Hold the Line
No one knows where it started. It might have been at the beginning, on Geonosis. No one can say for sure. All the clones know is whoever, whenever, and wherever started it, they made a tradition.
War takes lives. There’s no trouble accepting that. But what is hard to accept is those losses. Especially in a galaxy that sees you and your brothers as “meat-droids” and property of the Republic.
They’ve lost hope for a monument for their fallen brother’s. There’s barely even a burial or funeral in most cases. It’s just packing up and leaving the bodies, batchmates, and squads behind with no permission to look back. With such restrictions, it’s no wonder the farewell has to be simple and quick.
No memories can be shared at that time. Those must be saved for transports and hyperspace travel. No gun salute or military send-off is admitted. The best thing they can do is stick a gun or stick in the ground and leave the helmet on top. Most of these “shrines” are taken apart by the locals for souvenirs or blackmarket items.
All they have is time for a sentence or two. Then it’s shipping off to the next target; colony; city; world; system; galaxy. It’s done in small groups, nothing large or big. Sometimes it’s only a single clone. Any attraction drawn is unwelcome or unwanted. Clones have been sent to reconditioning for showing too much emotion over a fallen brother.
The tradition follows that the surviving clones turn in the direction of where the battle commenced or the approximate spot where the brother died (often a medical tent). If it’s a group they chose a spokesmen to say the words. Any officers in the group are automatically nominated followed closely by any brother who lost someone they were close to. If not in a group, then the lone man just speaks to the wind. The lines are short and to the point.
They are a relieving of duty. The passing of the torch. The end of a mission. A signal of sorts that their vod have a new job. One all clones will have, one by one.
“We got the line from here, vod. You have the line up there.”
These are the words whispered to the wind as a transport pulls away from the planet. They are mumbled as the remains of squads march away from the ones that didn’t make it. They are forced out through the teeth as the last survivor prepares to die, the rest of his brothers already dead but he’s determined to give them the proper send off. They are words toasted to in the clone cantina on Coruscant when news of MIA and KIA companies, squads, and in a few cases battalions reaches the planet. They are the screaming thoughts of men, retreating in defeat, knowing there is nothing they can do for the bodies they have to leave behind.
Because their brothers aren’t really gone. They’re just marching away.
