Of Mud and Madness
The flare burst above, bathed the darkness in a blinding flash –shadows instantly driven before the luminance. We threw ourselves down, abandoned our toils in the sap, a desperate bid to evade detection. The flare hissed, as we remained motionless, the slightest movement, faintest noise could tell our position to the foe. This was a recurrent episode, integrated into our routine for construction of the assault tunnels. "Corellian Saps" they were termed, for it was said no Corellian would stride upright to his destination. We labored throughout the nights carving these avenues, wide enough to accommodate at least three troopers abreast, though bent double –the water table barred excavation to a suitable depth. Thin steel sheets covered in mud and camouflage netting (in some sections) were placed over the tops to mask the works during the day. Their purpose was to shelter and conceal the infantry on the approach to the Mimbanese lines. At the attack, the tunnels opened, and our troopers could close in on the enemy at a shorter range.
"Dank Farrik!" Remov yelped, the cry slurred from the effect of drink.
I was closest to the widower and could observe, in his haste to find concealment from the flare's glow, he wrapped his hand in a coil of razor wire, the barbs sliced deeply into the flesh, blood was everywhere. He was drunk and had clumsily gone about the chore.
"Are you trying to get us killed!?" grumbled one of the sappers.
"It's Remov, what do you think!" a second added.
"Shut up! Keep quiet!" the familiar voice of Dashnik commanded from a high whisper.
The negligence, lack of discipline, was enough to betray our party, as twin whirls descended. Thunderous booms shattered the ground, the churned mud spattered our backs. I crawled through the muck; the grime clung to and weighed down my already drenched uniform. Supplementary mortars and rockets added to this dreadful chorus, a crescendo of bombs erupted about. The exercise in digging would be suspended, as we braced ourselves to weather the barrage. Taking the lacerated hand of Remov, I applied the small amount of bacta from the canister I carried –sparingly, for our supplies were controlled and increasingly scarce. Remov thanked me with a sincere nod. Until dawn, the sappers were compelled to tolerate this disagreeable bombardment. It was not until first light that the Imperial artillerists could be roused from their content slumber to respond to the bug's artillery with sufficient counterbattery fire to suppress the enemy. Later, I would learn they were under orders to conserve their dwindling stockpile of shells. Weary, frozen, and with little to show in terms of a sap constructed, we crawled our way back from the dig in no man's land to our fire trench.
1 & 2 Company of the battalion, tasked with front line duty, had fared worse, despite our exposure, from the MLA's bombardment. Stretcher bearers set about their sanguinary task of collecting the pieces of moribund patients. Others, the slightly less wounded, were arrayed on the firing step and bandaged with what materials were available. These would be evacuated to the aid station at the first opportunity.
Certain my chore was concluded; I followed the other sappers along the communication trench. I had lost sight of the companions from my squad: Dashnik, Govnic, the wounded Remov, and even Haurn –fell in amongst the mélange of sappers from across the 72nd Brigade who had to share in the nightly labors. Pausing momentarily, I took one of the two canteens I always carried on my belt. Both were filled with wine I skillfully pilfered, and I proceeded to gulp down its contents. Obtaining an issue of fresh water on Mimban was increasingly difficult because of the worsening logistical situation. As has been stated, the Empire could never effectively purify the water found on the planet, so dependency on alcohol was a measure to adapt.
Dawn accompanied a harsh cold that exacted a painful chill on uniforms caked in freezing mud. I stopped to collect my mess kit and both of my blankets, had them wrapped around my body, yet still shivered uncontrollably, unable to get warm. The first hot meal in days was prepared for the battalion and I was sure to eat my share. I brought a second plate to fetch Haurn her ration and made for 1 Company's mobile kitchen. Given their recent casualties, there should be ample opportunity for an additional portion.
Food in hand, one of the few remaining Mandalorian sappers in the platoon pointed me in the direction of Haurn and I quickly sought her out. The shelter consisted of sandbags piled two meters in height, with mud piled on the outside to keep them upright, and a large tarpaulin pulled over as a roof. This was a primitive refuge, unable to protect from the shelling, but it did keep the wind and rain out for the most part. It was several days since I conveyed, to Haurn, Hetilbeh's disclosure of "Operation Vile". Perhaps it would have been best if I had kept that information, especially my personal opinions, to myself. Haurn flew into a rage, vehemently cursed the Empire, and started plotting her desertion. We have collided repeatedly on this matter and faulter at the inevitable impasse –she wishes to desert the military, unwilling to die for an incongruous cause, while I cling to a sense of duty, which I feel I owe. Neither of us desires to be parted from the other, yet we are unable to seek a fitting compromise. Call it what you will, our relationship: complex, irrational, stubborn, dysfunctional, but this is where we find ourselves.
The floor of this shelter was a morass of the mud tracked in from our boots rendering the plates we laid useless. I found Haurn, her back leaned against the wall of sandbags and smoking a cigarra, not engaged in any manner of conversation while groups of troopers set about consuming the savory feast. My presence elicited a scowl, and my gesture of the hot meal did little to appease her displeasure.
"I'm not hungry," Haurn reproached angrily, refused the offered plate. "Just go away."
"Can we talk about this?" I began, restraining myself to focus on the important conversation at hand and not devouring the piping mash, the tendrils of rising steam noxiously warming my weather-beaten face.
"We have nothing to talk about. It's clear you've made up your mind, which side you've thrown in with."
I felt slightly incensed at the notion. Haurn has backed me into a predicament, where I must choose between her and the Empire. This is the dilemma that now finds itself at the center of our relationship. Perhaps it is time I made that choice. But how can I? There are some terrible people within the Empire, sowing rot, perverting its mission. But what alternative is there to the Empire? A return to the Republic?
"I'm leaving Mimban, Paulus," Haurn, in a soft yet determined voice, turned, and spoke. "When we go over the top in the final push against the redoubt. There will be a lot of confusion and a lot of casualties. Nobody is going to notice us slip away. We make our way to a resupply depot, stow aboard a cargo vessel, or even hijack a shuttle if we must."
"Sonya!" I exclaimed in a hushed tone. "Listen to yourself. Does that even seem feasible. We have six months to go. Now, if we can hold out just…"
"Hold out!?" Haurn raised her tone. "Listen to yourself! The Empire is deliberately trying to kill us. You get that as truth, straight from one of the perpetrators. And your only reaction is to make excuses for them. They don't discriminate. They won't recognize your apologist efforts for their shortcomings. They'll hurl you to your death as equally as one of those pacifist morons, or me."
Haurn scoffed, disgust emanated from the last of her words spoken. My companionship proved to be at her limit, and she rose to her feet with a grunt, conveying her antipathy. She was ready to trudge away but paused momentarily and turned to look upon me once more.
"I'm not dying on Mimban," Haurn spoke, eyes expressing a plea, almost desperate in appearance. "I'm going home to my people."
The final phase in the obliteration of Redoubt 7 is underway. Our artillery pounded the enemy confined within the bastionand its surrounding works. Magnificent sheets of flame shrouded all that was in our view. Even at this distance, we could feel the ground violently tremble beneath our feet. The batteries fire, never permitting their barrage to slacken, their crews pushing themselves beyond the point of exhaustion to feed shells into their gluttonous engines. When the inevitable fatigue overtakes the gunners, they are relieved by teams of rocket artillery unleashing swarms of incendiary missiles. 21cm howitzers are brought forward, crowd the gun line. Their heavy shells crash upon the structure of the redoubt itself to crack the reinforced exterior. The storm of munitions has lasted for two weeks, unrelenting, unremorseful. How can anything, bug or otherwise weather such an inferno? Forward observers reported the extent of the destruction, passing word of whole formations of the enemy swallowed in the blasts. So fantastical were the reports we stubbornly held to them with credulity.
Lt. Andrin had his sapper platoon seated in a half-circle in a clearing outside of the last support trench, around a display with details of the area of operation laid out. The assembly was hastily convened, as our lieutenant came directly from a council with Maj. Brimmo. The ranks of the platoon stood at thirty sappers, plus one officer, Andrin, and the senior NCO, the recently promoted Sgt. Dashnik serving as the second. Dash tried to refuse the promotion and had to be ordered to accept the role –Andrin had no alternative in the way of experienced troopers. I now had command of its first squad, taking Dashnik's former spot, with Haurn, Govnic, Remov, and two new additions, Waash and Thymond, who were terrified out of their wits to be here. Waash had "volunteered" for the Army in lieu of a criminal conviction: possession of death sticks. Thymond was conscripted for military service. Or perhaps I have them reversed, though I suppose it does not matter for neither is able to correct the record. In his raucous voice, honed from years as a noncommissioned officer, Andrin relayed the final points of the tactical plan.
"Our brigade is entrenched on the right flank of the Imperial line," Andrin pointed to the positions on the emitted display of a map. "When ordered, the 72nd will surge forward in a sweeping maneuver to close the enemy's last open line of communication, thus completing our encirclement of redoubt seven."
It made sense, given what I had come to learn about Operation Vile. Brigadier Pellond wanted the MLA to funnel as many of their combatants into the redoubt to block our advance. We have certainly thrown away enough Imperial lives in vain assaults to convince our enemy to make a stand here. But now, the "genius" of Operation Vile, which is to be replicated across the Voran front, will see each of the enemy's strong points isolated, defenders trapped inside, and destroyed.
"This will be just like we rehearsed," Andrin continued. "But I will repeat myself to make sure the point is hammered home. While the battalions advance from their positions, the sappers will attack from our concealment in the approach saps. Our focus will be the pillboxes, bunkers, and emplacements. Knocking them out so the infantry doesn't get held up in their drive. Command is eager for us to liberally employ those gas grenades, just make sure you are masked up before you let those things go flying."
Throughout the briefing it was difficult at times to hear Andrin over the roar of the Imperial artillery, which had further intensified its already frenzied bombardment to a degree perhaps only maniacs could achieve.
"While we're busy catching the bugs playing with their dicks," boasted Andrin in his bit to heighten spirits. "Three companies of Stormtroopers will attack from the opposite end of the Imperial line, forming the second arm of the pincer, complementing our thrust. Once we link up with the Stormtrooper companies, we'll dig in to repel any counterattack or desperate breakout the bugs might launch."
Getting to this point in the assault tunnel left us depleted. We had to crawl through the shallow sap for an interminable distance. For the smaller guys like Dashnik and Remov, they managed, but the taller ones, Haurn and me, endured contorted limbs and strained backs to get along. Govnic had the roughest go, given his ogre's build and the fuel tank for the incinerator he had to lug. To our benefit, we were able to dig and camouflage the Corellian saps up to one hundred meters from the enemy's entrenchments, which would conceal most of the advance. It was with great reluctance I entered this confined tunnel and hauled myself this far along, had it not been for the pressure of my comrades spurring me onward. Since I managed to get myself buried alive, destroying that MLA bunker, confined spaces are proving to be an increasingly insurmountable obstacle.
It was late afternoon, as the force lay perfectly still within the sap and huddled with heads down, as the final minutes counted. The concern was how late in the day the attack was organized, for we were not permitted much time to achieve our objectives before nightfall and darkness would disrupt operations. However, there was a promising break in the weather and air support was able to take to the skies, command was not prepared to surrender such an opportunity. The brazen pilots rose to the occasion and violently bombarded the enemy. Flights of TIE bombers launched their rockets and dumped their conflagrine on bug targets. Though MLA anti-craft guns inflicted terrible losses, one-third of the TIEs would be downed by day's end.
The orders to attack could not come soon enough, I remember thinking. The bottom of the sap contained an icy layer of mud and water that pooled in spots where we dug into the water table. Fixed in place, there was little alternative but to endure as your uniform became soaked and your body shivered. Interspersed with the sappers, Stormtroopers, the special detachment assigned to the 72nd Brigade, readied to carry the assault. I heard not one groan or expression of discomfort from the bucketheads. Perhaps the enclosed suits insulated them against the elements, and they muted their commentary beneath their helmets. Sappers and Stormtroopers had their respective objectives prearranged. They would overrun the enemy trenches and we would focus on the strongpoints of resistance.
I confess that I labored to rouse the energy needed to remain awake. The attack was organized with little notice. Though the overall plans were long established and rehearsed, we were not able to be adequately rested after a night of arduous digging. We dug the saps, then quickly had to make for the training section behind our lines. Here, the intelligence service constructed a near-exact replica of the enemy's trenches we were to assault. While Operation Vile was drawing in more of the MLA, we prepared for the phase where the trap would be closed, and the foe obliterated. Over again, too many times to recount the exact number, we maneuvered over the mock entrenchments, studied the topography, and coordinated our approaches. To simply say we were prepared would be an understatement. We knew our part, directing the larger operation would be another matter.
Waash and Thymond nervously gripped their E-11s, as they trembled at the prospect of striding headlong into the maw. Both have only been on Mimban for about a month, snagged as sapper replacements as they disembarked the transport. I did what I could for them, hiked up the traps on their kit so items would not bang around as they ran, tightened the bandoliers on their chests, and fitted their respirators. I remember experiencing the fear both exhibited, that great trepidation before you are hurled toward the great uncertainty. Will you evade death and what it has envisioned? Or will you succumb to its master plan, gunned down or torn to pieces by shell, a nameless corpse lying for eternity among the unidentified?
The artillery concentrated its fire in one final suppressive outburst on the enemy works with such ferocity that it is maddening to contemplate how any sentient could survive. The tunnel rocked violently; dirt fell from the constructed ceiling to cover our backs. Some had to be held down, a hand thrown over their mouth to muffle their screams, as they could not endure the harrowing experiences within the confined space. Then the artillery quit, the ground steadied, and the air grew quiet. A check of the chronometer, there was still a half hour before the infantry assault was to commence. The planning called for no halt in the shelling until that point –the artillery was supposed to lay a predetermined creeping barrage to cover the advance forward and suppress the enemy. Such a concise and strict timetable was established, with no variations permitted. Nervous minutes passed and there was no resumption of fire.
"Lieutenant," I whispered to Andrin, who was not more than a few places behind. "Why have the guns stopped?"
"They're out of shells," Andrin snapped in reply, eliciting a collective exasperation from those who heard.
"Then why aren't we moving!?" a voice further down called.
"Stay quiet, we'll go when ordered!" Andrin commanded, then shifted his voice to a softer utterance. "Stars help us when we do."
The wait was unbearable. Hands trembled, as they attempted to hold onto blasters. The newer troopers were scared, but they could not fathom the trepidation those veterans of this war felt. We knew that a halt in the firing, the delay, would allow the bugs to get reorganized, to crawl out of their holes and establish themselves. There was some small reassurance to be had when the deafening screech of a TIE bomber roared overhead, though their numbers were depleting at an appalling rate. Even now I felt wrought by disquiet, the coming fight, the confines of this sap playing hell upon my anxieties, and the unresolved matter with Haurn. Though for the sake of the two newcomers, and the rest of the squad under my charge, I had to remain steadfast and present no expression of fear.
In the past I could count on Haurn's presence for the courage needed, the will to make it through the most harrowing of confrontations. When I glanced at her, she only returned a disparaging scowl, a reflection of her thoughts on how our relationship has deteriorated. Would there be a point during the day, when I would look to Haurn, and she would not be there? She made the plan of desertion clear and the invitation for me to join remained valid. I certainly wanted to go, to abandon the misery of this swamp and the insufferable carnage, yet some unexplainable force held me to this place. I could not bring myself to run.
Orders remained undecided, were we to launch the assault to make best use of the barrage, or wait until the decided upon schedule? If the MLA had any brains, they would capitalize on the unexpected delay to prepare a defense. Each trooper stared at the other, imploring some manner of resolution. Most looked to Andrin, who was equally helpless to provide any definitive assurance. Another glance at the chronometer, it was the hour. The klaxons blared and resolved the confusion, as the crush of bodies from behind drove us along the sap. Forms of troopers crawled from the trenches etched from the mud and drove forward in waves. Cracks of blasters rent the air, sparingly at first, but soon to multiply.
The first few slithered from the terminus of the sap, as brilliant flashes cut them down to the last. Bodies were raked by bolts and torn to pieces. More tried to rush through and escape, but all fell under the murderous fire. The corpses piled one on top of the other until the exit was effectively barred. Panicked seized upon the troopers within the tunnel. Those who could not egress, reversed course toward the Imperial trench, became caught in the crush of others pressing forward. Voices cried out, as they were trampled under by boots and limbs in the turmoil. Between the enclosing space and the stampeding mass, my wits were about at their end. My breathing increased and I felt myself immobilized, unable to provide orders for the squad.
Haurn, leaning on her back, began kicking the steel plate overhead. There was only a smattering of dirt atop, just enough for concealment, and the slab began to loosen. Following her initiative, and the drive to escape the confinement, I shouldered the artificial ceiling and threw my strength in an upward thrust. Despite working in conjunction, and joined by several others, the plate was difficult to overcome. With the intervention of Govnic, the cur lending his immense build, we cast off the sheet and created our own escape route –I led the squad out of the sap.
The first sight my eyes beheld were the flames. Fires burned in every direction. Patches of the field smoldered from chemicals or other combustibles set alight. The direction of the enemy was consumed in a great inferno, as low-flying TIE bombers fed the ravenous blaze. The innumerable corpses of our Imperial Army littered the stretches of no man's land, the fallen a result of the unremitting charges ordered against the enemy, all contingent losses owed to the dreaded Vile. This was no certain moment to sightsee, for cover had to be immediately sought. Medium (Mark II) and heavy (E-Web) repeating blasters opened from the enemy's position, their bolts swept across the no man's land where we found ourselves exposed. The MLA soon brought out their trench mortars and rained bombs in great numbers, inflicting substantial casualties. Weapons emplacements along the plateau, which Redoubt 7 sat atop, converged upon us from their vantage. Blast and shot whipped about in violent storm that reaped a bountiful harvest. The interlude from the cessation of our artillery and the commencement of the infantry assault permitted the bugs to emerge from their holes and emplace themselves perfectly to face the attack.
I lost track of the squad in the mayhem. The nearest crater, I dove into and splashed into the frigid pool collected at its bottom. At the crater's edge knelt a trooper, stricken by combat shock and unable to move. I took hold of the young man's kit and dragged him into the shelter with me, noticed it was Waash.
"Don't make yourself an easy target!" I shouted at the inexperienced young tooper.
Waash stared back at me with a face overwhelmed by terror. His blaster rifle was gone and himself covered in mud. There was a discarded E-10 nearby and I thrust it into his grasp. A flurry of bombs detonated at the lip of the crater and covered our heads with dirt. Waash screamed involuntarily throughout.
"What are we gonna do, corporal!?" Waash cried.
"Stay close," I ordered. "We have to find our people."
I crept to the crater's rim, scanned my limited field of view. A succession of mortar rounds tore across the waste. Troopers would quickly haul themselves to their feet and dash one or two paces before collapsing into the shelter of a depression. Though many more, those who tarried or were too emboldened to press their strides, were cut apart by the enemy's withering fire. You could see troopers, their boots swallowed by the thick mud, find themselves stuck in place and presented as an immobile target for the MLA gunners. The priority was locating my squad. Slapping Waash on the shoulder, I signaled him to follow. We crawled through the muck, the grime further chilling our already saturated and frozen bodies. As close as I could, I kept myself pressed to the ground, to avoid the dashes of bolts that raced less than a meter above my head. The only other noise discernable, other than the shells and blasters, were the screams from those wounded. Some were hit, had fallen into the craters filled with water and were slowly drowning. Casualties mounted; I had no idea just how many of the attacking force was left.
Into another crater we rolled, barely evading, as a barrage carpeted the ground we had traversed. This crater was larger, as it had been formed by several converging large caliber shells. Inside, an Imperial medic worked frantically to treat a group of troopers with differing appendages violently torn off from bombs or vaporized by the bolt of an E-Web. They screamed in terrible agony. A comms operator established herself close by, futilely shouting into the transmitter, but unable to establish a connection. A panicked lieutenant knelt beside her completely overwhelmed by the situation and unsure how to proceed. Dispersed, troopers clung to the slopes of the crater and sheltered themselves at each whirl of a bomb or a spattering from the automatic blasters. I rooted through their ranks in search of a familiar face, a sapper I knew, but I recognized none. They were from the third battalion of the 341st Infantry Regiment, which should not have been this far into our sector. Fear held these troopers in check, more corpses to feed this infernal abattoir, and none were eager to satiate the furnace.
A captain, accompanied by an ensemble of subordinates, slid into the crater's depths, and made directly for the perturbed lieutenant.
"Lieutenant, move your troopers forward!" the captain thundered the order. "We must carry the objective in the next hour!"
Recollection has an image of the lieutenant paralyzed by inaction, unable to undertake any sort of activity. Sergeants, brought in by the captain, dispersed and forcefully induced the ranks to move –coercion at the muzzle of a blaster. Troopers rushed to the lip of the crater in great trepidation. The first few over tipped back and their crumpled bodies slunk downward. Enough disappeared over the top to herald a crescendo from the E-Webs' murderous chorus. One of the senior sergeants raised a blaster to my chest and pointed his finger in the direction I was to go, as a mortar round fell within the confines of the elongated crater. The blast tore through the wounded, effectively ending their suffering, and left no remains of the captain who instigated the commotion. That hapless senior sergeant absorbed a large shell splinter that was otherwise meant for me, and he collapsed into the pooled water. The sights left the already rattled Waash greatly agitated, and I had to tow him along.
The E-Webs walked their fire to our left, so at the opportune moment, I shifted our travel to the right and guided us out of the crater for the next preferable spot of cover. My mind was focused on keeping us alive, all other concerns were secondary. At this point, do we carry the attack forward? I am sure an officer or a blocking detachment could answer that question on our behalf. Surely, they would prohibit a return to our own lines.
The wrecked frame of a TIE bomber lay ahead and would obscure our presence from enemy observation, naturally we chose it for shelter. Shouts arose from our rear, and I could discern figures, perhaps an entire company of troopers surging forward from the Imperial trenches. Their advance was greeted by a hail of enemy bombs, which tore through the ranks with great ferocity. Their numbers melted away beneath the torrent. We waited as the survivors formed up around the craters and the bomber's wreckage. The ground sloped upwards leading to the enemy's positions, so we were somewhat obscured from the line of sight. Less than half of the company made it to this point. The only officer present was a lieutenant, who sat down at my side. His left arm had been severed above the elbow. He held the appendage in his right hand and went about trying to reattach it, until a medic took over with a bacta dressing. I recognized this lieutenant; he commanded one of the platoons from Dangir's 3 Company. Dangir was nowhere to be found, which is hardly surprising.
Some time elapsed, I saw 1st Sgt. Ukes crawling over and recognize me out of everyone present. With the officer incapacitated (and Dangir absent), command would pass to Ukes. The first sergeant motioned me over and I accompanied him to a concealed spot to observe the enemy trench. Barely distinguishable, through the encroaching mist and the coming darkness of night, was a reinforced pillbox constructed of duracrete, where an E-Web sprayed the approaches.
"I'm short of troopers, this situation is fragged," Ukes grumbled. "What do you need to neutralize that box?"
"Pair of heavies to button the aperture," I answered, raising my voice to be heard. "Mortar suppression if you have it. Three or four dependables, one's that won't cut and run."
"Nost, Denaar, Mereel," Ukes called, then turned back to me. "Take those three. There's a mortar platoon around here with maybe a few tubes left, I'll have them drop as many rounds as they can spare. And I'll get you your heavies."
We were positioned behind a small mound of churned up ground, after a harrowing crawl under a stream of E-Web bolts, which cost us one of the heavy blaster gunners assigned by Ukes. Fifty meters lay between us and the bunker. The sun was cresting below the horizon, and we were losing what light was left in the day. Speed, driven out of desperation, was necessary to avoid a night fight in no man's land –where every flash from a blaster would reveal us to the enemy. On target, the rounds from the mortars accompanying 3 Company (Ukes was able to scrounge four tubes) laid a screen of bombs in a pattern around the pillbox and its surrounding trenches. This forced the defenders to seek shelter and we crept closer still. The gunner found a spot and fired his DLT-19 at the aperture to the pillbox. Ukes brought his troopers in as well, they would overrun the trenches while we did our bit. It was agreed that three minutes of furious mortar suppression would precede the attack.
Waash nervously fitted his respirator and I assisted with the final adjustment to ensure a seal. I was issued these gas grenades and had every intention of using them against the bugs. The three troopers order to aid in the bunker assault put aside their E-10 in favor of the Mandalorian pistols and melee implements furnished from home.
"So, you're the aruetii our sister Haurn calls her cyare'se?" one of them, Denaar mocked.
Instinctively, I ignored the jeers and set about preparing myself for the frantic work at hand. Holding up my chronometer, the seconds flashed, four…three…two…one. The mortars ceased fire and we ran. Smoke obscured the field just before the pillbox. The odd blaster cracked and brought a glow to the enveloping cloud. Dystraay's E-11 was in my left hand, and I clutched a gas grenade in my right. The support DLT-19 maintained its suppression of the pillbox and those inside were unable to safely crew their weapon. The Mandalorian trio ran ahead, disregarding the caution of movement I advised. Twenty meters separated us from the enemy lines.
Denaar was the first, took a large step and mud swallowed his boot all the way to the knee. Tried as he could, he was unable to free his leg and became immobilized. A large mire stretched between us and the enemy's works. There was no way to move around and so we were obliged to press through. Soon, troopers entered the thick mud and found themselves sinking. Friends would come to a stop to help their stricken comrades, thus whittling down the momentum required to carry the assault. Nost and Mereel laughed at their companion arrested in the muck and tramped over to pull Denaar out.
A bright yellow flash struck Denaar. I locked eyes with the Mandalorian, as he returned a look of abject terror. Only seconds transpired, but for those of us who were there, who witnessed it, time itself dragged on with endless cruelty. The bolt from the disruptor rifle pulled every bit of Denaar apart, and he experienced every bit of the agony. We watched in horror, utterly helpless to intervene. The scene played out likewise along the section the company attacked –troopers waylaid in the mud became perfect targets. Every disruptor the bugs had on the line (to be honest, there were only a handful) was opened and found victims at each pull of a trigger. The disintegrations inflicted a greater psychological toll on us, as we were unnerved by the terror weapons. Conventional blasters joined the fray on the side of the MLA and poured into our disarranged ranks –inflicting considerably more casualties than the disruptors.
The attack faltered, our courage and will vanished. The marsh was impassible, and the enemy's resistance shattered our resolve. Without orders, troopers withdrew and fled toward our lines. The ones still alive and stuck in the mud pleaded in vain to be pulled free yet were abandoned. Mereel and Nost disappeared from my sight on their own initiative. I told Waash to stay close to me and led him away. There was no sense in going on when everyone was in retreat. A torrent of E-Web bolts impacted uncomfortably close, and I threw myself face down into the mud. Several mortar rounds flew in retaliation, the mortar crews laying a desperate barrage to cover the retreat and suppress the enemy. The shooting stopped, I rolled over to tell Waash we needed to move, but he remained still. After an unresponsive shake, I glimpsed his lifeless expression, the smoldering blaster wound in his back. Nothing could be done for the poor kid, he did not deserve this, to throw away his life in so fruitless an attack. At least Mimban was over for Waash, his war was finished. In the darkness, for the sun had already set, we staggered over the wall of sandbags and slumped into the shallow fire trench. The attack ended in miserable failure.
I do not know how anyone was expected to sleep that night. The wounded were overflowing in the traverses, not enough medical personnel allocated to treat them, on top of the difficulties presented when moving along the communication trenches. Screams from troopers filled the darkness. An otherwise oddly quiet night, for the artillery on both sides were inactive. I stepped over the mangled and weary, who lined the avenue, in search of any familiar faces. Primarily, I wanted to find Haurn, ensure she was safe. Maybe she went ahead with her plan to desert the fight and slipped away in the confusion.
"Oi!" I heard the ogre's unmistakable call. "Where the stars you been?"
Govnic was seated on a small crate, flaunting the light restrictions to smoke a cigarra. Before I could inquire about the condition of our friends, the ogre continued,
"You girl is worry about yuh. Took ov' along the trench tryin' a find you. Oh, did she look upset."
"The others?" I demanded, though feeling great relief that Haurn was alright.
"Remov, Dash, the new guy Th'mond," Govnic answered. "All made it back. Even An'rin. 'hole thing went tuh shit right when we started. Stormies were the first to cut 'n run when it looked 'opeless. Nobody gonna try an' stop 'em. Things fell apart with us right after, since we couldn't find you."
Dashnik overheard the conversation and approached. He stuck out his hand and shook mine, a relieved expression beamed across his face.
"Glad to see you made it," Dashnik began. "That was a rough one. How'd you make out?"
"Made it within twenty meters," I recounted. "Bumped up against a bad bit of mud and couldn't get any closer. Waash didn't make it."
"Who?" Dashnik inquired about the name.
"Waash," I answered. "Replacement for our squad."
"Shame. I didn't know him."
Dash eventually lost interest and left the conversation. There was a platoon headcount that needed to be reported to Andrin and a briefing expected in a short time. I was left with instructions not to wander far. It was assumed, expected, we would renew the attack at dawn. Night assaults were viable, but hardly executed. The blaster glows made inviting targets for artillery. There remained the organizational challenges to consider, trying to coordinate and maneuver a battalion over broken terrain in darkness –good luck.
Around a traverse, in the breastworks that helped add depth to the support trench, I found Haurn conversing, in her native tongue, with Mereel and some other Mandalorians I did not recognize. I stood at their peripheral wrapped in my blankets, for the crawling and leaping into icy pools of water left me shivering. My presence was announced, as one pointed at me, and the rest sneered in some manner. Except Haurn, who walked up to me and slapped me as hard as she could on the cheek.
"Haar'chak! Paulus Maider," Haurn cursed, eyes glowed with contempt while simultaneously filling with tears.
She stood before me, hands balled into fists, panting in a seething fury intertwined with tormented anguish. It took several deep breaths before she continued,
"I can't go through this anymore with you, your jareor antics! You act like you're invincible, but you aren't. You run off trying to fulfil your idea of duty and heroics without thought for those who care about you!"
I stood there, gasping for words to offer a response, an explanation. Nothing could come to mind, as I tried to process what she meant.
"We're through Paulus," Haurn spoke, the tears rolling down her cheeks, but trying desperately to hold the emotion back. "I couldn't live through the pain of losing you.
"Sonya…" I replied but could put forth nothing else.
Haurn turned and sat down among her Mandalorian vode. Mereel interposed himself, stuck out his chest.
"She doesn't want to talk to you, aru'e," Mereel grunted, shoved me with a strong hand.
"Don't touch me!" I commanded, returning an equally forceful push.
That had the effect of riling the Mando'ade, who were spoiling for a fight. They faced me, with knuckles tightening.
"Just go, Maider," a tearful Haurn uttered.
It was for the best I left, as painful as it was. The Mandalorians would not abide my presence a moment longer. I turned, doing all I could to suppress my own emotion, my despair at the drastic turn with Haurn. The departure was met with jeers of "Hut'uun! Naasad gar shabuir!" and "Usen'ye, mirsh'dur!", which I would imagine carried a significantly negative connotation in their tongue.
The attack was postponed for three rotations. We received word at midnight. The artillery, it was decided, needed to conduct a more thorough bombardment of the enemy's works around Redoubt 7. A repeat disaster would not be tolerated. Redoubts 3 and 8 had already fallen, and Pellond was eager to press the advance, for Vile still hungered. Fortunately, those positions now under Imperial control permitted the release of additional howitzers, vehicles, and materiel to support this attack. Quartermasters and artillery crews labored to unload the explosive cargo from the line of HCVw A9.2s. Without pause, gunners prepared artillery positions and set about ranging targets. Adequate numbers of shells were arranged, with reserves able to be employed if necessary. Granted a break in the weather, which held for once, the preparations were completed in record time. Within only a few hours, the first of the guns began pounding the works we failed to take. The shelling continued unabated and with prejudice.
No battalions could be allocated to take up the assault and the 72nd retained its original objectives, much to our frustration. The 8843rd was not even allowed a respite and we had to remain in place, in the trenches, until called upon. Andrin sympathized with our plight. The lieutenant acknowledged our fatigue. He understood every sapper knew what was expected, their role, and how to go about it. Under his direction, we were excused from the tedium of labor and drilling in these final hours, apart from informational briefings.
In the run up to the final assault, I found myself with Remov, who had taken up residence in the remnants of a pillbox, constructed during the Clone War and subsequently destroyed by these operations. The roof, the duracrete sheared off by a plasma shell, was replaced by a large tarpaulin to keep the elements at bay. Govnic was present, but he spent the time hunched in a corner, conversing with his Mimbanese skull. We invited Thymond as he was a member of the squad. Thymond came into the service with a significant ryll addiction and was often strung out –where he acquired the spice on Mimban is another matter. Haurn's absence was noticeable, everyone knew why but none dare to say the part aloud. Remov and I had taken to the bottle to alleviate the stress of the impending action, for as I have mentioned, spirits were easy to come by.
"That was her at three months," an inebriated (and pleasantly converse) Remov showed me a holo-portrait of his daughter. "Image was taken when I was home on leave. Next week would've been her second birthday."
Remov paused for a moment, took a generous pull from the canteen.
"I can see the resemblance," I stammered, trying to be polite, but awkward at the conversation. I have never been the best at sharing personal details with others, especially in this manner.
"My ugly mug!?" Remov joked. "Nah, she takes after her mother. Stars, if only I had been home and not stationed out here. Maybe I could've prevented it. Who knows."
In the night air, the artillery howled, the distance erupted in great bursts of fire and mud. Secluded from the destruction in our repurposed shelter, we drank happily to offset whatever fate had predetermined. The more I suffer on this miserable excuse for a world, the more accustomed I have become with death. Perhaps I have reached the point that I no longer fret about the inevitable, or maybe I no longer care. It could not be discounted that I have acquired the expertise to evade danger and prolong this existence, or perhaps I'm just lucky.
For the time, Remov and I heartily consumed drink and engaged in jovial discussion. We each shared experiences of our time in the Army. Remov endured a brutal recruit training comparable to my time on Challenger IV. I told him about the outpost, jokingly describing the mannerisms of Pommavaz, though reverently tributing his memory. I ended up confessing the details of Operation Vile, to which he seemed unfazed, almost as if he figured out Pellond's strategy through his own observation. To my detriment, secrets are difficult to maintain when I have indulged in the bottle. Plied with alcohol, Remov offered hilarious tales of past drunken exploits both prior to and during Imperial service. I lament that I did not get to know him better earlier. It is humorous that the draw in his speech becomes more pronounced as he drinks.
"Are things alright between you and Haurn?" Remov inquired, abruptly shifting the conversation.
I had avoided the topic of Haurn, though we were the worst kept secret in the platoon. Certainly, the squad was well aware of things –having to overhear our relations when moments permitted. The number of drinks poured, I was in a state more willing to respond, and Remov more receptive to listening.
"I don't know," I sighed, head unsteadied from the alcohol. "I guess things haven't been great. Being the idiot I am, I told her what that major told me about Operation Vile. I mean what was I supposed to do? Keep that a secret from her? Vile touched a nerve. Ever since she's been looking for a way off Mimban and wants me to go with her."
"Figuring you want to stay?" Remov surmised.
I threw down another mug of a potent drink. A concoction of jerrycan gin.
"How'd you guess that?" I slurred in response.
"The pair of you are too clever," grinned Remov. "Y'all wouldn't still be here if you both made plans to get out. You'd had made your escape. But you're a believer…in the Empire."
"Don't I get enough crap about that from Dash!? But what does it matter, Haurn hates me."
"I don't think she hates you," Remov offered with an amused smile. "Heartbroken for sure, but not hate. She would be off Mimban if she were done caring about you."
"Then why stay?"
In his grasp, Remov clenched the emitter that contained the holos of his family, but he did not power it on. Rather, he appeared lost in thought.
"Because she loves you," Remov parted the silence. "She's terrified about the prospect of losing you. Sure, she's madder than hell at you, but sounds like she don't want to give you up."
His words resonated as I processed his perceptions. Remov was shrewder and more observant than you could give him credit for. I contemplated, wondered how I could resolve the issues with Haurn. If only the matter could be put off for six months. Though Operation Vile convinced Haurn we would not survive, that departure must be immediate. I signed a two-year service contract when I enlisted and only six months remained in my term. Then my oath would be fulfilled, and I could reap the benefits: combat pension, lifelong stipend for medical treatments, the sense that I have accomplished something having come from nothing. Maybe I could not live with being labeled a deserter.
The conversation wore on my ability to speak to matters. Fortunately, a distraction was presented when Govnic began fastening his Mimbanese skull to his incinerator's nozzle. It was mounted in a way so the jet of conflagrine would shoot from its mouth, as if the skull were spewing forth flames. Remov and I quickly took to amusingly ridiculing the destabilizing ogre for his behavior.
In the fleeting hours before the dawn, the battalions were drawn up again to renew the assault. The saps we labored to construct were awash from flooding and would not serve us. Thus, we would have to traverse the entirety of no man's land. There was reassurance in the artillery, which ferociously bombarded the enemy's works we were to secure. Directly behind the trench where our battalion waited, a row of TX-225 Occupier tanks idled –the allocated armored support. The assault tanks were loaded with durasteel planks in their cargo beds, to be laid across ditches or thick mud that may hamper forward movement. It was exasperating to fathom how the initial assault could have been successful if these measures were taken, how lives could avoid being needlessly squandered.
Hours prior, Andrin called his sappers for a final review. Overall, the objective remained, but the strategy would be amended. Noticeable was the absence of the brigade's Stormtrooper contingent. Its commander exercised the provision under the Corps' directive and withdrew his command from participation, unwilling to commit his bucketheads despite the implemented factors. Haurn was present, though she acted as if I were not. I took some small comfort in the fact that she had yet to go through with the proposed desertion. Part of me wanted to say something, talk her out of it for certain, but I could not find the right words.
"We'll use the armor to our advantage," Andrin spoke to our assembled number, pacing about. "If they provide cover, by all means, trail behind. But they'll be sponges for whatever the enemy has left to shoot, so keep that in mind. If a few of the tanks can blow apart the pillboxes, great. Just don't get complacent with that notion. The armor let us down before, going after the firebase."
Papa Andrin stopped at me, placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled briefly while glancing toward Haurn. Haurn did not appreciate the attention.
"Depend on each other," Andrin continued, as he released his grasp. "Let the infantry clear out the trenches and press onward. We focus on our work, neutralizing strongpoints, and pockets of resistance."
While Andrin concluded, Maj. Brimmo appeared with his battalion staff in tow. Quickly turning, Andrin offered a salute to the superior while we all snapped to attention.
"As you were, as you were," said Brimmo in a casual tone, in a bid to dispense with formality.
Brimmo had been occupied with the burdens of command and his worn features reflected his tenure as the battalion's commander. He was not the sort of officer to tolerate failure for want of trying and would pursue the best course of action to ensure success. To Brimmo, squandering lives did not fit the mission profile. Maj. Brimmo knew a bloodied formation, which sustained appalling casualties, could not take nor hold a position. He always sought to get his troopers to an objective without needless losses.
"We'll be counting on the sappers today," Brimmo delivered his words with a stern confidence. "We've all heard the promises flowed down from headquarters. Artillery is doing what it can and this time we have more of it, but it isn't the wonder weapon. It'll soften the bugs, drive them to ground, but don't expect it to do all the work. Be ready to encounter resistance, wipe it out when you find it."
The platoons of the 8843rd received a visit from Brimmo, who moved between the ranks to offer personalized words of encouragement and humor in some instances. Most battalions would barely see a company commander mingle with their ranks, a battalion commander showing this level of fraternization was a rarity.
I attempted to speak with Haurn, maybe to explain things, but she disappeared into the night before I could –off to the camaraderie of the Mandalorians.
Troopers braced against the trench, prepared to scale the sandbag parapet at the command to advance. Officers were transfixed to their chronos, observing the final minute reduced to seconds. Thymond was to my right, trembling under the burden of the RPS-6 rocket launcher he was assigned to carry and the moment at hand. I handed him a cigarra and helped light it, for I already had one in my mouth. The tabac was already doing its job steadying my nerves. I glanced to my left where Haurn stood, her eyes met mine. There was pain reflected in her hazel eyes, seen behind the scowl she wore as a façade.
"Got a problem, Maider?" Haurn grumbled.
My eyes were locked on hers, cutting right through the repellant exterior she manufactured to conceal the anguish.
"I'm sorry," I choked, absorbing her pain, fully recognizing, and understanding.
The moment was inopportune to reconcile matters, for the order "Forward!" bellowed from each officer down the line. A hand at my back and the crush of bodies drove me to advance. The artillery fired its final salvo of shells on the enemy's positions before us. The howitzers in our zone shifted their bombardment and laid a box barrage on the supply road into the redout, thus blocking any MLA attempt to breakthrough. The barrage would only be lifted once our infantry was closing to occupy the ground.
Over the top and I took a quick headcount, all were present: Govnic, Remov, Haurn, and Thymond. With haste, we pushed toward the enemy's line. The tanks were in gear and drove over the plates pre-laid across the top of our fire trench. We quickly formed up behind the armor, as other platoons took up positions at the flanks of the vehicles. The intense shelling of the previous days transformed the landscape to a condition worse than it appeared at our last abortive attempt. In some parts, the deep depressions brought the TX-225s to a halt, in others, clueless tankers drove their vehicles into the craters and became stuck. Time was lost as crews and troopers stopped the advance to work on extricating the foundering tanks. The left track of the tank we followed sank into some soft mud and spun futilely, as it unsuccessfully tried to free itself. Leaving the crew to sort out their vehicle, I took the squad ahead, as we could accomplish the task on our own. I ordered each member of the squad to grab a plank, they were lightweight and would be needed if we were to cross that mud patch before the enemy trench. The mire that swallowed up so many.
A round of bombs fired by MLA mortars began to impact. There were far too few to cause significant damage, but we obliged to yield to the sound of their whirls and throw ourselves down into the mud. Otherwise, the advance, though we carried the light yet awkward planks, was met with less opposition than some of the other assaults we have participated in.
The enemy's first-line trench was in view, scarcely a trace remained, as our artillery reduced the ground to nothing. A handful of duracrete structures dotted the former resistance line, the only objects to weather the storm of hellfire rained down from our guns. I sighted an enemy pillbox to our front, the MLA inside worked frantically to clear debris that had been tossed up and blocked the firing aperture. The pillbox was only thirty meters ahead and we were lucky to advance this close without harassment. I ordered Remov to establish his DLT-19 and saturate the firing port to pin down those inside. Bolts danced about the aperture and the enemy within were forced to abandon their efforts to remove the obstructions. I smacked Thymond on the helmet and pointed to where I wanted his rocket. Nervously, the inexperienced trooper fumbled with the RPS-6 until he managed to aim the weapon and fire. The rocket passed harmlessly over the top of the bunker.
"Idiot!" I screamed, snatched the launcher from Thymond's grasp. "Hand me another rocket! I'll take care of it!"
Dumbfounded, Thymond stared back with a look of terror. He had forgotten to bring the ammunition pack containing the extra rockets.
"Maider! Get your squad moving!" Andrin appeared seemingly from nowhere and began shouting. "That bunker is going to cause us some trouble if you don't take it out. Whole sapper platoon is advancing, you're the only ones we're waiting on!"
Andrin was certainly worked up, furiously raging, and repeatedly thrusting a finger toward the enemy positions. Before I could issue amended orders, Govnic was up, screaming obscenities and running headlong at the pillbox. The cur wandered into Remov's line of fire. It caused the widower to abruptly cease firing and erupt into a wrath of profanities. "Get out of the kriffing way you ogre!" Remov shouted in anger.
"Maintain control of your squad!" Andrin barked at me, having witnessed the episode. "Or I'll find someone who will!"
My attempt at command was devolving into a disorganized mess. Govnic, on his initiative, flooded the pillboxes' interior with a jet of fire, flame singed the polished bone of the incinerator's ornamental skull, accompanied by the screeches of its occupants. In doing so, he waded into the impassable morass and became stuck. We quickly threw down the planks to form a safe passageway to cross –rescuing Govnic as we went. The strongpoint neutralized, we pushed ahead into the enemy's remnant of a trench. The bits of Mimbo dead lay about at our feet. It was enough to cause Thymond to turn his head and vomit. The ground sloped upward leading to the MLA's second line of entrenchments, situated fifty meters distant and etched out from the side of the plateau. They were in better condition than the line we now occupied.
Before we could assail the next echelon, there was the matter of Govnic. I needed to compel his obedience. The cur, while never fully right in the head, had slipped deeper into madness ever since command involuntarily extended his deployment. An additional year of service was tacked on as punishment after he bit a nurse at the aid station. Now, he had devolved into a state of psychosis and was beyond all predictability or account. Mustering up the fear and aggression I needed in order to communicate with the cur, I took Govnic by one of the straps to the incinerator tank.
"You'll listen to orders, Gov!" I shouted directly into his face, bared my teeth in an aggressive fashion. "I make the calls and you do as you're told."
"Outta me face!" Govnic, employing his bestial physique, screamed back and threw me off. "I do as I please!"
Haurn stepped forward and caught Govnic unaware with a quick jab to his throat. The cur recoiled and sputtered about, as he gasped for breath. He appeared hurt, but it was not an injury that would remove him from the fight –certainly one he had incurred before because of his antics.
"Maider gives the commands," Haurn snapped, wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck and held the injured Govnic bent double. "Just fall in line like the good little stooge you are."
"You cunt!" Govnic shouted, though it was the last resistance he would offer.
Haurn released her grasp and Govnic folded into the mud, his ego taking the brunt of the injury. She then turned to me.
"Don't do anything that will get us killed," Haurn spoke, devoid of any feeling in the words.
3 Company from the 8843rd caught up to our position in the enemy's trench. It should be noted that Capt. Dangir was one of the last to arrive at the rear of his company. Green signal flares indicated we secured the position. A battery of AT-DTs moved into no man's land and targeted MLA positions in the second echelon with direct fire. We had a moment to catch our breath, while the enemy was shelled, and our battalion regrouped for the next assault.
Maj. Brimmo conspicuously moved through the waste and approached the captured position, followed closely by nervous staffers and comms operators with equipment made useless by the conditions. The last I saw; the major had an arm extended and appeared to be coordinating an intended advance for one of his companies. Another barrage of MLA mortars was loosed, their rounds landing where Brimmo stood. When the smoke and cloud of thrown up mud cleared, there wasn't anyone standing.
000