[FH] Breaking News - Road to Habb al Tal

As has become the status quo in our latest clashes in the Xenowar, direct
coverage of the latest events has proven problematic. The following are
delayed reports from one of our special embedded correspondents in the
Margaritifer Sector.

Road to Habb al Tal

New Guardian Times, Margaritifer Sector, January 9th 2194

Most school projects are quickly forgotten once the marks are received, but a
few dwell on as cloudy memories that resurface at the oddest of times. For me
it was a project from grade school set by dear Miss Forsythe. She had us each
pick a spot on any of the well mapped human worlds and then she said we had to
imagine ourselves sitting their yogi style through the years watching the
world change, what wonders did we see. Being a mad collector of football discs
at the time, I chose Vinogradov, boyhood home of the great Sa'd Abu Zayd. I
imagined it growing up from the surrounding plains, the early pelting rains,
the great lakes and seas stretching out along the chasma off in the distance.
I imagined the atmosphere slipping away, the chill rising and the eventual
desolation. I imagined the coming of man, the slow introduction of colour and
warmth to the flanks of this high ground. I was caught up in the awe of how
the place must have changed, the wonders it must have witnessed. Miss Forsythe
gave me an A for my imagination. Neither she nor I could have conceived of
what Vinogradov looks down upon today.

I was amongst a convoy of wounded being sent back from the Arda campaign to
the more secure NAC settlements around Nirgal. The immense number of wounded
generated by this grinding clash has overwhelmed the airborne casevac and only
the critically wounded are being flown out. The rest of
us are being loaded into bulky grav-barges, spare grav-sleds and even
multi-wheel mining lorries and are taking the slow, bumpy, truly
torturous land routes back to the southern dressing stations.

It was 5.45am MMT when we first realised the Kraks had pushed further south
than reported and that we were in trouble. It was a bewildering moment for the
poor Captain in charge. Having risen through the medical corps during the
third solar war Captain Mansbridge had seen the sickening side of conflict,
but had little real experience of command and tactics. Now the Captain had a
great bulky convoy to protect and was in a defenceless position. I don't think
I'd take any reward from anywhere in the entire galaxy to bear that
responsibility. It was exceptionally unnerving, with shots sounding quicker
and nothing in sight except scrub and rocks.

Thankfully at this point Colonel Cowley rose from his stretcher and took over
from a rather relieved Mansbridge. Looking around coolly the Colonel ordered
further squadrons out to the left and right. The convoy was inching on now
raising a cloud of dust, which glowed like a rainbow as the rising sun caught
it. Then the Krak slugs began to come in a hail. Many of the old vets, who've
been through their share of combat, described it as the hottest they'd seen.

There was no cover and everyone was under fire. There was nothing to be done,
but for the walking wounded to dismount and try and cover the convoy; grabbing
spare rifles and walking along beside the vehicles. As a long time embed I've
seen a lot of battles, but never before gone armed. I'd been a decent shot in
archery at school, but that was decades ago. No choice now though; if we were
to stand a chance, all that could move under their own power would have to do
what they could.

Every now and then among the clear high "phit" of the Gauss slugs would
come the hideous twisting whistle of a kinetic grenade launcher - or
spaghetti maker - a really horrible sound. There was a sense of panic,
the escort walking along bent almost double, taking what shelter they could.
Some of those with severe post traumatic stress, alarmed by the hellish
whistling in the air, began to moan and shake, adding to the general tumult. I
gave up wondering whether I'd be hit or not, but merely started to wonder if
it'd be a graze or a full "plug". There were
the usual number of miraculous escapes; the driver of the grav-sled
beside which I was walking tumbled forward in his seat like a half-full
potato sack, stone dead; a medic on a barge behind me flew forward, twitched,
and slide over the front of the cabin, hitting the ground with a dull thud adn
a screech of airbrakes; I jumped what felt like 10 feet when a slug smote the
sand by my heel; yet others walked on seemingly without a slug within a dozen
feet of them, as if they had personal
force fields. Young Lieutenant Baden-Powell, accompanying the lead
vehicle of the expedition, had his antique watch smashed to atoms, but his
skin was not even scratched.

Colonel Cowley had called for artillery support, but the intensity of the
latest fighting in the Arda meant it would be at least ten minutes before the
first shells arrived. They were the ten longest most hateful minutes. Then we
heard the roar of the first round. A sound that is only welcoming when it's on
your side. Immediately the Krak fire slackened and within minutes it had
almost ceased. It was another six or seven minutes before the fire was stopped
entirely. I hadn't realised how tense I was until the crack of slugs striking
rocks and polyclad had stopped. Then it was like a vice had been lifted from
my chest and I took in big ragged breaths.

There were bodies lying all round, and the ambulance staff was quickly
overwhelmed with new wounds. I was assigned to one of the clean up crews; told
to help a young sergeant with a bandaged cheek, and a private nursing a
shattered hand scout out and gather up those worse off than ourselves. We made
thirteen trips, carrying wounded from the surrounding slopes back to the
column.

Ten minutes of intense fighting, and eighty-six new casualties; fifteen
killed, seventy-one wounded, and another eleven missing. Having been
through those ten minutes, those ten infinitely long minutes, it was not the
men lying crumpled that were astonishing; it was the surreal sight of people
walking about, talking, securing boxes and checking tires that made me wonder
if I'd simply nodded off in my seat and been dreaming. Then reality came
crashing back. Brushing at a hovering insect, I slid my hand down the
underside of my forearm and it came away smeared with blood. My own escape
from those ten brutish minutes had been more miraculous than I had supposed.

> [quoted text omitted]
Relief of Habb al Tal

New Guardian Times, Margaritifer Sector, January 11th 2194

After the attack on the ambulance convoy the day before yesterday, it has
become critical to clear the corridor to Habb al Tal. Without thisoverland
route to Nirgal the major casevac route would be closed and our wounded would
face a miserable time penned into the combat zones around Arda. Thus, after
the convoy raised the alarm, probes were sent into the hills around the Habb
al Tal corridor to locate Krak positions. The message returned was unanimous.
There are swarms up there, for the route to be secure Vinogradov plateau must
be taken.

The task of clearing the corridor to Habb al Tal was given to General Lyden,
hero of Santa Maria. He deployed three brigades on the slopes rising to the
west above the corridor. The convoy and support troops looking on from below.
The speed of the advance was so quick it was easy
to lose track of the troops as their polyclads tried crypto-matching
with the landscape. Try as I might to catch each moment of the advance the
wind was rising and a gust threw sand in my eyes, making them water and sting.
When I'd wiped away the grit and tears I'd lost sight of a great majority of
the force. Were those rocks or troops up there on the side of that rise? I had
just decided they were rocks when they proved my wrong by beginning to move,
inching further up the face of the plateau. Thankfullyformy sanity and the
integrity of this report a soldier nearby offered to share his hudcomm with me
so I could see uor green points moving up the rise.

Horsham's Brigade was strongest and had been placed out ahead of the others.
One crest after another was cleared and put behind them as they flowed up the
steep incline. The odd sniper's shot indicated the Kraks were up there, but
they were invisible.

Even during the moments when I had to relinquish the hudcomm to my new friend,
jagged silhouettes against the sky showed where a few hundred of our troops
were. The rest had become part of the rocks and the shroud of scrub and brown
grass. So to my tired eyes, even our own infantry soon became invisible. It
was obvious that many others felt the same way, though many of the hardened
veterans gave an almost whispered commentary. Quietly commenting on what our
less experienced eyes failed to see.

To our extreme right a headland of bedrock ran out from the plateau northwest
into the plain. Devil's Bastion it had been suitably named. With the slopes to
our front in the control of Horsham's, Kolody's and Suber's Brigades,
attention shifted to the rocky spur. General Lyden
instructed Lord Keesing-Drake to "Recce the north-eastern flank. See
what sort of place it is and whether any Kraks are up there. If it's strongly
held, dig in, call for support; if not go on and secure it. I don't need to
tell you how to suck eggs KD, now get on... and may the Lord have mercy." That
was the sense of many orders given by General Lyden. Bare minimum and a trust
that he knew their mettle well enough to know they needed no more.

The 21st from New Hope went first. Jumping down from their transports with
minimal fuss and fanning into their line of advance with practiced ease. One
man in particular, Wilkes, looked like he was born for this
work - he sprang at the hill as though he were a sailor in the rigging
of some ancient ship of the line. The ascent was like the side of the
dhow shaped mega-hotels in Dubayy, yet up he went hand over hand, making
it look easy until my smarting eyes couldn't track him any longer.
Nothing like trying to follow fast moving troops in cam-coated polyclad
to turn your stomach. Everyone watching this scene held their breath in
case someone should fall - not from the steepness, but from a Krak slug.
It was a good twenty five minutes before we got word the unit had reached the
top. A greener man would have stood and waved to say "No Krak here", but the
bulk of these troops had seen more than one campaign and knew better. Within
minutes Devil's Bastion was declared ours. When
I spoke to Lord Keesing-Drake later he said, "It was splendid to watch,
they threw themselves at that hill in a V.C. act of courage and yet they won't
get a medal for it and would never expect one. There have been many actions
like that one already in this war."

The good cheer didn't last long though, for even as the New Hopities secured
Devil's Bastion, beginning work on one of the strongholds that will now guard
the corridor to Habb al Tal, an intense firefight broke out close to the top
of the rise to our front. It fast became clear that we were going to have
little success pushing a frontal attack. It was at this time that Sir Peter
Barton pointed to the east side of Vinogradov proper as likely to be very
useful to our cause. He suggested that if we could get on to the eastern ridge
we could probably push round on to the plateau and then sweep down the
northern promontories, with flanking fire on the Krak lines sitting up there.
In Sir Peter's opinion,
Pruzhany Ridge, properly used, was the key to taking the position - the
key to opening the door to Habb al Tal.

I don't know General Lyden's exact thoughts on the matter were, but he must
have thought Sir Peter's position had some merit, because patrols were quickly
despatched to the ridge. Within an hour they began returning, reporting that
there appeared to be only a few Kraks that far east. With such favourable
intelligence, Sir Peter's scheme was even more readily accepted; and just on
dusk a large party set out to make an assault up the ridge. Dawn and dusk
attacks are becoming favourite amongst human commanders as it seems this is
when Krak senses are at their weakest. Many with an opinion on the matter
claim the Krak are naturally nocturnal, and it is true that all their major
assaults have started at night; though it is equally true that even in
daylight they can see straight through all but the best quality cam. Either
way dawn or dusk presents our troops with the best chances.

The party was a substantial one, drawn from most of those able bodied troops
still left in the corridor. There were Skerrat's Mechanised Infantry, the
Lancashire Fusiliers, the Fomalhaut 3rd Regiment, two companies of the South
Essex Regiment, and three companies of Royal Saskatchewan Engineers. As Sir
Peter was laid up with a leg wound, actually being with the convoy as a
patient not as escort or protector, Colonel Woodbridge was given command.

This time a few of us were lucky enough to score spare hudcomms of our own and
were able to watch in the half dark. The green outlines of our troops
scrambling up the ridge. We had judged the assault on Devil's Bastion as a
steep ascent, but were quickly forced to rethink our
definitions. This attack was proving to be a hand-and-knee march up the
face of the ridge - a climb over alternating patches of sheer, smooth
rock, crumbling regolith and dry grass. Such an advance is necessarily slow,
but it an immense credit to all involved that it was steady. When
the force was only three-quarters of the way up they were detected, or
at least acknowledged, a quick exchange of fire marking the event. It took
another hour of sometimes quite fierce fighting to clear the rest of the way
to the crest of the ridge.

Once on the ridge's high ground, the Fusiliers advanced at a deliberate,
conventional combat trot. Skerrat's volunteers followed close behind, their
relative inexperience painfully apparent. This unit is a local Martian unit
that was raised less than six weeks ago. What they lack in training they
almost make up for with colossal, and one must say admirable, enthusiasm.

There was no one single point of substantial resistance on the ridge, rather
it was a continuous slog under fire, pushing the Krak back step by agonising
step. By dawn the Fusiliers, or what remained of them, reached the Vinogradov
plateau. Amongst the small group of stalwart spectators I sat with through the
night, I think we believed to a man that if the brave souls on that ridge
survived until dawn it would all be ok, somehow the rising of the sun would
make it all so much easier. We couldn't have been more wrong.

In the early hours of the morning, probably 45 minutes shy of first light the
ubiquitous Vinogradov nor'westerly began to grow and before dawn had become a
sandy squall, much like those colourfully dubbed Chocolatero by the
inhabitants of Old Mexico. I doubt anything was visible to the naked eye
beyond a hundred metres or so up on the
plateau. The order to dig-in was given and construction of reinforced
strong points began in some spots, with simple hand-made earthworks dug
between them. Between the Krak jamming the nav-sats and the raging
rubble storm preventing by-eye location, it must have been a frightful
task to determine the right place for them. The Krak were invisible, even our
own troops to north and east were invisible up there. For the next four hours,
what had seemed such a great vantage point must have seemed anything but to
the trooper on the ground up there. During that
time the party was alone in a howling, grit-blasted island in the air.
At last the storm blew itself out and the air cleared; the curtain
rising upon the latest performance of the on-going Martian tragedy.

The Krak, on the lip of the northern rock promontories began to fire heavily
as soon as the conditions cleared. Even with hours of preparation and the best
disruptive cam to hand, our troops seemed to have insufficient protection in
their lofty position. They'd chosen to secure the small neck where the spur
that eventually ended as Devil's Bastion split off from the plateau.
Unfortunately, in the confusion of the storm they'd deployed too far down the
neck and were now stuck all crowded together. No soldier up there has been up
to recounting their experiences as yet, so I will try to do justice to the
scene using the meagre scraps I could see from my perch in the convoy far
below. I shall
have it forever in my memory - those few acres of bloody massacre, the
complete shambles. Trying hard to pick out our dust covered polyclad troops,
it seemed that our force was all in a single small patch; pinched off behind
by scree and to the front by what turned out to be
well protected Krak positions. There were red-brown soldiers and redder
and browner trenches cut into the dirt. As I watched the fray, soon
after the grit-storm died and before the fire storm started, I saw three
shells strike the foremost trench, all within seconds. Each shell struck the
trench and its contents full in the face, kicking up yet more dust and
starting a few small fires.

The trench was saw-toothed against the sky and I supposed that the
troops must have all but exhausted themselves shifting those sharp rocks in to
place; forming the ramparts in such a relatively short time. The shells were
falling thick now, creating small rock slides and generally shaking the area
violently. Another shell struck the front trench full on, and there was an
audible gasp from our part of the convoy. We were all thrown into a state of
shock, as what we had taken to be the body of the front trench rose up and
rushed forward. It wasn't rock and dirt as we had thought. It had all been our
brave troops; the rampart's teeth against the sky had all been our troops. And
now they ran forward, bending their bodies into the low crouching curve of a
soldier under heavy fire. They weaved, dropping and rising every few steps.
Roughly eighty metres in front of their original position the majority dropped
into a dark brown outcropping of solid rock; a pre-agreed firing
position. As bullets, plasma, slugs and grenades flew this way and that up on
the peak, spout after spout of dust and rubble bounced up from the brown
patch, raining down the slope.

After perhaps an hour, the whole patch bristled again and there was another
wave, every position pushing one outcrop further forward. Each group flickered
up, fleeted rapidly and silently across the sky, firing as they went and
flickered down into the rocks again. The sight had much the same elusive
appearance as a shadow puppet show.

The Krak artillery did not really relent during this entire time. By counting
rounds and watching the fall of shot, I guessed they had three of their large
alien guns playing like hoses on our front line. A mortar section had
accompanied our party up the ridge, but we had no substantial artillery in the
area to match the Krak guns and all our urgent support requests were going
unheeded. When for pity sake would the artillery arrive? We started to fret
over whether enough of our force could live through the shelling to hold the
ridge until our fire came. All up there must have felt that they had lived a
long life under that fire by the end of the day, and still our artillery did
not come. We were not to know that the nearest battery had been overrun and
slaughtered to a man. The batteries still further a field being sucked into
one of the biggest armour battles history has ever borne sad witness to.

By the end of that sorry day, watching our side assault forward again and
again, always under heavy fire; you might have been forgiven for saying that
the role of our heroic soldiers in this Xenowar is to be killed by an
invisible seemingly untouchable enemy.

As the day aged and we watched transfixed with horror at the unfolding scene,
reinforcements were ordered up the slope; the troops on top crying out for
relief. I could see people running to and fro up amongst the rocks,
continually hunted to new ground, fresh shelter. Some Krak grunts must have
crept forward under cover of a sand cloud kicked up by their latest
bombardment, and for a few minutes well over fifty Krak and NAC wrestled and
heaved and swayed in hand to hand. The shelling never rested, not even as they
drew apart, the surviving Krak falling back, to our universal amazement and
joyous relief. The screeching somewhat hollow rapping of the Krak artillery a
truly horrid sound, one that gets in and eats at the nerves. I can't think of
a situation I now dread more than to be sitting up there amongst the rocks
with the kinetic shells slamming down and smashing along the ground in a long
straight line.

By this time the reinforcements were pushing on, a thin line
corkscrewing up the treacherous south-eastern slope. These had arrived
at the convoy's location during the night and were largely drawn from the
recently landed Royal NAC South American Army; the Comodoros,
Brasilians, Salados and Imperial Venezuelan Light Infantry - all
volunteers, some already battle hardened, some destined to receive a scalding
baptism. Dust quickly began settling on their armour, dulling the cam, the odd
sun beam reflected off their weapons as they climbed.

Across the entire high ground, from extreme left to right of the field,
infantry now moved. Almost as if from no where Botwright's Brigade and the
Somersets emerged from the far side of Devil's Bastion, having circled there
during the previous night and the morning hours. They made a solid assault on
the northern flank of the Krak position on the ridge. The Kraks sniping them
all the while.

A man from the reinforcements on the convoy's side of the rise was down, his
legs twitching like a shot rabbit in the grass. A hush fell over the entire
convoy when the large and powerful form of General Appleyard pitched over near
the summit, caught by a round to the head. Miraculously, he rose again,
shaking himself and continuing fearlessly as if he was untouched. And so it
was with that magnitude of courage and raw determination that the
reinforcements poured up the steep path on to the plateau. It was ten steps
from shelter to death as they cleared that crest; I counted them as the first
troops cleared the edge and tried to make for cover. The bodies piled up,
reducing the exposure of those behind, but their blood also made the ground
slicker, harder to cross.

With the Krak bent to the task of slaughtering those already on the ridge they
were unsually slow to notice two more forces pushing up from the ground east
of Devil's Bastion. The thump of the shells grew ever closer, now less than a
heart beat apart. Bodies now lay so thick on the ground up on top that they
began to spill over the edge, adding to the general cascade of bloody rubble
already rolling to the floor of the approach. Just as I wondered at how
intelligent beings could walk knowingly to their deaths in such a slaughter I
heard a chuckle beside me. I turned to stare at the old Sergeant propped up
against the back of
the flat-top, his thigh encased in flexiplast. He was of Indian descent,
his hair already grey and his dark deeply lined face marked with a filigree of
scars, most likely from a shattered comm set in some battle years into his
past. At first I thought that he had taken leave of his senses; that the
carnage had proven too much even for him. He must have seen the look on my
face, because he smiled the most glorious smile at
me and said "no look, really look". I turned back to the charnel-house
scene and then it struck me; starting deep in my gut a constricting ache
rising higher up my abdomen in to my chest as the adrenaline kicked in. Could
it be true? Yes, Yes! There was more and more of "them" rolling down that hill
and less and less of "us". The tide had turned; the corridor to Habb al Tal
would be ours.

Later that evening after the convoy was safely on the plateau and engineers
were building real strongholds, real fortified ramparts that were not just
bodies against the sky, I was again assigned to a medic detail; again the
ambulances needed every hand they could get. I can not describe the scene that
greeted me as I moved among the bloody rocks and scrapes. Suffice it to say
that I vomited and retched my way through the gore, slipping more than
stepping, there being more insides out than in amongst those lying up there. I
know many sitting safe in their lounge rooms will wonder why so many had to
die just to open a single road. Why not go round? Why no wait until the
airborne or artillery were free to clear the Kraks out? But to ask that is to
show a fundamental misunderstanding of the Martian terrain, at once beautiful
but extreme; and to show an ignorance of the savage implications of this
Xenowar, where some times you can't wait for what is safest because safety may
never come. The corridor to Habb al Tal is the main remaining land route
between the besieged Arda and Osuga Valles and the large NAC bases around
Nirgal. Without this crucial resupply and casevac route the counter offensive
would be stunted and almost undoubtedly doomed. It is not overly melodramatic
to say that it may well be vital for the continuation of the entire human race
for that route to be opened and kept opened. That is why our regiments never
let up, pushing hard into a land where only angels tread.