The Voran Offensive
Following seventy-one days of slogging it out in the mud, the filth, the show began. The artillery commenced just after midnight. Hundreds of guns amassed, and hurled bombs and rockets. The enemy positions along the front erupted in great torrents of flame, explosions raked their lines, advancing, withdrawing, and advancing again. Curtains of shells marched across no man's land, intentionally chewing up the razor wire entanglements, so no obstacle would hamper our movement when called. The ground quaked upon each impact, the noise, though the distance was great, deafened our ears. Huge trails of burning light arced over our heads in a brilliant scene that nearly simulated day. Sleep, as much as it was needed that night, was not possible given the spectacle. Of notice were the patterns of shelling. Reinforced was the notion that the purpose of the offensive was to regain the mining assets taken by the MLA. Instructions conveyed the assets were not to be destroyed, yet the artillery did not appear to discriminate, as I witnessed the derricks atop Hill 211 consumed by flames.
When dawn crested, the sky was blackened by incalculable numbers of TIE bombers, endless squadrons roared above. Penetrating the enemy's sector, the bombers released their ordinance: concussion rockets, proton bombs, drums of conflagrine. Thick plumes of black smoke pumped upwards and cast their macabre shadows, a testament to the destruction. The flights of TIE bombers were met with salvos of anti-craft fire, as the MLA turned every gun and laser cannon available to the sky, exacting a heavy toll. The scene was apocalyptic, the land scorched and torn apart. We watch, with increasing trepidation, as the furnace before our eyes erupts. TIE bombers unloaded payloads, only to be blasted from the skies by MLA cannons, which were then pulverized by our artillery. The loss in TIE bombers was appalling.
The consequences of remaining awake the entire night with Haurn were made apparent by the exhaustion we felt. The amphetamines from the ration bars provided the only solution, given we were about to go into battle. I wanted not to dwell on what Haurn confessed, as it only filled me with trepidation and doubt for the task at hand. Though, it was all I could think about, my concern for her. She and I spent the rest of the night in silence, rumination. The preparations offered a moderate distraction. The sappers arrayed before one of the ordinance stores in the support trench for ammunition distribution. Greedily, I stuffed thermal detonators into pouches and affixed the detonite cylinders to Haurn's back, as she reciprocated. Every sapper, regardless of their role, was issued with two lane clearing charges. The lane clearing charge was a small pipe, about thirty centimeters in length, easily clipped to webbing or tucked into your belt –as if there was not enough already to carry. When fired, the charge's rocket motor would propel an explosive tape over a distance of forty to fifty meters. Once triggered, the tape detonation could create a path clear of wire obstacles or mines. Perfect for what the artillery failed to destroy.
Remov was off to the side, taking slow and labored gasps, eyes were closed, as he fidgeted with the holoemitter containing his last family portrait. I noticed Tundy and Dashnik conversing in a language I believed to be Sy Bisti, with Tundy speaking rapidly and quite fluently. Dashnik, due to his Outer Rim roots, was somewhat conversant in the trade language, but he appeared to struggle to keep pace with Tundy's loquacious chatter. It was the most I have heard the young man speak, and perhaps wondered if Basic was a second language for him, one he had a poor command over. It may explain why Tundy struggled to understand instruction, lacked in conversation, appeared mostly aloof. Just one of the many surprises we learned about the young man before this wretched day was concluded.
The sappers took the time to mark the backs of our helmets with a vertical hash using high visibility orange paint, the same color as construction vehicles. It would easily denote us as sappers and keep friendly forces from shooting us in the back, since we would be working right up against enemy structures. The hash marks of squad leaders would be applied horizontally, the be further recognizable for consultation and direction. Andrin provided a final review of the objectives on 211, but it was difficult to remain attentive –so much on my mind and we all had the plan committed to memory, down to the last detail. Since no return to the trench was anticipated, as the offensive was to carry us forward, the sappers, burdened by our specialized equipment, had to leave our rucksacks filled with our effects and blankets. We were assured they would be loaded onto the TX-225 assault tanks detached for sapper use, along with the replenishment equipment. I hope the tanks could keep up, as I did not want to spend a freezing night without my heavy blankets that my combat loadout precluded me from carrying.
Andrin walked our platoon, scattered us at our designated stepping off points. Each sapper received a handshake from the lieutenant, wished good fortune and a desire to see them at the objective. It meant something to shake hands with Lt. Andrin. The gentlemen officers, particularly those of the rear echelon, refused to touch the enlisted for fear of contracting the mites. We were a pariah in their eyes, unclean persons to be avoided, which is why they would keep their distance or prod you with a stick. The infantry from the 8843rd interspersed with our numbers, as they assembled. Dangir strode along the line, but with an increased sense of arrogance. Noticeable was the newly affixed rank plaque, three red squares with a blue, indication of his promotion to captain. Undoubtedly bestowed from the Brigadier as remuneration for that business performed, despite the paltry total of prisoners taken, lives expended.
Dashnik huddled our squad. One by one, Dash spoke to each member, a final review, as if we were not well aware, drilled to the point we could recite the exercise as automatons.
"Remov," Dash started. "Get yourself a nice spot and suppress those fraggers with so many bolts, they'll take shitting themselves over returning fire."
"You got it boss," Remov nodded, as he took a swig from a hip flask.
Ideally, we did not want Remov intoxicated, but enough alcohol would keep him distracted from his family affairs.
"Easy on the sauce, Rem, you won't shoot straight if you're too loose," Dash added, turned to Govnic. "You'll have your avenue clear, hit the bunker's aperture with your flamer. If they don't get roasted, they'll have to button up and their E-web goes offline. In which case that leaves you two."
Haurn and I stared back, acknowledged.
"Haurn, Maider," Dashnik resumed. "Go in hard and fast with your grenades. Tundy and I will shift to keep you covered. Four Company's fourth platoon will provide the extra bodies to rush the trenches and overwhelm the enemy. That frees us up so you can plant your detonite and blow the bunker. We clear?"
There was a collective nod from the squad in response.
"The whole plan can go to shit the moment we encounter the enemy," remarked Dashnik. 'That's why we adapt. If you see an opportunity, take it. If they expose a vulnerability, exploit it. Our ability to react and respond to changing conditions will make sure the bugs have a worse off day than us."
The last comment caused Govnic to expel a guttural bellow in amusement. The conference was adjourned when the sergeant-major arrived to fetch each squad leader before Andrin, and Dashnik made his way to attend. Remov, from his flask, offered a drink to Govnic, which was congenially accepted –no animosity over the swollen face resultant from their altercation. Tundy proceeded to consume his steaming cup of ration noodles, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the moment at hand. Govnic then came over to Tundy and the pair exchanged jokes of a sordid and juvenile nature. Those two were more able to cope with the impending action than most.
"Hey," Haurn nudged my arm. "We'll make it through this, right?"
Her eyes, I get lost every time I stare into them, conveyed disquiet. I could not think of the right words to answer, simply nodded, and embraced Haurn. She held onto me, pressed her fingers into my arms. It elicited a small cackle from Govnic, but we paid him no mind. We were not alone, as others shook hands, wished each other good fortune, or bade their final farewells.
"We'll make it through this," I answered, backed my words with as much confidence as I could convey. Enough confidence to get her to smile.
The activity increased, minutes away from the appointed time. Stretcher bearers, scrambling to distribute themselves, pushed through with their collapsed litters at the ready. Some Mandalorians of the battalion chanted the Kote Darasuum, each lent their voice to the chorus. It was an eerie rendition, set against the backdrop of shell and rocket.
"Eternal Glory," Haurn translated for me, stoic as she listened to the words. "The stars pale beside our might."
The chants were informally organized, sanctioned by none of our officers, but permitted. It was meant to fortify their resolve, which was more an illusion than one might expect. The Mandalorians boasted of war, lusted after glory won through combat, but to tell the truth, they were scared. I think we were all scared, even the veterans. So monumental was the task laid before us. Those who could, did their best to conceal their anxieties, their misgivings, and reservations, but the fear was there. Hands trembled, could barely grip blaster rifles. The few, who could not bear the stress, vomited. There was the odd individual in the ranks who was drunk, barely able to stand. Could you fault the junior lieutenants, as they nervously pulled from their small flasks? I would trust an inebriated lieutenant over the officer from 1 Company overtly weeping.
Dashnik appeared at my side, for once without his cheerful expression. Always, he wore a smile, even if it were a superficial cover. Now, I saw he was afraid, eyes were wide, and hands trembled. He held the talisman, the one he tried to have me take, the first night I returned, and I had refused.
"Get this to my sister on Nendal," Dashnik instructed, shoved it into my hand.
I tried to argue the matter, but the opportunity was lost. Klaxons, the same ones you find sounding "General Quarters" on a Star Destroyer, blared from address systems arranged throughout our trenches. It was the signal, the order to attack. Hurriedly, I stuffed the talisman into a pocket and had to turn to avoid the crush of those mounting the parapet. Govnic was the first sapper from our squad up the ladder and I was directly behind. It was hard going to scale, given the twenty kilograms of detonite plus the numerous satchels and bandoleers of grenades. Once I reached the top, the combined weight put me off balance and I almost fell backwards, when Govnic put out a hand. I grasped his with mine and he pulled me to my feet.
"Landing on your backside, on top one of them boomers," Govnic uttered with a crooked grin. "Be a right bad day for us."
I held out my own arm to help Haurn avoid the same issue and hauled her over the top. A mortar round exploded a few meters away, threw up a large amount of mud, caused us to flinch slightly.
"Shit," Govnic announced. "The arty missed one."
The battalion picked its way forward over the broken landscape. I had become an old hand at performing this trek, though exclusively at night –this was my first opportunity to conduct the journey by daylight. The freezing night cemented the mud under a hard frost. Every boot tread sounded with a loud crunch. The occasional frozen patch would shatter under the step and plunge your leg almost a meter into the softer muck beneath, where you would remain trapped until comrades could wrench you free. The wreckage of vehicles, walkers, and downed craft littered the no man's land, so numerous they could provide suitable defilade if necessary. The length of the siege provided a bountiful harvest of corpses that went unburied, due to the lack of capacity to support such an undertaking. Left to molder, a fetid odor radiated from the innumerable bodies, so malodorous I had to affix my respirator to block the stench. Many others did so likewise. You did not dare look down, even if it meant risking a lost footing, for you were sure to meet the voided gaze of a trooper who fell and was left. Their faces, they had once been comrades, fellow troopers with their own lives, hopes, and fears. Now, what were they?
Orders were conveyed to quicken the pace, for the advance fell behind the allotted schedule and time must be reconciled. The infantry company and platoon commanders struggled to maintain cohesion of their commands. Aleatory stoppages were called to allow units to regroup and reorient around their officers. The officers demanded their troopers remain within earshot, to better hear commands shouted. Infantry doctrine, devised by aging generals who were still adapted to fight Separatist battle droids arrayed in precision rows, maintained the importance of cohesion and the necessity of tightly grouped formations. Units would advance by the company or the platoon in ranks. The logic was simply control. Utilizing close order tactics, officers had better supervision over the troopers under their command and could easily direct them against an enemy position or formation. Control served another purpose owing to the large conscript and convict makeup of the Army. These troopers were perceived as generally unwilling to perform a task and required the stern "motivation" of an officer to drive them forward. Thus, it was necessary to keep them in close formation and "under guard", in a manner of speaking.
Andrin dispensed with the rigid structure of close order maneuver, instead each sapper squad was to advance independently and utilize the terrain as needed. We all had our objectives, knew where we were going. This dispersed the squads but kept the momentum and ensured we did not provide a large target for enemy fire. Our lieutenant had made many a charge against a Mimbo line, watched it falter because of the dependence on the rigid formation and the inflexibility to adapt to the everchanging conditions of the battlefield, troopers led to the predictable slaughter. Through his instruction and training, Andrin was determined to undermine the all too familiar occurrences that accompanied frontal assaults. Dashnik, as squad leader, was the focal and we kept pace with his lead. It was far preferable than the ordeal platoon lieutenants subjected their troopers to, the frequent halts to redress.
The movement was exhausting. I was burdened by the weight of the equipment and the ground was much worse for wear. This was no excursion or leisurely stroll across an open field. For weeks, the landscape was churned and raked by artillery. The advance had to contend with the shell holes and wreckage –all to be carefully traversed and worked around by a battalion of troopers. You did not want to stop, but were sometimes compelled to, as others queued for their turn to take the only navigable path over a derelict or around a crater. The MLA in our sector only had a few mortars serviceable and proceeded to hurl rounds. It was uncoordinated fire, for their spotters, if any survived, were not relaying accurate targets. The mortar rounds fell wide, and our casualties were negligible. Though, the explosions were unsettling and forced us to cover whenever the distinctive whirl of an incoming bomb was heard. It only took one unlucky hit to knock you out of this mess.
Dashnik drew the squad together against a low berm. I knew our location, even if the entanglement was blasted, this had been the spot where that bothersome razor wire obstacle once stood. We were within range of their E-Webs situated in the bunkers. The battalion had been harried by the mortars, but we had yet to come under blaster fire. It was not expected the MLA positions were destroyed, the enemy wiped out, they were holding for the opportune moment. From this point forward, there could be no stopping, nothing until we closed the distance between us and their works. Quickly lifting his head above the berm, he sighted the objective.
"Our objective bunker is to the right," Dashnik called out to the squad. "Looks like arty grounded up the bug's frontline trench, should have a straight run to the target. Everyone squared away?"
We answered Dash with a collective nod, save for Remov, who extended an upward thumb. The squad held together, suffered no casualties up to this point. Then a loud clunk reverberated, captured our attention. The AT-ST moved up from the rear, emerged from the smoke that cascaded across no man's land and the many fires that raged. It was a welcomed sight, as two more appeared. Our confidence rose, we would have support, we would roll right over the bugs and their contemptible volunteers.
The rocket flew over our heads, struck the first AT-ST. It was a shoulder-carried rocket propelled detonator, more effective as an anti-infantry weapon. The explosion was loud and impressive enough but failed to deliver the killing blow to our walker. Incurring only light damage, the walker rotated and brought its blaster cannons to bear on the rocket's source. The position was blanketed by the chorus unleashed by the three AT-STs. In response, the emplaced E-Webs situated in the enemy bunkers opened, with a focus on the walkers. The MLA volunteers were in a panic and concentrated on the Imperial vehicles, neglecting the approach of our infantry.
The battalion was assigned a mortar platoon to provide close and accurate artillery support with light mortars, able to be transported and serviced by two troopers. Laboring under the weight of their weapons and ammunition, the mortar platoon established themselves in a suitable position, with a clear sight of their targets atop Hill 211. A coordinated bombardment fell upon the MLA works. While the mortars were light and less effective against a well dug in enemy, the bombs had the effect to force the opposition to remain sheltered. Compelled to take cover from the incoming mortar rounds, the MLA volunteers in the trenches were unable to raise themselves to return fire upon our advancing ranks.
Lieutenant Tymin commanding 4 Company rallied his unit and pushed the troopers forward. While Tymin possessed the daredevil flair necessary to inspire those under his command, especially the Mandalorians, he was young and desired to build himself a reputation. As 4 Company was the furthest unit ahead of the battalion, Dashnik capitalized on the opportunity to move. We crossed over the berm, thankfully avoided alignment with that damnable shell chasm, which was the cause of so much frustration. It was with haste, not an all-out run, but no delay was permitted. Less than a hundred meters separated us from the bunker. The enemy had a trench carved out to form a line between the bunker and no man's land, but it was flattened by our artillery. The mangled bodies of dozens of MLA volunteers were scattered about what remained of this line of works.
Shouts of Oya! Oya! arose, sounded by the Mandalorians, their chosen battle cry for the hour. The whole of 4 Company amassed in a grand charge. Lasers flashed above; more fire supplied by the AT-STs. This was far from an unopposed advance, as MLA artillery fired from an undetermined location. Shells landed about and the cries of those torn apart were swiftly silenced by the thundering roar of the blasts. The pace quickened, the urgency paramount. The E-Web from a bunker would dare an opportunity to fire, to be greeted by a salvo from the AT-ST. Artillery fire shifted, bug guns going after the walkers. Intermittent rifle fire loosed from the entrenchments that flanked the bunkers –MLA risking our mortar's suppression to shoot.
The ground was slick and uneven, I fell several times due to the cumbersome arrangement of heavy equipment strapped to my back. Troopers of 4 Company scattered behind protective defilade, fired their blasters at the MLA's works. NCOs shouted at them to keep moving, no stopping to fire, we had to move quick, overwhelm the enemy with the weight of our advance. Tunnel vision set in, I lost focus of my surroundings, as I locked my eyes upon the bunker. Dashnik was ahead, kneeling, shouting something and pointing to the objective, though the noise made it impossible to discern. I fell again from the load; Dash grabbed my arm and hauled me up. We were in what had been the enemy's former front line, thoroughly pulverized by the preliminary bombardment, survivors compelled to withdraw to positions around the bunkers. Govnic sprinted by. Tundy was on his belly, firing his blaster rifle –not sure if it was targeted, but anything to suppress the enemy was considered essential. Remov was already established, the DLT-19 inundating the aperture of the bunker with a torrent of bolts.
Our target lay on a gently rising path that led to the crest of Hill 211. Any attempt to summit the hill would be impossible until this bunker was neutralized. At one point this area was heavily wooded, but a decade of war ensured nothing would ever grow here again. Sergeant Rynom, commanding the fourth platoon of 4 Company, found Dashnik and the pair finalized the coordinated assault. This was a mutual partnership, their platoon would cover our squad, advance with us up to the bunker while keeping us alive. We sappers, in turn, would knock out that bunker and blow any remaining MLA works to hell.
The mortar platoon landed one last hard salvo before us, then shifted fire to support 1 Company advancing on the left. Now it was our turn for the final thrust. Rynom delegated her platoon gunners, armed with T-21 light repeating blasters to join Remov in establishing a base of fire. While the repeaters laid their bolts upon the enemy, two squads maneuvered to the right to envelop the bunker from the flank. Dashnik took his sappers, and one squad from Rynom's platoon, and we swung left. The right-side approach to the bunker featured a sharp drop, so it could not be taken from that direction. Nevertheless, the two squads could still advance to suitably engage and hold the enemy. The chain of bunkers on Hill 211 were improperly sighted and provided no overlapping fire from one to the next. If they had been, and supporting trenches arranged correctly, the MLA could enfilade our advance and sweep us right from the hill. It appears there had been a bunker situated at one point for this very purpose, but it was long destroyed and never refortified.
In our attempt to outflank the bunker, we were spotted by the MLA crewing the E-Web and came under heavy fire. One trooper from the accompanying squad was killed and the rest of us were compelled to seek cover where it was found. The MLA caught onto our flanking maneuver and were pouring as much suppression as possible to prohibit further advance. Heavy blaster bolts tore the ground to our front, passed unnervingly close above our heads, only centimeters of separation. There was some defilade, but it was being eroded with each impacted bolt, fired from the E-Web. We were perceived as enough of a threat, the suppression efforts of Remov and the gunners were not a sufficient deterrent for those in the bunker. Tundy arrived at the solution, as we hunkered down to think of a way out. The young man primed a lane clearing charge and pointed the pipe at the bunker. The rocket flashed, projected a thick cloud of exhaust. The explosive tape detonated shortly after, falling around the opening of the bunker. It was a relatively small explosion, inflicted superficial damage to the reinforced structure, but it gave the MLA inside a fright and interrupted the E-Web fire. The break was enough, and we took to our feet. Suppose Tundy recognized the bunker as an obstacle and deduced the lane clearing charges were intended to overcome obstacles –can't fault him there.
To the bunker's right, our left, the MLA infantry volunteers prepared entrenchments from where they began to open fire when they saw us encroach. We were sufficiently to the flank of the bunker's firing aperture, the emplaced E-Web did not have the capability to rotate and engage. We dropped, Haurn and I went for our grenades. Differing from the circular thermal detonators, these were stick grenades that featured a handle with the explosive charge affixed to the end. The handle provided leverage for throwing accurately to a fair distance, especially from the awkward prone position. In rapid succession, Haurn and I tossed the grenades. The blasts were quick and effective –the enemy within the trench were neutralized, their firing ceased. It was Govnic's turn, and he raced forward, shoved the flamer into the bunker's aperture.
The jet of fire, or stream of burning conflagrine to be precise, flew forth from Govnic's incinerator. He held the trigger down, saturated the target before him. The fire raced into the opening, enveloped the interior in flame. The screams were horrendous –awful, earsplitting shrieks. It was so terrible; I wanted to collapse and press my palms to my ears and silence the howls. Though, another part of me wanted them to burn, to suffer as retribution for their indiscretion against the Empire, against us. A durasteel door slammed shut over the aperture, the bunker closed off and could no longer be inundated by fire.
"They've buttoned up, Dash!" Govnic shouted when his flamer would no longer penetrate. "No clue if we smoked 'em all, Boss!"
"Kriff it!" Dashnik swore, turned to me. "Maider, get us a way in!"
I did not need to request clarification or consult stratagem with Dashnik, for I knew what had to be done –it was as we rehearsed. Haurn already had a grenade in hand, and we hurled another salvo. A quick series of blasts and we rushed ahead to exploit the havoc rendered. Momentum would have to be seized. Bolts flew all about, nervously close to striking you down, the hapless few were. The thick smoke from the shells and incinerators blanketed the area, shrouded our movement. One could hope the orange paint on our helmets was visible, be a shame to buy it from one of our own. Haurn was over the parapet first and I followed close behind. The trench was nearly two meters deep, at one point well maintained, but the preceding AT-DT bombardment gnarled sections to mere heaps of dirt. Charred bodies of MLA volunteers lay contorted at our feet, victims of our grenade work. Ahead was the entrance to the bunker. Dashnik came up with Tundy and the covering squad. The squad broke off to the left, to clear MLA forces in that direction.
An Abendnedo stood dazed directly before us within the trench. With a shot from the scatter blaster, the confused alien was eviscerated by Haurn. The door to the bunker was opened and two humans carried a screaming Twi'lek, covered in burns, from the interior. The humans spotted us, froze momentarily out of indecision and fright. I braced against the wall of the trench, atop some sandbags and leveled my E-11. The closest human collapsed from a blaster bolt I put through his chest. The second human dropped the wounded Twi'lek, who screeched from the pain, and retreated to the confines of the bunker, slammed the durasteel door shut. Haurn crept closer, fired a killing shot into the Twi'lek to shut him up. The vicinity to the rear of the bunker was a circular, fortified position about three meters across. I rushed to the door and pressed a hand to it, locked as suspected. Nodding to Haurn for a detonite charge, she turned, and I was able to take one of the cylinders of explosive from her back carrier. Dash dragged Tundy up and they knelt to provide cover. By this point, we were joined by Remov and Govnic, who leapt into the position. Remov situated himself against some sandbags and fired his DLT-19 at the MLA dispersed in the works to the bunker's left.
Of the three detonite canisters Haurn and I each carried, two were high explosive and one was a shaped charge, ideal for blasting through armor by directing the kinetic force of the explosion –perfect for liquefying all within. The detonite charges contained magnetic clamps, which allowed it to be affixed to the bunker's door. In my excitement, and the fact the cylinders are visually near identical, I grabbed the high explosive detonite instead of the shaped charge. There are a few discernable markings, but you miss those when rushed. Dialing the timer for fifteen seconds, I called out the blast warning. In the rare bit of thinking, the entire sapper squad withdrew into the section of the trench previously cleared. We hunkered down and awaited the boom, sheltered behind a diagonal traverse.
The blast, because it was a high explosive and not a shaped charge, was massive. I was the last away, so I was closest to the detonation. The noise deafened the cacophony of the battle that raged about. The force of the explosion was absorbed by the traverse, and it collapsed, though its presence spared us considerable injury from the shockwave. I felt as if I lost consciousness for several moments, then pressure on my chest prevented me from breathing. When I gasped, my mouth filled with dirt. At once seized by panic, I knew I was trapped, buried. The confinement induced terror and I was in a frenzy, desperate to escape. My arms and legs were pinned, for I could not move them to free myself. I could only see darkness, then a small beam of light, which slowly grew. My ears rang, head pounded. When my senses recovered, I recognized Haurn frantically digging. With her hands, she threw heaps aside, brushed the dirt from my body.
The moment my arms were freed, I grabbed ahold of the straps to Haurn's armor, tried with all my might to pull myself close to her, to be in her protective embrace. The ordeal was terrifying, I was so afraid, my body shook uncontrollably. My breathing was deep and rapid. At one point I began screaming, even though I was no longer in danger, I could not control it, could not stop. I thrashed about, as would a wild beast. It was so bad, Haurn slapped me across the face, which settled my anxious state considerably.
"Paulus, Paulus," Haurn spoke to me in a soothing voice. "You're alright. You're out. You're with me."
She grasped my shoulders and carefully lifted me to sit upright. I wheezed, inhaled with significant exertion, as I coughed and spit the dirt from my mouth. Her expression betrayed the concern she felt. She removed my helmet, gently rubbed the grime that covered my face, pulled my head close, so my cheek pressed against hers.
"Breathe slowly," Haurn said calmly, as she cradled my head with her palm. "Don't scare me like that again."
It was soothing to be held, to feel safe. I remained anxious; tremors rushed through my body. Behind Haurn was Dashnik, both hands pressed to his ears to alleviate the ringing pain.
"ASSHOLE!" Dashnik shouted.
Fortunate for the sappers, I was the only one to be buried in the traverse collapse. While I was in the process of being excavated, Govnic, who had been the furthest from the blast and seemingly the least impacted, rushed by our dazed group with his incinerator prepared. He loosed a jet of conflagrine into the large opening I blasted in the rear of the bunker. Any MLA that may have survived the explosion was in the process of being cooked.
"Idiot!" Remov sounded, his head splitting. "Do you not know what a shaped charge is!?"
"Piss off," Haurn snarled, passed me a canteen to rinse the dirt from my mouth.
Dashnik drew a flare pistol and raised it, fired a green flare skyward. The burst signaled to the friendly forces across the area of operations that the bunker at our location had been neutralized. Helped to my feet, I was able to survey the battlefield. Only the front half of the bunker remained, the back portion was destroyed in the blast. A crater replaced the defensive position at the bunker's rear. Fires burned across this piece of Hill 211, projected thick plumes of black smoke. There was an overwhelming toxic smell associated with the fires, a mixture of melting plastoid and flesh. The MLA dead were scattered in great numbers. Steadily, troopers from 4 Company trickled into the position, climbed over the works. Some took to looting the corpses of the MLA combatants in search of mementos, while any intact stockpile the enemy left was subsequently pillaged. The supplies shipped to the MLA were donated from benefactors with deep pockets, meaning the equipment was expensive, top of the line. For those of us who struggled with the worn-down Army issue kit, none would pass up the opportunity to pilfer a waterproof blanket or insulated gloves. Highly sought after were the savory camping meals, which wealthy individuals eat when they want to experience the outdoors without sacrificing comfort. Another green flare at the opposite end of Hill 211 burst, another bunker fell to Imperial forces.
The weight of the detonite charges left my back in considerable pain. I removed the carrying rack and sat down on the lip of the newly blasted crater to rest, Haurn by my side. My foot anxiously tapped, and I had no ability to make it stop. When I tried to light a cigarra, my shaking hand prevented me from igniting the hand torch. Haurn had to take over, placing the cigarra between my lips and lighting it. Barely able to manage a single puff before I ripped the tabac stick from my mouth and threw it to the ground. Another wave of panic supplanted my nerves, thoughts of being crushed once again under mounds of dirt. I tried with all effort to internalize the reaction, withhold the urge to erupt in another bout of screaming. Haurn stayed close by my side, took my hand in hers, as we sat. The other sappers were established within the crater –reclined against the walls to rest. Dashnik left us with instructions not to wander while he went to update Andrin.
Lt. Tymin ordered 4 Company to secure a defensible position and dig in. There existed the expectation MLA forces would launch a counterattack to drive our battalion from our rightly won prize. It would be up to us to hold our gains until reinforcements were sent forward to continue the advance. Two comms operators established nearby and worked futilely to link communications with our relief force, though were unable to crack the interference caused by the heavy ionization. Spades cracking in the dirt reverberated about, joined by sandbags being lofted into piles. Blaster exchanges and grenades echoed not far to our left flank. Medics and the delegated stretcher bearers began their grisly obligation, as they collected the troopers struck down in the fighting. 4 Company was rather fortunate, out of the one hundred and forty-three engaged, twenty-four were killed with thirty-one wounded. The medics worked so efficiently; one spared a moment to assess my condition.
"What happened to him?" the medic inquired, as he shone a light in my eye. "Where'd he get hit?"
"He was buried," Haurn answered on my behalf. "Trench collapsed on top of him."
The medic continued his examination, pulled the skin down below each eye while shining the light for a closer inspection.
"How many amphetamines he take?" the medic pressed.
"Whole platoon is on stims," replied Haurn. "We've been up all night looking forward to this mess."
"He's shook up, strung out," stated the medic. "You could take him to the battalion aid post, but Doc Lorga would just send him back here since he's not wounded. I'd advise laying off the ration bars for a bit. I'll dose him with half a hit of sedative to take the edge off. That'll bring him down in the meantime. Not much more than that I can do."
Haurn needed to assist the medic in holding my shaking arm still, I did not feel the applicator needle pierce my skin. In only a few moments, my breathing slowed to a more manageable pace and the tremors subsided. I let myself slide down into the crater, pressed my back into the wall, splayed out. Though only a partial dosing, the sedatives went to work on my weary body, and I soon found myself drifting off to a deep sleep.
The Voran Offensive was a monument to the military prowess of Brigadier Pellond and his shrewd tactical genius. It was the masterful union of combined arms operation and material warfare. The grand maneuver to sweep the enemy before us, as you would bat away a small branch that obstructs your path. It was the perfect strategy, if only the entire ordeal were waged in a heavily weighted battle simulator under the most ideal conditions. The intelligence on the Mimbanese resistance was grossly underestimated, or the belief in the success of our strategy was hubristic. Our battalion and a Stormtrooper company, in a neighboring sector of operations, were the only units to achieve their objectives on the first day of the Offensive. A myriad of complications attributed to the operational failures. Flight Branch devalued the MLA's ability to produce anti-craft batteries in sufficient quantities and took no measures to adapt their bombing formations to compensate. As consequence, the Starfighter Corps lost half of the allocated TIE bombers in the opening hours. The heavy atmospheric ionization of Mimban, once again, plagued the Imperial ability to communicate at distances through commlinks –a dangerous prospect when attempting to coordinate artillery barrages against enemy strongpoints. The assaulting infantry were issued with colored signal flares to alert the artillerists to cease fire on a position. Though, the thick morning fog that hung over the battlefield and the heavy smoke severely restricted visibility. Unintentional fratricide was an all-too-common occurrence simply because the gunners could not see the flares and adjust fire. The signals specialists attempted to lay network cables, to allow units to communicate via this archaic method. The cables facilitated point to point, uninterrupted comms, but were easily severed by impacting bombs or the negligent walker driver mistakenly trampling one. 15,000 Imperial troopers stepped off under the order to advance, by the evening hours there were 6,000 casualties. Shattered formations slogged back to their original trenches, others remained pinned before the positions they were supposed to capture, some completely ceased to exist.
I felt a hand press my shoulder, woke me from the bit of peaceful rest I managed. The anxious state, the fear experienced earlier from being buried beneath the collapsing trench was lessened. When I looked up, I saw Remov.
"Dash is back," Remov spoke, his tone returned to the familiar melancholy. "Andrin wants the platoon gathered at the hilltop. Supposed to bring your gear, 'cause we ain't coming back."
It was past midday. The relief force, meant to reinforce our position, was diverted –fed piecemeal to bolster other units that faltered in their advance. The echoes of artillery, the firing of blasters, the roars of twin ion engines enveloped the battlefield. I had slept, in no small part with the aid of that sedative, longer than I anticipated or wanted. To my side was Haurn, also asleep and reclined against the wall of the crater. I nudged her with my elbow enough to wake her, which was answered in a displeased snarl. We collected our things, the cumbersome detonite charges included, and trudged to the crest of Hill 211. Debris and impact craters pocked the terrain up to the summit. The hyperbaride extraction derricks, the ones we were to capture intact for the restoration of production, lay collapsed in a jumble of mangled steel. Commotion appeared the order, as troopers frantically worked to erect trenches from the blasted MLA works, though faced in the about direction toward the enemy. A signal specialist rigged a sentry light and flashed an urgent message in the direction of the Imperial lines, in a primitive attempt to contact our forces.
The closest MLA strongpoint, Hill 376, was less than three kilometers away. It was the objective of the 669th Infantry Regiment to secure the hill, viewed as strategically significant, in conjunction with our capture of Hill 211. At this hour, the position remained in enemy hands. There was enough daylight to view the contest, as combatants wrestled for control. Arcs of blasters raced along the slopes. Thermal detonator explosions flashed sporadically in the desperate struggle. Torrents of fire spewed from incinerators, set patches of the ground ablaze. At intervals, well targeted MLA artillery fire descended at the foot of the hill, effectively trapping the regiment by cutting their avenue of escape and preventing the movement of reinforcements. The enemy was well entrenched and held off the Imperials. The 669th lacked the strength to carry the objective and the barrage would not permit a withdrawal. AT-DTs attempted to blast the MLA positions, but the bugs were too well entrenched to be evicted through bombardment alone. A squadron of IPTs, laden with Stormtroopers, conducted an air-assault to insert forces directly on top of the bugs –until the ion-flak and repeating blasters brought down more craft than command was willing to deem expendable. Additional flights were suspended until the bosses could determine an appropriate course of action.
Maj. Brimmo dismissed his conference with the battalion's officers. Andrin exchanged a few parting words with the major, then gathered the sappers to relay the latest assignment. The sapper platoon began the morning with thirty-eight, but only twenty-four were present. On the patch of dirt before the assemblage, Andrin traced the outline of an oblong perimeter, emphasized circles at three points. He then added large crosses to indicate Hills 211 and 376.
"Five klicks to the west," Andrin lectured, pointed to the details of his crude drawing. "The bugs occupied this artillery firebase, part of the Voran fortress network. It's comprised of three reinforced blockhouses connected by trenches that ring the perimeter, with smaller pillboxes for their repeaters. All of this is to protect the battery of AV-9 howitzers, mounted on retractable carriages, at the center."
"For those of you who don't know, it's the disappearing gun principle," the sergeant-major, the true combat engineer, interjected. "The howitzers are housed in underground bunkers, protected enough to resist bombardment. They are elevated and exposed just long enough to fire, before being retracted to safety to reload. This does not give our arty the opportunity to return fire and communications are too kriffed to coordinate a strike."
"Which brings us to our unenviable task," Andrin resumed. "That battery is giving the Six-Sixty-Ninth hell taking their objective. Brigade managed to get a runner through to Brimmo, and they ordered an infantry assault to neutralize those howitzers."
A collective moan of reluctance and frustration arose from the sappers. All were weary and preferred a night on guard as opposed to an offensive action.
"SHUT IT!" snapped Andrin, silencing his troopers. "We aren't going alone on this one. Command doesn't want a failure, so Lieutenant Tymin and Four Company will provide the assault force while we focus on the bunkers."
"This job beneath Dangir?" Dashnik interrupted with his cheery humor.
The sappers added a small laugh or exchanged a derogatory comment on the leadership of the notorious, now Captain, Dangir.
"It's not like he didn't plea for command of the op," Andrin smirked. "But, like I said earlier, command wants this to succeed. Adding to that, a few GAVs have been detailed as our armor support."
Whistles and boastful remarks erupted, as confidence in the vehicle accompaniment lifted our spirits.
"Don't let it go to your heads," Andrin refocused the attention. "Armor just gives the Mimbos something to shoot at, but they'll still be shooting. Don't count on the vehicles to do the heavy lifting. If the going gets tough, I haven't known a driver who wouldn't cut and run. They'll be doing enough if they can keep the bugs pinned, or at the very least distracted, so we can make our approach. It'll be just like we rehearsed and like what we carried out here. The armor will punch a way through, and we blow the bunkers with the howitzers inside. Just so we don't have any further confusion, if you haven't already, clearly mark your high-ex from shaped charges. I'm talking to you, Maider."
The TX-225 jostled us about on the uneven terrain. It was by now night, the radiance of one of the moons cast the darkened land in a pale hue. We were situated in the cargo bed and on the sides, the sloping front. The sappers and 4 Company distributed our numbers between each of the tanks and we packed ourselves tightly aboard. It was not much to mind, as it was preferable to walking and there was significant ground that had to be covered quickly. Eight of the "Occupier" tanks were delegated to serve as assault guns, support the infantry in overcoming the fortified positions and blockhouses of the enemy's firebase –short work for the vehicles' forward mounted laser cannons.
"You all hear what Dangir managed?" Dashnik piped up, to fill our lengthy drive with conversation.
"Why would anyone care about that di'kut?" Haurn offered a curt response.
"Well, that big shell chasm?" Dashnik continued, solicited or not. "Right before the bug lines going up to two-eleven. The one Maider made that whole fuss about avoiding and everyone was briefed to avoid. Dangir decided against skirting around and took his whole company right through it. Lost damn near sixty troopers when they came under fire trying to get out."
"No shit!" Govnic erupted in amazement.
"That Dangir…sure does sounds like a idiot," Tundy unexpectedly added to the discourse.
Govnic smacked Tundy several times on the back in a buoyant fashion, as he hollered in laughter. The two had become great friends over the recent days, always exchanging rude jokes and howling like juveniles.
"Tundy is the funny one!" Govnic declared and drew our attention to his comrade. "Go on mate, tell 'em how'd you end up 'ere!"
"I…I j-just borrowed a air speeder, j-just wan-ted a short drive," Tundy stammered, hesitant over the added attention. "D-didn't know it w-was the m-magistrate's. M-my dad didn't l'like that."
Govnic found the tale more amusing than most of the listeners and made that point known with a raucous fit of laughter. While the squad enjoyed the merriment, I felt distant, detached. Usually inclined to participate in their revelry, I had not been myself since the collapse of the trench, the sensation of being buried alive. So, I sat quietly and listened, tried not to come across as a gonk suffering from combat shock.
Established doctrine would have our force attempt to outflank the enemy position and strike. However, the firebase provided no flank to turn, no ideal vantage to enfilade our fire. The devised strategy for this operation called for a detached platoon with two tanks, to hammer a section of the firebase, while the main force penetrated a weak section in the line. The TX-225s were present to cover our advance and, hopefully, suppress or neutralize the blockhouses, allowing the infantry to surge into the enemy's works. Troopers could then move along the trenches, clearing them of MLA combatants. The sappers had to work our way through the lines and gain access to the bunkers containing the artillery –we'd plant the detonite and destroy the battery. We had some idea of what we were up against, a scout trooper team performed a reconnaissance of the firebase only a few hours prior.
Andrin reorganized the squad arrangements to account for the depleted numbers, rather than six squads of six sappers, it would now be three squads of eight. The sergeant-major would take personal command of our squad with Makis attached in the supplemental role of grenadier. A platoon from 4 Company would advance with us to our objective. Once the bunkers were secured and trenches cleared, we would regroup and turn our collective attention on destroying the battery. Intelligence reported the firebase was primarily defended by Mimbanese fighters, with specialists, trained by the clones, crewing the artillery pieces within, which accounted for the accurate fire.
The lead Occupier came to a halt, forced the column to stop, we were in the second vehicle. Its commander stood in the hatch, with a pair of macrobinoculars, as he surveyed the terrain ahead. Andrin was aboard and conversed with the commander. This was a suitable position to commence the attack and we were ordered to dismount the vehicles. Bitter, the troopers climbed down, and sappers hauled the specialized equipment we needed to accomplish the errand. The armor turned from their column to adopt a front, with fifteen meters spaced between each vehicle.
The sappers dispersed by squads, utilized the terrain and cover to creep to the enemy position ahead. 4 Company divided by platoons, and further by squads, and began to move forward with the support of the assault tanks. The Imperial artillery ranged against the firebase, in an unsuccessful bid to eliminate the battery, destroyed much of the razor wire engagements, so our approach went largely unhindered –any remaining bits would be crushed beneath the advancing vehicles. The constant artillery bombardment transformed the area with countless impact craters, providing excellent cover for our approach, though at the cost of rapid movement. While the shell holes afforded the infantry protection, the vehicles met the craters with difficulty. One TX-225, the driver unable to gauge the depth, drove into a crater and became hopelessly stuck. All efforts to free the vehicle failed and it was soon abandoned by its crew. The other assault tanks had to slow their advance to navigate around the obstacles.
The creaking of tank tracks or the shadows against the moonlit landscape betrayed our approach. The repeating blaster cannon, must have been a Mark II, situated within a pillbox opened fire. Alarm klaxon blared from the firebase, as the MLA raced to their posts. A TX-225, one with the clear shot, opened fire with its dual-twin medium laser cannons. The tank's commander suppressed the area surrounding with bolts from the automatic blaster mounted to his hatch. The pillbox crumbled under the punishment dealt, as two additional TX-225s on each flank consolidated their fire. We kept pace with the advancing tanks. The enemy brought a few weapons against us, mostly focused on the armored fighting vehicles, and we were permitted to cover considerable ground. The night was aglow with the lights from bolts, as they raced between the opposing sides, over our heads, or to offer an unfortunate trooper deliverance from this misery.
A brilliant flash accompanied by a loud explosion heightened our alert. A rocket fired at the TX-225, in the center of the formation, struck its target. The tank survived, but the rocket destroyed the vehicle's left track, disabled its movement. It caused for some hesitation, troopers expecting it for support were unsure how to proceed, until their NCO pressed them forward with shouts. The sapper squads, we knew our role, were not reliant on the assistance of tanks to support our advance. We trained how to take advantage of terrain features to cover our movement, approach the blindside of the enemy's emplaced weapons. A second rocket hit the now disabled TX-225, directly above the driver's position. A brilliant light emitted from the opened top hatch, the commander scrambled out from his station, trousers engulfed in flames. Screams echoed from the interior, as the driver and gunner burned to death. Troopers nearby urgently worked to douse the chemical fire with raincloaks and hands, though to no avail, as the commander shortly succumbed to the burns.
Two infantry squads and a TX-225 advanced toward a blockhouse. The operations directive advised against frontal attacks on these fortified structures, favoring flanking tactics and indirect methods. The blockhouses contained anti-armor laser cannons, quite effective against our assault tanks. Either the vehicle crew and infantry ignored the directive or were out of position to execute their role as the suppression element. The gunner of the TX-225 fired the vehicle's weapons, the bolts struck the blockhouse, but were unable to penetrate the layers of reinforced duracrete. To answer, the defenders within the blockhouse ran out their cannon, the barrel extended through the aperture. A single flash raced forth and the next moment was greeted by the TX-225 exploding in a great blast. Those infantry squads dependent on the assault tank for support quickly ran up against the mounting fire of the Mimbo's repeating blasters: Mark IIs and E-Webs. The squads were cut to pieces and forced to pull back.
The resistance in the trenches of the firebase was stiffer than expected –more repeating blasters opened upon our quickly diminishing ranks. The scouts were off on their count when they reported the number of emplacements and pillboxes. The enemy stationed here had access to what seemed to us, a vast quantity of RPS-6 rocket launchers and a limitless supply of corresponding munitions. Bugs armed with the RPS-6 destroyed two additional TX-225s. The loss of so many vehicles discouraged the crews of the remaining three. They shifted their assault tanks into reverse and withdrew from the fight, unwilling to shoulder responsibility for further armor losses. Though, this had not been a one-sided fight. Before their decimation, the TX-225s leveled numerous pillboxes with salvos from their laser cannons, enough to create a hole in the enemy's line able to be exploited.
4 Company reorganized to continue the attack, much owed to the driving leadership of Lt. Tymin. My squad kept our distance from the assault tanks, away from those targets that soaked up the enemy's fire. Using the terrain, the squad advanced from cover to cover. It was dark, night in full bloom, and we held our fire, so as not to reveal ourselves as we moved, remain cloaked in the shadows. We were within fifty meters of the enemy, and we leapt into a crater to draw up our strength, our nerve for the final sprint.
"Haurn, Maider, and Govnic, you three are on me!" the sergeant-major commanded, turned his head. "Dashnik, you take Tundy, Makis, and Remov. We move by fours, quick. Twenty meters out, we throw our grenades and rush the trench. Speed and violence will carry the day, remember that."
I started off first, to lead the rest of the squad forward. Thinking prudently, I only brought a single detonite canister, as I could move more quickly, and one was enough to accomplish the job. Haurn was similarly equipped. Haurn and I overburdened ourselves with grenades –suitable to clear the enemy from the trenches in our path, as we proceeded to the artillery bunkers. Aptly dispersed, with ample spacing between each of us, the squad crept forward. It was Haurn, the best judge of distance, who stopped us at the appropriate mark. Every sapper carried grenades, only Haurn and I had appreciably more, and we all took one from our belts. The sergeant-major counted, three, two, one. The bombs hurled through the air, descended upon the open top of the trench. Some sailed directly in, others bounced about the parapet before plunging down. Eight small explosions ripped along the trench, merged with last gasps and wails. As fast as our legs would permit, we tore across those last meters. Over impact craters, shell holes, and whatever battlefield detritus littered the path. You charge ahead, excited in the moment, your adrenaline pushes all other fears and considerations aside. I could not, for the moment, even fathom the dread felt earlier from being buried, so focused on reaching the trench without harm.
Instantly, we were upon them. Remov stood atop the parapet and raked the enemy, confined below, with enfilade fire from the DLT-19. Haurn was the first to land within the trench, swiftly set about to blasting the few recovering, wounded by the grenades, enemies with her scatter blaster. The rest of the squad leapt in, save Remov, who adopted a prone position against the sandbags of the parapet and maintained a covering fire. The trench was in a traverse layout, every six meters of trench was interrupted by a two-meter-thick traverse. The walls were poured duracrete, hardened to provide a permanent defense that required more protection and less upkeep than a counterpart dug from the mud. Boots tread upon the lifeless bodies of the bugs. They were so tightly packed, our grenades so deadly, there was no option but to step upon their corpses so as to move across the trench.
At the first traverse, Haurn pressed against the corner, as I took a grenade in hand. Blasters were firing on the other side, the enemy engaging our infantry still beyond the works. I tossed the stick grenade over the top of the traverse, directly into the adjoining trench behind. The bomb reverberated with a loud concussion; the walls of the trench vibrated. Haurn bounded around the corner with her SX-21, dispatched those not killed by the grenade. To our left, constructed into the wall of the trench was a small dugout. Govnic proceeded directly behind, turned, and fired his incinerator into the enclosed space. A few wounded bugs might have been taken inside earlier in the fight for medical aid, were most assuredly immolated, but it was not possible to confirm. Upon the next traverse, we repeated the process. Another grenade thrown over, Haurn moving to follow up quickly. Our motions were automatic, our pace so rapid the Dashnik's group had great difficulty keeping up.
The trench was well suited as a position to fire upon advancing infantry in the distance, originally built to face the vast formations of battle droids. To infiltrators, like ourselves, the trench offered us the tactical advantage, confining the defenders with little recourse against our unconventional methods. When we came upon a pillbox, all that was required was to toss a grenade through the rear hatch, as the shelter was only large enough to accommodate two persons and their repeating blaster. The gunners were so occupied with loosing bolts down range, they failed to notice the carnage ensuing at their backs, or the bomb clattering at their feet. At present, we urgently searched for a communications trench, the route which would connect us to the bunkers where the howitzers resided. Though none were to be found. The dugouts we passed were only small interiors and offered no passages, so I threw in a grenade or Govnic turned his flamer upon each we encountered.
The sergeant-major called us to halt at the next traverse, mainly to allow the trailing section to rejoin. Haurn stood poised with her scatter blaster leveled, prepared to dispatch an enemy should one appear. I held a stick grenade in my hand, breathed heavily from the exhaustion, the exertion I put myself through to bring us to this spot. Dashnik came up quickly, heavily winded, along with Tundy and Makis. Remov was the last, facing the rear and firing his DLT-19 on fully automatic. As far as we could tell, no others from 4 Company were nearby. Our squad was pursued by several MLA volunteers, though they were held back by Remov employing his repeating blaster in a rearguard action. Tundy dropped to a knee beside Remov and fired his E-10 in support. It should be mentioned about Tundy, in a combat scenario, as we found ourselves involved, he acts as if he were an automaton. Each shot followed a rhythmic pace, the pace laid out in the manual when a trooper is to lay defensive fire upon an advancing enemy. Even when he reloads, the motions are verbatim from the graphics in the training manual –we all adapt our own style to speed up the process or make it ergonomic, but his were exact, no deviation. This coming from the same Tundy who I had to field strip his blaster on several occasions because he did understand the instruction on how to do it.
"Any idea where the passageway is, sergeant-major?" Dashnik broached the subject.
"There's one of those large blockhouses ahead," the sergeant-major spoke, pointed out the fortified structure. "Looks like forty meters between us and it. If there's an access point to the artillery bunkers, surely it must be through there?"
"So, you don't know!?" Govnic scoffed in reply.
"Ne'johaa Govnic!" Makis snapped.
The sergeant-major smacked Govnic's helmet, as retribution for the insubordinate outburst. A shouting match brewed between the involved parties and the momentum we built in the advance through the trench appeared to be lost. Haurn nudged me with her elbow, unwilling to avert her sight from the watchful gaze she held in the enemy's direction.
"Throw your grenade and let's keep this going," Haurn spoke with conviction, a silent rage burned from inside. "They can follow if they want, or we can leave them here to play with their dicks. We're dead if we don't keep moving."
I nodded back to Haurn, prepped the grenade, and threw it into the adjacent section of trench. The bomb detonated and Haurn charged ahead –both of us leaving the remainder of the squad to sort themselves. It was to our fortune we acted when we did, for a reinforcement section of Mimbos charged down the trench opposite and their leading elements were blasted apart by the grenade. Haurn fired the scatter blaster, raked the foregrip, and fired again, the process in rapid succession. Nowhere to escape the deadly, splintered bolts of the SX-21, the reinforcing enemy were cut down. So aggressive was the fire, I had to takeover with suppression from my E-11 when Haurn crouched to reload. The firefight lasted a few brief moments before the trench was cleared and a single traverse separated us from the entrance to the blockhouse.
The sergeant-major visibly furious at the usurpation of his authority. To be fair, Andrin instilled in his sappers the notion to always seize the initiative. It was a radical departure from the standard Imperial Army doctrine of rigid discipline. So numerous were the Army's ranks with unwilling conscripts and indifferent convicts the need to maintain control was habitual, little consideration was given for allowing troopers to exercise independent action. Haurn and I deduced a course of action and executed such course, accordingly, thus arrived at a successful outcome. I returned a blank expression from the scathing glare of the sergeant-major, as Govnic turned his incinerator on the wounded MLA in this section's dugout. We could hear the roar of the laser cannon, emplaced within the blockhouse, fire into the wastes beyond, into our comrades struggling to advance.
"Maider, Haurn, and Makis," the sergeant-major spoke. "You three, breach and clear that blockhouse. We'll cover from out here. Dash, once it is secure, fire off a green flare, so friendlies know it is ours and can converge on our location. Gov, save your conflagrine. We will need it to burn our way through to the bunker. All clear?"
Most nodded in acknowledgement, but we knew our roles. Andrin instructed us how to approach such situations that we could conduct ourselves even without the supervision of the sergeant-major. I drew another stick grenade from my belt. I would have to be frugal for I was down to my last two. There was always Haurn's supply I could draw upon, as she was preoccupied with the scatter blaster. Once more, I pulled the ignition, threw the grenade to clear any foe who may linger outside the rear door to the blockhouse. Simultaneously, Makis let out a cry of Oya! He raced forward, barreled passed a surprised Haurn, in a bid to be the first one to meet the enemy. In his haste, Makis ran right into the grenade I had just thrown, not waiting for the bomb to explode. We heard the abrupt shriek, knew it was his, and quickly rounded the corner of the traverse after the blast. Two bugs lay wounded from the grenade and were promptly dispatched. Haurn turned to offer a reverence at the lifeless body of Makis, some utterance in Mando'a. In the background, the sergeant-major was swearing over the instance of a friendly-fire casualty.
When I came upon Makis, I paused and just stared. He was someone I hardly knew, though we were both sappers. Mostly, he came around to converse with Haurn in Mando'a and we barely exchanged a word. There was a dreadful feeling of guilt that struck me, as I felt entirely responsible for his death, being it was my grenade. The surrounding combat melted away and my eyes were transfixed on his mangled corpse –severely burned and riddled with shrapnel from the bomb. The remorse made me feel sick, I wanted no further part in this battle. Rather, I wanted to sit down and purge these distressing thoughts from my mind.
Haurn grasped my webbing and pulled me over to her, disrupted the morbid trance. She removed her helmet with a free hand and hooked her arm around my neck, pulled me in for a tender kiss, which felt like it lasted for a blissful eternity.
"Hey," Haurn spoke in a soft, comforting voice, above the raging carnage. "Come back to me."
I took in a long breath, nodded, refocused my attention. The entrance to the blockhouse was down a short flight of steps. Haurn, replacing her helmet, descended first and I was directly behind. Tundy joined, clearly ordered to accompany. Normally, I would be reluctant to have Tundy, but he was proving himself more capable than I expected. Besides, the grenades would perform the bulk of the effort. Our trio was stacked at the archway to enter the blockhouse, we could hear the cannon crew shout and direct their fire. Surprisingly, there was no door to block entry, nor did the enemy occupants notice our encroachment. Haurn and I each held a grenade, pitched them through the arch, heard them clang across the floor. One of the gun crew spotted the grenades, attempted to sound an alert, but they were abruptly silenced. The twin explosions tore through the interior, the walls we pressed against reverberated from the shock.
Haurn was the first to enter, fired her scatter blaster only twice at those bugs who escaped the bombs. The interior of the blockhouse was filled with smoke and an acrid stench, one of the power units that fed the laser cannon was damaged in the blast and emitted noxious fumes. There were half a dozen bodies, the gun's crew, scattered about. Dash was informed the blockhouse was secured, and he promptly fired the green flare. We began a cursory search. I approached each corpse and nudged them with my boot to ensure they were indeed departed. Tundy was right behind me, looking through the pockets of the dead always in the search for credits. Someone started a rumor, which Tundy believed, that the pockets of the bugs were overflowing with credits sent from wealthy benefactors, as if anyone in combat carried large sums of cash on their person. Haurn opened a supply crate and found a bountiful cache of ready-made camping meals, a wonderous haul considering we have subsisted on stale army rations for weeks.
There was one final body, toward the firing aperture of the blockhouse, from which the barrel of the laser cannon extended, laying on its side. With my boot, I rolled the enemy onto its back. The eyes opened and the bug stared back at me, bared its teeth in a terrible, menacing fashion. Grasped in its hands was a thermal detonator and with the last measure of strength, it armed the device. Dumfounded, aghast, I could only stare back at this laughing Mimbo, as the final seconds of the detonator counted. Two hands took hold of each of my arms, and I felt myself tossed aside, to the ground. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of Tundy, who acted without hesitation or regard for his own well-being to pull me from the path of the exploding bomb. I hit the duracrete floor, a rough landing, a violent explosion tore through the room, but I was spared, uninjured. Though, my head pounded from the noise and concussion caused by the blast confined. As I recovered my senses, I was struck by the collapsing body of Tundy. His arms and legs were severely burned, the back piece of his torso armor completely melted, a result of taking the worst of the thermal detonator. Quickly, I knelt, cradled the severely wounded Tundy in my arms and tried to separate the burned portions from the ground. Haurn, also escaping the blast, rushed over with a canister of bacta, paused when she had the extensive wounds in full view. Right away, she knew.
"Heya…is…" Tundy gasped, tried to form the words, though he never once screamed.
"No, no, don't try to talk," I did my best to calm the dying boy, turned to Haurn. "Get Dash, tell him to find a medic!"
Though my plea was desperate, emotion in my words, Haurn did not move, it would make no difference. Rather, Haurn also knelt and took Tundy's hand in hers, held it tightly and gently rubbed his forehead. As much as we wanted to go for help, there was nothing that could be done. What Tundy needed most, the most anyone could do for him, was to be by his side as he breathed his last.
"I'm…sorry…Ma…Maid…" Tundy stammered, his body shook, breathing labored.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," I replied, doing my best to hold back the emotions.
"C…can you…" Tundy ignored our advice and, with great pains, continued to speak. "Ask…my dad to…come get me?"
Choking through one last hard gasp, Tundy went silent, his body limp. Gently, we set his body down, both Haurn and I said nothing. I had the worst feeling of regret, shame for the way in which I spoke about and behaved towards Tundy. I survived because he pulled me out of the way in time, laid down his life for mine. There is no way to know for certain why he did, maybe it was instinct for him to help a comrade or did he feel like he owed me something? The latter notion makes me feel sick, I am not worth saving if for that reason.
The blast, after being told the blockhouse was clear, alerted the sergeant-major and he raced to inspect along with Govnic. Before our sergeant-major could demand a report, upon recognizing the lifeless Tundy, us in our dejected condition, he was shoved aside by an excited Govnic. Govnic was in a state of great agitation when he saw his friend was dead –began shouting and howling, a mixture of despair and rage. Interspersed with the cries, he took to assaulting the corpses of the Mimbanese scattered throughout the blockhouse, mutilating the dead. Commotion outside required our attention, as Dashnik called to the sergeant-major in alarm.
Remov blasted away with his DLT-19, braced against the parados of the trench, and fired upon the interior of the firebase. Three troopers from 4 Company arrived and took up similar firing positions, the only remnant of their squad –found us after wandering about in confusion. A force of Mimbos, about platoon strength, charged from an unseen point to recapture their lost blockhouse. What considerations and sentiments there were for Tundy required deferment to deal with the enemy at hand. We arranged ourselves along the trench's parados and loosed bolts against the advancing horde. The bugs had two light mortars to support their effort against the blockhouse and began dropping bombs, which compelled us to seek cover and our fire slackened. A squad of Mimbos advanced down the trench to our left. Haurn threw a series of grenades in rapid succession to deter their further encroachment, but it only purchased a limited respite before the bugs could regroup. A massive explosion rocked a section of the firebase, one of the bunkers housing an artillery piece erupted –detonated by one of our sapper squads who made it through and the only howitzer to be destroyed during this assault. To add, a distraught Govnic emerged from the blockhouse, Tundy's body held between both arms, the beast trembled, almost in a mania. Everything happened at once, your focus wants to pull you in every direction, to fixate on the most pressing matter. Those not acclimated to the stress would be overwhelmed and suffer a breakdown. Many who were accustomed, faced it day in and day out, were not immune to the stresses.
It was the sergeant-major who arrived at the decision. Our position was untenable, reinforcements were scattered, the coordination of the attack devolved into confusion, and we still could not find an avenue to the artillery bunkers. The only option was to withdraw. Haurn and I were ordered to set our detonite charges in the blockhouse with a time-delay. As we programed the time-delay fuses, Dashnik, with the aid of one of the troopers, held back a crazed Govnic from charging directly at the enemy in his fury. The bodies of Tundy and Makis, we had to leave behind, for it was not possible to transport them in the withdrawal. We hurriedly, but reverently placed them against a traverse, to be easily found when we would inevitably be ordered to attack the firebase again. Remov laid a suppressive fire, as we scrambled up the wall of the trench and over the parapet. In the motion, a 4 Company trooper was killed. Dashnik took charge of Govnic and led him away into the cover of the darkness. I dropped against the cover of the parapet with Haurn, and we fired several bolts to allow Remov to scramble up and over. It was a rearguard fighting maneuver, one group fired to allow the other to fall back, with roles alternating until significant distance was put between us and the trench.
Against the flames that raged, the shadows cast under the illumination flare, we could see the Mimbo platoon scurry into the works around the blockhouse. The structure was theirs, if only for a few brief moments. The timers expired and twin explosions from the detonite blasts ripped the blockhouse apart. Designed to withstand eternal bombardment, the blockhouse easily shredded from the detonite planted inside. It was one measure of success we could take away from this disastrous night. Though the situation did not permit a moment to bask or even catch our breath. Blasters fired at our position, and we were separated from friendly forces.
Dawn was beginning to shed the darkness, fill the ground with the subdued glow of the sun's rays. Hill 211 was visible in the distance and our party set out in its direction, thoroughly exhausted. The march was solemn, we had tasted failure, suffered loss. To add further insult, the howitzers of the firebase elevated and hurled another salvo upon our beleaguered, struggling comrades. All the blood spilled, and we only served as a nuisance. This concluded the first day of the lamented Voran Offensive. The thought of continuing cast about a bleak sentiment, filled our hearts with pessimism.
000