Beyond the Wire
Assignment to an assault platoon does have its advantages, as we are excused from much of the mundane tasks afforded to the regular infantry. Others of the battalion stand watch or are sent to work details –mitigate what the elements and bombs levy upon our trenches. While the troopers bail out the collected water and shore up the revetments, the assault platoon gathers for instruction. Each reveille, the sappers push the bunks against the walls of the dugout to open the floorspace. We then hold the obligatory rollcall before arranging chairs and makeshift seats to transform the area into a lecture hall.
Andrin extensively reviews the gathered intelligence on the positions we would attack once the operation commences. A holographic display projected an outline of the terrain, from our lines to the enemy, and the fortifications. At present, the 8843rd was to seize the hyperbaride derricks atop Hill 211, two kilometers across no man's land from the line we held. Three large derricks were flanked by four duracrete bunkers. A network of trenches ringed the positions, replete with emplacements for heavy repeating blasters. The battalion would conduct a frontal assault to overwhelm the enemy, after a heavy bombardment softened up the Mimbos. Though, how dependable could the artillery be with orders not to directly target the mining infrastructure? The sappers had the unenviable task of destroying the bunkers, so we'd be right up in the first wave. The plan called for the infantry to support us while we went about our destructive chore, as our deeds would eliminate the murderous obstacles. Each sapper squad within the assault platoon was assigned a bunker to eliminate, with the remaining two held as a reserve to fill in for losses sustained.
The lectures featured a great deal of repetition of the content, to better ingrain the information in our heads. We studied every topographical survey of the ground compiled by the intelligence units, so as not to waste time getting lost when we had to go over the top. However, the charts were not as up to date as we would have hoped. Our sergeant-major was sent to us from the Corps of Engineers and crammed in everything he thought we needed to know about combat engineering. For some instruction, Andrin took us out of the trenches to the rear staging areas, among the artillerists and support echelon troopers. Here, the platoon sectioned off an area of ground with a disused shipping container to stand-in as a Mimbo bunker. We simulated attacks, rehearsed our strategies, with the lieutenant and sergeant-major providing constructive critiques about our employed methods. Though the exercises were not live-fire, we were able to choreograph the assault. We had no established tactics, no handbooks. Those materials were reserved for the Stormtrooper Corps. Cannon fodder, such as ourselves, had to develop our own plans based on experience and the tutelage of our veterans.
Every trooper of the sapper squad had their assigned role. Dashnik, owing to seniority, was given command of first squad. In his position, he would direct the assault on the bunker we were to destroy and issue new orders to account for variables, as is the case in battle. Haurn, and I were designated as "grenadiers". We were to be overburdened with bandoliers of thermal detonators, satchels bulging from grenades stuffed inside, and cylindrical detonite charges half a meter in length. The detonite charges, three of them, were carried on our backs and were high explosives capable of blasting through the thickest of materials. Govnic was the "incinerator", issued a D-72w flame projector with large tanks of pressurized conflagrine to wear on his back. Employing his flamethrower, he would roast those who sought shelter in the bunker. Remov served as support –given a DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle to suppress enemy infantry who attempted to impede our efforts. I should mention the suicidal Remov was given the support role to keep him at a distance, because we feared he would run straight at the bugs with a grenade in hand to intentionally blow himself up. Finally, Tundy was the minesweeper and would carry his Z3-Sh metal detector into the fight, should we encounter any planted mines. With the constant shelling and bombarding, it was improbable mines would remain intact and unexploded, thus negating a need for him to serve in this specialized capacity. A key reason why he would be the "minesweeper".
Tundy was cause for much apprehension and worry. For some reason, things did not align for the young man. Consistently, throughout the exercises, he missed his cue, did the opposite of what the squad did, and seemingly did not understand the instruction. He went so far as to pull the safety catch from a thermal detonator, drop the detonator while throwing the catch. Thankfully, it was an inert training grenade, yet Tundy stood by aimlessly while the platoon silently passed judgement. He was clueless as to the care and maintenance of his blaster, unable to strip and clean the weapon without help. Even reloading turned into a laborious chore, as you had to talk Tundy through each step. I heard Andrin pleaded with other units, called in every favor he had to transfer Tundy to something where he could cause the least amount of harm –all were refused as it would compromise the platoon's strength headquarters demanded be maintained. So, we had to make the best of a bad hand.
Along with instructional materials, the lectures were interspersed with propaganda to provide the assault platoon with motivation. Andrin was shrewd and recognized the regular publications on duty and honor would prove ineffective. Instead, the lieutenant found someone at the information service willing to put together a truly horrific holo-vid. The holo-vid was a compilation of recorded atrocities carried out by the Mimbos. It was every terrible act you could imagine, executing wounded troopers, killing troopers as they attempted to surrender, torturing and maiming Imperial prisoners. There were no ostentatious slogans or a patriotic soundtrack to match the footage –often there was no accompanying audio. These were captured, raw vids made by the MLA, or the aftermath documented by Imperial forces. We didn't know the troopers in the holo-vids, but we could all picture ourselves in their place. The thought was terrifying and enraging. "This is what the bugs think of you and what they will do to you," Andrin would tell us. The vids served their intended purpose, filled us with a vengeful anger. We were eager to tear the first Mimbo we came across limb from limb.
Four days were devoted to this intensive training, emotional incitement. We were barely afforded breaks for meals, rising early in the morning and retiring late in the evening. The planned operation was imminent, and we needed to be ready. Then the rain arrived. Another storm system blew in right over the region and stalled. The rain fell in torrents, soddened the mud into an impassible morass. Command made the decision to postpone the recapture operation until conditions improved –so much was at stake and the amount of coordination necessitated ideal weather. Otherwise, the infantry and walkers would be bogged down. All available units were transferred to support the retaking of Voran, there would be no reserves if we were slaughtered in the opening round. As we waited on the weather, the sappers continued to prepare, more lessons, more drills in the torrential downpours. The Mimbos have not been idle. Their artillery fire on us as frequently as our guns bombard their positions. They are an audacious foe, backed by off-world allies, they launch raiding parties under the cover of the storm to disrupt our forces. Thankfully, our sector has not seen any incursions since the one on my arrival, but the MLA are active elsewhere along the front.
While the postponements hold us in place, the close quarters we share, thousands of troopers packed into these works, the mites are the latest affliction to bring about our collective misery. The entire battalion is infested with the bloodsuckers, and I was not spared –taking root only a few days after my return. I am sure there is a scientific classification for these parasites, which grow no more than four millimeters in length, but we refer to them disparagingly as mites. These pests have intruded every bit of uniform piece: our tunics, trousers, and undergarments. The blankets and makeshift bedding are overrun with the miniature blight. They seek out warm bodies and bite into the flesh. It leaves us with a terrible itching, skin feels like it is crawling, and our bodies are covered in thousands of tiny bumps impossible not to scratch. We scratch our skin until it is raw, bleeding, all in a vain attempt at relief. The mites are not native to Mimban, theories suggest they hitched a ride aboard an Imperial troop transport or resupply vessel and were introduced to this world. The parasites have flourished for some inexplicable reason. Whereas pesticides elsewhere can kill the vermin, the spores or something on Mimban has fortified their biology. All efforts at eradication prove futile. The poor hygiene and lack of facilities exacerbates the issue, as we are unable to wash ourselves and our clothes regularly and thoroughly. Water was labor intensive to transport from the rear to the forward trenches, so it was scarce and seldom available for washing. Your best bet was to individually pick them off your body and clothes, throw the mites into a lit plasma flame, the only method to ensure their death. How I hate these things.
As we endure, itch, prepare, we find a sense of confidence in Andrin's leadership. The lieutenant speaks to us as no officer would, no degrading, no taunts, or insults. Granted, he was made from the enlisted ranks and understands how to effectively communicate with the troopers under his command. Though Andrin had a ruthless side, and he severely disciplined any trooper who exploited the circumstances or failed to meet the expectations laid forth. You could be candid when speaking with Andrin and he would listen but press the fraternization and the consequences were harsh. It was made clear, the lieutenant was one of us at one point, but no longer. He was your superior officer and would not suffer contempt of his rank. The malcontents with no regard for authority were swiftly bludgeoned into compliance. Our respect for the lieutenant was rightly earned. The drills performed were to our benefit and Andrin mentored us with the sincerity that he wished us to succeed. Understanding the supply and equipment issues that troubled the Army, Andrin leveraged his office to ensure we were properly kitted out. Broken or worn items were able to be replaced. Those still slogging about with the dreadfully unreliable E-10 could swap it for the far superior and durable E-11. Haurn even got her hands on an SX-21 pump-action scatter blaster –splits the bolt into multiple beams to inflict injury over a wider area.
The stars appeared discontent to simply torment us with the foul parasites, dreadful weather, constant bombardments, let alone the fanatical enemy only a few kilometers away, prepared for a slaughter. I wish through this ordeal Haurn would speak to me. She refuses to say a word to me, outside of what was necessary for training, since I failed to provide an answer to her genuine question. Most of the time, I am too exhausted when we finish the day's training, I lack the energy to talk to her and work through the problem –retiring to my bunk without conversation. I suppose one purpose of the busy routine is to keep us occupied and out of trouble, but trouble finds me regardless.
One evening, we concluded the instruction early. We had pressed relentlessly for six days without letup. Andrin was called away to the battalion command post to be briefed on the latest readiness report sent down from the brigade, as in the latest postponement. The sergeant-major succumbed to a nasty bout of the lungfung and had to be sent to the aid station for treatment. The platoon capitalized on the leadership absence to bed down for the night –tempted by the opportunity for additional sleep. While sleep came easy for most, I found myself tossing and turning in a failed bid to get comfortable from all the scratching. Weary of the motions, the mites, I decided to step out into the trench for a cigarra.
The rain was only a slight trickle at this hour, a slight lull between the torrents experienced of late. Clouds obscured the sky and plunged the land into darkness. Because it was so dark, orders were issued to use minimal illumination in the trenches to prevent Mimbo spotters from finding a range, so troopers bunched around the small lamps distributed in outcroppings. The 8843rd was rotated from the frontline to the support trenches to maintain the battalion's strength and afford some bit of rest. Yet, what rest was achieved if your days were spent digging? As I struck the torch to light the cigarra balanced on my lips, I thought I saw something. To my surprise, there was a figure, curled up in the shadows before me, weeping by the sound of it. I took a step closer, caught the silhouette of Remov in the glow of a hologram emitter he quickly powered off. The image, it was of his family, the wife and infant he lost. Remov stood abruptly, embarrassed, tried to subtly wipe the tears from his reddened eyes, apologized. I replied there was no reason for the apology, offered a cigarra and lit it once he accepted. An intense artillery exchange erupted far to the left of our position, left us out of immediate danger.
"Bugs are active it seems," Remov spoke, something to get his mind on another topic. "You been on Mimban long, Maider?"
"A year," I answered, with a drag on the cigarra.
"Volunteer?"
"I did."
Remov leaned against the sandbags that made up the wall, puffed anxiously at his cigarra, hands twitching nervously.
"What made you join?" Remov asked, jittery. "You serving to get out of a prison sentence?"
"No prospects back home," I said. "Thought the Empire would be a way to a better future."
"Some future, huh?"
Within minutes, Remov smoked through the cigarra and pulled another from a concealed pack. His hands trembled so badly, I had to light it for him.
"I volunteered too," began Remov. "Industry on Jetath still hasn't recovered since the clones razed our factories to keep them out of Separatist hands during their withdraw. Recently married, little one on the way, didn't have many options."
The mention of family brought an end to the conversation. Remov became despondent, brought out the holoemitter and gazed into the image, transfixed. The sobbing resumed and he dropped to a seat, hands tugged the short hair from his scalp. I am no counselor and not the best addressing such grief, believed I should provide Remov with space.
I crossed to an adjacent communications trench, noticed a gathering of perhaps twenty troopers huddled under some tarpaulin strung as cover between the parapet and parados. They were seated on crates or raincloaks stretched on the ground while one addressed the congregation. Moving closer, out of curiosity, I could hear the words, recognize the voice, Baize.
"…the Empire is no friend of ours!" Baize recited. "It is an illegal entity which has usurped the rights granted to every sentient. Rights, bestowed and protected for a millennium by the Republic. Rights that ensured equality and guaranteed every sentient was represented, had a vote, a voice. Now there are no rights. The tyrannical Emperor dictates his autocratic whims upon the Galaxy. There are no rights to oppose the despotic mandates, no protection for those to protest laws they view as unjust. Rather, we are browbeaten to accept this unjust rule and subject to outright violence…"
Baize continued to ramble about his fanciful delusions of the Republic. To his audience, Baize failed to mention the rampant corruption within the Senate, the slavers and criminals allowed to operate unchecked, the ineptitude of the Senators to mitigate a crisis, the outright neglect of the Outer-Rim. I even heard the Republic was dependent on a cult of sorcerers for mediation of disputes, and yet this cult operated with legal impunity, with no oversight or regulation. I could continue my criticism of the Republic, but my attitudes have already been well expressed in these accounts. The point was Baize, the one who I held in great distain, performed these orations as a means to project influence. It was a holdover tactic of the elite from the days of the Republic –enthrall your audience with empty words and promises to align them to your bloc. I believe Baize's family was well connected pre-Empire and lost much of their influence, wealth in the regime change. The political behavior got Baize into trouble at university and landed him in military service. Regardless, I would not tolerate his constant badgering of the system and the harkening for a return to the decadence of the Republic.
Most of the audience appeared disinterested in Baize's proclamations, owing to the influx of Mandalorians into the ranks of the battalion. The Mandalorians did not share the enthusiasm for the Republic –given the history and conflicting ideals. Principles of equality for all and universal rights found little sympathy among those of the warrior society, which praised strength, condemned weakness, and elevated members based on martial prowess. A few of the gathered sneered and suppressed laughs during the winded tirade. Unable to captivate the listeners further, with so many departing on their own, Baize finished with an impassioned statement on the duty to rebellion or some nonsense. Work details were being formed for the evening, and the company was needed to dig a new communication trench since our closest one flooded from all the rain.
"What do you want?" Baize grunted, as he noticed I stood nearby.
"Kids these days," I mocked. "No patience. No grasp of politics."
Baize snorted, checked the hour on his wrist chrono.
"I'm in no mood for your shit, Maider," huffed Baize, a tone he had not taken with me before.
I placed an arm across the trench, pressed the wall opposite with my hand to bar his path. Baize existed for me to torment, one of the few means of enjoyment I found on Mimban. Though, I was taken aback by the way he spoke, filled with insolence.
"That's not how you speak to me," I warned. "Very disrespectful."
"Kriff off!" Baize fired back, pointed to the rank pips newly adorned on his sleeve. "See that, I'm a corporal now. I don't need to tolerate you any longer."
"Oh, is that a fact?" I derided his assertion. "You must be taking the piss if you think that's worth a damn with me."
In a certainly uncharacteristic maneuver, Baize raised two hands and shoved me. I took a step back to maintain my balance, more surprised at the brash action than the force behind it, for Baize was not strong enough to hurl me to the ground. Something had gone on since I've been away from the battalion, now Baize was emboldened to stand up to me. The transgression could not be allowed to pass, so I balled my fist and wound up a punch –delivered a hard jab to his face. I felt the nose crumple, as Baize dropped to the ground with a painful howl. Immediately, the attack spawned a small crowd of onlookers, the Mandalorians excited to watch a brawl. I was prepared to return to my dugout when Sgt. Flelt, half drunk, arrived and ordered me to stand fast until Lt. Dangir could be summoned. Now the trouble began.
To claim I was ill-informed of the developments on Mimban would be an accurate statement, one detrimental to my case. When I had been on furlough, Baize secured a position as Lt. Dangir's batman. In this role, which excused him from all regular duties and evidently included a promotion to corporal, Baize served as the personal attendant to the lieutenant, preparing meals, maintenance of the officer's uniform, and superintendency of personal effects. I may have been less inclined to pummel Baize if I had known he was valet to an officer, especially an officer who viewed me with great antipathy. Dangir did not appreciate having his batman assailed in such a manner and had the sycophantic Flelt drag me to the military police post in the rear echelon. Turned over to the MPs, they threw me into the makeshift stockade –a space carved out from the side of a hill, walls and floors lined with mud, with an improvised grate erected over the entrance to keep the inmates confined.
I spent the night in this filthy hole packed with thirty other troopers, under arrest for various infractions of Imperial conduct: theft, dereliction, malingering, insubordination, desertion. The night was cold, for I was without my blanket or ground cloth, no opportunity to fetch them during my arrest, and had to get as comfortable as I could in the freezing muck, the mites scurrying across my skin. It was silent too, the MPs threatened to shoot any of us who dared to speak. No sense in pressing the threats of the military police, their notoriety was enough to keep us quiet.
"That's him," the voice spoke, accompanied by the sound of the grate unlocking.
The pitiful sun cast what managed for dawn into the brig, as I could decern two figures converse while a third approached. The MP wrenched my arm and hauled me to my feet, shoved me over to the portal. Andrin calmly signed a datapad held outstretched by a second MP. I emerged, covered in grime. Not a chance to speak, the lieutenant caught me with a hard punch to the gut, which left me winded and collapsed me to my knees.
"You're at attention, on your feet!" Andrin boomed, as his large hand grasped the back of my tunic to stand me up.
As a headmaster may deal with an unruly pupil, so too did Andrin proceed to tow me along by a grip of the tunic. The pouring down rain resumed and it took but a moment before I was thoroughly drenched. Passing some cargo containers, the lieutenant slammed me against one. He threw punch after punch, collided with my face and gut. Being an officer, I did not dare to strike back, even if it were to defend myself. Andrin, with more than twenty years on me, could hit with a surprising amount of force. After a one-sided contest, I was left in great pain, as I spat up blood.
"I thought I made myself clear when you first arrived!" Andrin snarled, massaged his bruised knuckles. "I said I didn't want any trouble from you. That prick Dangir wants you court-martialed for what you did to his batman, and he's got every right to! They'd send you to a punishment unit, but you're already in one. So, I'm stuck with you."
Andrin permitted me to fall to the ground. I was in agony, disoriented from the blows, I could no longer stand.
"And here I thought you were among the dependable ones," said Andrin, winded from the assault.
The lieutenant left me to writhe about on the ground. The assault platoon was already formed and prepared to commence with the day's training. What hurt worse than the beating, the cold rain, was the disappointment laced within his words. I began to feel what I thought was guilt for my actions. Not so much guilt for assaulting Baize, I will remain unapologetic for all acts I commit against him, but for failing Andrin. There was little time to wallow in shame, for the platoon was assembled and I was late for drill.
Dashnik roused me from the bunk. The rain, fortunately, permitted a temporary break. If the rains held off long enough, the operation might be launched. In that event, we needed an urgent reconnaissance of Hill 211. The fading sun beyond the horizon thrust the battered fields into darkness. To accompany the rising night, the temperature plunged –how cold this region of Mimban could get. I was there with Tundy and would accompany Dashnik on a task vaguely explained. In teams of three, we met delegates from the other squads comprising the assault platoon. Lt. Andrin appeared to oversee to distribution of tools. From the teams, every third, so I was the lucky recipient, was furnished with wire cutters. We had to make use of this ancient, manual tool, for the sparks given off by fusioncutters would alert every bug and artillery battery in the zone.
"Tonight, is strictly for intelligence gathering," Andrin spoke. "Especially for the newer additions to the platoon. You're going out to familiarize yourself with the ground, get within view of the enemy's position without being seen and remain concealed. In three hours, we'll launch illumination flares. Flares will then be fired every ten minutes over the course of an hour, at which time they will conclude. From your concealment, you are to observe the enemy's works, their bunkers, weapons emplacements. We urgently need to update our intel on Hill 211. I'd imagine the flares will stir them up, so count how many of the bugs jump to attention. The Mimbos will, no doubt, have their wiring parties at work fixing the razor wire and stringing new obstacles. Avoid contact at all costs. Good luck to you all."
Andrin shook each of our hands, as he passed down our assembled line. He stopped briefly when he got to me, fired a stern glare. Silently, we climbed up the ladder, rolled over the parapet and into the mud beyond. This close to our own works and at distance from the enemy, we could proceed crouched, as opposed to crawling through the muck. The terrain undulated in the direction of the enemy, the result of the natural topography and the countless impacts from the bombs and missiles each side exchanged. Our groups separated, each with its own destination to achieve. I followed closely behind Dashnik, with Tundy at my side. The order, and sense, forbade talking, lest we incur the attention of the Mimbos.
The night was oddly clear, no rain, the stars above faintly pierced this perpetual cloud cover that shrouded Mimban. In the distance, our artillery loosed a barrage, the sound of explosions barely able to be heard. The ground was a mire, each step a laborious trudge to free your boot. With a wave of the hand, Dashnik ordered us to the ground. We had gone far enough upright, only crawling could convey us unseen hence. My arms were enveloped by the morass. I gasped in horror when I realized where we plopped down, the midst of the remains of those troopers slain in the pitifully forlorn effort to recapture Voran. Their bodies lay here, uncollected. The smell was abhorrent, though I am glad the night concealed the true extent from full view. The craw was at an agonizingly slow pace, too fast and you risk your movement being observed. I have done this crawl through no man's land before, feels like a lifetime ago. It is easy to get lost out here in the darkness, disoriented by the topography and the detritus of war you encounter. For my part, I was staying as close to Dashnik as I could.
Our first obstacle was the barricade of razor wire. The wire stood a meter and a half high and impossible to leap, for it was laid in a depth of six meters. Dashnik led us over to a section, motioned Tundy to get to my left while he positioned me in the middle. Tundy and Dash each held a section of wire taut, as I used the wire cutters to snip through the strand. Utmost care had to be taken, for the bugs attached metal cups filled with piece parts to rattle if disturbed. It was a slow process, a frustrating process, a tense process, as we cut our way through, wire by wire. Time appeared insignificant, indecipherable. Occasionally, from the bug side, a flare would race toward the sky, burst, and coat the landscape in a brilliant glow. The three of us had to hold fast in place, remain motionless for the excruciating seconds it took for the flare to gradually burn out. Then our work could resume. The bugs sent up their own flares to aid their lookouts in the hunt for infiltrators, for us.
The effort was rewarded, as we had a trail, large enough to crawl under, carved through the lower strands of the razor wire barricade. Our path terminated at the cusp of a large shell crater, and we were obliged to slide down to the bottom in order to climb out the opposite side. The temperature plunged rapidly, uncharacteristic for the mostly humid climate of Mimban, for Voran was in a farther flung region of the northern hemisphere. Caked in mud, our clothes inundated, we shivered, impossible to remain warm. Onward we plodded in this unceasing trek, through the slop, the bodies, the broken equipment that littered the ground. Another flare shot up, we'd stop, motionless, as it shone. At one point, I thought I heard whispers, turned my head, and saw nothing.
A large rise lay in front of us, Dashnik stopped to point out its crest, our destination. Limbs numb with cold, waterproof boots useless against the elements, we crawled our way to the summit. Only fifty meters ahead, on an elevated ridge, was the enemy's front. We found a spot on the rise, underneath the wrecked leg of an AT-DT, to observe the enemy without notice. Dashnik removed the pair of macrobinoculars he carried and began to scan the works. Timing it almost perfectly, the first set of illumination flares were fired off by our side. The flares shimmered as if it were day, the artificial sun chasing away the darkness. Even without the magnifiers, we could see the entirety of the defenses. We spotted our objective for the assault, the bunkers protecting the derricks, the trenches. Spaced twenty meters in front of the trenches were crewed listening posts, connected by narrow saps extending between the two points. The listening posts intended to serve as an early warning –listening for infiltrators who attempted to breach the lines. The illumination startled the enemy, for they raced into the trench, prepared to repulse an attack they believed imminent.
Dashnik passed me the macrobinoculars, so I could take a better look, familiarize myself with the works we would eventually storm. This was a reconnaissance mission, study the enemy's defenses, information gathered would be scrutinized, as we planned the inevitable operation. Being the sappers would spearhead assault, it was to our benefit to gather our own intelligence. This model of macrobinoculars allowed us to take still images and save them for later examination, a feature invaluable to this current enterprise. I could see the nervous heads of the enemy, anxiously peer above the parapet of their trench. There was hardly a Mimbanese among their number, the off-world volunteers comprising most of the opposition manning this portion of the line, with humans the largest group represented of that assortment. The rage, upon seeing humans in arms with the enemy, burned inside once again. How I wanted to leap into their trench and cut them down, the traitors, the scum.
As I seethed, Dashnik tapped my shoulder, directed me to look not far to our left. A group of figures emerged; spools of razor wire attached to their backs. It was an enemy wiring party returning to their lines. They were unaware of the alert their own forces were placed on. The interval passed; our side sent up the next set of flares. The wiring party, ignorant and knowing their own works were close had stood up to walk the remaining distance. Under the illumination, the sudden appearance of the wiring party surprised their own comrades. At once, the sentries opened fire upon the detail, blasters erupted along the trench line. It was panic, caused other sections to engage as well. Bolts tore through the half dozen members of the wiring party; several were riddled while the rest dropped for cover. Shouts and cries arose, pleas to hold fire, to be recognized as friendly. Throughout the friendly fire incident, Dashnik was counting rifles, the measure of the enemy's response and how many weapons they could bring to bear. Satisfied the intelligence was sufficient, and not wishing to seek further confrontation with the trigger-happy enemy, Dash indicated we return.
Someone from our side must not have been aware of our venture, for a salvo was sent out from a battery of AT-DTs. The artillery rounds fell long, behind the enemy bunkers. It was enough to get the bug allies to cease their own fire, at which point the survivors of the wiring party could correctly identify themselves. Curses were exchanged, as medics sprinted out to assess the wounded. Our Imperial artillerists decided a bombardment was in order and loosed another barrage. This time, they were short. Rounds crashed around the three of us, my helmet peppered with dirt. They were too close, and we were in real danger of being blasted apart. The whirl of a shell intensified the sound it makes when coming right on top of you. Subtlety be damned, we were on our feet and scattered, as the round detonated right in the spot we occupied. To our detriment, the maneuver to save our lives betrayed us to the enemy. A few of the bug allies could not control themselves and opened fire, blaster bolts flew low over my head, to my left and right. I broke into a run, a panic to escape. No flares above, the only light came from the shots fired from blasters, the glow of their orange bolts. Barely able to see, I lost my footing, felt myself tumble down the side of a large shell crater. The water that pooled in the crater's bottom splashed and I was immediately drenched. Fearing the MLA would launch a patrol to seek us out, I clambered against the wall of the crater, just above the pool of water, and concealed myself, raincloak pulled over my body. It was best to sit tight; the crater was suitably deep enough to keep out of the line of sight from rifle fire and observation from the enemy's trenches.
For hours I lay in this manner. I thought I heard footsteps, voices, but I did not dare raise my head to look. The blasters and artillery eventually faded, and the eerie stillness returned to this sector of the line. I had no idea as to the whereabouts of Dashnik or Tundy. We were separated when the shooting started. As far as I could tell, I was alone, not even sure if my comrades were in a similar predicament, made it back to our trenches, or even alive. I shivered uncontrollably from the cold; my clothes soaked. It was a reconnaissance patrol, simple observe and report back, so I didn't burden myself carrying a blanket or supplies. I even left my E-11 behind.
Dawn was welcomed by a light rain, rays of sunshine barely able to penetrate the thick cloud cover. It would be a long day to wait, for I could not risk moving until the cover of night. I would be as safe as I could be for the time being, remaining in this crater. Nobody moved around during the day, neither our side nor theirs. I was less worried about being spotted by a bug patrol than the artillerists succumbing to boredom and lobbing a few shells for kicks. Getting back would be no insignificant achievement. I had no comms unit to signal Imperial lines, not like a comms unit would work with the ionization. The sentries and listening posts at our trenches would not be expecting me and could easily mistake me for an enemy incursion. Here is the true danger for one in my position, now subject to fire by either side. As I had not returned from the patrol, I was probably already listed as a casualty. It was all too common for troopers to crawl into no man's land and never be seen again, to meet an unknown fate in the wastes. The most humors bit of my predicament, I had the pair of macrobinoculars in my hand, having never returned them to Dashnik and retained them throughout the evasion of fire. At least I would not be empty handed.
Darkness began to envelop no man's land, the sun no longer to herald the day. Not sure how I managed it, but I fell asleep at some point in what I could assume was midday and now awoke –shivering from the cold and still miserably wet. The night in full bloom, I seized my chance and began the arduous journey toward the Imperial trenches. My chest armor, pauldrons, greaves, and helmet were removed and abandoned to better aid movement. Even the raincloak was cast aside. I was several meters along and had to traverse through another shell crater. I was certain at its crest was the hole in the razor wire we carved the night prior, that allowed us to wander into this mess. Climbing up the opposite side, I paused, certain I heard whispers, the sound wire makes when uncoiled. Cautiously, I peered my head up enough to get a view.
There were six of them, three humans, two Twi'leks, and one whose species I could not determine. They were busily at work, pressed upon their stomachs in their effort to restring wire in the section cut. Immediately, I became tense. This was my only route of escape, if it were sealed, I would be hemmed in, no defined route to convey me safely back. I might have taken the odds if it were two or three, numbers I was confident I could best, but six. I stood no chance against six, even leveraging the element of surprise. To the shock of everyone, an illumination flare burst. Fear of exposure, I ducked my head down, but in the process, lost my foothold. My foot slipped and my boot splashed loudly into the water. All these craters had pools of collected rainwater that never drained or dried up. The noise alerted the wiring party. They ceased their work, conversed among themselves.
"What was that?" I heard one say.
"I don't know, I think it came from down there," said another.
"Could it be Imps?" a third added, nervously. "I hear their commandos are all over these parts. Like the ones that hit us last night."
"Stop the nonsense," one with some authority interjected. "Skog, go check out whatever that noise was. The rest of you, get this wire strung!"
The crater was a little more than two meters deep, nowhere really for me to go. I heard the one sent to investigate slither through the mud, toward my certain discovery. Calmly, I removed my entrenching tool from my belt, prepared to employ the spade in a desperate bid to preserve my life. The enemy, I could hear their breath, a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion. Just before they peered over the edge, as I raised the tool to strike, a gloved hand firmly clasped my mouth. My eyes widened, as I felt myself pulled toward this new body. A second hand seized my wrist, so I could not swing the spade in my defense. Whatever this thing was that held me was strong, easily overpowered me and restrained me in place. Their grasp of my wrist tightened, and the pain forced the release of the tool from my hold. In reaction, I bit into the gloved hand, but to no effect, only hurt my teeth in the process. The figure swiftly turned me around, their hand still forcefully pressed against my mouth, so I could make no sound. They released my wrist and brought their now free hand to the mouth of their helmet, a single finger extended upward, a motion to indicate I was to remain silent. I felt surprised, dread, relief, upon recognition of the figure, their armor resembled the kind worn by a scout trooper, but it was painted pitch-black –a Stormcommando.
I could just make out the two additional companions, as they passed the one who held me. The enemy barely had his head over the edge of the parapet when the two Stormcommandos seized the unsuspecting man and pulled him in. Silently, the two commandos dispatched their quarry –stabbed repeatedly with vibroblades, unable to gasp a sound or raise an alarm. Brief seconds passed before the victim was dead.
"Skog!" a voice above whispered. "Skog! Dammit, where did he get to?"
The slain man's body, their Skog, lay crumpled against the wall of the crater. The Stormcommando, who surprised me, was confident enough in my ability to remain quiet and so crawled over to his two comrades. With vibroblades drawn, a raised hand slowly retracted the fingers, three, two, one. The three Stormcommandos flung themselves over the crest. I could only hear muffled sounds, faint noises, but nothing to indicate a struggle, and no shouts to betray the action. By the time I peered my head up, I saw the Stormcommandos arranging the bodies of the dead volunteers in a row, affixing metallic discs. I heard rumors about the discs, but now I could attest to the validity. Stormcommandos left these discs on the bodies of their victims, calling cards.
One noticed my presence, outstretched a hand to beckon me closer. A fresh hole was cut in the wire. The commando pointed to the opening, as one already slithered through, indicated I was to follow. No words were spoken, as we traversed the muddied wastes. A heavy wind blew, further chilled the drenched clothes I wore, I shivered uncontrollably. It was a painfully slow crawl, both sides firing off illumination flares like it was an Empire Day fireworks display. Each time one burst, we were compelled to halt and remain motionless. A short time later, Imperial artillery commenced an uncoordinated bombardment, shells landed in a haphazard fashion lacking any form of organized direction. On several occasions I tried to signal to the commandos, signed my question as to where we were headed exactly. They provided no response but offered a hard shove whenever I deviated to a pace not to their liking.
Dawn lay at the precipice when we came to a halt against a small berm. I was gestured to wait, as one Stormcommando rolled and then leapt over a small embankment. After a few moments, they returned and nodded to their companions. The Stormcommando then turned to me and uttered the only words spoken throughout the entire encounter.
"There's a Stormtrooper company manning this section," the helmet filtered voice started. "They'll see you back to your unit."
I was pushed over the embankment into a listening post occupied by two Stormtroopers, their armor greyed from the elements and dirt. They handed me a spare blanket that rested on an ammunition crate and pointed to the sap, which connected this advanced post to the larger trench. I turned briefly to catch one last glimpse of the Stormcommandos, but they were gone, disappeared. To where was anyone's guess.
My return to the 8843rd came as a surprise to many. Covered in filth, shuddering from cold, my kit gone, I wandered into the battalion's assigned section. I collapsed onto the firing step from exhaustion, as a group of startled troopers gathered around and shouted for a medic. Thankfully, I found myself among 1 Company. If it was Lt. Dangir's command, he'd probably have me beaten in retribution for Baize. Someone handed me a towel and I was able to wipe the mud from my face. Lt. Andrin arrived shortly thereafter, with Dashnik. I was so exhausted, I stumbled when I rose to pay respect to the officer. Andrin put out an arm to catch me, Dashnik joined to help lower me back onto the seat. Both were astonished that I returned, believing me dead, furthered when I thrust the intact macrobinoculars into Dash's grasp. Quickly powering the unit, Dashnik made a cursory review of its contents and announced the data was readable. It put a smile on Andrin's face, who I knew was desperate for the latest intelligence on the enemy position. With the operation ready to launch any day now, we'd be in better shape because of this information. The lieutenant's reaction, it implied my earlier transgression was forgiven, I was absolved for my disappointing conduct, reestablished as a dependable member of the unit.
The best outcome of the night, what made the excursion worthwhile, was Haurn. Haurn darted along the trench, pushed aside the lieutenant, who could only chuckle in amusement, and threw her arms around me. I embraced her, glad to hold her once more. She grasped me tighter, would not let me go. All the aggravation, uncertainty melted away. I was glad to have made it back and I knew I would not get another shot. No more doubt, only conviction, I meant what I say. I leaned forward and whispered back,
"I love you too."
000
