Interlude: Operation Vile
I strolled through the freezing downpour that saturated the area and instilled further misery in our already weary and drenched bones. To brave this most dreadful evening, after an exhausting day of training and maneuvers, was an imperative objective. Less than a kilometer from our bivouac was the reserve encampment, where a great deal of provisions and replacements were transferred and fed into active units. Among the stores and stockpiles, the commissariat maintains quite a large tent to warehouse the personal baggage and accoutrements of the Army's officers. While the officers are entitled to a sizable personal allotment, most preferred not to haul their belongings into the trenches. There is a sentry posted outside of the tent, but easily bypassed when I presented a code cylinder with the proper clearance. The code cylinder came into my possession from the body of a lieutenant I happened upon in a flooded trench. I buried the lieutenant and never reported the casualty –the action report will list him as missing, since there is no definitive proof, he is dead. An oversight in military planning, an officer killed in action will have their credentials immediately terminated, but it could take two or three months to disable codes for those recorded as missing. There was no straightforward explanation as to why. Presenting the deceased man's code cylinder, the sentry scanned it and let me enter. Batmen were frequently dispatched by their masters to fetch items from the baggage tent, so my need for entry was not scrutinized.
The interior was darkened, light mainly provided by the reflections of the illuminators placed outside. The trunks and containers were haphazardly organized, one really had to know where things were if they wished to locate their master's luggage. Officers never bothered to venture inside, so why should they express concern over how things were arranged. Fortunate for those acting not in an official capacity. With so many formations fed into the slaughter, there were many officers who would have no further need of their luggage, so the odds of going about my trade undetected were greater. The junior officers, your lieutenants, and aspirants, were the preferred targets. Inexperienced, they had little inclination of the true happenings on Mimban and so arrived overladen with baggage. These commissioned novices suffered an egregious casualty rate and lacked the clout to instigate a major commotion for missing articles. I was expedient about it, opening a case and plunging a hand in, feeling for the distinctive shape of a bottle, and pulling it out. Alcohol was my choice target, as it was easily traded and quick to dispose of if the military police initiated a contraband search.
Four bottles were already stuffed in my musette bag, but I felt greedy and sought two additional. From the aisle of baggage, I was certain I heard a noise, which caused me to pause for a moment. I attuned my hearing and recognized sobbing. Not wishing to be seen, I turned to make a swift exit, but my ears deceived me, and I misjudged the direction of the moans. Bounding a corner, I came face to face with a major, seated upon a piece of luggage. The uniform he wore was conspicuously devoid of excessive mud and the patch on his sleeve was indicative of the ones adorning the intelligence corps. His eyes reddened from the expressed anguish, a half-consumed bottle of liquor in one hand and a datapad grasped in the other. I tried to play ignorant, turned my head and attempted to slip away.
"YOU!" the major blubbered, evidently not prepared to permit my leave. "What are you doing here!?"
"I…I'm…" I desperately tried to formulate a believable excuse. "I was sent by Captain…"
"Oh, what does it matter," the major interrupted in a howl of emotion. "What is the point of this, of any of this!?"
The major took a long pull from the bottle, gagged from the harsh taste. It was evident he was drunk: the smell, the inability to steady himself. I tried again to turn, to allow this officer to be, but I was curtly ordered to attention.
"Where do you think you're going!" the major slurred, pointed to a trunk opposite. "Have a seat."
"Sir," I answered and obeyed the command.
The bottle was passed over and I was obliged to indulge in a drink –if only to satisfy this inebriated officer.
"Do you know what we're doing here at Voran?" the distraught major pressed.
The question posed left me with a feeling of consternation, uncertain of how I should answer.
"We're taking back the refineries," I stated, some hesitance in my voice. "Securing resources, restoring production. That's what I've been told."
"Of course, that's what you're told!" he reiterated and scoffed; tone rapidly switched from grief to rage. "Because we haven't broadcast that other bit. But why bother with the truth?"
My eyes widened enough to be noticed, as I went to return the major's bottle.
"Operation Vile," the major began, as he held up the datapad with an overload of plans, charts, information, and the name Vile highlighted in several places. "That's what this is called. The reason your lot is hurled to your deaths in these asinine massed attacks. It's the reason my sister is dead."
The amount of material displayed on the datapad was overstimulating, one uninitiated to tactical information processing could not discern its meaning. I looked on confounded by the statements of the major, who proceeded with his disclosure of military secrets.
"We're not here to take back anything," continued the major, words charged with emotion. "I suppose that was the initial goal, but no longer. No, the revised objective, this Operation Vile, is to kill the MLA, as many of them as possible. The bugs are cornered here so we are going to wipe them out! We're waging a battle of attrition, not territorial conquest, occupation. Enemy casualties, that's what Pellond and Falk both want. They'll pour as many bodies onto the fire as possible to do it. There are no regards for losses, command has the entire Empire to draw upon for reserves. It's just math, eventually the Mimbos will run out of friends, then bugs. But it's costing us, it takes six troopers lost for every dead MLA combatant."
"What?" I uttered, so taken aback in disbelief and applied the only response I could conjure. "That's insane."
"Insane! This whole place is insane. But think hard! You see it don't you!? If we were wanting to secure resources intact, why the indiscriminate employment of artillery? Why throw everything that explodes at the bugs? It's to kill, kill them all."
Recalling the sights on Hill 211, I witnessed the mining derricks blasted apart. There was no consideration or action taken to avoid targeting the structures. All in complete contradiction to the initial directive that we were to preserve the facilities and infrastructure. The major had a small amount of amber liquid remaining in the bottom of his bottle after his latest pull. There was a fire in his eyes, a rage fueled by his grief and substance abuse. Unexpectedly, he hurled the bottle, the glass shattered, he glared directly into my aghast stare. I dared not move, for I risked this officer erupting into madness and using me as an object to alleviate his fury. Further, the major ranted,
"The Mimbanese are playing their own game as well. They know of our insatiable need for Mimban's hyperbaride and the lengths we will go to possess it. Their intention was to make a stand here, force us to expend manpower to evict them. Then the bugs reached out to everyone across the Galaxy with a grievance against the Empire, calling them to join the fight. Voran was to be the grand battle to settle the contest, demonstrating that Mimban is not worth the lives needed to occupy it. Though, the bugs underestimated the callousness of our leadership and did not factor in just how many lives the Empire was prepared to expend. The MLA aims to disseminate accounts of the horrors and atrocities to every system and inhabited world, empathize public opinion and support to their cause, though the ISB is doing a bang-up job suppressing information from the populace."
From an unseen repository, he furnished a partly consumed bottle of wine. My experience in pillaging taught me to recognize a particularly expensive vessel when I see one. With his teeth, the major extricated the cork and proceeded to guzzle its contents like the most esurient of Hutts. He did not extend the offer to drink, which was of no matter, for I would rather not further imbibe myself to intoxication at present.
"Since that's what the bugs want, we're going to bleed them white," the major hissed. "It's your lot who have the dirty work, the ones who must foot the bill. The Empire despises you, you conscripts, convicts. The Empire needs rid of you undesirables and needs Mimbanese dead. That's why we toss you in, why we care not for casualties. If it costs a million of you to kill fifty thousand bugs that's considered acceptable. Though, nobody will tell you this. Where would your morale be if you knew the truth? So, we packaged it as a grand offensive, make it out to be a great objective to seize, something to motivate you to victory...And all that shit!"
The major leaned forward, uncomfortably close and in my face. His eyes stared directly through mine, as he extended an accusatory finger into my chest.
"Talk about secrecy," garbled the major. "ISB reads and censors every communique that transmits from Mimban, from operational reports to those messages you all scribble to your loved ones. We aren't telling your families you died on Mimban or even in combat. Grieving parents receive a standard holo stating their son or daughter 'gave their life in performing their Imperial Duty'. The military is taking extensive measures to keep the goings on here discreet. The Imperial Senate might be for show, but they have the ability to make enough of a fuss over this mess, which could rile the populace in a manner the authorities would rather avoid. As far as the military concerns itself, one division has been deployed to maintain the peace. There are a million and a half troopers on Mimban currently, enough to fill the ranks of a Sector Army. But, to placate the politicians, there is only one division on Mimban, no matter how many battalions are attached to it. The numbers go up, but the designation remains."
There was no response I could give, so much to process. How could I respond? What did our lives mean at this point? We were just fuel to the furnace and our commanders were willing to shovel us in, no concern at the expense. I shuddered at the thought.
"What sort of madman would concoct such a scheme?" the major confessed, as he retreated to a teary-eyed state. "It was my plan, I submitted it to Pellond, briefed it to Falk for his approval. I plotted every detail with the Brigadier, accounted for everything. We knew to expect casualties, factored them in. But my own sister…Stars why!? Her regiment wasn't supposed to be sent here!"
The major fell into an incoherent fit of weeping and sorrow. I glanced at the identification tag of the trunk on which he sat, displayed "Lt. Hetilbeh". It was fair to assume it was his deceased sister's luggage. The major, suppose I could refer to him as Major Hetilbeh, became unsteadied, swayed about from the effects of the drink. Soon to lean beyond the point of recovery, he collapsed on the floor. The loud snoring that swiftly followed indicated I had an opportunity to depart. Quietly, I slipped from the portal to this large tent, the sentries stood huddled under their raincloaks, shivering, and disinterested in my going. As I trudged back toward our bivouac, I was alone with my thoughts about what Hetilbeh confessed. The accepted truth told that the offensive was to recapture the resources lost to the MLA. Now, I find that is not the case.
I could not accept the Empire I supported, the idea I believed in, would concern itself not on my behalf, would see me as nothing, when I constantly give my all in its service. But I had to consider, was this truly the Empire's doing, or our officers? Were our officers betraying the Empire's commitment to its servants, needlessly squandering its loyalists to satiate their own vanity and ego. No, I refuse to accept the Empire was guilty. The commanders, those inept morons, incompetent fools, unfit to execute a latrine detail properly, were the true reason for this debacle. The needless deaths and the unnecessary sacrifices could be avoided if we had competent leadership –adroit generals, inspiring colonels, and majors, who could drive us against the foe and vanquish them outright.
But what of Hetilbeh's revelation? I find Major Hetilbeh to be nothing more than a grief-stricken imbecile, given to intoxication, who chooses to indulge himself in wild conspiracies, as his mechanism to cope with his heightened emotional state. He is the prime illustration of the incompetence that infects our officer corps. An individual devolved in his sanity to the point that he concocts delusional schemes and circulates them amongst his superiors. The major attempted to frame the slaughter of the Mimbanese as a terrible act, but does this fool not realize we are at war? The purpose is to kill Mimbanese and all who stand in our way. I will reiterate my previous statements that the bugs deserve to be eradicated –the savages. Perhaps if we were bestowed with capable officers the casualty figures would be less atrocious. We could manage this offensive and attritional warfare if our leadership was not parasitized by morons and opportunists. The MLA could be crushed beneath our boots with losses fractional to what we have so far incurred.
Though we are cursed with inferior officers, subjected to hellish conditions, and combat a barbaric enemy, to place blame against the Empire, to hold the Empire responsible for each fault, is an inane reaction. My commitment to the Empire remains steadfast and I genuinely believe in what it represents. The Empire creates stability, it heralds progress, and it ensures security. It was the Empire that thrust my homeworld from the depths of poverty and molded it into a society where there is prosperity to be had. This contrasts with the Republic, which favored our abandonment to the slavers and sought indifference while we faced degradation.
To hell with that blithering fool. Let Hetilbeh wallow and partake in self-flagellation. Sparing thought on that sleemo will only distract, as he seeks to sow discontent and disillusionment among those of us who remain loyal. The Empire is the only institution preventing the Galaxy from descending into ruin. The centuries of unfettered decadence under the Republic precipitated its downfall, for it was an unsustainable system where the corrupt benefitted and the rest suffered. Pirates and criminals were allowed to maraud unmolested, so long as the cognizant senator was able to profit. Their government lent itself to influence by a fanatical religious order that was permitted unrestricted authority in all matters. To list each grievance would comprise several volumes across multiple data-tapes.
Mimban is where I find myself, fighting for my Empire. At our head are the incapable officers, who hold our lives in a reckless manner. Against us are the Mimbanese, who must be destroyed if we hope to achieve a semblance of victory. To defeat the MLA will facilitate stability and instill order for this miserable world. At the end of all of this, the death and suffering, the battles and losses, there is Haurn. Maybe, the true reason I struggle and persevere, why I serve, is not for the Empire, but for her.
Haurn, I glanced ahead and saw her slip out of the large shelter that housed the kitchens, a container slung under her arm. She noticed me and returned a smile, half enthusiastic at the claimed prize and half at seeing me. I rushed over and we walked quickly, so as not to be missed from camp.
"Sonya," I turned and spoke in a low voice. "You're not going to believe this…"
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