A fragment of the Tozholleronesi Tapestries

Hell in a very Small Place: The Siege of Malta

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There were thirty of us. I was part of the second platoon of first company, in which there were a grand total of one hundred twenty-four. As part of the first wave, we were tasked with securing the beachhead for further reinforcements. Naval support was and will be provided. It was to be an easy task, what with the Phoenicians being squandered in the continental campaigns. Capturing Malta would be "over by Christmas", or however that popular saying goes. Attacking and capturing the Phoenician capital directly would immediately force them to make a peace treaty favorable to the Empire. That's what the optimistic big wigs fantasize about anyway.

If only they knew of the carnage unfolding here, they would've thought so otherwise.

Just as the troop carriers got within a few hundred yards of the Maltese shoreline, the frequency of the Phoenician barrage began to intensify. In a few cases, some ships sank, some exploded in a fiery inferno. Soon the skies blackened and the scent of burnt flesh and wood was all too familiar. The men on board the surviving ships were purified in every sense of the word, but there would be no turning back. Eventually, we fell short of the Maltese shore by about roughly one hundred yards before the erected obstacles abruptly stopped most ships in their tracks. The transport to our left was punctured and sunk, but very few managed to resurface and make way to the shore. Our sergeant ordered for us to disembark and head for land. Almost immediately everyone did, but being nervous I was the last one to jump ship into the cold, unforgiving waters that were my doom. I struggled to come back up for about, oh, a minute at least, thanks to the heavy equipment I was burdened with. By the time I did, I realized no one else was around me. I glanced back, sure enough, I was the only one left behind. That is, aside from several approaching ships catching up and disembarking in the same orderly fashion we did. I swam forward, hoping to reach the shore alive.

A good half hour passed. Eighteen of what remained of our platoon reached the beach safety, grouping behind erect obstacles to protect from gunfire. I learned our sergeant was killed, and most of the other officers were killed or incapacitated as well. A further ten, from another company, reached us. Four others were tagging along, but two were killed by cannon shrapnel and the other two were killed by small arms. Without capable leadership, we struggled to come up with a plan to advance forward. Ten minutes passed, and we all agreed that the best strategy would to hunker down until more of the wave arrived on the beach. I looked back at the sea and gulped. Two hours and a half passed by, thirty more would trickle onto the beach. As time continued to pass by, it became evident there would be no more stragglers. Before we decided to set out, I looked back at the sea to witness the horrifying scene that lay before me. Any sane man would realize this was a bloodbath that occurred today.

The moment we left our makeshift defenses, it was utter chaos. The initial discharge from the Phoenician line terrified many, killing some and wounding others. But it was not enough to break the assault. With fixed bayonets, the Phoenician's first defense line was eventually overrun, but the second position a few yards uphill forced us to abandon it and retreat to the safety of our line. The Phoenicians advanced with an attack on our lines, but it proved futile and they suffered dearly. After things calmed down, the dead and wounded were counted; five dead, twelve wounded. With a little preparation, a second assault was attempted, this time pushing the Phoenicians out of both positions temporarily, before they launched another counter-attack and reclaimed both positions once again. We realized it would be futile to waste manpower and decided to dig in to wait for further reinforcements.

A subsequent, more successful wave finally arrived, bringing with them fresh men and desperately needed supplies. With naval support softening up the enemy beforehand, we launched a fixed bayonet assault on the Phoenician lines and finally overwhelmed them while suffering moderate losses, forcing the Federalists to retreat inland. A determined counter-attack commenced not long afterward, but the Phoenicians broke it off sometime later and did not show any interest to do so any time after that. The beach was, at last, secured. The next few days were mostly quiet, allowing for further men and supplies to come in from the sea.

Although our fight was all good, the naval aspect was particularly grim. The pride of the Imperial fleet was humiliated time and again by the Federalists. The big wig of the Imperial Fleet, Admiral Natanael, an old veteran of the Great War, was infuriated he could not gain the naval victory he oh so yearned for. The size of the fleet before the first battle of Malta numbered around seventy-six galleasses, eight wooden cruisers, three battleships, and an experimental ironclad. A huge chunk was obliterated by the Phoenician in a timespan of five hours while suffering only minor losses themselves. Natanael requested more ships, and he was supplied with an additional sixty galleasses and several wooden cruisers. The quality of their crews was questionable; talk among the ground personnel near the hastily assembled docks rumored they were "not up to Imperial standards". Further rumors claimed many were impressed or had been convicts with promises of pardons in exchange for their military service. Natanael declined any allegation, citing that victory must be obtained "at all costs, by whatever means". We on Malta were unfortunate to actually see any engagements, but news came in every so often about Imperial victories against small Federal squadrons though. There also lies supplementary gossip that Natanael was "not satisfied" and "yearned for actual prestige". After the first Maltese battle, not once did the two main navies come into direct contact with one another.

That would soon all change. Four months into the land siege of Malta, word reached us of a disastrous naval defeat off the coast of Sicily. There was a controversy regarding the details of the battle; original word was the Imperial fleet suffered enormous losses during the battle, and tried to flee the fray to seek refuge in friendly port, only to be hunted down by enemy squadrons and finished off. Other versions told that the Imperial navy did not incur significant losses, but had been caught and sunk in the harshest weather seen in years, essentially becoming the navy's final nail in the coffin. The latter was widely accepted as being the best-case scenario for what happened, given that the weather these law few months have been quite hazardous.

Whatever the case was, it doesn't change the fact the situation in Malta will now inevitably change for the worse. Natanael is dead, the navy is broken, and one thousand four thousand soldiers are abandoned to die on this miserable, hostile, hellish rock.

In the time before the Second Battle of Malta, our advance beyond the beaches of Malta was steady, to say the least. There had been many skirmishes from time to time. Some were deadlier than others, due to the fact the Maltese garrison were already entrenched in their defenses with moderately sophisticated weaponry, which often proved fatal for assaults. In a story I overheard, four Imperial platoons —one hundred and twenty— were bogged down engaging a particularly well suited and manned fortification. The Tozholleronesi officer in command was probably wary that his men were quickly running out of ammunition by this never-ending shoot-out. His camp-de-aides suggested that he withdrawal for reinforcements and supplies, but he ignored them. Against their better advice, he ordered a bayonet charge down to his subordinates. It inevitably resulted in being a reckless decision. As the Tozholleronsei bravely charged the Phoenican line, most of the imperial soldiers were rapidly thinned out in prolonged volley fire. One survivor said that many of his comrades would indistinctly choose death over disappointing their commander, and zealously charged the lines, exclaiming, "for the Emperor!" as they died in droves. All the platoons ended up withdrawing with significant losses, with the official headcount being roughly forty-four remaining, with several later dying of their wounds. This fort would hold out for ten more days before finally falling under Imperial control. Fortifications much like Butcher's Post, as it had infamously been called amongst the ranks, became increasingly more common as the campaign progressed.

These Phoenican forts were a difficult obstacle to overcome. As cannons have not been yet to be fielded in the Maltese theatre, the only strategy officers typically resorted to was the traditional Tozhollernese doctrine of mass bayonet charges. They were very costly a great deal of the time, like Butcher's Post, but could be successful if the officer knew what he was doing. Over time, however, they became a common sight as the campaign reached further inland that even the most deterministic officer deemed the tactic would produce unforgivable results. Commanders would demand cannon shipment before continuing operations. The top generals on Malta, Hakim Javaherian and Arshia Ghaffari, refused to do anything until they had possession of an artillery corps, but rarely were their requests ever fulfilled. Officials in Socipaelo cited that, according to a letter for Hakim, "[...] deployment of large cannon is primarily prioritized for the armies under the banners of His Majesty on the battlefields of Tunisia". Two months into the siege, small shipments of cannon did end up on seeing action on Malta, however. One cannot doubt that these artillery pieces greatly boosted our military effort. Before long we were within a few miles of our destination and I could even make out the spectacle of the beautiful Phoenician capital itself. Everyone had confidence that the campaign would quickly be over with.

The Sicilian disaster had dire consequences for us in Malta, there was not a single person who wasn't aware of it. It meant that without an adequate naval force we would have no logistical means to provide the capacity for further offensives, or indeed any form of combat in general. We were practically shut off from the rest of the world. Retreat, even if it was feasible, was no longer a possibility of any sort. The Phoenicians were aware of this, too, and before we even knew it we were pushed back all along the front lines. The distance between us and Phoenicia's capital grew larger with each passing day. Every day a stretch of land would be lost, every day a dozen men would spill their blood. The state of our retreats was rather depressing, those that were wounded were left beyond to die as it became too risky to carry them along the way. In some instances even giving military funerals or burial of the dead was a dangerous task, since Phoenician snipers and partisans harassed parties attempting to do so. Orders were given to the army to dig in and hold out as long as possible before some kind of miracle could take place. Who knew? Maybe the crippled fleet could deliver a task force to relieve us, and that feeling comforted us, no matter how unrealistic it might've been.

Two forts were quickly constructed; one near our initial beachhead (Sogna), and the other within a day’s worth of marching distance(Cira). I was stationed at Circa briefly for a few days, and the conditions there were the equivalent of being in a remote outpost in the outer hinges of the Empire; dangerous, uneasy, and hot. I was relieved when I was reassigned to Sogna because I felt that staying any longer in Circa would mean certain death; there were many cases where enemy forces would slip into quarters at night and slit your throat as you slept. I clearly remember the news of Cira's fall four weeks after I relocated to Sogna. Particularly I was saddened upon hearing everyone was summarily executed. Although, after the war, I learned of most of their fates; most, if not all of them, became prisoners of war and shipped off elsewhere to work in mines or something similar.

Sogna swiftly turned into a horrid place to be, even moreso than Circa. Disease from rotten corpses and poor hygiene ran rampant, resulting in dozens dying. Nothing could be done about it since practically all our medical personnel were gone. Our efforts to throw out the dead was almost impossible since setting foot outside the fort's parameters was almost guaranteed to get you killed. Although attempts to develop hygiene met with less difficulty, the result barely made a difference. To make matters more complicated, Phoenician attacks became more frequent by the day. It was difficult to juggle human resources between the maintenance of the fort and defending it from attack. Causalities by the end of the day would be staggering; the median death toll was roughly thirteen dead per day, but considerations of those dying from other causes were not included.

For twenty-eight days we waited. We waited for the fleet that never came. Although every couple of days we would get our hopes up for news of a navy attempting to break through the blockade and rescue us, but it never happened. It almost seemed like the emperor had abandoned us for good. Our forces dwindled by the day, and the men looking to the sea hoping for a blip on the horizon looked less often to continue in their day to day activities. Over time the idea of even being rescued was forgotten; we learned to accept our fates. On the fifteen-day, the Phoenicians opened up their largest assault yet. Under the cover of artillery, Phoenician troops stormed the first, second, and third lines of Sogna's defenses. The fourth and final defense almost collapsed then and there, but a handful of defenders, including myself, managed to push the Phoenicians back for the time being. Hours after the initial assault, Phoenician marines landed on the beaches to our rear while their navy softened up the fortress. We were at that moment completely encircled.

It would be three days before the white flag would be raised, signifying the end of the intense fighting at Sogna. At first many of the survivors opposed the surrender and wanted to fight down to the last man, but once it became clear that both Haim & Arshia supported this notion, arguing was pointless. Still unbeknownst to us was that a few dissidents wanted to continue fighting, but their plot was quickly quelled before it could come to fruition.

On the morning of September fourth, nine hundred eighty-four, the fighting on Malta had de facto ended. As we gathered outside the ruins of Sogna, Hakim took one last glance at us and shed a single tear; out of the one thousand four hundred that set foot on Malta, only two hundred of us were still alive. We discarded all of our weapons in a pile before being ordered to march several miles inland to Phoenician barracks for rest. We received small rations then were ordered to march another several miles to a port, to await transportation of the island. No one made a fuss boarding the vessels, nor on the voyage towards our destination. We reached port in some far off location in North Africa, probably Algeria, where we were split into smaller groups and marched off to a desolate place where our camp was located. To this day I can never remember the name of the place, nor its precise location.

It was there eighty of my comrades and I stayed for the next twelve years. During our time in captivity we became more aware of what was happening in the outside world, and indeed, the war with Phoenicia itself. When the war ended in nine hundred eighty-nine, we were not immediately released. The rebel scoundrel who toppled the emperor refused to acknowledge us, and did not want to receive for people "who did not exist". It would take a lot of patience and persuasion before we were finally returned.