Mud churned up in my face as vehicular gunners located my position. Tiny flashes of .50 caliber incendiary rounds impacted the grass in front of us motivating our departure.

“Displace!” I yelled to my loader, pulling the machine gun up from our perch. He scrambled to follow me while heavy caliber ammunition splintered the trees around us. We scurried down the hill’s reverse slope, the mud sucking at our boots. I advanced up the hill’s crest towards the alternate firing position, legs burning with effort in the soft clay. I flopped over into the fighting position on my belly, rainwater splashing up from the muddy hole.

“Set!” my loader called out from the hole beside me. I deployed and loaded a new belt into the weapon.

I remember targets.

A lone federal grenadier reloading. Burst.

Shift fire.

An escaping truck churning up grassy shoulder. Burst. Burst.

Shift fire.

An officer yelling orders. Burst.

Shift fire.

A Mk.19 gunner giving our tree line hell. Burst.

“No more targets, cease fire.”