Note: The following was found scratched on a piece of metal floating in the ruins of the Death Star. From our analysis, the material seems to be part of a wall from the head in the TIE-pilots' quarters.



We march where we are ordered, and we fight when we are told.
Our beer is warm, our bunks are hard, our caf is always cold.
We're a sorry bunch o'soldiers, and our rep is mighty small,
'Cause the com was "out of order" when we answered Duty's call.

We're "wedded to the Service" – You've heard that one, I'll lay bets –
And we know she loves us, 'cause she screws us every chance she gets.
The girls, we love and leave 'em, 'though our technique's sort of brash,
And when loving arms enfold us, they've a hand held out for cash.

Commander fires off memos, and his pen's beyond compare,
And Tarkin's famous for the way he flies a swivel chair.
You're Up; you think you've ditched the brass and you can blow the joint,
Then Wing shouts, "Look out – Vader!" and – the bastard's flying point!

There's some that fly by seat-of-pants, and some that fight by ear,
But we've got one whose style's unique, and known both far and near:
When Vader's in a fire-fight, boys, you know he's sure to win:
He doesn't fly the fighter, boys – the fighter plugs him in.

They say that he's got magic powers, more than mortal man.
Well, I heard tell this story's true – believe it if you can:
Walked upstairs at Madame Rosie's, scanned the readout on his dials;
Next mornin' fifty girls came down – and all o'them wore smiles.

I was 'canted as a soldier, and I'll soldier 'til I die.
I'll fly a TIE to hell and back – don't ever ask me why.
I'm a no-'count fighter-jockey, yeah; but buddy, I've got class –
'Cause I'm flying Vader's squadron, and the rest can kiss my ass!


by Karen Winter


Winter's Tales