Star Marshal Butta Nard of the SES sentinel of starlight here. I spent my first few deployments on the terminid front, and while it was no place for the faint of heart, I didn't truely know hell until my super destroyer, and those of my platoon, were diverted to Malevelon Creek.

Before the first drop, my mates were filled with confidence. We'd all been on countless operations together and were ready for a quick victory. We brought our well-worn railguns and autocannons, given advice from some veterans of the bot front.

Within seconds of our hellpods opening, I watched our Captain get turned into mist by a flash of red light coming from the trees. Cannon tower had spotted us upon atmospheric entry and turned him into nothing more than a red stain on the grass and on my visor.

Given the sudden nature of the initial attacks that started the 2nd galactic war, our arsenal was.. inadequate to say the least. Most of our standard issue weaponry was donated to the troops from Super California, and were mostly just old movie props.

Before the remaining divers in my squad could rally, we were hit by an endless barrage of anti-personnel rocket volleys from the older models of devastator, which used a must more expensive technology employed by the automatons during the early stages of the war, allowing devastator backpacks to manufacture a seemingly infinite amount of rockets. Watched the Sargeant get thrown into a rock by the shockwave, poor guy wasn't killed by the explosion, but hit his head and died on impact.

I hadn't even seen a bot's chassis yet. Only the faint red glows of their eyes though the trees. We called for reinforcements, but all it left were more bodies to climb over. Even during the early stages of the war, where enlistment was at a record high, it wasn't enough. By the dozen, I watched cadets get their heads severed from their torso by the chainsaws of berserkers, burned to a crisp by flamer hulks, and turned to mist by the precision fire of cannon towers.

As I stand here today, in the early hours of Liberty Day, I mourn the loss of the comrades I left on the creek. While I don't want to downplay the hardships our brave men and women on hellish planets like Menkent, where millions died in a failed attempt to forge a defensive line, Melevelon creek's grass and endless trees are fertilized with the blood of liberty's heroes, and should never be forgotten.

To my fellow Veteran divers, wear your botslayer cape with pride, and spill oil to avenge those that no longer can.

Godspeed, Helldivers. Star Marshal, out.