Breathing.
Footsteps.
Screaming.
Gunfire.
Explosions.
Those were the only things Waters' mind could register as his legs carried him away from the carnage. It was the first time he had really been afraid for his life in a firefight, and no amount of training could have prepared anyone for the ambush on their convoy. Not one of the 46 soldiers had the will to fight when they saw the opposing force's numbers. More than 100 militants, several technicals, and more RPGs than the Sergeant had seen in his life. Every vehicle in the convoy got hit at some point or another, and when the platoon had run out of effective cover, the Captain gave the order to scatter and try to make it out alive. Several started running before the order was given. Most barely made it 25 meters before getting cut down. Exceedingly few made it farther than that. Either out of luck, fate, or whatever, Sergeant Waters was one of them.
After running as fast as he could for what felt like hours, Waters finally found a defilade and made it into cover before returning fire to help cover the rest of the survivors. "Covering!" he yelled for whomever would listen. He knew he couldn't really effectively engage the hostiles, but he figured he had to do whatever he could. What he did was draw attention to him. After his fourth or fifth round, chunks of dirt kicked up in front of him, and bullets began whizzing by his head in dizzying numbers. He ducked down and took cover in the bottom of the ditch, trying to crawl along it's length and find a better place to engage from. Something exploded on the other side of the ditch, and he could feel chunks of hot metal rain down on him. His ears were ringing, and he could barely even hear the gunfire anymore.
Disoriented as he was, he decided to throw two of his smoke grenades to cover his comrades. No amount of returned fire would get them out of this mess, so concealment was the next best thing. All anyone could do was get to cover and try to make their escape. This battle was lost long before it begun.
Footsteps.
Screaming.
Gunfire.
Explosions.
Those were the only things Waters' mind could register as his legs carried him away from the carnage. It was the first time he had really been afraid for his life in a firefight, and no amount of training could have prepared anyone for the ambush on their convoy. Not one of the 46 soldiers had the will to fight when they saw the opposing force's numbers. More than 100 militants, several technicals, and more RPGs than the Sergeant had seen in his life. Every vehicle in the convoy got hit at some point or another, and when the platoon had run out of effective cover, the Captain gave the order to scatter and try to make it out alive. Several started running before the order was given. Most barely made it 25 meters before getting cut down. Exceedingly few made it farther than that. Either out of luck, fate, or whatever, Sergeant Waters was one of them.
After running as fast as he could for what felt like hours, Waters finally found a defilade and made it into cover before returning fire to help cover the rest of the survivors. "Covering!" he yelled for whomever would listen. He knew he couldn't really effectively engage the hostiles, but he figured he had to do whatever he could. What he did was draw attention to him. After his fourth or fifth round, chunks of dirt kicked up in front of him, and bullets began whizzing by his head in dizzying numbers. He ducked down and took cover in the bottom of the ditch, trying to crawl along it's length and find a better place to engage from. Something exploded on the other side of the ditch, and he could feel chunks of hot metal rain down on him. His ears were ringing, and he could barely even hear the gunfire anymore.
Disoriented as he was, he decided to throw two of his smoke grenades to cover his comrades. No amount of returned fire would get them out of this mess, so concealment was the next best thing. All anyone could do was get to cover and try to make their escape. This battle was lost long before it begun.