Titanium Coffins

0752 Hours, October 10th, 2559

Outskirts of Lesno, Boundary

Looking out across the remnants of the motorized unit slated to defend Watts Airfield from the United Nations Space Command, Boundary Republic tanker Sam Walton felt a twinge of regret in his mind. He had joined the Republic's militia for a taste of adventure, as well as some good pay, and he could have left months before after having finished his year and a half long stint as a volunteer. But he had decided to stay, and now here he was, getting ready to fight and die in the smelly, cramped confines of a tank against the UNSC, for a battle that he had a sinking feeling that the Republic was not going to win.

Running was not an option for him. If he did, he could be caught by other Republic fighters, who would bring him into their fold or send him back to his unit. There was no escape, so all he could hope for was for the call to never come. As if by some horrible sorcery, as he sat there, continuing to hope the radio call never came, it did. As one of the radios crackled to life, Walton's stomach dropped. The voice on it was familiar, that of the dear Marshal Edward Garan. Walton did not listen. Whatever the Marshal said was not important. As silence once again rolled over the area where the unit was, Walton's tank commander grabbed him by the shoulder. "You heard the man, we're retreating and taking up defensive positions."

"What?" asked Walton, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. "We're not going on the attack?" he continued.

"Don't think so."

"Alright. Let's go."

Swinging his legs back onto the hull of the tank, Walton squeezed himself into the vehicle's turret, right next to the breech of the eighty millimeter cannon. Sitting in the gunner's position, Walton began booting up the systems, restraining his jubilation that he would be able to live another few more days. Closing the hatch, Walton looked through the monochrome displays that showed the outside world.