A machine gunner draws fire, but it does have its advantages. One advantage is avoiding “mopping up” duty. My loader and I guarded the rear approach, in a muddy hole on the roadside, while my allies did the grisly work.

The Federal vehicles were burning, abandoned, or stopped in the kill zone. Bradley ammunition was exploding inside the burning tracks. Oil was bleeding from the ruined convoy, streaking the wet pavement in a blackened rainbow shimmer. Our men were cautiously combing the area for supplies and weapons to scavenge. Wet boots stepped through crimson slicks of blood leaking from ruined men. Solitary pops of gunfire signaled the wounded enemy summarily being put out of their agony. Occasionally, bursts erupted from lone Federals who chose to die fighting.

Salvaged supplies, equipment, and our wounded were loaded onto mules and sent down soggy wooded trails. Our dead were buried, theirs were left as a warning.

A pair of Apache’s flew overhead with yellow smiley faces painted on them.

We ran.