Firestorm

Even in the heat of the moment, my focus was more on the battle around me than the more comprehensive picture of thousands of innocent lives. In my defence, the fighting man's big picture has always been the immediate enemy in their presence.

The enemy horde just kept coming. We had slain hundreds of the enemy and stained the earth red and black with blood and gore. And when we reloaded, their corpses would vanish, absorbed or eaten and then they would swarm towards our lines again.

"Ammo check!" I called for the third time. Already we'd resupplied twice, and our situation was grim. Many had rifles slung, fighting with their sidearms in one hand, with a war blade in the other. It was face-to-face and hand-to-hand at several points, becoming the norm.

The few flame-troopers had long ditched their weapons, the bulky fuel tanks empty.

Only a few thousand bullets left for my Landhammer as well.