There was a moment of respite back from the fighting position that was being overrun -- the Holtish apparently, once they overran the position, were going to consolidate, but for the Augstbergen, there was the running, trying to find a place of cover, a place to lay up.

Luck was with them in that the countryside was a series of ridges and hills with forest, between which were meadows or farmland; they fell back from one such place where the Holtish were overrunning, and Hasso had no idea how long they'd run, only that they were falling back in a rush, losing their cohesion and organization. Hasso was just a private, and the rest of the squad weren't much more than privates-- they couldn't know the political considerations that came with stringing the defensive line out like that, the fumbles of an inexperienced wartime command of a militia army whose officers included local mayors and other people who were probably not suited to actual command. 

He caught his breath in the next woodline, though he took it upon himself to get into what cover he could find and keep an eye on the direction of the enemy. He couldn't imagine them stopping for too long, possibly galvanized by the successes of the first push. There were survivors here of the second platoon, and he could see that they were missing a number of familiar faces. That was someone else's problem. He checked his ammunition in the pouches, gave himself a mental accounting of what was used up -- and was shocked to see how much he'd fired off in the furor, and checked his grenades, which he hadn't used -- last time, that was. Now he remembered them.

He wasn't entirely sure of precisely how much time had passed, much less what was happening in response to the Holtish attack, so he was taken by surprise by the sound of engines. He noticed the rumble of the engines, but the direction of the sound had him utterly confused.