the open, should a round find its mark through some miracle. I grabbed Tundy and followed Haurn to a covered outcropping cut into the wall of the trench. It afforded us protection from the shelling. The shelter, fashioned to allow those not on watch to lay down out of the rain, could accommodate six in cramped conditions, over a dozen of us packed within to wait out the mortar attack.
A poor fellow, who could not make it inside, was struck by a fragment from an air-burst round. The bit of shell, maybe half a meter in length, caught the young man in the left shoulder and sliced downward across his abdomen clear to his right hip. It severed the lad in two pieces. What was left, collapsed into the duckboards and the muddy slop churned up in the bottom of the trench, staining the ground red. The trooper closest to the opening of the shelter, one of the accosting trio, grasped his arm, as a stream of blood seeped through his clenched hand. A splinter from the same burst tore the flesh and inflicted a deep wound, which bled profusely. Nobody appeared to know what to do in this situation. The wounded trooper's closest comrades stood indecisively. Realizing the young man faced the very real possibility of bleeding to death, I took the small container of bacta from the personal medical kit on my belt and applied the medicinal substance. It was able to staunch the flow of blood until we could get the laceration bandaged. I did not necessarily aid the man out of altruism, it was instinct, a trooper was wounded, and I did what had to be done to treat it. The young man still held onto his pride, chagrinned it was an aruetii that tended his wounds, but I was not expecting thanks. Haurn glared at me, mostly out of exasperation.
The shelling ceased almost as quickly as it commenced, only a few minutes elapsed. It was a quick, violent, and precise bombardment. The only logical conclusion pointed to a raid –the artillery designed to soften us, disorient, while the bugs moved in for a strike.
"STAND-TO!" the authoritative voice of Ukes roared. "Bug infantry on the wire!"
Ukes, the first sergeant of 3 Company, dashed along the trench. He shouted the alarm and pulled at troopers still sheltered within the outcroppings. I took my E-11 in hand and bolted from the refuge. We joined the mass of bodies in the rush to file along the trench, take up a position on the firing step. A heavy rain cascaded upon the troopers, many, in their haste, neglected to fasten raincloaks and were subsequently drenched. The sporadic blaster fire intensified, as more rifles joined the line and contributed to the exchange. Haurn pointed me to her preferred spot along the fire bay, one with a strengthened parapet and reinforced loopholes –improved by her own hand. Visibility was poor, as I ventured to slowly peer through the battlements, at the landscape beyond. The shapes dashed among the countless impact craters that scarred the terrain. The enemy were on their feet and charged directly at our position. They fired their blasters wildly, as they ran. Maybe they were trying to punch a hole in our lines while we fumbled about, disorganized from the bombardment. Grenades tossed, detonated, destroyed the partitions of razor wire strung to impede movement. I selected my target, an individual completely exposed from protective defilade, who fired a surplus droid E-5 blaster haphazardly. This hostile was inexperienced in the matters of warfare, as their posture clearly demonstrated. My grasp around the trigger tightened, stopped by the realization the enemy was human.
A series of blaster bolts riddled the upright body of this human adversary, caused it to jerk and spasm violently before it collapsed. I scanned the ground before us, as more hostiles came into view. The foes were not solely the Mimbanese, but a union of species, all taken up arms against the Empire. I spotted, among the humans, several Rhodians, Twi'leks, and Sullustans. The indignation I felt at the sight of these sentients fomented into a rage. I blasted away with my E-11 into their encroaching ranks, filled with vitriol for those who would side with the Mimbanese. The bugs are a savage, barbarous race, and deserve nothing less than extermination. They are sadistic vermin, motivated only by brutality. I've seen them with my own eyes torture and mutilate our troopers. There is no reasoning, no understanding, both are useless avenues to peace. Total destruction of the species is the only answer. It was sickening to look upon these so-called allies, beings who cast their lot with the Mimbos. Hatred now guided my blaster, my shots struck several, felled them in their tracks. I watched them fall, felt jubilation with every casualty inflicted.
E-Web heavy repeating blasters, emplaced within our trenches were crewed and engaged in the fight. The enemy's front rank was cut to pieces, the bolts from our works decimating their numbers. A dozen, maybe two, of the enemy lay dead before us. Countless others twisted about, wounded. This was a raiding party of theirs –meant to sow chaos among our lines, but not a force great enough to capture ground. They certainly weren't expecting us to mount the resistance we did.
With Haurn to my right, I noticed an artillery spotter take up position to my left, a pair of macrobinoculars in her hand. She scanned the enemy, calculated the distance, but I did not need to be a spotter to know the attackers were too near our lines and friendly fire was all but assured. Out of nowhere, Lt. Dangir, of 3 Company, materialized. The lieutenant unloaded one of his famous tirades upon the spotter, demanded she coordinate an immediate artillery strike before our lines. I had almost forgotten how arrogant and inept this prick of an officer was. The spotter refused, argued the targets were danger close and was reluctant to shoulder the responsibility for such an order, which, in all fairness, was insane. Dangir was incensed, his obedient lapdog, Sgt. Flelt, was not far behind. Under the instruction of the lieutenant, Flelt drew his sidearm and compelled the spotter to unwillingly relay instructions for a fire mission. The comms crackled, a voice on the other end checked the calculations and drew the same conclusions, they outright denied the artillery support call. The veto threw Dangir into a rage, he snatched the comms receiver from the spotter and screamed incessantly for the guns to open immediately. It was a moment of hilarity when the voice was identified as the artillery captain and demanded to know why a mere lieutenant believed this manner of speech was appropriate.
Our E-Webs were effective at staying the enemy's further advance. Appearance conveyed their raid was concluded and the MLA began their withdraw. Dangir paced into the trench, stopped to converse with two of his platoon lieutenants, junior officers, I recognized neither of them. I performed a brief visual search for Tundy, I lost sight of him since the shelter, could not ascertain his whereabouts, though assumed he would eventually turn up. Believing we were out of immediate danger, the enemy falling back, I took two cigarras from a pack, handed one to Haurn and lit the other for myself. I needed the tabac to settle my nerves, which seethed from the discovery of the Mimbanese allies.
"When did the bugs get help?" I turned to Haurn, inquired about the non-Mimbanese supporters.
"Latest thing," Haurn replied, after a long drag of the cigarra. "Blockade runners slip through the fleet in orbit to land supplies and volunteers for the bugs. Rumor says some rich benefactors are recruiting anyone with a grudge against the Empire to volunteer to fight on Mimban."
I trembled; anger unmitigated by the tabac. The rain crashed down upon our trenches; duckboards submerged in the growing channel of collected water. Our raincloaks could only do so much against the unrelenting deluge and we found ourselves soaked through to the bone. The alarm was still raised, so we could not depart our posts should the Mimbos launch another strike. For the meantime, we shivered beneath the raincloaks and inundated blankets. Haurn pressed against me in our desperate effort to keep warm. I was happy to oblige, and it did lift my spirits just to put my arm around her.
"You couldn't have picked a worse time to report back" Haurn started, tried to alleviate the misery through conversation. "Right before we launch this assault on Voran."
"It's not like I had a choice when my furlough ended," came my reply.
"Just wait until you find out what they have in store for us [sappers]."
It was effortless to suppose what our command arranged. In the day following Voran's loss to the MLA, two battalions, a total of eleven hundred troopers, were hastily thrown against a well-entrenched enemy to recapture the zone. With little preparation and inadequate artillery support, it was the predictable slaughter. Less than a hundred trickled back to the stepping off point. Ever since, the Army dug in and transferred formations to the coming operation, while the bugs did the same. At present, we wait for the inevitable order to hurl us into the furnace.
"I saw you put the fear into your fellow Mandalorians," I mentioned to Haurn, bringing up the confrontation she interrupted.
"The battalion is mostly Mando now," Haurn noted, despondent, lost in personal contemplation. "Latest round of mobilization on Sundari, replacement conscripts sent to us from Mandalore. Every year the draft quota increases, and more are sent to serve the Empire, sent to places like Mimban, right into the slaughter. An entire generation wiped out. As if it were intentional."
"A battalion of Mandalorians," I joked, not sure how to reply. "The bugs are sure in for it!"
Haurn did not share my good humor, stared blankly at the darkened skies.
"The Mandalore of old doesn't exist," lamented Haurn. "These conscripts know nothing of the Resol'nare, most have grown up with stories, fantasies in their heads, never applied themselves to the martial tenets of our people. They're all untested, undisciplined, delusional, they think this is some adventure, a chance to win glory. The moment we go over the top, they'll end up like so many here already have."
I remained silent, for it was not my intent to agitate Haurn into this reflection. She grasped both my arms, pulled them around her and clasped them tightly, close to her.
"You're twice the warrior than any of them," Haurn complimented, then added a small laugh. "Even if you are an aruetii."
"Aruetii," I responded, feigning indignation. "You keep calling me that, like it's an insult, like I've done something wrong."
"Well, you aren't Mandalorian, so an aruetii you shall remain."
"There's nothing I can do about that, to gain acceptance by your people?" I humored, not expecting a solution.
"You could marry me," chuckled Haurn, as she jabbed my shoulder.
We erupted in a small bit of laughter at her comment, naturally dismissing it for the humorous statement it was. For some time after, we sat silently, her wrapped in my arms. Artillery thundered in the distance, another section of our line bombarding the Mimbos. The rain slackened, as bright flashes from the bombs illuminated the darkened skies. I scanned the front before us, the no man's land that separated our position from the nearest enemy bunker two kilometers in the distant. A heavy fog rolled in, mixed with the smoke from the blasts, visibility was abysmally poor.
"Why didn't you come with me?" Haurn broke the stillness, solemn in her tone. "When you put me aboard that AT-Hauler at the outpost, why did you stay?"
There was no easy response to her question. I have thought about that scenario each day since it happened, I put her on the casevac flight while I remained to defend the outpost. How I wish I could go back and alter the choice –preferable to the weeks I spent suffering under siege, contending with hunger, and constantly remaining one step ahead of death, who stalked every corner of that miserable stretch of ground.
"I meant what I said," Haurn again spoke. "That night in the sapper's dugout when we were all drunk off Dashnik's homemade gin."
My heart raced inside my chest. I knew exactly what she meant, recalling the moment she told me, in what I thought was a drunken rant, that she loved me. I wanted to tell her I loved her, but I could not gather the words. Haurn was the one who kept me going, seeing her again was my reason for surviving the siege, for returning to Mimban. It took less courage to stand against a horde of onrushing Mimbos than to tell her how I felt.
"I just need to know if you feel the same way?" said Haurn, turning to look me in the eyes.
I felt wracked by disquiet, wondered what to say and how to say it. It would be honest to admit I was never more terrified in my life, even after the horrors of Mimban experienced. I wanted so badly to say I loved her, to pull her close and kiss her as we had right before the AT-Hauler raced skyward. She stared at me, in anticipation of a response.
"There you are!" the unmistakable voice of Dashnik interrupted. "I've been looking all up and down the line for you two. Lieutenant Andrin wants all the sappers to check-in."
Edwin Dashnik radiated that unwavering smile of his, with the emptiness locked behind his amiable gaze. At Dash's side was the missing Tundy, now located. Our conversation abandoned, as Haurn stood up without a further word spoken. We followed Dashnik through the trench, slogged through the ankle-deep water that now filled its bottom. Our path cut us through a traverse to a cover trench situated twenty-five meters behind the front, and down a flight of steps to the labyrinth constructed under our lines. Burrowed into the ground, tunnels extended beneath the trenches to link a series of dugouts intended to shelter troopers from artillery fire. The passages allowed the protected movement of troops underground and unobserved by the enemy. Though it should be mentioned that the tunnels were not directly linked with others, remaining compartmentalized within sections. Should the enemy infiltrate one, they would not have uninterrupted access to our entire position. Descending six meters underground and up one passage, we came to a frame sunk into the side wall, a mud-stained raincloak strung across served as a crude door. The room was far larger than the sapper's dugout we enjoyed at the outpost. Steel panels lined the walls, and we had proper tables with chairs, suitable bunks. Inside, the newly organized sapper platoon attached to support the 8843rd Battalion was quartered. I saw Flez Govnic was here, returned to the battalion having been wounded during the outpost siege.
"Look who's back," Govnic announced.
Seated at the table, Govnic glanced up from his work. He carried the skull of a Mimbanese with him and currently busied himself carving inscriptions into the bone with a small knife. I have yet to meet an individual who harbored such a lust for violence and barbarity as Govnic.
The assault on Voran necessitated the support of combat engineers, the sappers as we were known in the Imperial Army, to overcome the numerous bunkers, fortifications, and reinforced positions. Sapper units were always critically undermanned throughout the Mimban Campaign, owing to the high casualty rates and inefficient training practices. Regulations concerning sapper assignments to formations changed once again. Each unit, at the battalion level, stationed on Mimban, was to have a detachment of sappers of platoon strength assigned to it. Officers scrambled to find the numbers to make this infeasible order go into effect. The ranks of the already exhausted sapper units were supplemented with those foolish enough to volunteer, convinced by the false rumors we received better pay and rations. Others, those who won battlefield commendations for heroism, were duped into believing they were chosen for a special assignment. The rest were the malcontents, whose units were all too happy to be rid of them.
In our situation, we were designated the "assault platoon" of the 8843rd Rifle Battalion –comprising six squads of six sappers each, with a lieutenant commanding and sergeant major serving as his adjutant. Lt. Maro Andrin reclined in his bunk in the corner of this excavated room, which housed the entirety of the assault platoon. He was older than the rest of us, in his mid-forties with a tanned complexion –haggard from years of labor and toil. His dulled eyes conveyed exhaustion, owing from the stresses of his position and the burden of responsibilities. The lieutenant was dissimilar to the standard representative of the officer corps, as Andrin was raised from the enlisted ranks rather than commissioned through academy attendance or political connections. This made him a pariah among his fellow officer class –not helped by Andrin's insistence of sharing the quarters and privations with the enlisted troopers under his command. Upon my entry into the dugout, I was summoned before our new officer.
"Corporal Maider," Andrin began, shifting his legs over the side of his bunk to sit upright.
"Yes sir," I replied with a salute, which was appropriately returned by the lieutenant.
For a few tense moments, the lieutenant looked me up and down –a stern examination it felt like, one that had me a bit unnerved.
"Is there a reason you've neglected to fasten your rank pip?" Andrin pressed, though in a tone that did not necessitate I answer. "If you think you're trying to escape extra duty or attention by not wearing it, you are mistaken. I am well familiar with the old junior NCO's trick. You will not be out of uniform again. This will be the only time I will have this conversation."
Somewhat intimidated by Andrin, I answered, "understood sir."
"I realise you are one of the battalion's original sappers?"
"Yes sir. Haurn and I were third company's minesweepers."
"Any experience beyond minesweeping?" the lieutenant inquired. "Demolitions, breaching, combat engineering?"
"I helped dig part of a trench once," I replied, guessed I was not the only one ill-prepared for this assignment.
Andrin appeared exasperated, touched a hand to his strained eyes.
"I've read your service record, commendations, impressive," Andrin began before he furrowed his brow in a glare. "I've also heard about your reputation as a brawler, your short temper, your harassment of troopers with less service tenure. Are you going to be a problem?"
"No sir," I answered straight-faced, a bit taken aback by the insinuation.
The lieutenant dismissed me, and I returned to the set of bunks sectioned off for our group, which formed the first squad of the assault platoon. The old faces were here, Dashnik, Govnic, Haurn, and me. The new additions were Tundy and Kap Remov, a veteran freshly reenlisted for a second tour on Mimban. Trooper Remov was a sad case. A month ago, he learned his wife and their infant daughter were tragically killed in a speeder accident on Jetath. Beset by grief, Remov grew despondent and, with his family gone, increasingly suicidal. Willingly volunteering, Remov was transferred to the sappers and consistently begged to be assigned a dangerous task, one guaranteed to not return from. So far, he has not been successful.
As far as sleeping arrangements, Haurn kept the lower bunk reserved for my return. I threw my rucksack onto my bed, turned to speak with Haurn, found she was already rolled in her blanket and asleep, upset at my hesitation to issue a response. I set about to unpack and make up my bunk with a blanket, while I hung up the raincloak to dry.
"How was Coruscant?" Govnic bellowed, displayed that perverted grin he always made when wishing to hear a lewd tale. "Make it to the entertainment district below that hotel billet?"
I made no reply, for I did not wish to engage Govnic in the details. The furlough on Coruscant was troublesome and I held no desired to revisit that episode.
"You know," Govnic continued, unable to understand the cue. "I grew up not far from there. I remember the time during the Clone Wars, place was overrun by clones on their shore leave. We kids made a fortune pickpocketing those meat droids. Not too bright, nor could they hold their liquor!"
"Leave the kid be, Gov!" Dashnik interrupted. "You've been there, I've been there. Everyone does the same bloody thing when they get billeted in that place. What we should be asking Corporal Maider concerns this."
Dashnik seized my wrist, raised it upward to display the cuff title sewn into my sleeve, with the embroidered "For Merit" clearly visible.
"Seems while we were convalescing," Dashnik jovially mocked. "Maider decided to win himself a medal at the outpost."
I ripped my arm from Dashnik's grasp, scowled at him over the unsolicited attention. Govnic immediately released an enraged snort.
"You was with Orvavo when she got killed, right?" Govnic demanded.
I nodded, recalled to mind finding her lifeless body in the mud. Oddly, Govnic retreated into a more recollective temperament.
"Lia Orvavo, now she were a good shag," Govnic detailed the unwarranted opinion. "She were good with the words too, writing them that is. If I had to settle down, I'd want it to be with her."
"Shut up, Govnic," Dashnik jeered. "She didn't love you. Nobody loves you. You're a rat from the lower levels of Coruscant and you'll never amount to anything more."
Dashnik's words had the effect for Govnic to lower his head, retreat to his work with the skull in silence. As I collapsed into my bunk, Dashnik pulled over a chair and sat.
"How's the shoulder?" I inquired about Dashnik's wound.
"Hurts," he replied. "Fixed up as best they could."
"What else have I missed?"
The ground trembled slightly, the illuminators flickered off for a moment and then on again. An artillery round impacting not far, though we were adequately protected in our dugout.
"Dangir commands third company now," Dashnik resumed, unphased by the bombing.
"Bully for him," I offered a snide response.
We each lit up a cigarra, enjoyed the tabac, as it filled the lungs.
"This show isn't like anything I've seen on Mimban," Dashnik confessed, alarming considering his extensive service and experience. "Bugs brought in help off-world. They are well equipped and funded. They're also well entrenched. To compound the issue, our intel is isn't the best, our organization is poor, I got a bad feeling about this."
The reservations Dashnik admitted was cause for worry. He, for the first time, was not his jovial self, but appeared anxious, scared even. Since I met Dashnik, he was always the one who was calm and collected, the experienced one equipped with the fortitude and steadfastness to arouse confidence and boldness in those around. Yet, I now saw a side I had not expected, one that did not inspire reassurance, and I soon began to ponder the futility of the looming operation. Dashnik then pulled an amulet he wore on his neck, hidden under his tunic.
"If something should happen to me," Dashnik started, displaying the talisman. "Can you make sure this gets to my sister on Nendal?"
"Dash," I replied, indicated with a hand I could not accept it. "Give it to her yourself. We'll get through this. We've made it this far."
"Right…well," he stuttered, fumbled for words, but regained composure.
Dashnik stood up, stamped out his finished cigarra, smiled. He returned the amulet, did not say another word, as he retreated to his bunk. My return from leave was not quite as I expected, reflecting on the events of the last few hours. I knew scarce amount of the proposed enterprise to retake Voran, what information I was able to garner detailed an ominous affair. I sought nothing else but to be reunited with Haurn, yet I appeared to have botched my response, maybe my chance. Now, I am assigned to a special unit, destined to undertake every suicidal mission only lunatics could conjure. I shut my eyes from the exhaustion of a long journey from Coruscant and the day's action –for who could know what the next hours may bring.
000
