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Shadow of Death


The Cykablyattest of them all!
I have nothing left.

How many years has it been since the war started? Ten? Twenty? Thirty?

Ah, to hell with it. I've got today's problems to worry about.

9th Company's been reassigned from the Brigmann Line to aid friendly forces battling around The Meat Grinder. We shipped off during August, and after a month of getting shot at on vehicles, my men have arrived in this godforsaken city. All the maps burned down last month when an incendiary barrage hit the HQs, so I had to draw my own. It looks like the pits of hell, staring back at me. We've lost whole divisions fighting for this one damn city, and with the way High Command is escalating things, we're gonna lose many more before anything could be made out of this damn mess.

Snipers, tanks, artillery,... the Reds have it all. The veterans have brought me up to speed on things, and it was even worse than I had imagined. Every inch of our approach to the city has been accurately zeroed in by enemy artillery, and snipers make themselves comfy in the highrise buildings at the edge, waiting for us. Every day is a constant slog of taking and retaking ground, building defenses, and holding until reinforcements arrive.

But first, we have to cross the suburbs.

The whole place is bombed out. Civilians don't live in the suburbs, simply because they cannot live if they set foot here. If you peek out of a window, you get sniped. If you fire your gun above-ground, be prepared for mortars and artillery to drop on you. The main routes of transports are either subterranean, through the sewers and multiple tunnels dug through the basements, or to speed through the place in APCs and hope the Reds have their aim off. I tried opting for a mass advance, with the entire Company moving at once, but the more experienced commanders advised against it: the last time they tried that, the Reds hit the tunnels with thermobaric weapons.

Taking their advice, I'm sending the men in piecemeal. The guys have showed me a suitable route, but it's been taken by Reds last week. 1st and 3rd Platoon will be spearheading the assault to retake and clear those routes, and I have word that the 105mm battery will be available for us to call in, with radio calls or smoke if need be. If they pull this off, we'll be able to secure our way into the Meat Grinder.

God help me.

"Wake the fuck up, ladies, let's go!" yelled the lead gunner of the front Humvee, as the engines whirred to life.

"Sit tight and shut up, pussy-cakes!" Spoke the driver, hushing the men inside. The silence persisted for the first few minutes of the ride, as the convoy went out of the FOB, headed for the front, but small chatter picked up shortly after. I brief the men.

"All right, here's the plan. We're gonna deploy about 500m from our target area. Move forward, clear anything. Straightforward. Check your corners, protect your buddies, and we'll hopefully pull through in one piece. Everybody clear?"

Not a particularly good or long briefing, but I think that's all they need to know. At least, that's all I know. Command is surprisingly uptight about this, but just looking at the hand-drawn map of the area, I can already tell this is going to be a hard fight.



✧ sleepy
Dustin shook awake as the Humvee begun to bounce up and down along the gravel road. His head spun for what seemed like minutes while trying to soak up everything going on around him. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten why they were even here. But upon looking out the passenger window, he was quickly reminded.

The Meat Grinder. The horror story for every waking soldier in the army. It was the place where no man dared to go, yet hundreds of thousands are sent daily to their early graves by stubborn commanders and generals.

His eyes rested on the battered terrain as they left the safety of their FOB. The dark sky quickly took over, as bits of rain began to set in. A sea of holes made by multiple air campaigns and artillery bombings from both sides cover every inch of hill and ground. Abandoned vehicles decorate the field with charred remains, installing the image of a ghostly atmosphere to all who entered.

A small sigh could be heard. He knew that this was only the beginning. And once they passed that red line, it was the real thing and there is no way of turning back. For the next few minutes of silence, he quietly prepared himself. Checking the status of his gun, making sure that it was loaded with ammo before switching over to his backpack that held all the essential items he needed for this mission.

Once finished, he turned his attention to his squad leader as he begun to brief the men on their objectives. Shortly after, Dustin couldn't help but smile as he sunk back into his seat looking between his legs. It was obvious what they ordered to do. He'd hadn't expected anything less or more since they were considered good for one thing and one thing only. Cannon Fodder. The smile quickly transformed into a chuckle at the thought.

"Read you loud and clear boss." his eyes now facing his squadmates.

"So. This is it, boys. Entering the gates of hell on a cold, wet day. I'd expect you all to remember packing your bathing suits this time. I heard its a warm place down there kinda like Texas around the peak of summer. Much better than this dump anyway. So who's with me on a perhaps final bet?"
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Uncle Sam

American born and raised
Erik looked up and smiled after he heard the word bet. He always liked a good bet. "A bet? Well, count me in." Erik said his Norwegian accent thick. He was glad to do anything that would get his mind of the hell that was going to ensue soon. Erik has been close to death several times and he hoped that he wouldn't die in this hell hole, but in Norway. Erik turned to Dustin," So what type of bet did you have in mind?" Erik asked the Texan; he was all game for whatever the man had in mind.

Pierre nervously fumbled his fingers, trying not to think that he was one step closer to death. Pierre hasn't been in the military for long, he was one of the youngest and least experienced in the group. He hasn't had a lot of combat experience, he hasn't even killed anyone yet. That was probably going to change today as the were going to be used as cannon fodder. He wasn't so happy about that and in return made him a nervous mess. Pierre took a big breath trying to calm himself down but couldn't.


What about second breakfast?

Name: Ewan McMiller
Role: Combat Medic
Location: Convoy (Rear of) - NE of FOB

Local Time: 05:31 AM

Sighing briefly before reaching up and rubbing his eyes of the muck that had laid dormant since he nodded off in one of the rear-ward vehicles. The sudden jolt of the MRAP that he was carried within shook Ewan around in his seat; futher rousing him from his slumber. Various static communication from personal radios in his head-set to the long-range deliberations between HQ elements on the vehicle's front mounted radio set certainly helped to remind himself of the far-reaching importance of this assault on the Meat-Grinder. Pausing to mumble to himself about the possibility of the convoy already sighted for enemy positions, Ewan glanced out of the perspex windows lining the sides of the MRAP; giving him a near 360 degree view of the area. As he looked around, his head-set crackled into life as a voice came through.

"All right, here's the plan. We're gonna deploy about 500m from our target area. Move forward, clear anything. Straightforward. Check your corners, protect your buddies, and we'll hopefully pull through in one piece. Everybody clear?"

Taking the moment to savour the deep darkness that surrounded the convoy; how the lighting pierced through the gloom and momentarily revealed what little remained of the city. Ewan found himself transfixed at the state of the road, how the cracks were deep enough in some areas to reveal the suburban infrastructure that layed beneath. "Water pipes and power cables.." Ewan thought to himself; "If the enemy artillery can pierce such deep wounds into the earth, we don't have much hope."

"Read you loud and clear boss." Another call out on the radio reminded Ewan that he hadn't responded to the call-out himself. Pausing to reach the radio on his vest, he held down the comm button and muttered a vague and brief confirmation as he still felt rather groggy from being suddenly woken.

"Solid Copy, Out."

The distant gun-fire booming throughout the area and the tracer fire lighting up the sky like chinese new year; Ewan found himself once more staring out into the dark distance. The top-heavy MRAP rumbled around on the un-even roading; forcing him to constantly re-adjust his line of sight out of the windows as the vehicle swayed unpredictably from side to side. Squinting his eyes for a moment, Ewan picked out what he believed to be a pair of blu-for helicopters in the far distance; their red and green collision lights flickering like familiar Christmas ornaments. "They seem awfully low, I guess they're trying to avoid any AA positions.." He thought as he continued to observe the aircraft far to the left of the convoy, trying to get a sense of what they were up to. Soon Ewan got his answer as bright flashes, emanating from the nose of the helicopters sent a intense red streak of large calibre cannon fire into the distance. Watching intently as the snake of light sprinted across the early morning sky, Ewan turned back in his seat as the aircraft quickly exited the air-space above the convoy.

"I guess they softened up the opposition." Ewan commented before double checking his weapon and preparing himself for whenever the convoy comes to a halt. Meanwhile, he glanced around at the other people in the rear MRAP; curious about their thoughts. Given the situation, he wouldn't be overly surprised if anyone was as interally terrified as he was.
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I wear shorts in winter cause a ho never gets cold
Jong Min was already awake when his Stryker APC started moving. He just finished writing a note to his parents back in Busan.

Why couldn't I be back home?

He thought to himself. He knew it was a matter of time before the Chinese and the North started their invasion. Maybe they already did, so why did his government send him and his squad to the west anyway? In fact there was a full ROKA Battalion in this theater, shouldn't they be back home?

Guess it didn't matter now, he was doing his best to focus on what was to come. If he wanted to die then it was to be in his homeland and not some war zone halfway across the world and he believed his countrymen wanted the same. It was a good thing he knew enough English to talk to the western troops, cause if his squad leader died then that would be the end for them. Suddenly a transmission came on.

"All right, here's the plan. We're gonna deploy about 500m from our target area. Move forward, clear anything. Straightforward. Check your corners, protect your buddies, and we'll hopefully pull through in one piece. Everybody clear?"

That was when the squad leader came on and translated for the Korean troops. There was a unanimous confirmation from everyone, including Jong Min. He let out a deep sigh and repeated the same thought in his head.

I'm going to be home, I'm going to be home, I'm going to be home...
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Toma Petrovic

It was quiet outside.
Or perhaps it was just the vehicle limiting exterior noises. On a second thought, he didn't think such a place existed, a place unpolluted with ambient gunfire and explosions, from battles raging on near and far for reasons lost to time. Such a place couldn't exist, not anymore, at least, and to the next generation, the mere concept will be considered fantasy. Toma had succumbed to the gentle shaking of the MRAP rolling on the dusty trail, and his sleep was just disrupted by a voice from comms, announcing the approach for the fight they'd all prepared for. Toma replied to the commander's call-out, as others have, and now, left to savour the dim interior light, the nervous silence that surrounded him and his comrades, so heavy and deafening it felt as if a sudden noise would shatter it like glass. Looking over to his comrades, Toma hardly knew anyone here, for most of them seemed to be fresh replacements. 9th Company is known to had taken quite some beating back at the Brigmann Line, and we knew we could only expect worse from this war. At least at the end of the day, despite losses, we'll give these Reds a fight to remember for the rest of their cursed life.

Speaking of the Reds...
Darkness reigned supreme outside, and in the distance, muzzle flashes from large-calibre weapon fire and AA guns faintly lit up parts of the sky. The Reds lurk in this pitch darkness, harassing and intercepting convoys hauling supplies vital to the troops in the city and wounded being carted out. These MRAPs, while sturdy, wouldn't last very long against concentrated RPG fire. Thankfully, earlier ally dispatches have managed to secure several defensive structures to counter any tricks the savage brutes may attempt to pull. On his part, Toma was ready to do whatever it takes, for himself and his gallant fellows. His brother was already combating Red militants in the scarred downtown of this war-ravaged city, and from what Toma has heard, ally forces hold most key positions and have the number in these areas, so the way the young man saw it, these Reds shouldn't be too difficult to clear out. What are they, little more than drunk neighbourhood thugs, except the fact that they're armed, and disciplined enough to charge at us in waves and somehow not shooting their foot in the process - He thought to himself. But then again, as the veterans kept saying: Keep low, you can never be too careful.
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✧ sleepy
Dustin Kerr
The Texas Cowboy

Out of everyone who was interested in his maniacal schemes, it had to be Erik. He always knew that the Norwegian had the biggest balls of steel out of anyone within the company. His excitement slightly grew as the Viking put forth a sudden engagement in perhaps one of his craziest endeavors yet.

"Here is what I'm thinking, right? Either we do from our regular but borning who gets the most kills that day, or we skip that and go straight to one of us breaching the enemy trenches first or single handly capturing an enemy vehicle type of insane."

He dug into his front pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of note that read twenty on the side.

"Starting bet is twenty dollars and the losers each have to pay the winner an extra bottle of beer. What you think?" waving the bill around, his eyes now more sinister.

While they were having the discussion, multiple voices through the comms reminded him if he should involve the others as well. Being that if they were the fun type of people who were into this sort of thing. It never hurt to try. If a number of people got involved, he could potentially come out rich by the end.
@Marcus Aurelius
@(Anyone else whos within range)

Uncle Sam

American born and raised
"I like the idea of single handily capturing an enemy vehicle but 20 bucks and the loser pays one beer is too low. I was thinking he could have starting bet be 40 dollars and the loser has to give the winner two beers instead of one because after this, your gonna want as much beer as you can get." Erik said pulling out 40 dollars from one of his pouches, he didn't have much of U.S dollars as he was European and he used his countries currency, the Norwegian Krone. 40 dollars was basically all he had. He didn't mind much though because today was a special day, a day where they stood on the gates of hell.



New Member
Nickolas was inspecting his weapon. He stared out his humvee seeing carnage in his wake. The morning sky was ruptured with smoke with artillery and AA ringing in the distance. It sucked that he was one of the leading humvee's but not the first thank god. He kept staring out looking for any sort of threat. A muzzle flash, reflecting light, just anything that could blow him or his allies. He took a quick glance when he saw the kid in front of him. He was scared shitless, looking down grabbing, his gun tightly. Nickolas grabbed his shoulder. He looked up at him to hear him say, "You'll be fine."

To which the kid gave a half hearted smile.
"I'd be careful making bets. Boys like us ain't got much to give." He warned. A boy born on the coast of France, he had a decent tan from days out on the water, and a laid back demeanor that came from going where the wind takes you. "Unless you feel like giving up your life. Ya feel?" He had a careless smile, but he knew the graveness of the situation.

She was alone, running down back roads and through connecting buildings, trying to avoid ‘friendly patrols.’ Imminent gunfire and separate explosions surrounded the girl from firefights raging on near and far - a character of this part of town. Her VSN was lowered as she ran, and she prayed she wouldn't be shot on sight. Her death may even help, one less for the Reds to use in their plan, a plan she did not like at all. Hence why Katrina was currently running towards enemy lines, hoping she'd catch a patrol and be able to declare her defection to their cause. She paused, it was an open road, bad idea in a million different ways, but she saw a patrol. She ran up into the open, gun at her hip and hands raised. “Do not shoot, I am friendly!” she declared, stopping in good view. Her English was hindered by her Russian accent, but the message came across smoothly.

Facing her, from the other end of the street, were six soldiers armed with distinctive tools of war that would normally punch holes in a Red like Katrina, except it was no normal circumstance. One party had to act, as soon as possible, and the sooner they get out of the open road, the better. The men positioned themselves against the grey buildings on the sides of the road, coated with a thick layer of ash and dust from endless clashes this place had seen over the last decades of war. One of them signalled Katrina to dash over, while another whispered into a small radio on his shoulder. So far, it had gone fairly smooth for the Red girl, as evidently, she had not been shot at, yet. It all seemed as if her arguably reckless gamble had turned out fine.

She nodded and began to run over, keeping her arms in plain view until she got close. “I am willing to defect to the allied side, where is your nearest base of operations? I wish to be brought to safety.” She said, offering her hands to be cuffe. She was very complaint, if straightforward, and one would notice the safety was on one her weapons. An elder member of the group immediately restrained the girl. Just when one of the men yanked away Katrina’s rifle, a hail of machine gun fire broke the silence maintained until now, save for the ambient sounds of the warzone. It washed over the three men who leaned on the other side of the street, opposed to those receiving the Red girl, and they subsequently fell onto the cold, dusty asphalt, heavy and lifeless. A firefight ensued, shattering all the naive assumptions that her plans had gone smoothly. Katrina never knew. Such sudden turn of events proved that her plans could go towards anything but a smooth change of allegiance, and the climax of her gamble only begun now.

Being confident that the three unfortunate soldiers had been eliminated, the fiery hail of machine gun rounds swept across the empty street eagerly, towards its next victims. Another member of the patrol was shot in the head as he tried to return fire in the confusion before the shooter could be located from a window on the 4th floor of a building charred by fire bombs further down the street. The elder soldier pushed Katrina into a tight alley, before diving in with her while the other survivor of the patrol furiously shouted call-outs in the radio on his shoulder, seemingly directing fire supports or calling for reinforcement from allied units scattered all over the region. But with the nature of this war in mind, it’s a slim chance. Other allied units are likely to be occupied with hostile pockets, or pinned down themselves. The alley they were hiding in was a dead-end, and no ways out were in sight that did not involve confrontation with the machine gunner, until a distant gunfire interrupted the constant machine gun hail, and put it to an abrupt stop.

Having confirmed the threat had been neutralised, the remainders of the patrol did not waste any time and immediately started navigating back to an ally position with their prisoner, for a moment they stay around these areas is another moment they could fall victim to a similar ambush, running into Red patrols, or liquidated in a barrage. Navigating through the ruins was an experience, an entire metropolitan downtown reduced to smoking rubbles and lifeless columns. Monuments of a bygone age rest as grey stones and foundations, or stand triumphantly, still, as an eerie reminder to a time long forgotten, drown and buried by the horrors of war. It was a surreal experience to stand amidst these structures, but it was one the inhabitants of this area, soldiers and civilians alike, have grown used to.

The group cut through several ruined blocks and made dashes across streets, before finding themselves in shelter, at last. It was grand hotel, nestled in a corner of an apartment block overseeing several streets and intersections, well protected and sturdy enough to stand against the effects of the ongoing battles to this day, or perhaps fortunate enough to be left alone. The group entered a rather large hall, where several crates of weapons and supplies could be seen from the entrance. M16s, carbines, grenades and even heavy ordnance like rocket launchers stacked up neatly in a corner. The old, torn sofa was made a mess with first-aids and medical equipment littered all over it. The windows were all barred up tight, with only minimal light coming through. There, they were greeted with 3 men, seemingly allies of Katrina’s captors. The elder soldier spoke up.

“Solid work back there Petrovic. I owe you one.”

The soldier, identified as Petrovic, a marksman, promptly replied to his comrade, showing visible effort to dismiss the praise directed at him due to modesty, or perhaps the man was just a nervous one.

“Just doing my part, don’t worry about it! Someone gotta look out for you fellas out there.” -The man paused as his attention shifted towards the unfamiliar face in the group - “So, I assume you’re the one. You’re safe here, at least for now, I think…” Petrovic said as he removed his helmet and scratched his dark hair. “Make yourself comfortable, or don’t. The higher-ups want us to bring you back to some specialised boys to take care of you, so we’ll get moving in a bit. Until then, if you have anything to say or ask of us humble fellas, go ahead.”

With that said, the soldier stepped back, leaned onto one of the crates and made himself comfortable as he lit a poorly rolled tobacco and puffed while observing the Red girl, as his comrades quickly got onto gearing up, taking more rounds and supplies for the trip ahead and tidying the shelter.

“Thank you so much, I appreciate your sacrifice for me… I was hoping it went better than that… Sorry. I would ask now you allow me my weapon so that I may help. I have no intent to betray your trust, but I wish to help and possibly navigate the area for you.” She said. Her head was held low, at a loss. “But I understand if you choose to not trust me, I am still an enemy, I suppose.” She glanced up at Petrovic. “Katrina Mikhailov. 17th… I believe you say Paratroop. Or is it Airborne?”


The Cykablyattest of them all!
The distinctive chattering of battle echoed closer and closer, as the convoy slowly increased its pace. The road, dilapidated as it was, quickly got worse, as several tonnes of metal barreled over it at breakneck speed. The scenery became more hellish, with streams of walking men marching both to and from the front, scared greenhorns passing through shellshocked veterans, many of whom do not possess all their limbs anymore. Or their mind, for that matter. Soon enough, the road upon which Justin's vehicle rode was gone, a distinct jerk as the wheels transferred from blood-ridden asphalt to raw dirt and debris. The entire team was flung left and right, due to the driver's expert swerving to dodge the wrecked carcasses of less-fortunate drivers who came before them. Many of them still had the corpses of the men inside, rotting with putrescence, wafting through the air from the broken windows. They haven't been retrieved because of the snipers. And judging by the rot, they never will.

Not exactly a morale-raising sight, but Justin steeled himself the moment he got word that he's pioneering this assault. It's a squad leader's natural instinct to try and ensure all of his men get out unscathed, but that was frankly impossible in the Meat Grinder. All he can do is make sure the objective gets completed, with or without him alive.

"Get ready, ladies! When I say go, you either get out or get thrown out, copy?" hollered the driver. The gunner above winced at the announcement. Probably a greenhorn as well. As if on cue, bullets begun impacting in and around the area, with some denting the bulletproof glass in the vehicle. The gunners immediately returned fire, not bothering with trigger discipline as they hosed everything in front of them with all flavors of caliber: from the lead Humvee's measly M249 popping like firecrackers, on to Justin's Humvee and the MRAP's .50 cals releasing thundering death, all the way up to the Stryker's sporadic Mark 19 bursts.

As they entered a brief clearing on their way, the lead Humvee bursts into fire, after a direct from an SPG-9 position. Debris and fire are flung everywhere. The panicked screeching of the wheels added to the terror as the second Humvee's driver swerves a hard left, flinging all the occupants right. The squad leader's head impacted against the bulletproof glass, just in time to see a burning severed hand fly across the window, most likely belonging the lead Humvee's driver. Looking through the bulletproof windshield, which has been tagged with 4 bullets pinpointed on the driver, Justin could see the mission area in all its glory: shoddily built Hesco walls in front of burrowed machine gun nests, sandbags and barbed wire deployed in and around wrecked cars and buildings, with sporadic gunfire coming out of windshields shattered long ago. A fast-food restaurant stood as the lone field HQ, with its upper half decapitated by artillery and direct cannon fire, with mortar rounds coming both out and in to what's left of the building. Concentrating hard enough, Justin spotted infantrymen exchanging grenades with the Reds, explosions dotting the front of the FOB.

"All right, this is it, ladies! Get ready!!!" yelled Dustin, turning off the safety on his M4A1 while positioning his other hand near the door, ready to spring out as soon as the driver gave the go-ahead. Suddenly, a streak of smoke veered off to the right of the Humvee, putting an explosive dent into a nearby wreck. The driver yells out directions to the gunner, as he swerves to avoid other incoming RPG shots. Staccato .50 cal bursts decorated the air, silencing potential RPG positions with oblique fire. The guy up top mustered 15 or so bursts, before a sickening crunch of meat and bone echoed through the hole, and the gunner fell down into the Humvee. His jaw was taken off completely by a 7.62 round.

"This is Runner 4-1! Nearing destination! I repeat, this is Runner 4-1! Nearing destination! Over!" screeched the driver into the radio system, seemingly oblivious to his gunner's fate. As the tires screech to a halt, Red bullets begin hosing down the Humvee, with minimal effect. "Wait, not yet!" the driver hollered, remaining calm even as the pressure on his windshield mounted. A suppressing burst from the Stryker's Mark 19 lets off a streak of explosions not far away, and the MRAP keeps up its fire, keeping the oncoming bullets at a minimum. Immediately, the driver screamed with a hoarse voice. "Go, motherfuckers! GO!!!"

Virtually punching open the door, Justin hollered as well. "Let's go get the bastards!" One of his squadmates immediately catch a bullet with his face, falling lifelessly next to the open door. Hiding behind the door still, Justin let off a few suppressing bursts of 5.56 fire to make sure the other 3 men can get to cover in time. The Stryker also unloads its 25 ROKA men. How a 9-man transport manages to fit 25 is a mystery, but there's no time to look into it.

Running quickly after the 3 men in his Humvee, Justin takes cover behind a Hesco unit, and takes a brief second to inspect the situation. With the lead Humvee lost, along with the guy who ate the bullet, that puts him at a loss of 5 men, before the battle has even begun. The 25 South Koreans, and the guys in the MRAP probably add up to 30something. Not a good number to have when assaulting a Red tunnel system, but he'll have to pull through.

An SPG-9 round blows the front wheel off of the MRAP, possibly killing the driver, while an RPG round scrapes some paint off of the top of the Stryker. The convoy pulls back quickly, with the Stryker firing off its smoke launchers in front of both itself and the other vehicles, providing temporary security for the convoy to pull back. The MRAP gunner quickly replaces the dead driver, and tries his best to reverse the thing into concealment behind a Hesco wall, with only three wheels. The Stryker and the Humvee burn rubber, and quickly reverse out, using nifty J-turns to fully reverse away from the battle.

What a fucking day.

@LoneSniper87 @KomradeTrappy @Arzee @Winter_Wolf @Marcus Aurelius @Boi69 @Jellyon

Uncle Sam

American born and raised
Erik opened the door violently and moved quickly out of the vehicle and made his way behind a Hesco wall, bullets close enough almost to the point where he almost got grazed by one. Once he was safely behind the fortification, he took a knee wondering how in the hell they expected to take that tunnel. Erik watched his squad leader take a position not far from him. " So, how the hell are we going to take that tunnel?" Erik yelled to Justin so he would be heard over the gunfire. They didn't exactly have the numbers to do a full on assault so they would have to be very strategic about getting their asses to the tunnel and slaughtering the reds. He was hoping to add a few more kills today with his HK416.

Pierre's stomach turned when he was being yelled to get out of the armored vehicle. Pierre opened the door and moved out of the vehicle stumbling and falling to the ground. A few bullets kicked up in the dirt around him, Pierre knew he had to move. Picking up his rifle, he made his way to cover, hoping that there wasn't a bullet there with his name on it. Luckily there wasn't as he made it safely to cover, his heart almost pounding out his chest. He thanked the lord for sparing him in this moment, his attention now turning to that of his squadmates. He saw someone who he was not sitting far from, laying dead in the dirt. If he had sat there, that would have been him today. Today, he lives on to fight the dirty Reds.
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I wear shorts in winter cause a ho never gets cold
"GO, GO, GO!"

As the stryker doors opened, Jong Min was being hassled by his squad leader. Considering the stryker was the biggest vehicle in the convoy, it was taking the most flak, and as the ROKA men had exited about 5 men were shot dead and 8 men wounded lying on the asphalt while the rest dispersed trying to find cover. Jong Min was running to a rusted car he saw in the opposite lane, to which he slid behind and was cowering behind. He took a quick peak and saw the Hesco where the western troops were taking cover. As a bullet hit the car he got down and tried to control his breathing. When he felt ready, he tightly grabbed his rifle and went around the car from the right and bee lined his way to the Hesco. He tripped, however he was behind the barrier, grabbing his K1 and crawling behind and sitting against the barrier. He looked at the stryker and saw 13 bodies of his countrymen, some lifeless, and others clinging to whatever life they had left. Within the barrage he saw 2 of his comrades shot dead while the rest of his squad were trying to retrieve the wounded. Covering behind the edge of a building and littered debris.

The door kicked open, and he rushed out the second he was able, rushing immediately towards the Stryker side for cover. Maybe not the best idea, as the ground ahead of him was lit up, Korean bodies hitting the dirt, dead of close to it. He slid up against a barricade, a car lying on the other side, providing decent cover for him. He glanced around and saw a Korean next to him, and he gave him a nod. "Lovely morning, ain't it?" He asked over the gunshots, adjusting his weapon sights. "Name's Julien, let's get each other through this, alright?" And with that he went to his stomach and peeked from the barricade, trying to make himself as small as target as possible. It worked, but he was unable to make out many of the MG nests he needed to take out. He did manage to pick off one person, but was forced to withdraw as some of the fire shifted his way.


1/64th Jeep Grand Cherokee
(finally caught a wifi break on this awesome roadtrip--firing a quick potshot of a post now)

Bill Johansson followed just behind Erik Isberg, the other guy with a rocket launcher. Red bullets popped and whizzed by but none made Bill's heart leap more than the last one or two before he reached cover. A round cracked by Bill's face, presumably the same thing which made Erik flinch less than a split second before. He caught the slightest of breaths once they reached cover, although when he realized what their target was, Bill swallowed hard."So how the hell are we going to take that tunnel?" he heard Erik holler. "Well shit!" yelled Bill, subconsciously patting his equipment to make sure it was there, like it was a wallet during a night out, "I guess I'm on the chopping block if we can get there! Where the fuck are the grenadiers?"


The Cykablyattest of them all!
Bullets landing left and right, Justin had to make a move. Reaching down onto his utility pouches, the stained canisters of Red smoke revealed themselves, cupping a few smoke grenades in his right palm. His detachment of troops were all spread out, with 13 men from the Stryker dead and wounded right off the bat. Peeking upwards from the Hesco section carefully, he eyed the frontward positions. There was nothing but a moonscape of craters, with stained bodies and grime being the icing on top of the cake. The Red gunfire was coming out of many places in the ground: a small cracked window on a first floor convenience store with half its structure torn off from a nasty artillery shell, the little windows at the top of suburban homes' basements spewing dust from the gunfire coming out, to just plain wooden bunkers stocked with sandbags and captured Hescos. Fortunately, before any more casualties could be sustained, Justin's ears picked up a distinct whistling in the air. A type of blessing and a curse, a joy and a horror, given name and form only by some nameless soldier calling them out.

"Artillery, get down!" the voice cried out, before the full wrath of a 105mm battery smacked into the rough positions of the enemies. Rocks, dust, and debris are kicked up everywhere, and shrapnel comes flying head-on into the Hesco walls and the sandbags, their impact felt even through the thick fortifications. The squad leader's heart always seemed to beat slightly prematurely after every shot hit the ground, not a good thing if he's intending on staying alive. The howitzers fired 3 salvos, each salvo consisting of 12 or so shots, thrown randomly onto the enemy positions. Inbetween the salvos, his ears could almost make out the pained screaming of both friend and foe, anyone trapped in the No Man's Land, before the thundering blows of the artillery guns struck down once more.

As the debris came down in a slow and cough-inducing shower of black and brown, Justin seized the opportunity, and chucked the smoke grenades out. One towards the front, where they will make contact with the trenches and tunnels, and another back towards the 13 dead and dying where the Stryker once was. The hissing of the smoke filling the prelude before both sides could re-man their battered positions, the squad leader howled to his men, as he peeked out from above his Hesco wall, putting down oblique fire through the emerging red smoke.

"My guys, get through! Go! Go! Go!" he hollered back to everyone, before returning to the sights of his gun.

@LoneSniper87 @Arzee @Jellyon @Marcus Aurelius @Boi69 @KomradeTrappy

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