Ablaze Ch.7: Battle of Senchen (4)
July 4, Y874 - Corysia - Senchen - Noon
Faine breathes hard, running down the left side of a four-lane road, heading north. His boots pound on the sidewalk, hindpaws sore from the continuous use. The wolf grips his Type 55 rifle firmly with his forepaws. He keeps his eyes on a pile of rubble, the most convenient bit of cover ahead of him. The wolf ducks behind it, and catches his breath. The rest of 2-1 following behind Faine also takes cover behind the debris. 4th Squad, or 2-4, finds cover among the wreckage further back. 2-2, along with 2-3, is assigned to the street's east side, where they stop along with the rest of the platoon. The platoon leader, a few meters behind Faine, pulls out a map from a pocket on his vest. The wolf spends several seconds studying it.
Five days have passed since the Parosanans have landed in Senchen. In the time that has gone by, the entire 1st Para Brigade has been redeployed to the city. Alpha Company of 1st Battalion was redeployed near the Senchen's massive port. The port is at risk from recent advances made by the enemy, and has recently been the major focus of operations in Senchen. When the Paros broke through Defense Line Alpha, the Corysians' first line of defense, all they had left was Defense Line Bravo to stop the enemy from reaching the port. Alpha 2 was sent forward to reinforce Defense Line Bravo, which is why Faine and everyone else are here right now.
Out of eyeshot, a small arm fires twice in quick succession, and is promptly responded with a long burst of automatic fire. Faine's squad leader sticks his muzzle around the edge of the rubble they are hiding behind for a moment, analyzing the road ahead. A Parosanan carrier-based aircraft flies over Senchen in the distance as an artillery battery's spotting round lands about two hundred meters up the street, demolishing the forth story on one of the many buildings lining the road. Being almost mid-day, the hot summer sun beams down its fatigue-inspiring heat straight down onto the paratroopers, avoiding the tall buildings around them. Hot and humid air surrounds the soldiers, choking them of comfort in the tropical weather.
Already, all the streets look somewhat similar. All are bombed and covered with an assortment of debris and wrecked vehicles covering the road. Some, where there has been fighting, are strewn with the bodies of combatants and non-combatants alike. This is not a war against military targets, but a war with the aim of destroying everything the enemy owns. For the Paros, no second-thought is given as to whether or not a building should be bombed. This also applies to the Corysians, but it's a much rarer occurrence. Both sides, in the end, only care about winning the war.
1st Squad's leader looks back towards the platoon leader. The wolf folds up the map he pulled out, and nods at the squad leader in response. They're heading the right direction.
Moving quickly, 1st Squad climbs over the rubble, and proceeds to the next form of cover ahead of them. Alpha Team leads the rest of 2-1 forward, along with 2nd Platoon. The paratroopers move from cover to cover, keeping clear of the middle of the road. The soldiers reach an intersection further ahead with no trouble. To the sides, a two-lane street heading east and west connects to the wider four-lane one. At the north-west side of the intersection, a Type 41 assault gun sits stationary. The hatch has been opened, and the vehicle has evidently been deserted. The intersection causes the platoons to halt. Vance, a wolf in the same team as Faine, 2-1 Alpha, sticks his muzzle around the corner.
"Clear!"
This isn't the first intersection they have crossed, and thus, everyone knows what to do.
"Go!" the platoon leader says.
Faine's team is the first to cross. The four soldiers sprint across the intersection, around bits of rubble, and stops at the other side between the building at the corner and the incapacitated assault gun. Feeling reasonably secure, the wolf signals the second team, Bravo Team to cross. As 2-1 Bravo steps into the open, a burst of automatic fire rings out followed by a succession of short bursts. Two of the exposed paratroopers are cut down by the incoming fire as the rest sprint across as fast as their hindpaws allow. After reaching the northern side, the unscathed soldiers hit the ground to avoid any more rounds coming their way.
"Where's it coming from?" Faine shouts.
"Don't fucking know!" another fur responds.
Faine, still lying prone, takes a quick glance west around the street corner. Failing to make visual contact with the enemy, the wolf looks to the east, around the disabled self-propelled gun. The wolf thinks he sees something in the distance, maybe the enemy. He looks a second time, and sure enough, there are enemy troops not far away, about two squads in strength.
"East side, return fire!" he shouts.
On the south side of the intersection, a soldier runs into the open. He drags the nearest injured paratrooper back behind cover as the other soldiers fire back. Barely a few minutes later, as quick as it started, the shooting stops.
"Cease fire!" a soldier shouts, but not from 2nd Platoon. It came from further down the street, where they were shooting at, and the fur spoke in Corysian.
"Identify!" a paratrooper shouts back.
In response, a figure emerges in the distance from behind cover. He looks rather familiar. The fur removes his helmet, and waves it around in the air. Faine feels sick. Now that he takes time to identify the target, he can tell they weren't shooting at Parosanans. That helmet, the signature uniform, the wolf recognizes it all.
"Fuck!" someone spits.
It's a marine. A Corysian marine. They were shot at by the marines, and in turn, they shot at the marines. It was friendly fire. More marines emerge from behind the rubble in the street. They hurry to link up with the paratroopers. As they approach, Faine can tell that the original group has been reduced to about eight furs, less than half what he saw earlier. Faine also notices that two of the soldiers are not marines, but are instead from the local militia. Everyone regroups around the disabled assault gun.
"Why did you open fire?" a paratrooper barks.
Glaring, one of the marines growls back.
"Do you know how far behind lines this is?" the wolf asks coldly. "We're fucking cut off! The Parosanans broke through our lines and are more than five hundred fucking meters ahead! There are no friendlies within that same distance other than us and some other survivors! Do you think we would have even considered you as Corysians?"
"Well, thanks for shooting us!" Faine shouts, infuriated about the whole incident.
"Damn it, shut up!" the platoon leader shouts. "This whole thing is a giant damned fuck up, and we're all aware of that! You furs thought we were the enemy, and we thought the same about you! We both fucked up!"
The platoon leader faces the marines.
"We were sent here to help stop the Paros' advance," he says. "We were told to support Defense Line Bravo."
"We're part of what's left, pretty much all that's left, actually," a marine says. "We reorganized after the breakthrough yesterday, but they pushed us back again. They took out at least half our armored support without even using tanks!"
The platoon CO sighs. They were supposed to reinforce Defense Line Bravo. They were supposed to prevent the Parosanans from reaching the port. Bravo Line is supposed to be standing, but it isn't. They have already failed the objective before even reaching their destination.
"The Paros pretty much have the port now," one of the militiafurs says, the fox's voice shaking slightly. "We're cut off behind lines. Can we just leave now?"
The platoon leader judges his options. If they fall back, there is a higher chance they'll survive, but he will be disobeying orders. Pushing on will be in accordance to the orders given to him, but there is a high possibility everyone will be dead because of that. Corysia does have a rather large population, which should make a few losses tolerable. The problem with that sort of thinking is that everyone here, excluding the two survivors from the militia, is either a paratrooper or marine, one of Corysia's "elite" branches, which is hard to replace. If he was deciding whether or not to send militia or standard infantry to their deaths, then that would be a much easier choice.
"There would no point in getting ourselves killed for no reason. We're going back."
Who would complain to that?
Meanwhile, news of Parosana's recent gains has already reached Corysian High Command, and their progress has not gone unnoticed. While there are still Corysian forces at the port, it is essentially in the paws of Parosana now. Alarmed by this matter, Corysian High Command organizes a response, or rather, a panic attack.
"Almost there. Damned suicide missions," a pilot mutters to no one in particular. His copilot ignores the comment. Everyone is thinking the same thing.
Once again, Type 47s transports are in the air over Senchen. This time, they wouldn't stop at the airport, and the reason is still open for the world to see. The burning wreck of a civilian airliner lies at one end of the runway, still releasing plumes of smoke into the air. It was hit by a missile from Parosanan jets while it tried to takeoff the previous day. Since then, no large aircraft has been allowed to enter the airport, and all civilian aircraft still at the airport have been forced to leave. Desperate air engagements are still being fought in the skies of Senchen, something that the pilots have already seen just a few days ago, although there are less aircraft at the moment. Today, the Type 47s will be dropping the paratroopers near central and southern Senchen where there is less air activity, and where it is more residential with fewer skyscrapers. They are approaching the city slightly south of east.
What the paratroopers of the 1st Para Brigade did a few days ago is surpassed by what the 2nd Para Brigade has to do now. Since any form of landing at the airport is now considered too dangerous, they won't touch the ground today. Instead, the paratroopers will conduct a standard drop. It seems fine until one realizes that the jump will be right over the city. Some of the pilots are beginning to wonder just how strong the officers think their paratroopers are.
"Radar contacts breaking away from main group!" a pilot announces over the radio.
Other pilots check their radar, and find the same results. Three Parosanan jets just broke away from the engagement over the city, and are approaching the transports. With less than a minute before reaching their landing zone, the Type 47s area already within missile range of the enemy aircraft. Corysian fighters also realize the danger, and attempt to engage the threat. Having just participated in an air-to-air duel, the incoming aircraft are low on munitions. Only four missiles are launched at the transports before one of the jets is blown out of the sky by Corysian fighter aircraft. The missiles reach out, and the tactical transport aircraft do their best to evade, only resulting in partial success. Two missiles hit their targets, turning those tactical transports into a burning wreck, falling down into the city.
The two remaining Parosanan jets maneuver to avoid incoming fire, but are still heading towards the transports. Despite, being only a few seconds before reaching the drop zone, the pilots of the Type 47s perform evasive maneuvers. Corysian jets manage to shoot down one of the Parosanan fighters as it tries to aim at the transports. The other manages to fire a long burst at one of the large fixed-wing aircraft, heavily damaging its outer-left engine. The fighter disengages, chased away by the Corysians.
"Lower the ramps, now!" the pilot of a Type 47 shouts.
"Damn it," Harris mutters as he staggers back into his position. For some reason, the pilot decided to bank the air transport hard to the right. The gray fox almost fell over from that, while carrying all of his gear, over seventy pounds of it in total. The only thing preventing him from falling is his static line. Harris steadies himself just in time for the ramp to open, spilling bright midday sunlight into cargo hold.
Despite him being the eighth fur from the back, his restricted view still allows him to see some of the destruction outside. Beyond the fellow paratroopers in front of him, Harris can see great plumes of smoke curling into the air and the line of Type 47s flying close behind the one Harris is aboard. One of the transports in the distance is hit by an air-to-air missile. Its right wing breaks off, causing the fuel inside of it to ignite and spill everywhere. The furs watch in horror as the plane tumbles downwards, along with a whole paratrooper company inside. Moments before the ramp is even fully lowered, the pilot flips a switch, activating the green light in the cargo hold.
"Go, go, go!" his company CO shouts.
Glad to have the chance of escaping their metal coffin, the paratroopers run towards the back of the Type 47s, and hurl themselves off the ramp. At the same time, the thought remains that they will soon be on the ground with hostile Parosanan soldiers around them. Harris launches himself away from the plane. His static line deploys his parachute, quickly opening into a large nylon canopy above the gray fox. Now that Harris is outside the air transport, he can see everything around him.
The scene outside is horrendous. Nothing could suffice to the actual experience, including the restricted view he had inside the cargo hold. Harris had heard it was bad. He had heard about the fires that burned around the clock, the smoke that clogged the air, but not the words from others or his imagination could prepare him for the scene outside. Everything, every little detail took can be seen by Harris. In the distance to the northeast is the Financial distract, along with the Industrial District to the northwest. Both have been hit hard, thoroughly wrecked by the fighting. Buildings all across the city have been destroyed in some way or another, and those that survived had the wounds to show their cost from the ordeal. An uncountable number of fires populate the city, mostly near areas where there is combat, devouring whatever may stand in their paths. From these fires rises smoke, dirty and disgusting, slowly pouring out into the sky. It rises to incredibly high altitudes, even higher than the fighter aircraft in the distance that frequently pass through the smoke, creating large and rather brilliant vortexes in their wake. The fixed-wing aircraft kept at their deadly choreography, pulling intricate flips and maneuvers seemingly taking no notice of the massive pillars of smoke and dust. Sometimes they would shoot down the enemy, and at other times, they themselves are outmaneuvered are killed. The air battle has already shifted to encompass the cargo aircraft. Roughly five hundred meters away, a Type 47 is raked by a Parosanan fighter's cannons, causing an engine to explode after being hit.
Finally, Harris realizes that he isn't above the residential districts anymore. A quick glance around him and the fox can tell that he is now almost over the industrial district, in fact, he can see the massive Senchen port his company is supposed to retake. However, this is far worse than it is good. His company is supposed to regroup at a park in the residential district and continue from there. A more detailed examination by the gray fox shows that he has drifted so far away from his group that he can't see any other parachutes nearby. Harris realizes that he will likely be cut off from the rest of his unit with close proximity to hostiles. He have to protect himself from Parosanan soldiers, better equipped and probably also better trained than he is. Ultimately, that Paro is most likely better at killing him than he is at killing the other fur.
Harris swears as he descends ever closer to the ground, the tall city structures engulfing him. Fortunately for him, he doesn't land on the rooftops of any of the buildings. The sides of the buildings race past Harris as he descends, blurring together. The ground expands in front of him as it draws nearer. Harris braces himself for the impact, and hits the asphalt. The gray fox rolls on the impact, and quickly disconnects his parachute. He sprints to the side of the road before kneeling, unslinging his Type 55 assault rifle, and flicking off the safety. Harris holds it at the ready, the rifle's stock placed in his shoulder. He spends quite a few tense moments scanning his surroundings, confirming the absence of any threats.
Satisfied that he is relatively safe, Harris pulls out his map and compass. The street he is on runs along west and east. Fortunately for Harris, the landing zone and rallying point are at a park south of his current location, which he can easily see on the map, and also spotted while coming down. Unfortunately, that park is quite a distance away. Harris stows the map, stands, and heads west towards the nearest street going south. He travels at a fast pace but maintains awareness of his surroundings.
Now that the fox has his hindpaws on the ground, he can truly see the destruction done to the city. The street is littered with debris from the smashed buildings, almost completely covering up the black surface. Civilian vehicles left in the street have been destroyed, some of them partially buried under rubble. Harris stops behind one of the vehicles to confirm the absence of any threats. There's nothing notable except for the almost constant automatic fire and sporadic explosions in the distance.
Nervously, Harris rises again and continues on. A few minutes in and the fox is yet to make contact with another fur, either friendly or hostile. Thankfully for him, it is not long before the intersection is within sight. Harris slows as he approaches the last building, and stops at the corner. He leans around the corner, checking if the way is clear. To his surprise, not far in the distance are seven recently-landed Corysian paratroopers who are regrouping. All of them had already disconnected their chute except for two who had just landed.
"Friendly coming out from the north!" he shouts as he steps into the open.
Harris proceeds forward to link up with the other soldiers. He doesn't recognize them, so he assumes that they aren't from his unit. They gather at the side of the street, away from the exposed road. Two of the paratroopers stand guard, keeping an eye out for any enemies.
"D Company, 1st Battalion, private," Harris says.
"A Company, 2nd Battalion, lieutenant," one of them, a wolf, responds.
Each of the soldiers state their company, battalion, and rank. Two of the paratroopers are from the same platoon, but everyone else is from completely different units.
"Well, we're all really fucking off target!" the lieutenant growls. "Come on, our LZs all have to be south of here-"
"Contact!" a paratrooper shouts.
At the same time, gunfire erupts seemingly out of nowhere. The paratrooper, who was keeping watch, manages to fire one round before getting hit in the chest. Several bullets rip through the lieutenant, who falls on the ground, dead. Many others are hit before everyone can drop to a prone position.
"Ambush!" a paratrooper shouts. "Where is it coming from?"
"Other side, brick building!" another soldier responds.
Bullets pass through nearly every bit of space around the soldiers, now cowering on the ground. The plentiful rubble does a good job shielding them. Without the cover, they would all have been killed already. With the lieutenant dead, a sergeant assumes command. The wolf spots a small pathway between two buildings. Thankfully, it is on the same side of the street as they are.
"Through there! 1st and 2nd Battalion, cover us!" the sergeant shouts. He points his forepaw in the general direction to show the other paratroopers the location of the path, mindful of the bullet storm just above him.
"Now! Go, go, go!"
Simultaneously, about half of the paratroopers rise and sprint to the path as fast as they can. The rest, including Harris, poke out of cover and quickly return fire on the enemy position. They empty about half their magazines before running after the other soldiers. Harris is the last one to leave. He runs as fast as his hindpaws allow, pounding his boots against the ground. The distance to the path isn't far, only about 20 or 30 meters, but the incoming fire is motivation enough to minimize exposure. Despite his efforts, he is shot a short distance away from the narrow path. The bullet rips through the fox's leg, causing Harris to fall. He hits the ground hard, almost dropping his rifle. The gray fox yelps as he smashes his muzzle painfully onto the sidewalk. The intense pain shoots up his leg.
"Through here!" the sergeant shouts in the distance.
They are going to continue without him. They may or may not know Harris has been left behind, but either way it's now up to him to keep up. The gray fox tries to ignore his pain. He gets back up, then sprints to, and makes it around the corner of the buildings. By the time he enters the pathway, everyone else has already left. Harris almost collapses as he enters, the pain from his bullet wound becoming unbearable.
"Shit!" Harris mutters, looking around.
The narrow path, about two or three meters wide, is lined with the walls of the buildings around it. There are doors every few meters leading into the buildings or other small paths. Harris fearfully glances from one door to another. Many of them, including ones nearby which his fellow paratroopers might have used, are slightly open or missing the door altogether. He contemplates inspecting each doorway, but soon hears heavy pawsteps behind him. It could only belong to Paro soldiers pursuing the small group, and the fox is still only a few steps inside the narrow path.
Harris finds a nearby door slightly ajar, limps towards it, throws his forepaw onto the handle, and yanks it open. The door swings outwards, revealing the darkness inside. Harris leaps in, and closes the door behind him, almost slamming it. Without looking, he limps forward as quickly as he can. He wants, no, he needs to be anywhere but near the door. The fox quickly pays the price for not looking as he trips over the debris scattered on the ground. Harris, again, falls muzzle-first onto the ground. Caught off guard, he barely stifles a loud yelp as his muzzle collides with the ground. As he tries to stand up, a sharp pain in his right leg reminds the gray fox of his bullet wound. Harris flips over and finds the right side of his pants, at least the upper half, soaked dark red by his blood.
Ignoring the pain, the gray fox stands, and quickly but carefully limps to a corner of the room. Harris collapses on the ground as soon as he arrives, and turns around to face the door. The room is evidently the first floor of someone's residence, although everything of value has already been removed. All that is left is the war-torn shell of a house. The drab concrete walls, floor, and ceiling are all that's left, the cold surface contrasting with the hot and humid air. Four small, broken windows line wall on the arbitrary left side of the room, allowing meager lighting into the damaged room. Also on the left is a door, leading onto the street he was ambushed on, blocked more than halfway by wreckage from the inside. The arbitrary right side holds a staircase, leading up to the second floor. Without sufficient lighting, the darkness of the level above pours down from the staircase before being beaten back by natural light from the windows.
Harris aims his Type 55 assault rifle at the door he entered from, directly in front of him. The gray fox can hear his heart pounding as the seconds drag on. Then, from behind the door comes a noise, the sound of boots on gravel. How many are behind that door? Did they know he is inside the room? Are they after him or the rest of the paratroopers? A multitude of questions go unanswered through Harris's mind. Another agonizing second passes, followed by another, until finally the furs on the other side of the door pass by.
After a full ten seconds of silence, Harris lowers his rifle. He whimpers as the pain returns. Once he is sure the Parosanans have left, the fox checks the bullet wound on his leg. He unsheathes his utility knife, and cuts open his pants around the exit wound before sheathing the knife. The round had entered the back of his leg, and exited from the front. The wound is somewhat torn and ragged, still allowing blood to escape. The fur surrounding his wound is matted with somewhat coagulated blood, forming a disgusting mess of red, gooey fur. Harris leans his head back, resting his helmet on the dirty concrete behind him. At least his head didn't need to make contact with the cold surface. However, the discomfort from the cold concrete surroundings is completely outweighed by the horrible agony that still persists. Without the fear of Paros suddenly bursting into the room, his mind could focus on his bullet wound, not to mention his badly bruised muzzle.
Now that he has the time, Harris reaches his forepaw to one of the small bags attached to his rucksack. He unzips the bag, and takes out a watertight package containing a field dressing. The fox removes the package and unfolds the dressing. He lays it on the front of his leg, over the exit wound. Harris puts a forepaw over the bandage, holding it in place as he wraps it around his leg, over his entry and exit wounds. Satisfied with his handiwork, he ties the two ends of the dressing together. It doesn't take long before a small patch of red appears on the dressing, directly over his exit wound. Harris sighs, picking up his rifle and placing it on his lap, mindful about his bandage. The gray fox wonders how in the world he will ever link up with his unit. There is only silence to accompany him, silence and the ever-present sound of automatic fire, dulled by the building's concrete walls.
An artillery round demolishes the top story of a concrete building only fifty meters or so ahead. Faine, along with the rest of the ragtag group of furs, consisting of soldiers from three different branches, drops to the ground. Was that a spotting round, or an imminent off-target bombardment? A pawful of relatively silent seconds pass before the expanded 2nd Platoon decides it's safe enough to proceed. Already the soldiers have fought against many behind-lines enemies, probably being pulled from the front or transferring from one location to another. They are yet to make contact with other friendlies. Evidently, the front has been advancing, and fast.
"Clear, let's move!"
A nearby explosion shakes the room. Harris grabs his rifle, and his ears swivel around, searching for any other sounds. A second passes, then another. Suddenly he hears something in the distance. Was it another fur? It sounded like someone shouting just then. As if from nowhere, Harris hears a long burst of automatic fire a distance outside the room. He raises his weapon, previously pointing towards the ground. A large volume of small arms fire responds. There is a firefight right outside the room, and therefore, there has to be friendlies nearby!
Slowly, Harris uses his left forepaw to push himself away from the wall, his right forepaw still holding onto his Type 55's handle. The gray fox stands up, rising so that he stands shakily on his hindpaws. One step after another, with agonizing sluggishness, Harris limps towards the door he came from. The fox keeps his weapon aimed at the door, his eyes plastered to the assault rifle's iron sights, his index finger gently resting on the trigger guard. Time slowly drags on, and Harris gradually closes the distance between him and the door. At last he stands close enough that the handle is within reach. He moves to the side, standing opposite of the door's hinge. The gray fox's left forepaw moves forward ever so slowly, gradually closing the distance to the handle. At last, Harris's paw pads make contact with the cold metal. This whole time, the fox's right forepaw does not leave his Type 55's pistol grip. He keeps the weapon aimed straight forward, its muzzle almost touching the door.
Holding the door handle tightly, Harris swings open the door, and moves his forepaw up to his weapon's forestock. The fox scans the narrow path he was recently on. He partly expects a Paro waiting for him outside, but he finds nothing of interest. Harris quickly advances in the direction of the larger street, relieved that there are no threats present. The paratrooper stops at the corner and kneels, weapon ready. Harris can still hear automatic fire being exchanged in the large street outside. Not knowing which side's troops are where, Harris decides on a safer plan. He pokes his muzzle around the street corner, inspecting what lay beyond.
Bodies from the dead paratroopers Harris was with earlier are still in the street, surrounded by the rubble they tried to use as cover. In the distance, a group of soldiers are taking cover among debris. He identifies them as Corysian by their uniform and equipment. The soldiers are trading fire with another group in the brick building Harris was shot at from earlier. Therefore, the soldiers in the brick building right now must be Paros. Harris hides behind the corner again, and drops to the ground. The fox crawls sideways so that he can establish a line of sight with his target, and raises his rifle. Harris flicks the Type 55's fire selector to semi-automatic, gently rests his finger on the trigger, and waits for the enemy to appear. Before long, a Paro stands to take a shot at the Corysians in the street. Harris rapidly taps his rifle's trigger four times, and the enemy soldier drops behind the broken window. Another soldier appears and manages to fire a short burst before being dropped. Now the Parosanans are aware of the threat, but don't know of Harris's location. The fox manages to fire another shot before his location is compromised. He crawls behind the corner of the building, as he had done earlier, to avoid incoming fire. At the same time, the furs pinned in the street launch a counterattack. The soldiers lay down fire, suppressing the enemy, as a team is sent to assault the building. They sprint to the side of the street and stop beside the building's entrance, where the door is apparently gone.
"Go, go, go!" a member of the team shouts.
Rapidly, the four soldiers enter the building. Another team is assembled, and sent into the structure to follow up on the attack. A minute or two pass by, along with sporadic gunfire, before the all-clear is given and the teams reemerge, short by one. With the fighting over, Harris decides to leave his cover.
Faine ejects his weapon's nearly spent magazine. If this kept up, then the soldiers would be bled to death with their numbers slowly draining away. They would likely have insufficient strength to break out if they can't find a hole in the enemy line. The wolf slides a full magazine into his Type 55. So far they have only been fighting against behind-line units, he reminds himself again.
"Friendly coming out!" someone shouts in the distance, towards the southern end of the street. Faine quickly pulls back the charging handle and shoulders his rifle just in case. A soldier appears down the street, wearing the Corysian paratrooper uniform.
"Identify!" the platoon CO responds.
"Pvt. Harris, 1st Battalion, 2nd Para Brigade!"
After confirming the soldier's identity, the platoon emerges from its position in the street and links up with the paratrooper.
"Isn't 2nd Brigade supposed to be dropped further south?" the CO asks.
"The idiot who ordered that drop had the Type 47s fly almost straight through the air combat. I ended up being dropped far off from our LZ because of evasive maneuvers."
"We're going south from here, where's your rally point?"
"Same direction."
"Well, join the crowd," the platoon leader scoffs.