Operational Delays
The appointed hour had arrived. We were going over the top, the attack was on. The assault platoon awoke two hours before sunrise, and we hasten to ready ourselves. We fitted our armor, stuffed every pocket and ammunition pouch with spare charge packs, hoisted equipment, adjusted respirators, and slung rifles. I helped Haurn strap the cylindrical detonite canisters to her back, she in turn did the same to assist me. She and I shared one last kiss before we affixed our respirators. We took our satchels of grenades, while Govnic his flamer, Remov his DLT-19. There was a sense of nervousness, the trepidation felt before you take the plunge headlong into the furnace. Though, mostly through Andrin's relentless showing of those holo-vids, our anger was fueled, resolved to exact retribution against the Mimbos and any who might be complicit in their cause.
The assault platoon, quietly and in good order, departed our dugout and filed into the trench. We were a stark contrast to the other companies of the battalion, whose motley organization and disheveled appearance told of the preparatory efforts for the operation. Those companies of riflemen did not carry out extensive training for the assault on Hill 211. Rather, their time was spent on the work details, sentry duties, and endless badgering from officers. When we attacked, they were told to cover us [the sappers] with suppression fire, so we could work destroying the bunkers. Nothing was said, concerning contingency plans, if the assault platoon was wiped out or incapacitated in some manner –the rifle companies had no idea how to take down a bunker or trench other than running right at it. Similarly, they lacked a strategy to coordinate with the walker and armored units.
It took over an hour to get from the support trench to the frontline. An hour of standing, waiting, taking a step forward, and waiting some more. The communication trenches were congested with all manner of units attempting to reach their stepping off points. The 8843rd should have already been assigned to the front, then we'd be in place. But alas, the battalion was rotated to the support trenches further back. We had to wait as two battalions of the once again rebuilt 741st Regiment vacated the fire trench, no small feat to displace one thousand troopers! Attaining the frontline position, the assault platoon dispersed along the fire step to better align with our respective objectives, the bunkers we were to destroy.
The battalion arrayed, ladders prepared to take us over the parapet, as we anxiously awaited the orders. Bravado, enthusiasm, the "spirit of the army", became nonsensical terms, no matter how hard the officers plied troopers with their propaganda and impassioned speeches. Not a hand did not tremble, not a trooper immune from the anxiety, the dread of having to go over the top of the trench, hurl ourselves at the murderous fire of the enemy. Doubtless, the reason we were ordered to affix our respirators, conceal the expressions of fear. Even the Mandalorian conscripts, who worshipped these martial engagements and boasted of winning glory, were daunted at the prospect of the genuine encounter. Few spoke, as the dawn cascaded across the horizon. The weather was unusually forgiving today, for there was no rain, conditions favorable –why command picked today to commence the operation. You did not get perfect days on Mimban, because of the rain, the clouds, but this was the closest thing to a perfect day I have ever seen on this forsaken mud-laden hell. Yet, the artillery did not fire.
A massed artillery bombardment was to preempt our advance. It was a coordinated rolling barrage, shells fixed to bombard no man's land to destroy the wire entanglements and obstacles, thus clear a path. The barrage would adjust its range to our front to cover our advance, eventually falling upon the enemy's position, softening them up before we made the closing strike. But we saw no glowing trails of shells, heard not the guns fire. Too, was the air support absent.
"Hey Dash!" Govnic piped up. "Shouldn't they be shooting!?"
"Quiet in the ranks!" Lt. Andrin shouted, enforced the noise discipline.
An hour passed, two, then three hours. Still, we waited for the command to be issued. The artillery remained quiet. As the orders could come through at any moment, we had to remain at the ready. That meant standing in formation, prepared to move up the ladders or otherwise scale the parapet. Not an easy feat when I have twenty kilograms of explosive charges strapped to my back, and that is not accounting for the rest of my equipment. A few weary troopers attempted to sit but were shouted back onto their feet by the vigilant NCOs. Groans erupted from many in the ranks, complaints of fatigue. The growing concern mounted when it reached midday with no orders, either to attack or stand down. The blood was up, we readied to face death, the mounted stress, terror, it warps your mind. You have a feeling of intense fear, knowing at any moment you will be flung to an uncertain fate, either your own death or forced into a brutal match of self-preservation against a foe equally prepared to fight for their life. But prolong the order and you only fuel the nerves.
I was certain, if they sent us now, we would run out of daylight before securing our objective. Once we captured Hill 211, we were to fortify the position and hold against likely MLA counterattacks until relieved by elements of the 741st Regiment, who would push on to the next objective. The opportunity to execute this grand strategic maneuver quickly faded with the setting sun. The battalion was on edge, tempers short. Waiting impatiently all day, arguments erupted when troopers defied the NCOs, stripped off their equipment and sprawled out to rest. The day spent with racing adrenaline, yourself in mortal danger, individuals could no longer control themselves and lashed out. Physical altercations broke out among the enlisted ranks over petty matters, a trooper wanted another's spot to lay down or someone was bumped into. Insults were hurled at superiors with no regard for the punishment. We appeared more ready to fight ourselves than the enemy. The officers were on the verge of losing control, a mutiny.
Nearly time for supper, it was announced the assault had been canceled and we were to be sent to the rear for rest. Major Brimmo held off delivering news of the cancellation until a fresh battalion from the 741st was already moving forward as our relief for the frontline –this would abate our grievances and supplant our frustrations with concentration on reaching the rear areas, where kitchens, hot showers, and quarters awaited. As expected, the prospects of comforts dissuaded further notions of insubordination. No official explanation was given for the postponement of the assault. Though we were free to speculate, some said the artillerists did not have an adequate number of shells, commanders were not sufficiently briefed on objectives, while some claim the mechanized units were not in place because the drivers and crews were not told to be.
The 8843rd Battalion was rotated out of the trenches and moved to a rest billet within the rear echelon. For three days, we were able to live like human beings. We indulged in the hot showers to thoroughly scrub the grime from our putrid bodies, cleanse our flesh. There was a fresh uniform issue and we rejoiced to don clothes free of the parasites. The field kitchens were in this section, so we could get a hot meal immediately, as opposed to waiting for the rationers to arrive laden with cold food. We are billeted in tents, more formally those collapsible rapid assembly shelters, which showed obvious wear from the never-ending rotations of occupants: mattresses permanently stained, linens ripped, mud tracked into every corner. Despite the sloven conditions, we felt as if we lived in the Imperial Palace, when compared to bedding down in the trenches. These tents were quite well insulated and equipped with power distribution units, able to furnish us with light and run the heater, a most welcome luxury.
Never to be outdone, Lt. Dangir of 3 Company organized a strict physical readiness routine for the troopers under his command. Thankfully, assignment to the assault platoon placed us outside of his purview and I, along with Haurn, found a choice observation spot to watch the officious lieutenant drive his troopers about. 3 Company was not afforded a respite, rather, their hours were occupied with forced marches around the tarmac in full kit. At other times, they would have to drop their packs to be called into formation and engage in calisthenics. These poor fellows went about their exercises with resentment and envy toward the other units of the battalion –whose officers truly comprehended the meaning of "rest rotation" for their troopers. You had to pity 3 Company, their venerable Lt. Dangir hardly participated in the workouts he demanded of his command, instead disappearing to battalion headquarters at every opportunity to seek the favor of Maj. Brimmo, while the platoon commanders were left to carry out the machinations of the petulant young officer.
The best night of this horrid campaign, probably the best night of my life, occurred on our second evening of the rest rotation. The logistics corps had a large bunker to shelter their personnel when the Mimbo counterbattery fire grew a bit intense. This bunker consisted of four empty cargo containers welded together and sunk into the ground. The top was covered in dirt, durasteel slabs, and sandbags. An opening was cut with stairs built descending into the large, protected space. Devious is the commissariat, they doubled their bunker as a saloon, stocked with spirits their teamsters distilled and casks smuggled onto Mimban under falsified requisition orders. No official action was taken to close the establishment, as majors and even a colonel were known to frequent. Dashnik, owing to his charm and the fact he knows everyone, secured an exclusive invite to this refuge of the rear echelon. I joined Dash, Haurn, and a large contingent from the assault platoon at the improvised cantina, even Lt. Andrin was there. As the evening wore on, we drank, sang, danced when our hosts turned on the music. For the fleeting hours, rank and duties were excused, petty arguments forgiven, and the specter of death flagrantly ignored. Andrin outdrank every braggart foolish enough to initiate a consumption challenge and showed no symptoms of inebriation. Our lieutenant then threatened to trounce a young ensign who denounced the fraternizing behavior with enlisted as an indecent activity. Govnic was barred from attending due to previous indiscretions and Tundy later asserted he could not find the bunker –I suspect he got distracted by the hypnotic glow given off by our tent's power distribution unit.
Haurn scarcely touched her drink, instead pulled me onto the cleared section reserved for dancing. Though I will confess I am not much for dance, I was not about to squander an opportunity to be close with Haurn. That, and she took my hand and dragged me among the myriad of other couples crammed into that tight space, so there was no objection to the matter. The lack of suitable area meant I had to hold Haurn tightly, we pressed together. There was blatant contempt of the Imperial regulations governing amorous relationships on deployment, as evidenced by the behavior of many on that dance floor. Dash, sly as he is, purposefully took over control of the music and set the subsequent tracks to tunes of slower, more intimate rhythms. Haurn and I, we danced, we kissed, held each other close, not wanting the moment to end.
Though the revelry was still in full swing, Haurn indicated she was tired and wanted to return to the billet. I almost wished her a goodnight, before I caught on to what she insinuated. Quietly, we left the merriment of the bunker, through the grounds of the encampment. An icy downpour blanketed the region, while someone thought it would be an opportune moment for an artillery barrage. The two of us went quickly through the driving rain, as hundreds of field guns and AT-DTs opened a colossal salvo upon the MLA positions.
Our humble little tent was set among the countless others in the endless sea of identical fabric shelters. Thanks to so few units granted rest periods, the tents were below occupancy, and we could distribute our battalion to the extent only four troopers had to share one. Finding ourselves alone in the tent, Haurn and I struggled out of our soaked and frozen clothes. The feelings we held for each other, the months enduring every hardship together, the unbearable time spent apart –I took her arm, pulled her close and kissed her. There was a mixture of nervousness, excitement, panic, and ecstasy, not dissimilar to when you're rushing a wounded Mimbo with an entrenching tool raised and prepared to cleave its head off. Haurn forcefully threw me into the cot, climbed on top. We kissed aggressively, passion and emotion deposing any conscious aim. Haurn dug her nails into my bare chest, deep enough that the thin slices bled. Lost in the moment, I wrapped my hand around her neck, which only served to excite her further. We made love that night, on that small, uncomfortable cot, in the mud-clogged field of this miserable planet. It was one night, between the dancing and intimacy, we could forget about this war, the suffering, the death, and be human, two young people just wanting an escape. No room on the cot to lie down together, we made up a little bed on the floor, to lay in each other's arms, as we drifted off to sleep.
This place is insufferable. The rains are ceaseless, torrents cascade upon us at all hours, in every conceivable manner. We are perpetually drenched by the icy rains, uncontrollably shiver since it is impossible to fully dry your clothes. The dugouts of the trenches leak, flood. The waterproof boots are useless against the pooled water that stands shin deep in our works and no amount of drainage can reduce this accumulation. There have not been clear, or at least favorable, conditions since command called us to stand around all day, for the assault that never materialized. I wish we had attacked, since now we face one postponement after another, as our strategists contend with mounting organizational challenges. If we were sent to our fate, at least we'd have a desperate struggle to give us a purpose or we'd be knocked right out of it and not have a care. Rather, we fight the weather, and it is a cruel foe.
The day our battalion returned to the trenches from our rest, the Wookiee laborers revolted. Two hundred in our sector overpowered the armed Trandoshans, contracted to guard the laborers, and fled into no man's land, presumably welcomed into the ranks of the MLA. Further up the line, fifty Wookiees escaped with another hundred from the sector to our left. I always found their species, at least the ones I've encountered, to appear lethargic, capable of performing work with feats of strength when provoked, but dimwitted. It seems I underestimated the beasts. Fear of a general rising, all Wookiee laborers were removed from frontline deployments, with proximity to the Mimbos, to zones firmly under Imperial control. With the Wookiees gone, the front was denied a force to dig entrenchments, shore up damage and erosion caused by shells and rain, ferry supplies and rations from the rear staging areas to troopers stationed in the trenches. Not even claiming privileges of the dangerous sapper assignment could exclude us from work details.
Andrin was rightly furious when the battalion adjutant presented himself at our dugout one morning and delivered the day's task. While our lieutenant stormed off to the command post to protest before Maj. Brimmo, the battalion adjutant directed us to the main communication trench that linked the support trench with the rear supply depot. No supplies could pass forward, without a lengthy detour, if the route remained closed. A heavy deluge throughout the night eroded the revetments and collapsed the walls. Some critical thinkers at the brigade level equated our sapper title with proper engineers and assigned us this undesirable duty. They could not be bothered to issue us proper shovels for the job, instead we were to go about it with our short entrenching tools –wholly inadequate for the amount of digging that needed to be done. In short order, from the constant bending and crouching, your back is stiff and in considerable pain. Not to mention, we work under the conditions of a torrential downpour, might as well work underwater for comparable effect. It was not safe work either, as the Mimbos fired a salvo at our position. We flattened ourselves and hugged the ground while the bombs fell about. One sapper from the sixth squad was hit in the leg by a rocket fragment and required evacuation. Around midday, two sapper platoons from the 741st were sent to relieve ours, as we were needed to unload supplies from a convoy of HCVw A9.2 transports. Question the logic not, for you will find no reason.
The condition of our works has rapidly deteriorated, though they were never great to begin. The rains liquifies the ground, the trench walls cannot support themselves and topple. Other traverses fill completely with water, and one must wade through to pass. The latrines washed out and the trenches devolved into a sewer. MLA artillery bombardments pulverize whatever sections the rains cannot. The underground tunnels fair little better, as the erosion caused several to buckle and cave in. We spent one night frantically digging a collapsed section at the end of our corridor that trapped most of 4 Company. Usually, the rushing waters cascade down the stairs and flood the dugout. The deep interiors are rendered uninhabitable. Even if you are able to dam the entrance, the water still seeps through the ground and leaks from the ceiling. Our assault platoon had to contend with standing water that came up to our boots within the sapper's chamber.
Night was a hazardous time to be called to serve on a work detail, but they were hours of great activity. With so many collapsed and flooded trenches, it could be faster to climb out and walk on the ground above to achieve your destination. This was possible under the cover of darkness. The light discipline meant troopers proceeding to work could not employ a torch or illuminator to show their way. Consequently, as they trudged about, they would lose their way. Many slipped and tumbled into impact craters. These holes were filled with water from the ceaseless rains. Those who fell in often found they could not get out and froze to death when the temperature plunged. Their hands grasped the craters' edges as testament of a desperate attempt to pull themselves out. Others simply drowned. The next morning, we'd find the bodies.
More bad weather brings more delays. We'll receive an anticipated date to launch the assault on Voran only to have it cancelled hours before we are set to step off. It is frustrating to say the least. To those who have directly confronted the Mimbanese prior, enjoyed the welcomed postponement to our fate, but for most of ours who are here as inexperienced conscripts, their nerves are shot. The cyclical arrangements of mobilizations and cancellations only mount to their stress and fear. Fights are common, initiated by the most trivial of matters among the replacements, who are no longer able to temper their anxieties. Discipline suffers, with troopers refusing to stand watch, join work details, even rouse themselves from their waterlogged bunks. Officers and senior NCOs were too few to effectively beat their subordinates into performing the work. The reserves were too depleted, so shooting malcontents outright was not an option, for the time being.
The lack of proper or even regular rotations and rest periods also contributed to the general agitation. Stormtrooper units are moved every four days, four on the frontline in fire trench, four in support in the cover trench, and then given eight days of rest in the rear echelon. Not so for us mudskulls in the Army, our units spent two- or three-week spans in the trenches, shuffled between frontline and support roles, scarcely sent back to the rear for a break. It has been a month since I was allowed to enjoy the comforts the rear echelon affords. Why cannot we be permitted a proper schedule? I suspect there are too many Army formations to rotate with too few billets to house everyone. There is the fear of leaving the front undermanned in the event the Mimbos try a raid. Perhaps, our officers just hate us. Regardless of the true reason, the circumstances have left us exhausted, strained, combative.
Haurn and I were summoned before Andrin, who learned of the affair, for a lecture on Imperial regulations concerning intimate fraternization –the lieutenant reminded us that there are only consequences if we get caught. Our relationship was no secret within the platoon, but it was not a matter one expressed much interest. There were greater issues that require more focus than two young people awkwardly in love. For me, I was ecstatic, I have never felt this way before and overdid it with the romantic feelings, declarations, much to Haurn's affectionate amusement. Looking back, I could cringe at some of it, most of it, but I was happy at the time, we were happy. The only light of happiness in this wretched place.
With the communication trenches filling with water, collapsing, and such, it was difficult to deliver supplies from the rear. The Wookiees were a large component of the logistics conveyance, and their absence was sorely missed. Often, the rationers were too exhausted to make the trek, let alone the multiple required to furnish provisions in adequate amounts. Units were on their own to supplement their meager allotments. I do not want to be called a thief; I did not interpret it as stealing. It was simply an appropriation of military equipment, and I was good at it. Growing up on the impoverished Euruta, I quickly learned how to discreetly pilfer what I needed to survive. The Army makes it too easy. The key is to turn up at a supply depot and compose yourself in a manner that shows you are supposed to be there. When the logistics crews are unloading the A9.2 juggernauts, just walk over and start helping. The crews appreciated the help, as the faster the vehicles are unloaded, the sooner they can withdraw to their dry shelters. The idiots off-world, who pack these crates, accurately label their contents, such as "officer's rations" or "medicinal alcohol". Throw a choice crate over your shoulder and walk right out of the depot. There are too many troopers scurrying about with supply containers, authorities take no notice. I quickly gained favor within the platoon for appearing with the good food to share, though I never disclosed how it came into my possession. Better that way.
Though work assignments were out of his control, Andrin did what he could to see after our wellbeing and sustain the morale of the assault platoon. He overlooked many transgressions that would elicit a beating, a court-martial from those pitiless or zealous officers. Anything was fair if you did not get caught –if you could evade the enemy, you could avoid the military police, by Andrin's sapper logic. If the choice rations or alcohol appeared in the dugout, obtained without permission, and the logistics corps had no knowledge of an inventory discrepancy, then it was no business of Andrin to press the matter further. We always shared the spoils with the lieutenant as tribute. Dashnik, through charisma and connections, obtained an entire cask of potent Corellian whiskey. It took the entire first squad to transport the vessel, the exterior deceptively marked as drinking water, to the sapper's dugout. That was one of our better nights.
At one point of overindulgence in libations, I decided I wanted to seek out Baize and challenge him to a fight. It did not factor that I would face certain punitive measures or incur the wrath of Andrin, for drink had clouded positive judgement. My companions, equally inebriated, believed it to be a terrific notion, so accompanied me and we set forth on our journey. It was raining, as we fumbled about in the darkness in our drunken state, drawing the ire of the unfortunate troopers in between watches who attempted to sleep in the hollowed-out coves within the trench walls. Haurn smacked the knuckles of one hand against the palm of the other, keen for a brawl. Dash held aloft a flask, which he generously pulled while serenading all within earshot with a spacer shanty –in violation of the noise discipline. I am not sure why Tundy was there, maybe following us for some odd reason? Also, Tundy does not drink, so I could not say what he does for fun. Finally, Remov brought up the rear, as when he drinks, the usual melancholic disposition retreats in favor of a buoyant and congenial temperament. Remov knew the lyrics to every shanty of Dashnik's and so joined the chorus, with his polished singing voice.
Unable to locate 3 Company's trench, we mistakenly strolled into the works of an adjacent regiment, our troop discovered the position of a mortar section. Mortar sections will construct mortar pits excavated from the rear wall of a trench and revetted with sandbags or other materials. The mortarmen, with no targets and unfavorable weather, will cover their pieces and retreat to a shelter until needed. Since our primary objective appeared unattainable, we decided to try our hand at gunnery. The five of us stumbled into the first mortar pit, cramped as it was intended for the crew of three, and immediately began rifling through the stacked bomb crates.
"Maider, do you know what you're doing!?" Dashnik slurred.
"Of course, I do!" I answered, knocking over a stack of crates. "Easiest job in the Empire."
An overturned crate spilled a handful of bombs onto the ground and luckily, they were not primed. Haurn tipped over the actual mortar, as she pulled off the protective tarpaulin, which sent up a roar of laughter. We set the piece, now covered in mud, upright and Remov tinkered with the targeting sight.
"Two-uh rounds, rapid fire." Remov called out in mock imitation, arbitrarily rotating the dials. "Range, five! Fire for effect!"
"Five what!?" Haurn demanded.
"Yes!" answered Remov.
I slipped on a patch of mud and almost lost my balance with a live bomb cradled in my arms. Stumbling, unsteady from drink, I clumsily dropped the bomb into the tube. There was a loud bang and the bomb shot from the mortar. Dash ran up and quickly dropped in a second, which immediately flew forth. After a short interval, we could hear the explosions in no man's land. All of us were in a burst of laughter, going through the exaggerated motions of artillerists completing a fire mission.
"WHAT THE HELL!?" a thunderous voice boomed; a figure stood at the access to the mortar pit.
"Retreat!" Remov comically shouted, pushed over the figure, and fled into the trench.
This figure landed in the mud, dazed by the overwhelming occurrence of events. We followed Remov's lead and darted from the position. The trench filled with curious troopers, roused from their slumber by the excitement as they stared in bewilderment. A column of startled mortarmen passed us going the opposite direction, as they raced to inspect their weapons, unaware we were the culprits. Further down the line, some artillerists were surprised by the sudden fire and opened their own barrage upon the Mimbo defenses. To our benefit, as the commotion allowed us to slink away, the sector was put on alert, confusion manifested the notion the MLA were currently launching an attack. Troopers raced to the fire trench; heavy weapons laid a suppression fire. To our astonishment, we made it back to our dugout, as Andrin was mobilizing the platoon to respond to the alarm. Many were drunk and unable to be roused in a timely manner, including the sergeant-major. The situation was resolved, and the alert cancelled before the battalion could notice its absent sappers. While command was furious over the mortar incident, and regulation altered requiring artillerists to post guards by their pieces at all times, our implication was never discovered.
With the drop in morale, owing to the inaction and horrid conditions, command devised their latest scheme to lift our spirits and invigorate our fighting resolve. To that effect, the battalion was withdrawn from the trenches, after exactly forty-one days since our last relief, to a formation in a clearing behind the supply depot. There, Brigadier General Pellond, General Falk's most enthusiastic lacky, addressed our bedraggled and fatigued ranks. The Brigadier rendered a lofty address on the importance of service, dedication, fraternity, or something to that affect. Next came the presentation of awards. Four troopers, one from each company, were selected by their company commanders to receive the Order of the Empire, third class. To the surprise of nobody, the company commanders made the selection, not by merit, but through cronyism –awarding it to their personal batman. This is how Baize received his medal. The final bit of showmanship was the redesignation of our battalion. Since our objective was of such importance, a euphemism that we were to expect casualties, we were christened the 8843rd Shock Battalion. The "shock" carries more bearing, apparently. Some of the more fanatical Mandalorians ardently embraced the new moniker. Haurn was standing in front of me in the formation, held up two fingers in a derogatory gesture behind her back to express her opinion of Pellond. Govnic, to my right, saw it and erupted in a fit of laughter, which brought the ire of a furious Andrin. It was communicated that we were to inscribe our helmets with a red band and our armor with a series of vertical red hash marks to indicate our station as "shock troops". Veterans would prefer not to add a bright color which may increase their visibility to the enemy. A resounding cheer erupted when the battalion was dismissed and allowed to retire to the tent billets for a deserved three days of rest. Brigadier Pellond interpreted the cheering as meant for him and we granted his indulgence.
Rest was cut short after a day when the tent encampment flooded, and the battalion returned to the trenches. It only took a few hours for the mites to work their way into our cleaned garments. Everyone is sullen, irritable. The conditions deplete our morale. It is impossible to stay dry, stay warm, not itch uncontrollably from the mites. The sapper's dugout, one of the few underground chambers not to succumb to flooding, was commandeered by the officers of the 741st Regiment, who had us thrown out to the elements. They offered to accommodate Andrin out of respect for the rank, but our lieutenant refused, elected to share the hardships of his platoon. We are forced to sleep in the trenches, laid down in the mud and pooled water. Whatever underground shelters that remain dry are exclusive to officers, while the enlisted are on their own for sleeping arrangements. Haurn and I excavated a small outcropping from the side of the trench and lined it with raincloaks. It is a tight fit, but neither of us mind. Though it only lasted a few days before erosion collapsed it while we were out on a detail.
The Brigadier introduced another measure to combat idleness, the morning hate. Just before dawn each morning, the brigade went on alert and given the "stand-to" order. Units in the frontline opened fire with their small arms in the direction of the enemy, a futile gesture as the bugs were well out of range. The artillery would soon join with their own barrage. Unenthusiastic artillerists wasted no effort with targeted fire, instead raised their barrels to a suitable elevation and commenced with the appearance of a bombardment. For an hour, the brigade squandered ammunition in this elaborate display of ridiculous force. Under the stand-to order, all troopers were to assemble and remain in place at the direction of their respective officer, even if you were not on the firing line. You could not move from your place until commanded. It could be a downpour and we had to remain, drenched, as the morning hate proceeded. This was a demonstration of hate, alright, we hated it. Hated how our sleep was interrupted to participate, hated the absurdity of the practice, hated the Brigadier for the idea.
Discipline is on the verge of collapse and threatens to undermine the retaking of Voran. As if the weather was not already sabotaging plans. The endless waiting, the ceaseless work details, the cold, the rain, the mites, it drove many to madness, to acts they would have been unable to perpetrate while sane. Troopers assaulted officers, openly discussed revolt, some were apprehended as they attempted desertion to the MLA. Fearing the situation could devolve into mutiny, thirty of the worst malcontents were set to be executed. Command did not want to waste manpower, but an example must be set for the maintenance of order. The condemned were shot in groups, so units of the brigade could be rotated and formed to watch. From that point onward, punishments, including minor infractions, were severe. The military police were given broad authority and little accountability. Stormtroopers were detailed to augment the ranks of the MPs. Those detailed Stormtroopers were not cushy in the rear echelon –entering the trenches in search of miscreants. The Stormtroopers did not issue charges to a guilty trooper or place the trooper under arrest, deciding to render a savage beating. Insulated in their armor, the Stormtroopers can be about their oppressive duty unphased by the conditions.
I wish the sappers had a different name. Refer to us as breaching troops, assault specialists, even the forlorn hope or the death platoon, all suitable alternative nomenclature. Those designations might excuse us from all the excessively backbreaking tasks heaped upon our weary squads. Instead, we are viewed as combat engineers and a labor force –thanks to the Wookiee desertion. The excavated canal, designed to drain water away from the rear echelon, had a levee break and it flooded the artillery emplacements. The sappers from our battalion, as well as those from the 741st and 806th Regiments were detailed to repair the damage. We then had to construct new positions for the guns, as the artillerists refused to dig their own. The brigade's chief of artillery successfully argued that his gunners should be exempt from the chore. It seemed a suitable job for sappers, so decided by the Brigadier. For over a week we labored ceaselessly, only permitted four hours of rest per day. Under the deluge and not enough tentage to allocate for our detachments, suitable rest was an absurd notion. We were so tired, Haurn and I lacked the energy to screw, not that we could get the privacy. Training for the operation was disrupted and our readiness compromised, so many sappers fell ill or were physically broken by the end of the levee project. Andrin was promised our platoon would receive three days rear echelon rest as compensation, but that turned out to be a farce and we were returned to the trenches.
A heavy downpour crashed upon our sodden backs. For hours, Haurn and I labored to revet this stretch of trench, only to have the wall collapse and fill in the excavated mud. The alarm was raised. "STAND-TO!" the command echoed by officer and NCO alike once in earshot. We thought it was another round of the hate, but it seemed a bit late in the day. A fusillade of artillery struck up its deafening chorus, answered by the terrible whirl of rockets. Explosions roared around us, threw up heaps of mud. We dropped our tools and dashed for our weapons. This was no scheduled practice, the bolts flying over our heads was evidence enough. Under the cover of the weather, the bugs were mounting an attack on our works. Grenades were hurled, detonated in the fire trench. The bugs caught us off guard, had managed to get this close undetected. Many troopers sheltered from the rain and were thus not as observant of the front as they should. I had my E-11, and Haurn seized her SX-21. We were in the cover trench, and so crept over the traverse that linked to the fire trench, cautiously peered around the corner. There were screams from the wounded, the awful clicks of Mimbo tongues. Haurn nudged me out of the way and went first. With the scatter blaster, she was better suited since in the confines of a trench, it was impossible not to hit a target from the weapon's spread. Slowly, we stepped through the collected water in the traverse and approached the cries.
A Mimbo leapt over the parapet and landed in the trench. Haurn fired her weapon, and the enemy was nearly disintegrated from the blast. At the intersection, where the traverse met the fire trench, I checked the corner, saw the bodies of troopers mixed with several dead Mimbos. The few remaining troopers who survived the grenades and the first wave wandered around in a state of shock, unable to comprehend the events that transpired. A shout arose from behind, I had just enough time to turn and raise my blaster at the crazed Mimbo who charged us with a raised vibroblade. I shot the bug with two bolts from my E-11. There was a heavy blaster emplacement before us, the bodies of its two gunners slumped over the E-Web. Another horde of Mimbos made a dash for our position and I had no idea where the reinforcements to hold the line could be. It would be up to us to stem the tide until more troopers arrived. I took Haurn's arm and pulled her toward the E-Web, we slid the bodies of the deceased crew aside. The rain was heavy, the bombing relentless, to the point we could not clearly see. There were dozens of the bugs picking their way toward our works. I grasped the charging handle on the E-Web to cycle the weapon, as Haurn boosted the power flow from the attached generator.
Bolts spewed forth from the E-Web, as I depressed the firing tabs. Into the ranks of the Mimbos, the bolts tore through their numbers. Those closest had their bodies sliced apart from the intense fire of the heavy repeating blaster. I panned the weapon back and forth, swept the ground of enemies. We cut down the attackers, without mercy, without pity. Another instance of being on the receiving end of a bug assault, I am long past fear, excitement. It's all muscle memory at this point. If I had to assign an emotion, aggravation could be the closest. The bugs were an annoyance. I already suffered the effects of the cold, the rain, the mites, now I had to contend with their attack causing a further disruption. Haurn was not idle, as I shredded the ranks of our foe. She pulled thermal detonators from a crate left in the emplacement and hurled them into the waste. The blasts from the grenades cleared what Mimbos attempted to shelter before the position. I could not tell you how many bolts we fired, how many detonators we tossed, how many bugs lay dead from our efforts.
An intense barrage descended, two to three hundred meters before us, mostly mortar rounds. It was danger close to say the least, and we could feel the shock from each impact. Someone was desperate and called in this hazardous fire mission. When the bombs started to fall a little too close, Haurn and I ducked our heads below the walls of the emplacement. We braced against the sides to shield ourselves. The ferocity of the mortars only grew, and one uncomfortably short bomb threw up mud that covered our helmets. Several minutes of the unrelenting bombardment left us deafened and quite disoriented. The sobering moment came when a white cylinder smacked into the floor of the emplacement, barely missing the pair of us. We stared at it in disbelief, the mortar round, held our breath as we expected it to explode. The mind races, time slows, but you cannot react, you feel paralyzed. I grabbed Haurn to hold onto and she reciprocated. A tense instant was required before our minds could process effectively. It was a dud, the bomb failed to explode, failed to blast us into stardust. I took a cigarra from a pack and gave one to Haurn –equally in sore need of a smoke. Our bodies shook, hearts pounded, and the tabac was the only way to tame the nerves. Not thinking it through, I've been trained to defuse ordinance but was not in the mood, I picked up the unexploded round and flung it into no man's land. No longer my problem.
Charging along the traverse, at the head of 3 Company, was Lt. Dangir. Dangir, appearance conveyed he wished to win a medal, stormed into the fire trench, and directed his troopers into defensive positions. The eager Mandalorians commenced firing into the wastes –a futile exercise, as the attack had already been thwarted and what, if any, survivors quickly fled to their lines. The lieutenant ordered a trooper to fire into the Mimbo Haurn eviscerated with her scatter blaster to ensure the hostile was thoroughly dead, just so he could boast of his diligence in the after-action report. When Dangir spotted me, his least favorite trooper, he could only offer a scowl and a curt grunt. There was work to be done and the lieutenant trudged along the line to bark commands. Two troopers appeared and evicted us from the emplacement, took over as the replacement E-Web crew.
I followed Haurn up the communication trench, passed by the columns of troopers being rushed to the front. We held our heads down and shuffled off. Better to not be noticed and ordered back to stand watch. There was still the section of cover trench we needed to repair and Andrin would have our asses if we did not finish the job.
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