In Memory of Wayne Gale.
‘…INCOMING…’ crackles dirty over the plastic PA speaker on the tank behind me and with a wonderful whoosh the ground explodes in my face and the whole Frontline hits the dirt as one. Dickey Enemy showing his hand again and it is on as the roar of war spreads instant like sunrise over a clear ocean. Action is welcome here after the long quiet minutes of Dickeys cowardly retreat over the ridge. A sudden smile of sorts splits my face and I open up with my Captains model Electrolux Media G50, its camera lens a discreet eye under the flash eliminator. The gun shakes and rhythmically chugs off a full clip of hungry war metal blind at the tree line. I yell words to my squad lost in the raging noise muffled by the mist. The air is cold white as offensive explosions hit hard and sudden around me. Hot dirt flies nearly burnt to glass and burst soldiers stain the land and sky. Sharp metal of destroyed deathware, twisted and torn from its welded roots, spins upwards given life of its own; gravity briefly mocked before it falls in a dangerous rain. My hand is cut to the bone blood diluted in the low mist and my helmet hit by debris rings shaking my brains. I ram in another clip of three hundred, wait for the green Go light, blood dripping. The mic in the butt picks up my tight breathing controlled through clenched teeth.
‘Cows!’ I yell in warning as through my optic I see excited hairy bovine run across the slope in a wrong stampede to die in heavy graceless mess in the thorough cross fire. 
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