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dexfarkinEveryday was a new war.
The uniform of the 66th Regiment, 3rd company had gone to a dusty grey colour, in the midst of the fierce machinegun fire blasting out of one of the bunkers leading up the hill, forcing them down into the dirt. In the dirt next to you, a young paratrooper named Shaul Mofaz is trying to avoid vomiting for the second time, stuck close to the body of another IDF soldier, headless and half cooked from the explosion that killed him. The smell of his burnt flesh is heavy and greasy in the air, and you almost want to grin in gallows humour as you hug the Uzi to your chest, waiting for some fire support to buy you time to advance past the police academy and up the hill, away from the certainly not kosher smell.
It was completely different in Africa. Under the hot sun and in the midst of thousands of Zulu war-cries, there was nothing to smell but the stale sweat soaking the heavy redcoat worn buckled tight, and the harsh tang of gunpower as you fob round after run into your rifle, hoping to hell that the fire will keep the mob out of impi range. Freddy Hitch has been running hellbent back to the hospital, with the section round can under one arm, trying to find out if Hooky and the others are alright in there. No one is alright anywhere, embroiled in the middle of thousands of stabbing warriors.
It was west of Gettysburg when they finally got me. Buford's cavalry turned out to be pretty decent shots, peppering the brush with their carbines. We'd just turned to deploy, with Archer pushing some of us more to the flank, to probe forward and see how difficult the vedettes would be to dislodge when the first bullet hit me square in the midst of my grey covered chest. One more ripped through my back as I fell, and I could still taste the blood in my mouth as everything went black with disconnect.
Games these days...
The uniform of the 66th Regiment, 3rd company had gone to a dusty grey colour, in the midst of the fierce machinegun fire blasting out of one of the bunkers leading up the hill, forcing them down into the dirt. In the dirt next to you, a young paratrooper named Shaul Mofaz is trying to avoid vomiting for the second time, stuck close to the body of another IDF soldier, headless and half cooked from the explosion that killed him. The smell of his burnt flesh is heavy and greasy in the air, and you almost want to grin in gallows humour as you hug the Uzi to your chest, waiting for some fire support to buy you time to advance past the police academy and up the hill, away from the certainly not kosher smell.
It was completely different in Africa. Under the hot sun and in the midst of thousands of Zulu war-cries, there was nothing to smell but the stale sweat soaking the heavy redcoat worn buckled tight, and the harsh tang of gunpower as you fob round after run into your rifle, hoping to hell that the fire will keep the mob out of impi range. Freddy Hitch has been running hellbent back to the hospital, with the section round can under one arm, trying to find out if Hooky and the others are alright in there. No one is alright anywhere, embroiled in the middle of thousands of stabbing warriors.
It was west of Gettysburg when they finally got me. Buford's cavalry turned out to be pretty decent shots, peppering the brush with their carbines. We'd just turned to deploy, with Archer pushing some of us more to the flank, to probe forward and see how difficult the vedettes would be to dislodge when the first bullet hit me square in the midst of my grey covered chest. One more ripped through my back as I fell, and I could still taste the blood in my mouth as everything went black with disconnect.
Games these days...
