YEAR I: The Mimban Campaign
Paulus Maider
224th Imperial Armored Div.
Mimban
YOUR EMPIRE NEEDS YOU. TROOPERS FORWARD!
A murderous fire descended upon us from the heights and outcroppings. The bolts raked our exposed lines, as we desperately tried to resist. The attackers were well concealed in their works, leaving us only able to spot them by flashes of their blaster muzzles and bolts emitted. Left and right, troopers were falling dead or wounded. We fired wildly into the ridgeline, lobbed thermal detonators at the perceived enemy. The fighting was fierce and chaotic. Our battalion had nowhere to go, and the panic had set in. The audacious Mimbanese would rise to taunt or were so whipped up in the frenzy they could not help but stand up to shoot.
A rocket collided with the lead AT-DT, blasted the walker apart in a blinding conflagration. Several troopers that stood near were instantly killed in the blast. A second rocket fired destroyed another AT-DT. The ground was so littered with dead the foot mechanisms of the walkers became jammed from stepping on the human remains. Several more rocket streaks met with walkers and blasted them apart. The flying slag of the destroyed machines passed over our heads. A few in our number were hit by the shrapnel.
…10 years before the Battle of Yavin
The deceleration beacon caught my attention, as it flashed in its red hue. I remember staring up at it from our battalion formation. It signaled our ship was about to exit hyperspace. The ship was one of three, all aged Acclamator Assault Ships. The Empire was stretched thin and needed to ferry in the replacement battalions for the 224th Armored Division on Mimban. The Acclamators were the only transport ships available to Sector Command that could accomplish this phase of the movement. The 224th was a Grand Army clone division that had fought on Mimban during the War and remained in a peacekeeping role after the Imperial Reformation. Their role was expanding increasingly into counterinsurgency operations, as the local populace proved recalcitrant. The Campaign required a troop surge to bring the division up to full combat strength and replenish depleted units.
The Acclamator brought me back to thoughts about my childhood on Euruta. All of us kids used to scavenge in the wrecked hulk of one that had been downed during the Clone War. The wreck had remained pretty much intact, and I was able to do a good amount of exploring through its interior. Exploration, while salvaging bits to sell to junkers. Naturally, I was curious to see one function.
Our battalion waited in the large holding bay to be immediately unloaded upon landing. The entire deck was a hive of activity. A line of bi-pedal walkers, All Terrain Defense Turrets, joined the formation. The AT-DTs served as self-propelled artillery, mounting a large cannon on their frame. A loud creek reverberated through the ship –the sound of metal grinding. It was the landing gear extending, as the Acclamator descended on the landing zone. Imperial Engineers carved out massive tracts of land for the Acclamators and other transports to touchdown on prepared tarmacs. The entire ship lurched when the landing gear contacted the ground.
The ramp started to open and the bleak Mimbanese daylight seeped into the hold. You could hardly call it daylight, the clouds blocked out most sunlight and everything seemed to be in a continuous haze. At this moment, a good number of us, myself included, started coming down with terrible fits of coughing, like when you're choking. Of course, those coughing were the ones who neglected to fit their respirators out of carelessness or discomfort. The Imperial infantry were issued with these clumsy respirators to wear over the face, in addition to our bulky combat helmets and awkward fitting chest plates. The climate of Mimban is humid, beyond anything I had ever experienced on Euruta. I did boot and combat school aboard an orbital station, the station didn't even have functioning weather condition simulators.
It rained constantly on Mimban, with the skies perpetually darkened and the ground is an engulfing morass of mud. The decades of mining and refining of hyperbaride had torn up the land, from what were mostly endless rainforests and swamps, to hectares of desolate, mud clogged landscape. The air was so choked with fungal spores caused by the humidity and climate, they proved toxic to humans if exposure was prolonged. Hence the need for respirators. I know people like to throw blame at the Empire for the environmental catastrophes on Mimban, but the mining was started decades ago, before the Empire was even founded, back during the Republic's watch.
I scrambled to attach the respirator to my face. The trooper next to me collapsed to her hands and knees, unloaded her stomach contents all over the deck. The second platoon's lieutenant shouted at us to put our respirators on, then turned to me.
"What the hell is wrong with Trooper Haurn?" the lieutenant barked at me. "You get her in line, Maider!"
"Yes sir, sorry sir!" I quickly replied.
"And keep your respirators on, dammit. The Empire issued them for this very reason."
The lieutenant made the last comment more audible, so that those around could make sure they heard him, as he set off to continue his assessment of the platoon. The lieutenant was an old hand at all of this. The battle scars that marked the lieutenant's face told of his experience, a face identical to many of those aging in their Imperial service, the face of a clone. There was no need for the lieutenant to put on his respirator, for his lungs were already acclimated to the spores of Mimban. He was here before, back during the War. It was the easiest way to spot the green troops planet side –acclimation took time.
Heeding the lieutenant's order, I turned and reached out my hand to Haurn. Sonya Haurn was cute –tall and thin with tan skin and deep hazel eyes. A little over a year older than I. She was struggling to catch her breath once I pulled her to her feet. I took the respirator she was fumbling to grasp and helped affix it to her face. Then tugged on the hoses to ensure they were attached and checked the airflow. She gave a thumbs up in appreciation.
The natural light from the nearby sun was mostly filtered out by the thick clouds. It was a burned orange sky. The pollution from the heavy mining only served to thicken the cloud cover. The churning up of the land had thrown more of the spores into the air. The ramp lowered and the battalion was ordered to march. It was our battalion in the vanguard that led the rest of the Imperial infantry and Stormtrooper Corps detachments in disembarking. I got onto the ramp and could not help but gawk.
TIE fighters screeched overhead, as they engaged their afterburners. Off on another sortie. Aligned in equal rows were the tents set up by the 224th. It had once been an organized military camp, but the attrition had worn the base down –the mud tracked everywhere. Soldiers not on combat patrol or picket duty were tasked to dig. Dig entrenchments to protect against hostile incursion. Dig drainage ditches for the water runoff. Dig to shore up the collapsing foundations of the prefabricated base structures, which constantly sank into the mud. It was a task I would come to despise in time.
As my battalion descended the right side of the cargo ramp, others made their way up the left. They were infantry, alright, but not in a cohesive formation. These were the one who finished their rotation and were being transferred off the planet. Just about every one of them taunted us as we passed. "Hope you enjoy the mud," they would say, "we'll be sure to take care of your lovers while you're here", "dead troops on arrival" and "don't let the Mimbanese tuck you in at night!"
Next, we passed the wounded. Some were able to walk on their own. They were bandaged and exhausted. Many others had to be carried on stretchers up the ramp. Then a line of flatbed hover trucks made their way forward. The cargo of the hover trucks, twenty-five per sled, and five sleds in tow, arranged reverently, were the bags containing the remains of the Imperials who had fallen. The hover trucks caused many of the green Imperial troops to stare, as trepidation supplanted their optimistic pride. There seemed to be no end to the procession.
The noncommissioned officers shoved the battalion along. Those who stopped were thrown forward and ordered to advance. An "at ease" collection of Stormtroopers loitered at the edge of the tarmac. They sprawled across stacked crates and huddled under a tarpaulin shelter that shielded them from the deluge of rain.
The Stormtroopers' mood was jovial, their white armor long tarnished by the mud and scuffed by the elements. A few had their helmets removed while they consumed steaming bowls of ration noodles. The warmth was the only soothing comfort to be found in the camp. They too began to hurl their taunts at our untested ranks –explaining our pitiful life expectancy and the superiority of the Stormtrooper Corps to that of the Imperial Army.
We descended the ramp, with the hull of the ship above our heads to shield us from the rain. That was the first time I had seen rain that heavy, like I said, Euruta was a lot drier than this place. The water ran down the hull of the Acclamator in torrents, poured over the sides, created massive waterfalls. It was bad enough that engineers constructed awnings on the tarmac, which lined up with the ramp so personnel could approach the ship. The rushing water was enough to knock you off your feet in some places.
Distracted by the water and jeers for being a fresh arrival –that's how I missed it. A shriek pierced the air. An explosion tore through one of the large thrusters on the Acclamator. Suddenly, a blast in the camp, followed by another, and another, all in rapid succession. Discipline broke down, as commanders ordered us to find cover. But how do you find cover when you have no idea what you're doing, or what is even happening.
It was artillery fire coming from a ridgeline beyond the Imperial base perimeter. The Mimbanese Liberation Army, MLA, would crawl out of their holes and lob ordinance at us. We were hit by a combination of light proton mortars and concussion rockets. All were surplus left by the Separatists or equipped by the Republic back during the Clone War. The Mimbos kept anything that could shoot.
The cohesion of our battalion disintegrated, as we all had to fend for ourselves. Some tried to run back into the cargo hold but became entangled with the equally panicked troops marching behind us and the loading wounded. I was a meter or so from the ground, so I leapt off the ramp and came down hard on the tarmac, the equipment I carried weighing me down. Some poor bastards misjudged the height of the ramp relative to where they jumped and consequently broke ankles and legs when they hit. A good many just fell to their deaths.
The tarmac was mayhem with troopers running in every direction. I figured those Stormtroopers I saw earlier might know what they were doing, so I made for their location. The bombs landed all around. It wasn't accurate fire; it didn't have to be. The design of the base protected against infiltration –give it an easy perimeter to secure by grouping things together. Command was more worried about Mimbos running past our pickets and into our camp. The reality, any artillery round fired was bound to hit something.
I sprinted across the tarmac to the last spot I saw those Stormtroopers –but I could not find them. There was a shallow drainage culvert of mud with several crates stacked around it. I dove right for the cover –landing in the mud and bracing against the side of the sluice. My best option was to stay put and just wait. The camp structures were blasted apart –explosions that hurled men and debris through the air. Vast sections of the Acclamator were sheared off from the impacts, as the big ship could not bring its shields online.
A squadron of TIE bombers scrambled to take off, presumably to engage the hostile artillery. Their crews sprinting up the access ladders to the cockpits. Several bombs landed in their parked formation and destroyed most of the squadron. Maybe two or three were able to get airborne, I think. An anti-air rocket blasted one of their number from the sky. I can't recall what happened to the other(s). Air cover, or lack thereof, would be a constant issue plaguing us on Mimban.
Troopers screamed and I saw a small blast depression in the tarmac near the edge of the ship's ramp. Surrounding the crater were the charred bodies of several from my battalion. They were the lucky ones, as their hell on Mimban was already over. I figured the crater to be the result of an incoming artillery round, but no. The blast came from the ground up. Those damn Mimbos tunneled their way under the tarmac and blasted their way to the surface. I saw maybe half a dozen of those bugs emerge from the hole. Their bulging eyes, suitable for the low light underground, I'll never forget seeing those. They were covered in tree palms, stuck to their backs as some sort of crude camouflage. Swiftly, they opened fire on the stunned troopers who helplessly scattered to avoid the artillery.
I clenched the E-10 blaster rifle in my hands and held the weapon close to my chest, yet I could not muster the courage to shoot. In the heat of the moment, I just felt myself seize up, suppose it was just terror. I heard the voice in my head urge me to do something, to open fire on the enemy, as I was letting my comrades down by not. But I could not bring myself to move. I just pressed my body against the culvert and tried my best to hide from the battle. I feel ashamed to admit that I was more worried about making it out alive, avoiding any heroics, and focusing on my own self-preservation. It was cowardice, no sense in dressing up the definition.
A few Stormtroopers leapt into the culvert. They recognized what I was doing, the lack of a role I was playing in the ensuing combat. I do not think they were too concerned, as they had more to focus on than a cowering infantryman. One of the Stormtroopers desired the spot of cover, where I braced, to use as their firing position. The Stormtrooper pulled me up by the webbing of my kit and shoved me facedown into the mud opposite. I pushed myself up from the muck and seated against the wall of the culvert, a bit dazed from the chaos.
The Mimbos were far too exposed out in the open and figured they knew it. My guess is they were off on their tunneling estimate and breached in the wrong place. Preferable to emerge right in the middle of our tent city and run amok among the shelters. The mortar rounds were landing too close for comfort to their ranks. One of them was squawking in that clicking tongue of theirs into a communicator, in all probability, at the artillerists to adjust fire to avoid hitting their own. A Stormtrooper put a bolt right through the chest of that one.
"Hey kid," another one of the Stormtroopers grabbed my shoulder and spoke. "Your detonator."
"What!?" I remember shouting back at him.
The Stormtrooper didn't take time to answer. Rather, he seized the thermal detonator affixed to my chest rig, pulled it free. He armed the explosive and threw it directly at the tunnel's opening. The thermal detonator bounced around the rubble before it slipped into the abyss below. Just as a few Mimbos scrambled back into the tunnel. An explosion rocked the area, sent a massive, conflagrated plume upwards. Any of the Mimbos who entered the hole were incinerated. The thermal detonator also collapsed the entry of the tunnel and rendered it unusable until our engineers could carry out a more thorough demolition. The remaining Mimbos were shot down where they stood. I didn't see any of the veteran Stormtroopers attempt to take prisoners, might be for the best, as none of the Mimbos looked like they would surrender.
This engagement concluded, I climbed out of the culvert and viewed the scene for myself. Off in the distance, on the ridgeline, an incoming flight of TIE bombers dropped all the ordinance they carried. It was in the area where the Mimbos setup their artillery. The bombers further reduced the ridge –pitted so extensively with craters and burning trails of conflagrine. Doubtful they hit anything, as the enemy's artillerists likely withdrew into their holes and escaped before the first TIE was overhead.
The blaster fire in our vicinity stopped, we could only hear the fighting rage in the distance. There was a commotion on the tarmac, a mixture of Stormtroopers and us Mudtroopers gathered in a circle. Before us was the most pathetic Mimbo you ever saw. The damn thing was still alive, barely. Several blaster bolts had struck the creature and it was struggling to crawl. A few troopers, the newly arrived ones, were more curious to see the enemy up close. None had seen a real life Mimbanese, I hadn't seen many non-humans, didn't have many of them come through to Euruta, didn't have much of anyone come through to Euruta.
Those that weren't gawking, the veterans, the Stormtroopers, who had been on Mimban for a while, were less interested in satisfying their curiosity. They were taking their turns kicking and stomping the bug. It was their enemy, an enemy that had killed many of their friends, an enemy responsible for the fighting and the misery they endured on Mimban. They wanted their enemy to suffer.
The Mimbanese bug screeched from the pain –the physical attacks rendered by Imperial boots. The Stormtroopers were just worked up into a frenzy, like it was something uncontrollable. Perhaps an officer or two joined in, I can't confirm that, nor will I go on record to make that claim, but I think you can piece it together. I remember there was little blood, the blaster bolts cauterized the wounds.
The veterans continued their unrestrained treatment of the Mimbo. Those in my battalion, the ones gawking at the bug, were hurried back into formation. The unloading of the ship resumed, with more infantry beginning their descent on the ramp.
There were five hundred of us in our battalion. Twenty or so were killed in the attack with maybe sixty wounded. Three from my platoon. That was just our battalion, there were bodies lying all over the place. Our lieutenant left our formation to confer with the company commanders, who were, in turn, conferring with battalion command. Haurn stepped up in the ranks next to where I stood. Her fatigues and kit were just as muddied as mine –assuming she too sought the safety of the culvert. She was shaking visibly, we all were. A combination of nerves and cold, as the rains continued to fall. Lined up as we were, a few shells could blast us apart in no time. I turned to Haurn to strike up a conversation, anything to break the tension.
"Hey," I said, the respirator distorting my speech. "You alright?"
Haurn turned to me, I couldn't judge her expression because of her own mask. Regardless, before she could reply, orders were shouted to "quiet in the ranks" and "forward march". Our line was directed through the ramshackle Imperial camp. Eroding drainage ditches diverted the water to the middle of the street where we walked, requiring heavy and laborious steps to make it through the mud.
Troopers, both Army and those of the Stormtrooper Corps, lounged about the tents. From their indifference you could hardly suspected the camp had been under an artillery bombardment not a half hour prior. Those without the weather protection offered by Stormtrooper armor huddled under their raincloaks in a paltry effort to remain dry. Others clustered around the oxygen filtration generators attached to the tents that purified the air. Tents were airtight to allow humans to breathe easily without masks when inside. The exhaust vent on the generators put out a jet of heat, as a small comfort to those suffering from this misery. The rapid troop buildup outpaced the supply of tents. There simply were not enough, yet, to house everyone.
The camp was laid out in the standard grid, as dictated by Imperial Military doctrine. Headquarters in the center, with communications and stores, ringed outwards by the fighting troops. Wide thoroughfares allowed for easy movement of troopers and walkers, when able to be adequately cleared of mud. Passing one of the tents with its door, having been ripped off, we could see the squalid interior. Troopers slept on what little remained of their tattered raincloaks on a floor of mud. They were packed so tightly within, they had to lay on their sides with no room to roll onto their backs. The rows of bunks, stacked four high, slept three or four to a berth, intended for one. Everyone was filthy, caked in the mud and perpetually soaked. The occasional crater took the place of where a tent had been. Undoubtedly destroyed by Mimbanese artillery rounds. Unable to replace the structure, from lack of stores, a simple tarpaulin cover was pulled over the shell hole and troopers crawled under to shelter from the elements. It was the most dejected and pitiful showing of our Imperial Army. After the sounds of battle, the second most noise you heard was the cough.
Word spread its way through the column, as we trudged through the camp, that we were being sent to the front. You had your basic soldier's rumors, the Mimbos were surrendering, and we were the ones to accept it, or the enemy had broken our trench line and we were going to fight a rearguard action. Others said we were being thrown into an assault to capture the Mimbanese positions on that ridge, where the artillery came from. The rumor I preferred said we were going to dig breastworks. I would rather dig than go through with this madness.
At the edge of the formal camp were the trenches. The rear communication and staging trenches were sunk four to six meters into the ground, to better afford protection and conceal movements, troop numbers. Our pace was quickened, officers and non-comms urging us forward and a more rapid pace than your standard march.
The troopers back in the camp were rotated out of the trenches and afforded the brief respite. The ones we encountered, manning the lines, were a most wretched sight. Some expel the contents of their lungs in various fits of coughing, a result from the planet's harmful spores. Covered in grime, they dug little holes in the sides of the trench walls as their shelters. Interesting, considering the walls were durasteel plates erected to hold the dirt back. Meaning, these troopers cut through the metal with blas-torches and excavated their dugouts. Anything to get out of the rain.
These are the comparatively sought-after dugouts. Some are virtually blast proof against artillery, as they have been cut deep into the ground. Larger ones, being able to shelter eight to ten troopers are roofed with massive durasteel plates supported by beams. They won't resist a direct hit but afford protection against the mortars and rocket artillery. The ground inside these dugouts is covered with the tattered remains of raincloaks and they are furnished with a table, benches or chairs fashioned from discarded supply crates.
Idle troopers manning the trench stood up against the side walls to allow us space to pass. Grates and metal beams were laid in the flooring of the trenches to provide a stable footing, yet there were flooded sections where you had to wade through shin deep water in order to advance. We were passing out of the built-up communications and support trenches toward the frontline ones. They were far more primitive, with little or no durasteel reinforced walls to hold back the mud, no flooring to keep you dry.
There are no words to truly express the situation. It's not only the Mimbos we're up against; it's the entire planet. We were up to our knees in muck and water within an hour of moving. As we advanced along the trench, the mud grew deeper and deeper. We had not even gone far when we had to cover –the Mimbos fired a brief salvo of rockets. To move forward, I had to use both elbows for leverage, one on each side of the trench. After about an hour and a half of this, we reached the firing line.
The frontline trenches are in a terrible condition –up to a meter deep in mud and water. We're plastered in mud up to our faces. They are topped with strong parapets reinforced with sandbags and fascines cobbled from scavenged materials, emplaced laser turrets, embrasures, and loopholed durasteel plates behind which a trooper can find cover. It is in this trench we are arranged along with a veteran battalion, currently standing-to, braced against the firing step. The laser turrets let loose a salvo at the Mimbanese position to further pummel the foe.
I, as well as most in the platoon, had no idea what was going on or what we were supposed to be doing. The orders seemed to be lost and we did not know if we were to start manning this position or move to another. The major of our battalion began conversing with the captain, the highest-ranking officer left, of the veteran battalion. There was a command post cattycornered from where I stood, shoulder to shoulder with the other quivering newbies. I am sure the veterans were chiding and taunting us to no end, but I cannot recollect that part.
Some heated words were exchanged before both officers came storming out of the command post. Our major turned to the unfortunate trooper carrying a comm unit on his back and began berating the poor kid in of front everyone –blaming him for breaking the equipment and the subsequent loss of communications with headquarters. A brief council of war convened among the battalion staff, after which our clone lieutenant called our platoon to listen.
"The bugs have been blasted off that ridge," the clone spoke up, a harsh rasp in his voice. "Command wants to send us in to make sure there's nobody left alive."
I could feel my heart drop at what was being asked of us. I was still trembling from the sights I witnessed at the tarmac. Now, we were being ordered to go right to the source. Terrified would be a polite way to explain the platoon's feeling on the subject. One reassuring sight was a low flying TIE bomber, which passed over head. The charged sound of accelerated torpedoes and the screeching churn of the craft's twin ion engines deafened the senses, as the attack run commenced. The ground shook when the ordinance detonated on the ridge in the distance.
It was a disquiet sight to watch the veteran troopers withdraw from the firing step they occupied. The veterans took the opportunity to stretch out or lay down in some of the outcroppings and dugouts they prepared. The orders were given for us to take their place, which we did. The odd clumsy newbie trooper slipped in the mud, as they nervously tried to get their footing on the step.
"This had to be a mistake," I kept telling myself. Our battalion readied to advance. We had never seen combat before –completely untested, having arrived on Mimban just a few hours ago. I was not sure why our commanders were throwing us into battle like this. Later, I would find out it was a mistake.
"FORWARD!" the command bellowed down the line from every officer.
Troopers clambered up from the firing step and hauled themselves over the parapet. A great many tumbled face first and landed in the mud. Those behind tripping over their comrades in front. It was a wave of fumbling as we surged out of the trenches and forward. A heavy hand in my back pushed me up and I quickly gained my feet. Some troopers were turning around to help pull others out. Gradually, things began to evolve into a rush toward the enemy's ridge.
We leapt over craters that pot marked the ground. Artillery shelling reduced the landscape to a barren waste. Many of the shell holes were filled with water and would swallow a human if they were unfortunate enough to fall in. There were broken wrecks of AT-DT walkers littered about this ground, as were the discarded bits of trooper kit –helmets, armor, packs, and the like. The bodies were the most unpleasant sight. Thousands of them strewn about, twisted, and contorted in every manner. Some blasted in half, or with arms or legs missing.
There was but little time to take in the remains of battle –the advance had to commence. We pressed forward at a brisk pace. Moving over the broken terrain, stepping delicately to avoid setting a foot on a corpse. The more eager, or more insane, troopers of the battalion broke into a run –charging headlong to the ridge.
My hands were shaking so badly, as I gripped my E-10 blaster and held it prepared should I need to start shooting –hoping I'd be able to shoot. One foot in front of the other, I forced myself to keep moving. Twenty-five meters I had survived thus far. What noise I could hear were the shouts of fury by a battalion of advancing troopers, spurred on by their officers. Fifty meters I accomplished and no wounds. Then seventy-five meters advanced. I slid down the embankment of a large crater and had to crawl up the steep opposite side.
I took a moment to catch my breath from the cover offered by this crater. Braced on this embankment, I scanned the battlefield. One thing struck me as being quite peculiar, there was no one shooting at us. The emplaced turrets from our line passed bolts over our heads, but there was no fire coming at us.
The troopers of the battalion soon came to the same observation. The advance lost its momentum about a hundred meters from the foot of the ridge. Several came to a halt in this wasteland and others, winded from the exertion, slowed to a walk. Everyone started bunching together, trying to find each other and reorganize. We expected to charge a fortified enemy, but it appeared the enemy was not there.
A low fog descended and thoroughly blanketed the area. I was quickly losing sight of the troopers to my front. Then the quiet overtook the field. Our turrets ceased their fire, so as not to hit our own. A few others followed my path into the crater and crawled up the side to my left and right. They too indulged the opportunity to pause. We waited there for several tense moments –believing there was no enemy. Hoping, perhaps the Mimbos had been driven off or blasted from the ridge.
Then a shrill howl pierced the air. A barrage of rockets fell upon our ranks from the direction of the ridge. The darkened skies of Mimban turned a blinding shade of orange –illuminated by the artillery impacts. The cries of troopers, amplified and distorted by their breathing apparatuses and communicators, echoed across the waste. The scene was appalling. Bombs and rockets and every manner of killing explosive was hurled at us. Whole groups melted away in seconds. Automatic blaster fire opened from the ridge and raked its way through our troopers –cutting them down as if it were nothing. Panic set in as nobody knew whether to advance, stand their ground, or run. The Mimbos had been waiting for us –lured us into their trap. They waited out the bombardment in their caves and holes cut into that ridge. Once our infantry went in, the bugs emerged and opened on us with this punishing hell. We were too close to their positions to expect any support from our TIE cover or turrets.
Raising my E-10, more out of panic than anything else, I pointed it in the general direction of the Mimbos. I think I let off a dozen shots or so, couldn't keep track. The shelling was getting worse and cohesion among the battalion collapsed. It was a rout. Officers lost control, became separated from their commands, or were killed. I had no idea where our lieutenant was, at this point I did not care. Everyone was retreating to the safety of our trenches but fleeing in the open made them easy targets.
There was a sergeant next to me in the crater. She had her bravado up and was firing wildly, sort of the inspiration that had me firing as well. While retreating troopers were being shot down around us, she was yelling at our group of maybe nine to hold our position. A trooper was running directly toward our crater, clearly wishing to seek its meager cover, when a blaster shell landed adjacent to them. I saw this poor sap tossed through the air and incur a hard landing –laying just a few meters away. They had their legs blown off and all I could see was their blood stained, ivory thigh bones protruding from their trousers. The rest of their legs were gone. The sight was enough for me, and I had to look away. I felt myself vomit inside my respirator, to the point I tore the mask from my face. That sergeant was still barking encouragement, but I wanted no more part in this futility. I let my body slide down the crater's wall towards the bottom. I was not noticed in doing this, as it must've appeared I was hit.
I pulled myself along the liquefied muck in the lowermost part of the crater before scurrying up the other side. One final look back and I spotted the sergeant. She turned to point an accusatory finger directly at me –a beckoning to return to my post lest I be considered a deserter. In an instant, a proton shell landed almost directly on her and the others, and they simply ceased to be.
On my feet, I ran as fast as I could manage in this terrain. Sprinting through the morass, navigating the debris and dead. Several times I tripped and fell completely down, only to rise again to keep running. Blasts in all directions threw up heaps of mud, as rockets impacted, bombs detonated. I tried to shut out everything from my mind –solely focused on reaching the Imperial trenches. There was not one thing I have ever desired more in my life than reaching that forward line.
My legs were quivering, my body shaking. I felt tired, hungry, dehydrated, lungs poisoned with spores, and on the verge of collapse. My blaster rifle had since become separated, and I had discarded the raincloak to run faster. And then I spotted it. That heavily armed parapet, bristling with troopers aiming their blasters was a remarkable sight.
"DON'T SHOOT, FRIENDLY!" I shouted, raising my hands.
They held their fire. A few meters to close the distance. My heart pounded against my chest armor. A figure rose partly and extended a hand, as if to welcome me. One step, two steps, and I leapt with the last bit of energy I could muster. Passing over the embrasure, I collapsed into the arms of two troopers, having tripped once again. They pulled me over the parapet and into the lines. I fell to the floor of the trench, settling in several inches of mud. It was the most welcome mud I ever thought I'd see.
000