LNL: Honneur & Patrie
Mitchell knew his time was short. He would never truly be French, yet he would die in armed services of his Gallic host. His men ignored the growing pool of blood seeping through clothes and bandages.
The morphine dulled the edges of the pain, the core seethed. The wound would be survivable under normal circumstances. This…well shit. Yes this would be considered abnormal. His pulse fluttered. The boom and crash of 105mm guns and 20mm cannon told the story through the thick wall so the house near the bridge.
They would not hold.
Could not hold.
They would die failing.
The Soviet PKM sparked to life, its chain of death wrecking bodies, puncturing lungs, tearing guts. The Soviets hunkered around the burning wreck of the AMX 10.
Pinned they bled, dying. He laughed briefly. Julien turned towards him. “quelque chose vous amuse?” The wan smile faded. “But of course Julien, you kill them with their own PKM!”
Julien shrugged and turned back to the MG, Ensuring the next belt was ready.
Mitchells hurt heaved. He convulsed. The heat was worse, spreading. Nobody noticed. The rest were consumed with the enemy, in a cruel game of gotcha, fighting to die fighting for hope.
Shaking hands pawed at the heat in his belly.
More Soviets arrived. Led by a fierce looking unshaven Captain. He pointed at the house and started to kick the men under his command in the arse, clipping collars. They rallied. 10 men split into two groups angling the attack minimizing the field of fire of the PKM.
Across the slow muddy river Sharp saw the charge. His men rose to shoot. “No. Wait. He knew the price, and was prepared to pay it. We must save ourselves for the next wave.” He slumped against the wall. No rapprochement, from them men…they knew as he did. Choices were made.
Julien fell last.
Mitchell saw that, next he saw the boots of his enemy. The heat and the pain were gone. So was he.