Escalation

The inability to seize the firebase, destroy the artillery, furnished a dejected and bitter disposition. Our thoughts dwelt upon the fact we were beaten. The Mandalorians, whose culture ingrains a hardline intolerance toward failures, were especially affected. We were tired –managed only a few short hours of sleep, on the slope of Hill 211. The vehicle hauling our blankets and rucksacks finally arrived, and we could retrieve our trappings. Serendipitous, as a bothersome rain fell upon the weary troopers. The refuge where we slept was a crater, blasted from the side of the hill, and large enough to fit the squad. Linking our raincloaks, we patched together a roof and huddled under the blankets. It was the four of us, Haurn, Dashnik, Remov, and me. Govnic was sent to the battalion aid station citing combat fatigue –still distraught over Tundy's death. Captain-Doctor Lorga, the battalion's surgeon, would inevitably return Govnic, for not being seriously wounded, but the doctor was so overwhelmed with casualties it might take the better part of a day for this to happen. If only to permit Govnic some rest, it was worth the effort.

The first day of the Voran Offensive, despite the paltry amount of ground taken and the atrocious casualty figures, was declared a resounding success, according to Brigadier Pellond, who claimed so in his order of the day. It was also reported that 40,000 Mimbanese and their allies had been killed, though I do not know where that ridiculous figure was concocted. Despite the boasting of our top commanders, sixteen battalions, three of them Stormtrooper, were being mobilized to replenish our losses, though their arrival would take time due to a shortage of available transport. Some rumor claimed Pellond wanted these forces on hand for the initial onslaught, completely overwhelming the enemy with our numbers, but command withheld the battalions citing cost. Shattered units that survived the first day and what forces were still combat ready were sent in another wave against the MLA positions. The enemy offered no resistance, as they had withdrawn from their front line and prepared to do battle with us at their next fortified echelon. Imperial troops spent the second morning picking their way over the bodies of fallen comrades and foes to achieve objectives with hardly a shot fired.

A shakeup within headquarters occurred. The commander of all Stormtroopers attached to the Mimban Campaign was dismissed from his post and recalled to Coruscant. The reason is due to the unacceptably high number of casualties sustained. After all, Stormtroopers are exorbitantly more costly to train and upkeep when compared to us regular troopers of the Army. His second, Colonel Lult, was promoted to fill the vacancy. One must remember the Imperial Army and Stormtrooper Corps are two separate entities within the Imperial Military. Though, given the nature of operations on Mimban, the Stormtroopers of the Stormtrooper Corps have fallen under Army command to improve tactical and operational efficiency against the Mimbanese. However, because of the intolerable losses, Colonel Lult was ordered to divest all subordination from Army command and act independently –when deciding objectives, deploying Stormtroopers, and executing operations. It appears the Stormtrooper Corps wishes to divorce itself from all responsibility for the repeated failures. For Brigadier Pellond, he lost all control over the Stormtrooper formations deployed to the Voran Offensive. The formations can be requested to attack MLA positions, which they will do if it is feasibly assailable, but they can also refuse to execute such an order without confirmation from their exalted Colonel.

The 8843rd is at half strength. 4 Company was decimated, Lt. Tymin was killed in the failed assault on the firebase and command of the thirty-some remaining effectives passed to Junior Lieutenant Konutt, who was on the verge of a mental breakdown. Stars help the troopers under his command. Andrin could only call upon fifteen sappers fit for duty. Orders were flowed to Brimmo to renew the assault on the firebase, but to deploy the entire battalion, or what was left of it. Ten TX-225s and four AT-STs were allocated to support. AT-DTs were positioned atop the secured high ground of Hill 211 and inundated the firebase with a plunging fire. The enemy's howitzers remained silent for some time and our infantry was called to secure the ground. Once this bit of business was settled, we were promised a rotation from the front and a period of rest to rebuild our numbers. Dangir, being his troopers were in better shape, volunteered 3 Company to spearhead the assault. The sappers were relegated to a support role, given our diminished ranks –setting the detonite charges to destroy the artillery bunkers after they had been cleared.

Andrin looked at our weary faces as we stood in formation. For some unfathomable reason, Maj. Brimmo assembled the entire battalion for a formal review and inspection at the foot of Hill 211. Our lieutenant stared vacantly into our eyes, as we struggled to remain standing, for we were so tired, so exhausted from the relentless pursuit of violence, the violence we exerted upon our enemy. Where an indifferent officer would chastise us for our appearance, Andrin made no effort to shape our ranks or correct our stance. I had to hold Haurn upright, for she was asleep on my shoulder. Brimmo delivered some formal words of encouragement of which I lacked the energy to comprehend or commit to this record. Andrin put us aboard the TX-225 and we slept the duration of the drive to the operation's jumping off point. What greeted us when we arrived at the firebase, I wish I had gone to the medics with Govnic.

The battalion encountered no resistance. The bugs spiked their howitzers and withdrew, abandoned the firebase. They left in a hurry, not long after our failed assault. The first indication came from a small blast, not bigger than a thermal detonator –a sign of the crude booby traps the Mimbos set. The word was passed, "sappers forward" and it fell to us to deal with such hazards. As medics tended a trooper, who had her arm blown off, we began the methodical search for improvised explosives. Fortunately, the bugs departure was so hurried that only a handful of traps could be set. All were identified and subsequently disarmed. It was not a trying effort to locate these explosives, for they were affixed to the intact bodies of the dead troopers we were forced to leave behind in our failed assault. This tactic was employed regularly by both sides in the conflict –prime a thermal detonator and leave it under a corpse. When the body is disturbed by friendly forces of the deceased, the safety is tripped, and the device explodes. You always had to be wary and exercise caution when coming upon your own dead, who had lingered within an enemy's area of occupation. Similarly, looting enemy corpses could prove a fatal venture if a friendly force passed through the area prior to your own. But here, the bugs did something far worse than setting extensive traps.

Arranged throughout the interior of the firebase, on the parapets, and in the ruins of the destroyed blockhouses were the mutilated corpses of our fallen. The bodies were decapitated by the Mimbos, the heads mounted on stakes. The torsos were flayed, limbs severed, and some pieces were taken by the bugs as souvenirs. These desecrated troopers were not rigged with explosives or grenades because the Mimbos wanted us up close. They wanted Imperials to endure the task of burying our dead, handling the disfigured and defiled carcasses. It was a psychological measure, conceived to terrorize and demoralize our forces. 1 & 2 Company were spared the gruesome burden, as Brimmo placed these troopers as a perimeter force to protect the firebase from a possible, but unlikely Mimbo counterattack. The job was awarded to 3 Company to gather the remains and commence burial.

In the sweep for additional explosives or other traps, my squad moved in the direction of the blockhouse we destroyed. More pressing was learning the fate of those we abandoned, Tundy and Makis. It was for the best Govnic was not with us to witness the awful sight before our eyes. What the bugs did to Tundy…he didn't deserve that –an unspeakable act of barbarism on their part. Reflecting on what I saw fills me with rage and hatred, but at the time, I remember feeling nothing. We were so tired, so inundated with death and suffering, we were incapable of being excited by such an act perpetrated on one of our own. Hastily, we buried the remains of our two comrades. At Tundy's grave was placed a marker, but Haurn informed us it would be improper to leave one for Makis due to some obscure Mandalorian tradition his clan observed. Many of the fallen troopers, who were Mandalorian, were thrown into a mass grave dug adjacent to the firebase by their surviving comrades. For a few moments, we stood around the final resting place of Tundy and contemplated what to say but could form no words. Not even the voluble Dashnik was able to offer a reflection. In the evening, a company of Stormtroopers occupied the firebase, and we were ordered back to Hill 211.

We enter the second week and I fear the Offensive has lost its impetus. I wish there was progress to report, but there has been seldom little. Everything is in shambles. Freezing downpours ground flights, the mud strangles our vehicles and arrests each step we trod. The temperature will not permit the ground to sufficiently freeze and by morning, it is thawed by the rains, transformed into an impassible morass. Troopers are physically bogged down and unable to rapidly advance against enemy positions. Frustration is the predominant emotion that plagues our army, and the grievance is freely aired. Imperial reinforcements continue to trickle in, though this abominable weather hampers their arrival. The reinforcing battalions are assembled and scrounged from whichever training depots have recruits ready. Many of the troopers arrived with bruised faces, having been freshly worked over by their Demils. All are inexperienced and woefully unprepared for what is expected of them for this operation. Of the battalions, none are at full strength, unable to muster more than one or two companies, and those are below the requisite complement. Stormtrooper formations are likewise unable to properly fill their ranks. Supplies, from rations to purified drinking water, are in short supply. To replenish the losses of combat units, the Brigadier permitted the pillaging of the logistics corps –issue the supply clerks and quartermasters blasters. With fewer hands, provisions sit undistributed and are added to the disorganized stacks of crates. The Army cannot get more than a day of work out of a labor droid without the elements clogging its systems and we have no faith in the indentured Wookiees. Govnic was eventually returned to the squad from his medical sojourn, but he has greatly changed since we lost Tundy. You could always count on Gov to offer a stupid comment or a purposefully rude remark just to elicit a reaction. Now, he sulks about despondently, a great drain on the spirits of the rest.

The 8843rd was ordered to secure high ground four kilometers from Hill 211, where a bombardment compelled a unit of MLA volunteers to retire. The battalion began constructing defenses to fortify our newly occupied ground, comprised of fighting positions linked by shallow trenches. The sappers were tasked with laying mines before our works, as well as rigging flares attached to tripwires for added alarm against intrusion. I thought we were assured a period of rest within the rear staging areas, but that pledge has yet to be fulfilled. There has been relatively little action in our sector, apart from reconnaissance patrols sent by our side and the bugs bumping into each other. The heavy fighting occurs with units on the far ends of the Imperial lines, as the MLA attempt to out flank and infiltrate our forces. The second echelon of the Mimbanese defense is not a contiguous line, rather it is a series of fortified strongpoints. These were once warehouses, quarters to house the miners, and other ancillary facilities –each one serves as its own redoubt with reinforced weapons emplacements and defensive works. The strongpoints were spaced too far apart to offer sufficient overlapping fire. Conventional planning would have our forces simply bypass these fortifications in our drive to the final objective and leave the cutoff MLA positions for our trailing mop up forces. Either some individual on high desires each of these strongpoints assailed, or our crippling lack of manpower prevents an adequate force to perform the "mopping up".

The elevation our battalion holds overlooks a deep sluice, originally cut for the runoff of water pumped out during the hyperbaride drilling. The MLA have taken advantage of the numerous sluices and canals to conceal the movement of their combatants, as they conduct infiltrations. One evening, under heavy rain, we detected a force of MLA volunteers attempting passage through the sluice. Brimmo prearranged to hold fire until he gave the command. Remotely detonated mines were placed at each end of the channel, to eliminate the point and rear elements of the enemy column and incite panic to trap the main body. I held the detonator trigger and was responsible for detonation of the mines. The MLA numbered around two hundred, the larger figures of Wookiees were easily distinguishable. The beasts labored to haul what looked like mortars, rockets, and ammunition, no doubt attempting to establish fire positions to bombard Imperial forces. At Brimmo's signal, I triggered the mines. The first explosion tore through the lead element of the column, but the second set of mines failed to detonate. Squads equipped with DLT-19s and T-21s were distributed at key positions and enfiladed the sluice with heavy automatic blaster fire. Those with grenades also contributed. By morning, we counted over fifty enemy killed and captured two dozen mortars, sixty rocket launchers, and nearly a thousand rounds of munitions for those weapons –dropped as the bearers fled. The bulk of the MLA column was able to escape because the undetonated mines failed to cut their line of retreat. The remote detonator triggers were notoriously unreliable due to Mimban's conditions. I received the blame for the failure of the equipment and a bloodied nose courtesy of a heavy hook from Brimmo when I stood before him to deliver an explanation.

I lost track of the days spent on that high ground –performing the ambush and blocking duties. The battalion was finally relieved when the new front stabilized, and the position no longer deemed tactically significant. We were sent to the rear where we hoped to find hot food and showers, but that was far too presumptuous. Instead, the encampment was a mess of disorganization, overrun with the replacement formations, supplies haphazardly unloaded, and no central authority providing direction. Troopers milled about aimlessly awaiting orders or vied for a space in the too few tents that could not adequately shelter our numbers. The showers fell into disrepair and the field kitchens abandoned. Stripping the logistics corps left us without adequate personnel to perform the necessary support roles needed to field an army. Rather than organize a distribution of rations, troopers freely raided containers as transports rolled into the depots. The wounded, having already endured a grueling journey over improvised trails from the front, were left to fend for themselves, as an overstretched and undermanned medical corps was incapable of dealing with the influx –casualty figures greatly exceeded the initial projections and not enough surgeons, nurses, or orderlies were allocated. The disarray was eventually quelled when enough reserves arrived to backfill the ranks and the cooks, quartermasters, military police, and clerks could resume their regular duties. Though, there was scarcely an opportunity for us to indulge in such amenities. As the camp reformed, showers pumped with hot water and ragged tents supplanted, the 8843rd received nearly one hundred troopers, straight from the depot, to replenish our strength. More volunteers to the service, consigned to the military to atone for political transgressions they acquired while at university. Thus was our rest, our reward fulfilled.

Orders came to hoist packs and proceed to a new objective. In the early hours, we boarded a line of personnel carriers that conveyed us to the fresh set of trenches constructed before Redoubt 7. Redoubt 7 is one such stronghold in the second echelon of the MLA's defensive line and one that will require a great deal of blood to bring about its fall. It was a workmen's barracks designed to accommodate three to four thousand miners and laborers, with many of its levels built underground. When first constructed, nearly two centuries ago, the redoubt was just a single reinforced structure –a fallback position to shelter the workforce, when bands of Mimbanese insurgents attacked in their efforts to harass the mining consortiums. The Clone War was when Redoubt 7 took on its current appearance –rings of trenches, pillboxes, blockhouses, laser cannon and repeating blaster emplacements, mortars, rockets, and enough deadly ordinance to kill us in every imaginative way. Another strongpoint of the larger Voran network, which would have to be overcome. The defenses were arranged to defeat an advancing droid army of the Separatists, with cleared avenues of fire and pre-ranged firing solutions. The Imperial approach, over the open ground, would be suicidal and the use of encroaching trenches was required to besiege the redoubt.

The approach route, indeed, the last kilometer to the Imperial staging ground before Redout 7, furnished a presentiment of what was to be this sanguinary phase of the operation. The narrow road was rudely cut from the insurmountable morass that stretched to either side and barely wide enough to accommodate the opposing convoy of vehicles, who obstinately jockeyed for the right of way. The inbound traffic ferried fresh bodies into the maw, our lives to be spent for the vindication of the Brigadier's hubris. Outbound, the interminable lines of walking wounded –troopers perfunctorily bandaged together shuffled along dejected and devoid of any trace of conscious humanity. Some were appallingly packaged in the returning transports after discharging their reinforcements. The bogs engrossing the road's periphery were littered with the disabled and destroyed hulks of vehicles –indifferently pushed aside to keep the thoroughfare cleared. Bodies of those too exhausted to trudge another agonizing step, or too weak to defend their place on an ambulance from a footsore evacuee desiring their spot, tumbled from the roadway to find eternal rest within the mud of this cursed world.

Drilling derricks were arrayed in the distance to either side of the road. Capable of extracting hyperbaride, they could also pump natural gases that gathered in pockets beneath the ground, which the MLA ignited as a parting measure. The rigs spewed out jets of flame and acrid plumes of blackened smoke. It further darkened the polluted skies. The rains that now fell upon us had an oleaginous texture and shimmered when light reflected. We rode atop the personnel carriers, pressed ourselves against the roof, against our comrades, at each detonation of a mortar round lobbed at extreme range from the enemy's battery, and landed with such proximity as to cause significant anxiety. A heavy fog, mixed with the smoke, pervaded the landscape. Vehicles, already proceeding at a frustratingly slow pace, were reduced to creeping along to avoid, or at the very least reducing the severity of, collisions. The walking wounded streaming away from the battlefield now emerged from the blankets of mist, broken troopers, who were nothing more than apparitions, phantoms of their once jaunty selves –their vivaciousness enervated. The inbound convoy arrived at a crossroads under heavy mortar fire, ranged by the enemy's artillery. Broken bodies littered the intersection, as screaming troopers leapt from a burning transport. Military police, responsible for traffic control, abandoned their duties to seek cover. No signs remained to indicate route of travel, panicked drivers selected the clearest option, disoriented by fog and shell, and sped away in haste. I tightened my grasp on the handhold and fortified myself against the onslaught.

The Imperial assembly area before Redoubt 7 was a right mess, utter havoc. Crews of the AT-DTs frantically lobbed their ordinance at the enemy's works –so mad was the firing one wondered how long until the barrels of the artillery pieces melted. The grievously wounded shrieked and convulsed, as doctors attempted treatment on whatever flat surface was available. Troopers without officers and officers without their commands scurried about in great confusion. Bombs fired from the redoubt descended, explosions tore through storage crates and man alike. All were mere shadows contrasted against the morning's fog, so thick you could barely discern sights before your own eyes. Smoke from the bounty of raging fires intertwined with the mist to create this ominous miasma where we now found ourselves. Alighting from the personnel carrier with Haurn, we nervously scanned our surroundings to determine the best spot for shelter. A panicked junior lieutenant dashed up to Lt. Vinkin, commanding the battalion's 1 Company. This junior lieutenant was worked up and waved his arms in an excitable fashion.

"MIMBOS!" he exclaimed. "The bugs have broken through the line. They're in our trenches! Major Nalle told me to bring whatever reinforcements I could find to plug the breach!"

Andrin was nearby and joined the conversation, able to temper the excited officer and discern the severity of the situation. Haurn and I were in a freshly cratered shell hole adjacent to the personnel carrier –weighed down by the packs and sapper equipment we hurriedly grabbed. Dashnik slid in next to us, tugging Remov along by the arm. Govnic stood exposed in the open, head cocked skyward, completely detached from his surroundings and unconcerned with the ferocity of the bombardment. It took the sergeant-major nearly tackling Govnic to speed him into the cover of a nearby depression. A large fire raged out of control, as a mortar round impacted upon one of our munition stockpiles. The heat from the conflagration warmed our nearly frozen faces, a slight comfort contrasted against such madness.

"Dashnik!" Andrin shouted, as he dropped into the crater. "Get your people and follow first company. Bugs have overrun a trench and are causing all sorts of shit. Go chase them off!"

"Just first company?" Dashnik responded. "There's only eighty of 'em. Where's the rest of the battalion?"

"Not here, but we are. So, let's get moving!"

Each took their blaster in hand and followed the path set by Lt. Vinkin, who was in turn guided by the junior. We entered a narrow support trench with walls retained by stacks upon stacks of sandbags –the collapsing mud hampered repeated attempts to dig entrenchments. We had to squeeze by troopers pouring in the opposite direction, many were wounded or hobbled along with a wounded comrade wrapped around their shoulder. Fearing we would lose our kit to pillaging opportunists, we kept our knapsacks affixed to our backs and bore the weight of the encumbrance. Some dead troopers lay in the bottom of the trench, unremoved by indifferent or overwhelmed comrades, which we had to step over. Above our heads, bolts raced over the parapets, fired from ours and theirs. The trench grew ever shallower until the walls on either side slunk away to nothing and we stood exposed to a cratered and pockmarked landscape. Bodies lay about in droves. Troopers desperately fired, while many more were gripped by panic and sought to flee the battle. Our eyes caught a glimpse of a force of enemy Mimbanese charging directly into the fray.

Lt. Vinkin deployed his command, we dispersed into the cover provided by the shell holes and other depressions. The prepared defensive works had been obliterated by the MLA's artillery. Our scratch force of Imperials would have to form a new line of improvised fighting positions utilizing what cover was available. I was not sure where the other companies of the battalion were, their personnel carriers waylaid on the road march to the staging area, lost in the fog. The first sizable crater was ample enough to fit Haurn and me, plus Remov, who joined us to establish his DLT-19. Straight away, Remov fired his repeating blaster at the encroaching enemy. It was bedlam and confusion, as the front line was indiscernible. Quickly, enemies assailed our position from every side. Our visibility was so poor, the glow of blaster bolts reflected in subdued flashes against the haze in a sinister illumination display. I witnessed many fall troopers when a Wookiee, leveraging its great strength, manhandled an E-Web as its personal weapon, the charge pack strapped its back. The Wookiee gutted swathes of comrades, as it emerged like a spectral form from the murk of vapor and smoke.

The Mimbanese and their alien allies surged past their Wookiee compatriot, fired blasters wildly. Remov cut a few bugs down before the beast turned its E-Web upon our position. Mounds of dirt and muck were torn from the lip of the shell hole. If the fire from the heavy weapon sustained, I feared its bolts would bore their way into our defilade. We huddled our heads low, hunkered down to best protect ourselves from the deluge of shot. Haurn threw a succession of grenades, the explosions compelled the Wookiee to relent. The episode seemed to galvanize Haurn, who immediately seized the initiative. As I tried to regain my senses and shake Remov from his daze, Haurn flung herself over the top of the crater. She set to her work, pumped the slide on her scatter blaster. One Mimbanese had its face ripped apart, a second, a treacherous human, was gored from a blast of the SX-21. No more after could the weapon fire, for the inundation of mud jammed the cycling mechanism. Forced to improvise, Haurn pulled her WESTAR and jumped blindly into an adjacent crater. As she submerged below the crest, I glimpsed a rapid succession of golden flashes –the bolts fired by a Mandalorian weapon. Concerned, I was on my feet and made rapidly for the spot where I last saw Haurn. My boot sank rapidly into the thick mire upon each tread and with great labor I was able to attain movement.

Within the crater was a deceased Mimbanese, body raked with freshly administered blaster wounds that glowed slightly as their embers flickered out. Haurn plunged her vibroblade repeatedly into the chest of a dying Twi'lek, as the alien gasped its last breaths of life. Placing a hand upon her shoulder, did I have to wrench Haurn away from her quarry, then met by a bestial gaze of her eyes alight with a frenzied bloodlust. Our attention was immediately captured by the Wookiee, as it stood over the crater and tilted its hoisted E-Web. Though, the beast was exposed and was quickly struck by a fusillade of blaster bolts, unsteadied, and pitched backwards. We were spared, and able to witness a demented Govnic charge forward to bathe the Wookiee in a fiery torrent from the incinerator. The howl of a Wookiee is distinctive, but when the creature is burning to death it achieves a pitch so grisly, it feels as if the beast has grasped you by the ears and is slowly ripping them from your skull. When this Wookiee succumbed, the screech eternally muffled, Govnic casually walked to the corpse and proceeded to light his cigarra from a bit of the beast's fur that still singed.

The enemy was repulsed, driven back to their works to recover and prepare for our counterstroke, though we would not answer. What troopers there were, who plugged the gap when the line faltered, laid out in the mud, dispersed in a rough front. The various shell craters comprised an impromptu network of fighting positions. We took turns, one toiled digging a new trench while the other watched the line, sentries in the event of another enemy thrust. With haste, sandbags were filled, and entrenchments deepened. It was a miserable task, the freezing rain reappeared to drench us throughout our labors. All night, spades turned the ground, mud thrown up, retaining plates set against the grimy walls as revetments, while the parapets were strengthened. The remainder of the battalion, finally redirected, trickled in, and were assigned their fatigue duties.

I did not care for the situation in which we were flung, the furnace that our lives would fuel, the advances that would stoke the flames. One might regard the assault on Redoubt 7 a "siege" if one used the terminology in the broadest sense. The enemy had occupied concentric lines of entrenchments ringing the stronghold. All would need to be overcome to achieve the objective. Our quickly excavated trench stood nearly five kilometers from the superstructure of Redoubt 7 and on a clear morning, we could nearly make it out in the distance. The most vexing point was our envelopment of the enemy's position. We had the enemy surrounded by only three sides, as they were able to bring additional reinforcements and supplies in the opening left. There is no easy explanation for why we were not able to completely encircle the redoubt. Did we lack enough troops to do so? It remains unlikely, as even with the paucity of manpower, encirclement could feasibly be accomplished. Were our commanders blind? Officers were many things, but even they could not descend to this manner of ineptitude and incompetence. For now, we have the MLA mostly hemmed in, but it grows ever frustrating by the day. Each Mimbo or allied combatant we kill, more can slip through the gap left to take the place of the fallen –each casualty we inflict is able to be evacuated to their rear echelon.

The trenches we have constructed and now occupy are the worst I have encountered thus far on my tour. The elements wreak havoc upon what we have toiled to build, frequently collapsing walls. Inadequate drainage results in the stagnant tide of water that we wade through up to our knees. It mixes with the contents of the overflown latrines, though we did not want to think about it like that. A high water table prevents us from digging deeper than a meter or two. The low trenches require us to hunch over to move or crawl in some locations, placing tension on already sore backs and limbs. Andrin's platoon of sappers must live up to our namesake, as we are primarily tasked with the construction of saps, which extend outwards some twenty to forty meters from the fire trench. At the end of each sap, etched from the grimy soil, sits a listening post to guard against enemy encroachment upon our lines. The main purpose of the saps is to serve as stepping off points for those conducting nighttime raids or the concealment of troopers about to be hurled in an assault against the enemy's works, –why their width is greater than that of the trenches. The task kept us busy, undertaken at night to remain unobserved.

MLA sharpshooters, well camouflaged, levy a keen watch upon our trench. The troopers new to Mimban grow too curious and foolishly poke their heads above the parapet for a brief glance, only to be struck instantly by the sniper's bolt. Not a day passes where we are fortunate to be spared a bombardment from the enemy. Frequently, ordinance crashes upon the works. Deep dugouts for shelter from the bombs and weather are not possible, and we manage by scratching crude holes from the muddy walls of the trench, laying down in the muck and filth. The officers deflect our frustrations at the conditions by reminding us that these entrenchments will only be temporary, as we are on the offensive and an army on the offensive cannot waste effort constructing elaborate shelters. Losses are a routine occurrence which we must attend, though conveyance of our dead to the rear areas is a grueling task under present circumstances. We have resorted to simply tossing the corpses over the parapet when not inclined for a day-hike to the mortuary unit's collection point.

Dig, that is all we do. Dig in the soft mud, as it collapses about. Laboriously bail out water with our helmets or whatever vessel is obtainable, only to have a downpour undo our efforts. We finish a stretch of trench, break our backs to the point of exhaustion from the work, only to have to dive for cover and endure, as enemy mortars pulverize our accomplishment. Everything is a bog, a fetid morass filled with corpses and the litter we cast aside or expel. Some traverses are filled to the brim with water. Especially difficult is the resupply and we undertake the transport of our provisions, for it is impossible to rely on the commissariat. Under cover of darkness, the troopers assigned must fetch rations from the assembly area and return. It is simple to understand why our quartermasters are unobliging to perform their own job. The ration canisters can weigh more than thirty kilograms and are unwieldy to firmly grasp. No light is permitted, for fear of drawing Mimbo artillery or snipers, and the movement must be accomplished in total darkness. The collapsed trenches, the thick mud, can swallow troopers up to the knees, the waist –burdened by the canisters. The mud seizes the jackboots, yanks them right off, forces many to lumber ahead barefoot. If a bomb were to interrupt this moliminous procession, as is quite common, we would throw off the burdensome canisters and seek the preservation of our own lives, thus losing the rations destined for our hungering bellies.

I worry about the condition of my squad. Remov has fallen into a sort of a manic state. One moment you will find the man sullen, melancholic, grieving over the image of his lost family. He cannot be motivated to engage in fatigue duty, stand watch, or patrol, as if we would permit the latter, and I have gone to great lengths to cover for his various derelictions. At other times, Remov, predominantly under the influence of drink, will become greatly excited, whipped into such a state as to be unmanageable –full of rage and spite. Govnic is not fit for service, having rapidly deteriorated mentally. The cur devotes his time to decorating the Mimbanese skull he carries, while holding incoherent dialogues with himself, unwilling or unable to converse with others. Haurn and I have each taken him to the battalion's aid station, vouched to our feckless Captain-Doctor Lorga of Govnic's diminished capacity. The response is an accusation that Govnic is faking his condition and is not eligible for evacuation. Dashnik remains as eerily cheerful as ever, though it is hard to gauge his true sentiments, for he conceals so much behind his blithesome façade. It is quickly becoming an irksome trait that wears on my patience, unable to judge if Dash is genuinely amiable or despondent.

It is Haurn, whom I express the most concern. She has devoted herself to looking exclusively after my well-being, ensuring I come to no harm that she is able to prevent. Haurn goes out of her way to fetch my rations, purified water, at times besting me in the ability to scrounge. The minor shrapnel wound in my arm, though almost completely healed, has its dressing continually changed. I protest and insist all of this is not necessary, yet she will not relent –becoming irate at the notion. I suppose this is Haurn's method to cope with our circumstances, a drive to keep her going when the weight of our surroundings desire nothing more but to crush us, pound us into the mud under bomb and shell until there is nothing left. Maybe it is hope she clings to, a want for a future beyond this damnable place, beyond the dying and the torment. When Haurn and I find a moment of rest, a retreat from the unceasing fatigue duty, we shelter away beneath a stretched tarpaulin in an ignored traverse. Conversation inevitably arrives at talk of a future, our future. I can elicit a rare smile from Haurn when I ponder aloud what we could do after a discharge from the Army, where we could live. I know that is what she wants.

Fear weighs heavily on my mind, increasing its resonance, the sense that I am not going to survive this cursed battle. This presentiment intrudes progressively upon my thoughts, and I cannot fully dismiss it. Fate has kept me alive to this point, but do the stars have the appointed hour of my death predetermined and I simply have yet to arrive? How soon until that time is up? Each day, more bodies are shoveled into the great furnace of Mimban, never enough to satiate the edacious machine, that only feeds on life. Should you emerge intact, your soul is still very much trapped, in the case of Dashnik and evidently Govnic. They will never recover, never again be able to experience what so many, who never trod upon the muddy fields of this world, would refer to as normalcy. My eight-week furlough on Coruscant did much to convince me of this position. Should a bolt not strike me dead, or a shell does not flay the flesh from my corpse, and I survive this hell, what if I am compelled by some desire to return until it does? What if there is no adjustment to life? These pessimisms I keep from Haurn, I worry if I am being cruel, leading her on with sentimental fantasies. The hopeful dreams make her happy, comfort her when so much we must endure is misery. I don the mask of joyous expectation and do what I must to suppress all premonition. Perhaps not dissimilar to Dashnik's visage. It is not my intent to deceive or inflict injury upon Haurn, for I take delight in such wishful arrangements. At the least, I am torturing myself, as she is all I want.

A new rumor proliferates, word spreads through the ranks, as infectious as the most vicious of contagion. Claims abound, stories and experiences, speak of the MLA's employment of disruptors in an anti-personnel role, so desperate were the bugs to resist that they should devolve to such barbarism. It is the nature intrinsic to these creatures. The disruptor is a heinous weapon. The thought of atomic disintegration, slowly having the organic matter of your being torn apart, every nerve in your body searing, while you experience the agony, aware and conscious, instills equal parts fear as it does outrage. Of course, their use is all trooper hearsay. Every account is told second-hand, someone swore they heard it from someone who was there, or somebody who had a friend at headquarters was shown a dispatch with specific mention. Though, the insinuation was enough to rile even the most skeptical critic. The Mandalorians were the most vocal in their contempt, ironic given their own history. It was agreed upon, among the troopers, that any bug caught with one such weapon was to suffer.

This morning was of note. Since midnight, the artillery pounded the enemy's trenches in our sector. Ferociously, the shells whirl in low arcs, plummeting upon the foe, reducing their positions within a magnificent inferno. It could be believed that nothing could survive such a bombardment, but the resourcefulness of the MLA to endure taught us not to solely depend on the artillery to flush out the bugs. The infantry would be the ones who had to go in and perform the dirty work. Three battalions of the 516th Regiment pushed their way into our trenches in preparation for an assault. It still fell to the 8843rd to hold the line and we were to remain in place after the attacking battalions advanced. Why our battalion was not selected for this operation is beyond ability to fathom, as we were drilled to execute these types of assaults, but I was not about to volunteer the unit for action. The worst bit was not knowing the 516th was coming. Haurn and I sat down to our breakfast when a line of unfamiliar troopers trudged along, stepped on our accoutrements, our boots, and legs, as we tried to allow them a berth. One could tell right away from the fear they expressed, the uncertainty in the face of what would be for many the defining event in their short lives. These were not professional soldiers, hardened veterans, who have stared upon that grim fate, but rather children –taken from their monotonous and sheltered existence and hurled to the inferno. In a display, eerily reminiscent of my first day on Mimban, officers shouted to the fresh-faced troopers to drop their knapsacks and excess trappings, for they needed only their rifles and bodies. The fools complied, knowing no better. Those of us who were to stay behind to watch, would covetously adorn ourselves with this bounty of materials laid before us, for it was in greater condition than the ones currently employed.

The voices thundered, that most terrible of commands to advance, to purposefully throw oneself into oblivion, into the muzzle of the enemy's guns. Nearly 1,500 troopers crawled up from the muck to attack a section of the enemy's line only a hundred meters wide. Scarcely had the troopers arrayed themselves when the orders were issued, and the mass of bodies hauled themselves over the low parapet. Immediately, they were answered by a chorus of automatic blaster fire, as the bevy of Mark II canons, situated within the MLA's works, unleased torrents of bolts. Swathes of humanity were scythed in this vicious harvest. The thick mud, heavy and able to swallow a leg up to the knee, stymied their advance. Troopers had to pick their way through obstacles, over impassible terrain. The Mimbos were quickly able to establish their mortars and summon rocket artillery, which rained down with a callous frenzy upon the misfortunate lot. Whole squads were absorbed in the blasts and melted from existence. The bombing was so ferocious, we were concerned for ourselves and dove for protection within the trench. Several close rounds spattered our backs with thrown up fragments of dirt and lumps of mud.

No threats or coercion made by the regiment's officers could compel their troopers to carry the battle any further. Ranks broke, troopers fled in a panic. The chaotic dispersal and abandonment of order saw many cutdown, as they left what little protective cover was available, in order to run. They were exposed targets for sweeping blaster cannon and mortar barrage, which traversed the killing field without remorse to exact a wretched toll. The more stubborn officers could be seen leaping upon the top of a crater, waving their arms in a rousing fashion, a desperate effort to inspire their troopers forward. Though they were all immediately felled by rounds where they stood. The fight did not last long –the episode resolved itself in under ten minutes when four hundred troopers managed to scramble back to our lines. For the next few hours and into the evening, the unending cries from the wounded echoed across the field. An occasional blaster bolt loosed from the Mimbanese side, as one of theirs spotted movement and fired.

It was an unbearable night, filled with pleas for help, calls for loved ones, all would go unanswered. You could hear the wrenching cries that sounded loudly, the troopers in great pain from their wounds that could suffer the anguish no longer. Some curses erupted, accused us of being cowards for not emerging at once to collect them, abandoning them to a solitary death. Others appealed to duty, called upon comrades in the trenches, begged not to be abandoned. A few medics bravely ventured into the no man's land to render what aid they could, but their impact was marginal, and many did not return. In the darkness, we knew the Mimbos were out there, working their way through the waste. There were frantic shouts and screams of terror that were snuffed out abruptly. Not even the bounty of equipage left by the troopers in the doomed departure was worth the torment we endured that night, having to listen to their macabre chorus.

I am informed that I am to lead a patrol tonight, a reconnaissance of the enemy works. It has been two days since the 516th was decimated in their otiose excursion. The artillery section needed a more accurate range for their guns, so a spotter required an escort to observe the Mimbanese position from an uncomfortably close distance. I was apparently Brimmo's first choice to spearhead this expedition. I could not care less about his perception of my dependability; I just wish he would select someone else for these forays beyond our lines. There is no doubt Dangir would be willing to go, eager to win further acclaim. I left the command post sunken into the traverse after being briefed by the major and made for the section of trench where our accommodations were carved out.

"What's that look for," Haurn greeted me, as she glanced up from her reclined position.

I approached my nook etched from the wall of the trench where my rucksack and gear were stored. Hastily, I removed my excess kit, helmet and torso armor, anything supernumerary that might get snagged or prove an encumbrance while maneuvering in the night. I placed my E-11 aside, then checked the power on the WESTAR Haurn gifted me before placing it back into its holster. The entrenching tool was one piece I was sure to bring, should an enemy requiring a silent dispatch be encountered.

"Major wants me to escort an artillery spotter up to the bugs' line," I answered Haurn, as I began to rifle about in search of the wire cutters. "Yet another nighttime crawl."

"It's because you're so good at it!" Dashnik interjected with a bit of impassive humor, through a mouth stuffed with ration noodles. "Fail to deliver and you won't get asked. But you won't get considered for any more of those medals you keep collecting."

"I'll keep that in mind," I snarled, refocusing on preparations.

"Just you on this nanny duty?" Haurn inquired.

"Dangir 'volunteered' a couple of danks from his company," I replied in a sardonic tone. "So, you know he is providing his best."

Haurn was quickly on her feet–arranging her kit for the essentials and discarding the superfluous. She checked the edge of her vibroblade before returning it to the scabbard and removing her own armor.

"What are you doing?" I inquired of Haurn, though I knew.

"You'll be busy watching that spotter, but no one will be watching you," Haurn insisted, flashing her sincere smile. "After that stupid stunt you pulled at the outpost and the trench recon Dash took you on, which turned into a two-day excursion, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I stood aside with Haurn, as we tried to avoid the snickering of Dashnik. It was not my intention to impel or guilt her into coming with me. Though these night forays are fraught with risk, as much as I would like Haurn along, I could not ask her.

"I appreciate your concern," I said, trying to humor with some of my brash confidence. "You stay, I'll be fine. Just a quick peek and run. Simple work, no heroics."

"Awww cyar'ika," Haurn grinned, pressed each of her palms to my cheeks and looked directly into my eyes. "You're adorable when you try to tell me NO."

The sincerity and even teasing were comforting, when uttered against the backdrop of our daily experience. To hear, as we stood up to our ankles in the mud that filled our trench. Something consoling, when we are plagued by the infestation of mites, of which there is no mitigation. There are days we are under heavy bombardment, others when the bugs sweep our trenches with automatic blaster fire. The conditions are freezing, perpetually soaked from the unceasing rains. We endure having to watch others around us fall, lives snuffed out in the campaign to achieve…what are we achieving? What is our goal, our purpose? This cannot be an operation to secure and restore the mining facilities comprising Voran. The movement is too slow, and the indiscriminate use of force is laying waste to the extraction machines and the processing plants. What are we doing, why are we having to suffer?

The artillery spotter was waiting, crouched in the fire trench, with the commander of the section's artillery and the two dregs sent over from 3 Company. The artillery commander was briefing his spotter on what data needed to be collected while handing over a pair of macrobinoculars. I was apprised of what was going on. The Mimbanese lines, as part of defenses around Redoubt 7, contained a number of reinforced pillboxes and weapons emplacements. The artillery was having great difficulty in accurately ranging and destroying these targets. Mimban's atmospheric ionization was to thank for the disruption of the calculation sensors. The spotter was being sent to take accurate readings and measurements, which could generate precise firing solutions. Why it had to be done this way I did not know, because I only follow orders.

The party of six worked our way down the sap. Haurn was the lead and I followed directly behind with the spotter at my side. The spotter arrived with a fresh uniform and a bearing that he was not accustomed to skulking about in no man's land. Best to keep him alive to accomplish his task and safely return, so we would not have to repeat the exercise. The duo sent from 3 Company brought up the rear, call them Troopers P & R since I do not remember their names. I understood why Dangir sent them –as eager as I was to see them get turned around and listed as missing in action. It was clear neither of the pair wanted to be here, I did not want to be here, but they were making quite a show of their displeasure. P & R had to be told repeatedly to be quiet, for they ventured to whisper in defiance of logical thought. A faint voice can carry across the wastes, especially if the artillery is not active. On a few occasions, I had to wind up my leg and kick whichever trooper was within range of my boot to force their silence.

The ground was soddened and pulling ourselves on our bellies through the frozen mud induced an awful shiver. It was a cold night, the temperature dropped, which added to the immense discomfort. I never could get used to the cold, no matter how many chilling nights I endured. The ground was blasted apart, and we had to pick our way around the larger shell craters. This was starting to become a routine and one I would rather not perform. If conditions were not already dreadful, there were bodies everywhere, the remains left to fester from the 516th. The ranks of that regiment were slain in droves. Some formed piles as lines were shot down with automatic fire. I closed my eyes and tried to shut the sensation out of my head when I felt myself crawl over a corpse. I could feel limbs, the lifeless face of some departed trooper. The ones blown apart by shrapnel rounds had their innards wrenched out and splayed on the ground around them. You could smell that horrid stench, my palm pressed into the heap of entrails, as I passed over one. I am glad it was dark, for I did not want a view.

The enemy's trenches were situated along the crest of a small elevation with a long slope to ascend. Nearing the objective, we heard voices mixed with groans coming from ahead. One of our large caliber artillery shells fell short and blasted an enormous outcropping into the slope that amply shielded those advancing from the view of the Mimbos. The voices were low, curt whispers, not bug, but one could not be certain. I motioned for the party to halt while Haurn would observe. She crept a couple of meters ahead, then waved for me to approach. Silently, I moved forward and peered my head slightly over the lip of the shell crater. There were eight or ten troopers, clearly wounded to various severe degrees, arranged with two of our medics over them, a collapsible stretcher unfolded at their feet, but no one upon it. The medics went to each wounded trooper and did not render treatment, instead demanded payment. The troopers thrust into the hands of the medics whatever they had of value: spare credits, heirloom chronos, amulets, or other trinkets brought from home. The one who offered the largest sum was allowed to be laid on the stretcher. The rest would be left to an uncertain fate, unable to walk on their own and dependent on this apparent for hire evacuation. The medics, I only caught a brief glimpse of their faces, but I recognized the pair. They were decorated only a few days prior by Brigadier Pellond himself for their courageous ventures into the wastes to rescue the wounded, night after night. The motivation to risk their lives on the escapades was apparent. There was nothing we could do about the practice, to aid these wounded troopers. If we crawled into the shell hole, it might startle someone, and the noise would be enough to alert an enemy listening post. Haurn and I slunk away, signaled to our party.

Ahead we plod, through the shrouds of mud, over the broken landscape, the bodies. Haurn was certain we were nearing the enemy position, nudged me with a boot to halt the column. We were in a fold in the terrain, well covered and suitable for the next phase. I would take the spotter about fifty meters ahead to accomplish the ranging scan, while Haurn waited with P & R in this concealment for our return. Troopers P & R sat up, breathing heavily from the exertion, made more because of the excess of equipment that proved a burden. As I prepared to take the spotter, an illumination flare raced upwards and burst. Instinctively, we ducked our heads and remained motionless. In the glow of the light, revealed before us at not more than a few meters length, a troupe of Mimbanese, a raiding force, were likewise holding in place for the flare's terminus. Equally surprised to encounter us as we were them, both factions could only stare the other down, stricken by disbelief. The situation rapidly devolved. The Mimbos were a dozen strong, by my rough estimate. Troopers P & R became unnerved, took to their feet, and fled. A bug fired the first shot and struck Trooper R. We watched as he was engulfed in a brilliant flash of light and then there was nothing, no remains of the young man. The artillery spotter broke into a terrified scream, one only fueled by pure horror –he was the first to verbally acknowledge the disruptor. Conjecture given to proof! The flicker of light from the disintegration brought unwanted attention, as the alarm from both MLA and Imperial sentries was raised. Soon, crews would be to their mortars and lobbing bombs upon this ground.

The Mimbo raiders were determined to press the offensive. An arrested shriek arose from Trooper P, as he was disintegrated like his companion. This was a close quarters contest, erupted within the short distance between our parties. The bugs could have easily overwhelmed us and remained undetected, if they stuck to their melee implements, yet they elected the use of disruptors, evidently to send a message. An incoming mortar round detonated to my left. Haurn took a stick grenade and flung it into the mass of bug raiders. The blast left several screaming and furnished chaos among their numbers. Events proceeded so swiftly, I was provided with no opportunity to draw my blaster or employ my spade. Rather, I obliged to move when Haurn took my arm and insisted I follow. Bolts raced in all directions, the raiders fired wildly, joined by panicked shooting emanating from their comrades along the lines. The mortars intensified; explosions tore about. The AT-DT artillery responded with its brand of drumfire, which saturated the ground in a torrent of flame. So fast did Haurn and I flee –we were barely able to escape. So aggressive was the artillery it necessitated we abandon caution and run with a full sprint. Quickly, we bounded over the obstacles, tripped several times, fell into shallow craters filled with water, landed among the corpses, sliced ourselves on the remnant strands of razor wire. All in the mad dash to escape the bombardment. To our benefit, the battalion was aware of our outing and held their fire. We leapt into the trench, settled into the muck at its bottom upon landing, but we did not care for we were safe. Haurn and I sat there, embraced each other, as our nerves trembled from the encounter. The bosses were upset when they discovered us, how we returned without the firing solutions or even the spotter. It was a vicious scolding, first delivered by Brimmo, then the artillery commander took his turn.

The word passed and reached the weary battalion. The 8843rd is finally being rotated out of the trenches to function as a reserve and to give us a rest. Two untested regiments were pushed forward to occupy our place in preparation for another fruitless attack that would accomplish nothing. The relief action took place at night, to keep our movements screened in the darkness. It was frustratingly slow to displace troopers coming off the line with those sent in, given the narrow trenches, conditions, and the lack of visibility, for illuminators were forbidden. After several hours and nearing the end of the ordeal, the Mimbos obliged to send over a round of bombs. Detonations violently tore about; large shell splinters flew disconcertingly close to our shivering bodies. In between segments of fire, we would double-quick around each traverse and then throw ourselves to the ground once the next salvo commenced. We were quite relieved when we made it out of that tormentous gauntlet. The sappers clustered in a perceived area of safety and Andrin began a headcount. The sergeant-major, the lieutenant's trusted second, was the only individual absent. A search was organized, and notice relayed, but he could not be located. The sergeant-major's remains were never found, he just disappeared.

The area where our battalion established its laager was situated between the last support trench and the staging area, where inbound supplies and reinforcements were exchanged for the mangled remains of what this battle produced. We were out of the trenches, but the conditions were not much improved. Enemy artillery was a constant plague that sent us scrambling frequently, but it was mainly focused on knocking out the batteries of AT-DTs. There are not enough rapid assembly shelters to billet everyone, so we improvise. All seasoned troopers know to carry a spare raincloak to make a shelter half, fastened together with a second and you have a two-person tent. The bivouac was sectioned by platoons within the battalion. Each platoon was tasked to dig a drainage ditch and fill sandbags around their section to keep the water out of the tents.

The days spent here were not idle and we had precious little free time. Instead, the 8843rd joined in exercises with the 8913th, 8606th, and 8004th Shock Battalions [Independent], the rebuilt 1st Battalion/806th Assault Regiment and a special detachment of Stormtroopers. Replacements swelled the ranks and brought depleted units to three-quarters of their strength. The amalgamation of units was designated the 72nd Assault Brigade. The exercises were comprehensive and coordinated maneuvers, performed on a derelict series of entrenchments abandoned by the MLA. These deserted works served as a mockup of the enemy's defenses before Redoubt 7, ones we would have to take. Our units engaged in these maneuvers in conjunction with armored units, AT-STs and TX-225s, a proper combined exercise on how infantry and armor can support the other. Sappers from the participating units underwent additional exercises to refine our skills –choreographed bunker assaults, grenade throwing, special weapons employment. Haurn and I scored the highest marks with the grenades, if you will permit my boast, each declared the best grenadiers of our battalion. As we proceeded with our intensive preparations, formations of regular Army troopers were still inanely hurled against the enemy in murderous frontal assaults with predictable outcomes.

The Army's official response to the enemy's deployment of disruptors was escalation. The combined formations of sappers from the 72nd were removed from the day's exercise and led to a cordoned off section of field –cordoned, as in a ring of military police flanked our assemblage. An officer stood upon an erected platform, a table at his side, and began his lecture. For a bit, I paid no attention to the oration, for Haurn and I were exchanging jokes and generally mucking about. When one of the objects on the table was seized by the officer and thrust into the air, much heed did we pay to his words. It was a cylindrical canister he held aloft, a new type of grenade. Though, this one was different from the ones we were so adept at raining upon our foe. For this grenade contained not explosives, but poison gas.

When the MLA issued disruptors to their bugs, the Empire was compelled to dispense a proportionate response. The rain, the climate, and conditions of Mimban were unfavorable to chemical warfare on the large scale, as the gas clouds would be dissipated by the elements. The grenades, however, were ideal to use against bunkers and other enclosed spaces where the enemy might prove difficult to extract. Sappers were taken in groups to these hollows dug three meters deep and covered with metal grates. Packed inside each space were various species of Mimbanese, humans, and other assorted aliens taken prisoner during the offensive. A miserable range of dejected and abused individuals, dirty and exhausted. A few looked upon us with contempt, indignation, but most hid themselves away from our stares. We were told to securely affix our respirators and ensure the seals were tight. Subordinates under the lecturing officer primed the grenades and tossed them through the grates, amongst the prisoners. Orders were for us to watch, hold our gaze steady on the accurst. There was a briefly visible grey cloud, as the chemical vaporized and reacted when the grenade detonated. A few shill howls echoed but were swiftly replaced by the horrid retching. Prisoners bent over, expelled blood as they coughed, the chemical agent painfully dissolving their lungs. In less than ten seconds, all subjects were dead. The demonstration was concluded. The sappers were to be issued gas grenades and it was expected of us to employ them against the enemy.

000