I remember now, most vividly, the smells. Diesel fuel and electric fires travel by off sort of an acid, oily stink. No, more stench re onlyy, I guess, to be accurate. It is a pervading stench that envelopes and surrounds me. Overwhelms me. I was completely rationalize off, an island in a sea of black, choking, enveloping mist. The APC (armored own(prenominal) carrier) was this smoking silhouette. It looked menacing, like the Chinese war-machine it was, until my eyes focused on the gaping hole in the side. When this hole was considered, the vehicle looked sad, roughly like now, dead, it was resigned to its pile, a rusting, old heap, a coffin of men, prohibited here in this long-ago and long since no-mans land. The hole was what did it. That and the concomitant that I was the one responsible, the one who had pulled the trigger, thus relegating this fate to the APC, and also responsible for the cloud of smoke that now encompassed the all to brief battle site. I was the gunner.
The jeep beside the APC was a ruined, twisted wreck. It was riddled from all sorts of small arms fire, ranging from the Maggots 60, to the maxim (squad automatic weapon) and door-kickers M-16A2s. The metal frame even took a compeer of grenades too. It was in a pitiful sight.
More so were the bodies of the lead men, who just moments before had been soldiers trying to mount some mixed bag of defense for their lives. They were not so much bodies any more, because bodies bid a mental image of the human shape. Maybe the body is cold and pale, and has a bluish tint to it--wooden when dead. No, these were better expound as corpses. The damage the Jeep took from the small arms was...
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