A wounded soldier struggles his way across the barren landscape of Callisto. Driven by an unquenchable desire to live he crawls on all fours, at times dragging his body through the dust. For hundreds of yards behind him his tale of hardship is told by the long groove his stricken body carved in the dust and sand. His battle is over, and each agonising yard grows more and more difficult, his breathings shallow and with each passing minute he loses yet more precious blood. He begins to grind to a halt, his wounds and the pain now unbearable, as he turns himself over and gazes at the sky. The brave soldier closes his eye's submitting to his cruel fate, the last ounces of strength drain from his body, and he lays still the only movement the rustling of his clothes in the wind. Blood poured from his thigh and his hand still clutched his chest, but he ceased to move.

The tank was hit, and for the last time. The crew driven into a panic, wrestled to be the first to the door, for each man knew the fate of those trapped inside burning wreckage. The assault rifles were broken out and each grabbed the nearest before fighting their way out through the narrow exit in the small infantry support tank. The tank had a crew of three; it was a fairly new tank to the collective arsenal, and was known as the rapier. The rapiers were there because the enemy were not supposed to be able to field a whole armoured force, but they did, not only that they had an infantry division with them also. The unprepared collective colonial armour was caught off guard, and a bloody battle ensued.

The rest of the story can be found here. (File lost, PM Garacaius on the freeinfantry.org forums if you have information)