He'd only been transferred to the squardron that morning.. A captain or something, or possibly some old desk jockey for all the troop knew. They were all certain he was a temporary replacement for their commander. Though the few wise enough, knew not to stare too long at his one scarred and cloudy white eye. The rest of the crew just called him "the Grump". Crusty, moody, a man of very few words.. Didn't socialize like the rest of the younger troops, and strangly smelled strongly of mortar fumes and cheep cigar smoke.
It wasn't until the day -- that fatefull day, when they found out who the Grump really was. The younger troopers had allready bolted out of the front gates like a pack of starved jackals, to the man.. They stormed the enemy base losing nearly all of their attack force, save only for a pair of men running for their lives with the enemy flag. The advancing enemy forces were hot on their tails, casting what seemed to be the embodyment of hell down upon their their heads.
Hope was nowhere to be seen, until a brilliance of green and crimson turned the very air to flame around them.. Both of the young Troopers dropped to the ground clutching their heads and preying to their gods. -- The death strike did not come. When they raised their heads they saw what had happened. A ring of enemy corpses surrounded them. The air stank of mortar and burned flesh. -- The remote turrets whirred to their neutral positions waiting dilligently, while the mortar barrel up on the hill burped loudly with it's new round in place. -- A voice crackled over the comm "You boys need a lift home with that thing?".. -- Above them, the transport hovered above the ground, "the Grump" grinning madly in the pilot seat.
It wasn't until that day -- the day that some of the young men made it back.. They saw for the first time, under all the carbon and dirt on his armour, "The Grump" wore the crest of the Legion.