• Published 6th Oct 2015
  • 1,194 Views, 19 Comments

Forward again, and again, and again. - Zaravan



In which an army of poorly trained, poorly lead, underfed, rabble of clones weather one seemingly insurmountable obstacle after another.

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The Nineteenth entry, or: The burden of High Command.

On the day's eve, not two days past since the surprise attack, and two more attacks since, Five men stood in a tent just scarcely larger than the average moving van. By the light of a gently flaring lantern, five men, with their peaked caps and decorated overcoats, argued of their next course of action. These men, who had been tasked with coordinating an Operation to locate the nearest Changeling outpost and eliminate it. Tragically, they had no leads on which to locate their quarry.

All five men may wear so many decorations, however, every single one of them had, at one point, been an ordinary, faceless infantryman in the IAF's Innumerable leigons of clones. But, they had risen slowly through the ranks by proving their competence in leadership under fire. First, they led squads, then companies, then regiments. Every one was a hardened veteran, yes some rose more quickly than others, but none would be standing had they not proven their worth on the field.

'We have no leads!' Cried one in exasperation. 'We'll find some!' Another challenged stubbornly. 'I will not stand for any more casualties than necessary!' He continued, slamming one gloved hand on the relatively old wooden table, covered in maps and hastily scribbled plans. 'We could assign patrols into the desert, and slowly expand after we've thoroughly combed the immediate area.' Said yet another, wiping his forehead with an old cloth. 'We cannot leave the town vulnerable!' Said one more, clenching his hands in frustration. 'If the bugs slip by, they would fall upon the populace like rabid dogs on meat, we need every man at their post!'

They would have continued arguing into the night, cries of frustration, indignant rage and concern would drift out of the tent's opening. That is, had not a messenger stumbled into the tent, his chest heaving of effort. 'The westward patrols have been wiped out, the bugs march in great numbers!'

After two heartbeats' worth of utter silence, the tent exploded in a cacophony of noise as the Commanders and their aids rushed to coordinate the defense of the Appleoosa Forward Defensive Position.

Author's Note:

Remember to comment, i don't care if you tell me to kill myself. Any Criticism or compliment helps.

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