//------------------------------//
// The Exploitation Wave 
// Story: Nearing the Edge 
// by Eagle 
//------------------------------//

May 5th, 2006
1055 Hours
Central Sector of the Frontline





In the time since the initial Shadow breach was closed, the Papa Line had returned to a status of relative quiet. Skirmishes, bombings, and artillery strikes were still common but the Bloc had not made another attempt to break the line. This was concerning to the American commanders as their enemy’s losses, while heavy, were far from crippling to their invasion forces. Perhaps they were readying their armies for another attack, but no one knew when or where.

This matter did not worry the minds of the lowly grunts like Corporal Raymond Lee Henry. To him and his friends, it was a welcome silence from the great threat of death they had suffered under. Other than giving them time to better their positions, it obviously gave the men time to rest, free from the stress of heavy combat. 

The 5th Division, still trying to replace it’s losses, had the front manned more lightly than usual, setting up other thin lines of resistance behind it. Many of the fortifications in the area had been badly damaged or destroyed, reducing their protective power. Henry and the squad were spread out along with a few others, keeping guard on the line. Private Axel, the studious Belgian of his fireteam, and Jarvis of Bravo Team, were sitting in one of the forward pillboxes, it’s firing slit and roof sporting holes from the multiple artillery shells.

“Did they say what's for dinner tonight?” Jarvis asked.

“We haven’t even gotten to lunch yet,” Henry replies, bouncing a rubber ball against the concrete.

“Yeah but I know what lunch is!”

“No, they have not told us,” Axel answered him, lazily resting his head and SAW on the firing slit. “It was not on the morning bulletin.”

“Aha, you see Rose? That’s why!” Jarvis declared. “Cause you don’t know if you’re going to get food. One day if those ships stop coming, the food’s going to stop coming. And one day we won’t be getting any dinner.”

“Man you’re worried about food before getting blown up?”

“I’m just thinking ahead. Forward planning is what the brass call it Ray,” Jarvis explained. “That’s why they don’t give you any butter bars.”

“I don’t want to be an officer to begin with,” The young Corporal retorted. “Too much bullshit with not enough payoff.”

“Hey, knock it off, I’m seeing something out there, lotta dust,” Axel spoke up. “Hang on I got movement… wait, nothing. They’re people, humans. No Shadows.”

“Forward recon patrol?”

“I am not sure, there are… a large number of them.”

“Well the offensive patrols have been bringing more guys lately anyways,” Jarvis reminded them. 

A familiar series of pops and cracks filled the air and the hard sound of bullets impacting the concrete filled the small pillbox. A long burst of fire from a machine gun stitched along the firing slit, causing Axel and the others to dive to the floor. The bullets chipped and richocted against the fortifications as the three yelled back and forth to each other.

“What the fuck!? What are they doing!?” Henry shouted.

“Why are they shooting us?” Axel asked.

“They’re idiots! They must be getting something wrong!”

“Hey hold your fire!” Jarvis screamed ineffectively. “Shit, blue on blue! Crap it’s not working, hang on I’m going to head out and wave them down!”

“Hold the fuck on you bumpkin moron,” Henry shot back, yanking the back of Jarvis’ shirt and dragging him back. “You go out there in the open you’ll get shot!”

“We’ll all get shot if they don’t stop!” the Private replied. “They’ll stop when they see I’m human, just hang on!”

“Private Jarvis!”

The young grunt headed out the back foot of the bunker, leaving his weapon behind. He followed the trench a short way and out of the field of fire before pulling himself up over the top. Standing on the bluff on the green grass, his arms held high to show no threat, he began to wave frantically at the other group, jumping erratically like a madman. 

The fire stopped as the other humans saw him, partly thinking he was surrendering before becoming very confused at him. Regardless, the fire had ceased without casualties and Jarvis continued to wave back, indicating for them to hold. He started on his way back to the pillbox to check on his allies, and Henry watched from the door, surprised he had not been killed.

Jarvis had just reached the structure again when the pops and cracks started up again. In an instant, right before Henry, his friend was struck down. Two rounds hit the side of his head and sent him careening down into the trench. In a second, the brave Private was gone, his face left as bloody mess in the dark dirt.

“Jarvis! No! Rose, Jarvis is hit!” Henry cried out, pulling him over and cradling his corpse. “He’s not breathing, he’s gone! They hit his head, he’s gone!”

There was no response but a rattle and echo of automatic fire from inside the pillbox.

“Hey, what are you doing!?”

“They can’t be friendlies!” Axel warned as Henry entered the pillbox again. “They’re enemies! Look ahead, armored vehicles!”

Ahead of the line various armored vehicles, IFVs and others, began to roll forward and open fire on the various fortifications. As Henry, Axel, and the other Americans returned fire they noticed some of the vehicles were not designs used by the Bloc nations. Their camouflage, and the camouflage of the human soldiers, was that of an overly-digital blocky pattern, and even with them some were able to notice a few small symbols painted on the sides, the look of a small red star with yellow lining on some parts of the edges. The men also began to subconsciously notice that the very few enemy faces they caught glimpses of all seemed to bear an Asiatic appearance. Their discovery of who the aggressors were coincided with panicked voices over the radio, calling for a general fallback to the secondary positions behind the line.

“You hear the radio? We got to get back! We have to figure out what’s going on!” Henry yelled, tapping his friend’s shoulder as he was still laying down fire from his LMG. “We got to go man!”

“Alright, run! Let’s go!”

The two retreated away from the frontline, and around them the ‘skeleton crew’ that was manning the fortifications was retreating along with them. Some retreated from fear, others in confusion, but the order to fall back made the difference pointless to determine. It was a broken, disorganized run as they abandoned the Papa Line for a second time.

They began to gather at a secondary line as a major battle broke out all along the front. The next line was manned by a few other troops, many from the local support weapons company with their heavy machine guns. Three M1A2s of the brigade’s 1st Battalion, 70th Armored stood ready as the men reformed. The rest of Henry’s squad found themselves regrouping behind one of the first buildings among many other soldiers.

“They’re Chinese!” one called out. “I saw them!”

“Definitely!” another added. “Damn it how’d we miss them?”

“Are we sure?” Sergeant Braxley asked.

“They’re right, we saw them too!” Henry confirmed. “Those weapons, and I saw one of their red stars! All the ones I saw, they were all Asian, and the uniforms were PLA! It’s them alright!”

“Damn commies hitting us while we’re in the corner!” 

Another gaggle of soldiers soon joined them, a group from the neighboring 5th Battalion, 6th Regiment. The highest ranking soldiers there were three Staff Sergeants, of which Braxley was one of, but all agreed they would try to make a stand. The men were ordered into the string of houses at the front of the small hamlet.

“Alright squad, listen! Guys, eyes over here!” Braxley called to his own team. “We’ve agreed we’re going to try holding this area, alright? We’ll need to spread out a little and cover the tanks. Sergeant Pete, go with Orlov and Raul to that one-story house, left of the tank.”

“Where’s Jarvis?” Pete asked Henry.

“He’s gone Sarge, they shot him in the head right in front of me,” the Corporal responded, noticing another missing soldier, his own fireteam lead. “Hey, where’s Sergeant Clovis? Where’s Nick?”

“Dead, they shot him in the back,” Private Orlov answered.

“What!?”

“Guys I’m sorry but we can’t waste time,” Braxley interjected. “Bravo Team, you three go with that heavy weapons team on that building to the right. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, we can.”

The soldiers moved to their assigned positions as Braxley moved to another high structure just behind them, fiddling with a radio pack there. The area had been consumed by a full-scale battle. Tracers from both sides shot into the sky and artillery from both began to fall on each-other’s lines. Up above, fighter jets soared overhead, all coming from the opposing end of the front, all headed for the Allied rear. Their models were not like those previously experienced in the war; they, too, were Chinese.

“Baker One-Two to Mustang Three, do you read, over?” Braxley called to the three tanks alongside them.

“Mustang Three Actual reads you Baker, what’ve we got?” the commander of the reduced tank platoon asked.

“Chinese ground and air units have are initiating offensive actions against us.”

“Yeah we’ve noticed. Any details?”

“Not much. I’m seeing coordinated air strikes. Large waves of PLA infantry supported by armored vehicles have overrun the front. The hordes are at the gate here Mustang Three!”

“Then let’s kick those commie S.O.B.’s back to Shanghai. What’d you say Staff Sergeant?”

“Hooah Sir!”

“Heads up! Here they come!” Yakubov called out.

Long streams of tracers began to pelt the line, striking the buildings or flying overhead to suppress the Americans. Henry did not see them but the heavy weapons company soldier manning the second floor machine gun did. He aimed the .50 cal and began to fire near ceaselessly at the horizon, with others across the line joining in.

Henry grabbed some extra magazines before peering out from the house’s window, near the machine gun’s exposed position. He could make out the enemy as they drew closer, a great number running directly towards the American line as others held position to continue suppression. He selected the closest soldier, running across an open field, and fired two rounds into his stomach that caused him to fall dead on the ground.

Various other Chinese soldiers were quick in meeting a similar fate, not expecting to run into a heavy defensive position so close to the frontline they had overrun. Machine guns chattered and rifles cracked as dozens of attacking Chinese soldiers were cut down. There was no shortage of them, however, and it would take far more to actually stop them.

“APCs! Dead ahead!” Henry warned, spotting the large Chinese combat vehicles roll forward.

“Mustang, Baker! We’ve got hostile APCs inbound!”

“We see them Baker, hang tight!” the lead tank’s Lieutenant answered. “All Mustang elements, this is Three Actual! Hostile victors incoming at high speed, Tango Niner-Twos! In range, fire!”

The M1s concealed in the village took aim at a platoon of Chinese wheeled APCs charging towards the village. The main cannons of the tank erupted, as each sent a HEAT round down range towards an individual target. Three of the Type-97s were hit in seconds and exploded, either coming to a dead stop or careening to the side. The fourth and fifth ones following only had enough time to stop before they, too, were struck and blown into a twisted mass of fire and jagged metal.

“Mustang, Baker! Good kills on those victors Lieutenant! We’re still going to have trouble stopping their infantry though!”

“These guys can’t adapt for shit, they do everything by the book!” the tank commander replied. “If their armor can’t advance their infantry won’t advance, same if it’s the other way around! Knock down one part and their whole attack is fucked!”

The Abrams now opened fire with their own machine guns, sending further rounds downrange but preserving their cannon ammunition for any additional Chinese AFVs. A greater number of their infantry began to fall, and the attack seemed to stutter as the PLA troopers awaited for their superiors to do something. The tanks were trading gunfire with the soldiers on the rear firing line when a rocket shot out towards the left-most tank, striking it in the side and setting it alight.

“Jesus what the fuck!?” Henry yelled. 

“Chinese AT teams out there!” one of the other soldiers shouted over the gunfire.

“Baker this is Mustang, Three-Three is down! Suspected man-portable AT rocket! You have to take them out if you see them, over!”

“Copy, we’ll do it, out!” Braxley assured the tanker. “Baker One-Two Actual to all units! PLA anti-tank teams are mixed in with their infantry! Prioritize and eliminate them! If we lose the tanks we won’t hold the line!”

“You heard him boys!” Henry said to the others near him.

“Look out for the ones with the bigass launchers on their backs!” the machine gun soldier pointed out.

“There! Got one!” Axel shouted, turning his SAW to plaster an area where one of the enemy AT soldiers was kneeling to fire. “Down! He’s dead!”

“One over here, at our nine!” Henry noticed, using his own M4 to put a long burst into a running AT soldier.

“Enemy chopper inbound!” Braxley warned. “They’re in hot on our armor! Right flank! Pete that’s you, watch out!”

“This fucking can not be happening,” the other Sergeant groaned in disbelief.

The PLA attack helicopter, a black Z-10, hovered up to the far right, taking aim at one of the Abrams tanks. It locked and fired a single ATGM across the battlefield, piercing the M1’s armor to the side and destroying it. Sergeant Pete’s team, taking cover in the building next to it, was rattled by the explosion, eyeing the helicopter as it was driven off by some unknown force far from their sight.

“Staff Sergeant, we just lost another M1!”

“Mustang this is Baker-“

“I see it! You guys have to do something, out!”

The long skirmish continued as colorful tracers shot in both directions and men on both sides fell prey to them. The PLA infantry continued the attack gingerly, still falling in greater numbers than their enemies. Bodies were strewn across the open fields ahead of the buildings from the American infantry’s gunfire and the coax MG of surviving tank.

The few PLA anti-tank teams with launchers were having a much harder time now that they were priority targets. The fourth AT team was cut down by .50 caliber machine gun fire from the infantry, leaving only a single one in reserve back at the skirmisher’s line. Before they could be sent forward, an American sniper of the supporting company put a bullet through the operator’s throat, ending the remaining immediate ground threat to the tank.

“Confirm another AT operator was KIA Baker One-Two.”

“Copy, good work! Mustang, we’re thinning out their anti-tank guys, we’ve got you covered.”

Before any relief could come from the good news, Henry called in with a desperate warning. He, and the few others who took a moment to look up, noticed a PLA attack fighter moving in towards their position. There was only enough time to send an alert.

“Fantan inbound closing fast!”

“You got to be shitting me!” the tank Lieutenant cried out.

The fighter nosed down and fired a long burst from its powerful cannons. The line of shells ran over the last M1, striking the thin top armor with dozens of armor-piercing and high explosive rounds. The entire tank was destroyed without survivors, the ammunition blowing out in the back as the Abrams burned.

“Fuck me that was loud!” Henry said to himself, rubbing his ears. “Fuck, poor guys. Rest In Peace pal.”

“Baker One-Two to Sharpe!” Braxley called desperately to the battalion command. “Baker One-Two to Sharpe, come in!”

“Baker this is Sharpe, we read you. What’s wrong?”

“Mustang is down and the PLA is renewing their attack! We don’t have any anti-armor capabilities here Sir! Can we get some support, over!?”

“Negative One-Two, the-”

“Mortars!” one of the soldiers shouted, followed by a repetition of the call along the line.

“Fall back!” one of the Sergeants called. “Get back to the second line of buildings!”

“Sharpe hold that thought, have to displace!” Braxley informed them before packing the radio and grabbing his rifle.

The American soldiers broke away, hustling back through the village as mortar shells began to upend the earth around them and running to a small grouping of buildings along the outskirts. Had some of the Sergeants and stronger-willed men not gotten their first to turn the others around, many would have likely kept running, but a new line was thankfully established and a brief respite gained as the mortar barrage continued, laying a barrier between the two forces. Most of the heavier weapons were lost, abandoned in the hectic and sudden withdrawal and leaving the remaining men, including those of the weapons company, had to make due with the small arms they had.

“Baker to Sharpe, sorry about that. We had to ah, displace. Mortars hit our position,” Braxley radioed in as he came to a halt in one of the taller buildings. “You were saying?”

“Baker One-Two we do not have any support available. Chinese aircraft are swarming all overhead and the Air Force has its hands full. Any fire support we’ve got is engaged or coming under counterbattery.”

“Alright… okay, understood. Are there reinforcements inbound, over?”

“Rein- One-Two there are no reinforcements! The whole damn line’s already collapsing and Battalion CP here is going to have to evac eventually,” Sharpe explained. “Whatever reserves we’ve got are already deployed trying to slow the tide down. You’ve got to help with that, too.”

“What!? Sharpe do not tell us we have to stay here! Don’t leave us to fucking die here! Please!”

“Relax and listen Baker! We’re trying to hold off the Chinese and get our people out. I know you can’t see it from where you are but this whole situation is an extreme clusterfuck of historic proportions! We’ll get you an evac but you need to hold and survive till then.”

“Ah… understood Sharpe.”

“Look from where you are in town, there’s a big three story blockhouse built as a defensive post on the outskirts of town, at the fork in the dirt road. You hold your current line as long as you can then you buy out back to that secondary line. Evac LZ is probably going to be the wheat farm farther east, so don’t let them reach that. Understood?”

“WILCO Sharpe, Two-One getting at it, out,” Braxley affirmed before turning to the rest of the troops. “Listen, we have to hold this area and survive till evac shows up. On my call fall back to the blockhouse outside of town, but not any earlier!”

“Heads up, I can see them! Hostile foot mobiles moving up!” Sergeant Pete yelled out.

The Chinese infantry began to advance into the village as the mortar barrage ceased, running over the abandoned American defensive line. Many took up firing positions in the buildings and began to exchange fire with the Americans across the way, reigniting the fire fight. Still, they did not advance as quickly as their commanders wished. There was a sizable gap of open space between the American and Chinese sections, not excessively large but enough that made entering it an extreme hazard, one many PLA infantry did not wish to take.

The firing intensified with random soldiers on both sides being struck, either from peeking out to fire or bullets penetrating the walls. The first two squads of Chinese infantry attempted to cross and instantly became the targets of every American weapon. Henry watched as Axel fires his SAW and cut down three running through a tight opening, watching them drop to the ground.

He noticed a single Chinese soldier through one of the alleys gesturing wild, most probably a sergeant driving his men forward. Two quick shots from his Carbine struck the NCO’s hand, driving him back into cover. His next target was a prone Chinese soldier firing on a neighboring American position in the open. After three shots one of the bullets struck his face, killing him instantly.

The slaughter continued in this manner. His next victim, a young rifleman charging across the open, recurved a three-round burst in the chest. Axel killed two others that attempted to follow, and then two more who came shortly after. He heard Yakubov holler as he gunned down one of the Chinese skirmishers, an automatic weapon operator in the far building.

All of the American teams performed synonymously in this manner, but the pressure and casualties were mounting quickly. As the infantry continued their assault, the Chinese APCs sheepishly moved ahead, halting along the edge of their territory and firing cannon rounds into the American positions. Seconds later, mortar shells began to strike their positions again.

“Fall back, get back now!” Braxley finally ordered.

The surviving Americans broke and ran almost all at once, high-tailing out of the village and across the open fields, down the road towards the blockhouse. The men gathered there, at the concrete position, standing at three stories in an ‘L’ shape. This time, thankfully, the commanders did not have to exert as much force to keep their men here. The various survivors spread out amongst the crowded building, losing most semblance of unit cohesion and turning more into a general group of ragged survivors.

Once again, the Chinese were unable to immediately follow. The chance to overrun them or gun them down in the open field had been lost as their advance had been halted by their own mortar barrage. Each of the Chinese commanders was furious at the delay, though there was little that could be done as the badly-lacking coordination skills of the inexperienced PLA broke down.

“Sharpe, Baker One-Two,” Braxley called over the radio, now thoroughly exhausted from the combat and anxiety. “Sharpe, come in.”

“Hey, any word yet?” one of the other Staff Sergeants asked.

“Hang on a sec. Baker One-Two to Sharpe, come in Sharpe… come in Sharpe. Sharpe do you read? Please respond. Come in Sharpe.”

“This is Sharpe,” the man on the other end of the call finally answered.

“Sharpe, Baker One-Two, we’ve retreated to the outskirts of the village, last line. Heavy losses, very depleted. Many wounded too. We’re also starting to run low on ammunition. Please tell me you’ve got an evac en route, over.”

“Affirmative Baker, you’re buying us a lot of time to get a lot of people out. We’ve got a Chinook lined up for you, callsign ‘Funnel’, but it’s still going to be a while before they can get over to you.”

“Thank you Sharpe, keep us updated.”

Henry and the others where setting up defenses in the meantime, waiting for the next wave. Ammunition was redistributed, but there was precious little to go around now. The order was passed to restrict the fire select to single shots only for the riflemen, and not to engage long-range targets. Every bullet had to be spent holding the enemy at bay.

“How much longer do we have to deal with this shit?” he asked to no one in particular. “They’re just going to keep shelling us to drive us back.”

“Those pussies can’t shoot for shit! That’s why they keep dropping mortars on us,” a nearby private pointed out. “Keep trying you blind-ass motherfuckers!”

“I got movement! Footmobiles swinging around the left flank!” one of the others warned.

“Break out your Bowie knives boys!” Sergeant Pete called out as the barrage stopped.

The Chinese infantry began to advance again, but it was far less coordinated and controlled than before. Various soldiers ran up at different directions and stopped at different points, making it easier to pick them off. Their own squads had become mingled and as such began to generally follow the actions of the others and the orders of the most immediate commander. 

The building was plastered with small arms fire, though any Chinese attempting to cross were quickly cut down once they approached too closely. The handful that had moved around to the left flank to also attempted to advance but came under the same accurate fire, getting pinned down in a nearby tree line and in the ditches. At the front, a number took cover behind a short, partly broken stone wall only to find themselves pinned down here. 

Henry performed as the others did, picking out individual targets and waiting for clear shots. He killed one with a shot to the chest, then another died when his own round and that of a fellow soldier’s hit him. He saw one of the PLA infantrymen behind the wall periodically sit up to fire his weapon and, after some timing, fired two rounds that grazed and wounded the target. 

The assault continued for almost sixteen minutes, with the handful of soldiers of the 5th Division barely holding off the enemy. In spite of this, the Americans were still suffering heavily, virtually pinned within the small complex. The Chinese assault was designed to wear them down, which it was succeeding in. It would only be a matter of time before ammo would run out and they closed in for the kill. 

Braxley had been firing plenty himself from his position at the higher tower of the blockhouse. He was reaching down to insert his last magazine when he noticed the radio was active. Dragging it up to him, he leaned back against the wall in cover, plugging his open ear to hear the voice over the constant gunfire.

“Sharpe to Baker One-Two, come in!”

“Baker One-Two, sorry Sir. Was a little preoccupied.”

“Baker we’ve got help headed your way, a flight of two Cobras will be on station soon, callsign is Cotton Two-One and Two-Two. They’ll cover your retreat.”

“Ho sh- man that’s great news Sir!”

“Yeah, we’re also going to lay down a smoke barrage on your previous position with the last of the mortar rounds here. Soon as that smoke hits you all hightail your asses to the farm. Funnel will be there for pickup, ETA is eight minutes. You can contact them and the Cobras on TAC Three, understood?”

“Copy, thank you Sharpe!”

“Alright listen, we’re about to pull out here ourselves. Soon as that lasts shell is out of the tubes we’re gone and you’ll be on your own. How copy, Baker?”

“Solid copy, Sharpe.”

“Good luck guys, out.”

With the battalion command retreating, Braxley switched the channel of the radio to the one of the helicopters.

“Baker One-Two to Cotton, can you read me, over?”

“Cotton Two-One to Baker, we’re almost on station! Get ready to fall back and leave the work to us, out!”

The first of the mortar shells struck the front, exploding into a thick fog of smoke and obscuring the vision of both sides. As only Braxley had been informed, neither side expected it, but when the Americans realized many shells landing atop the Chinese positions they realized it to be friendly. As suggested by Sharpe, Braxley wasted no time, immediately ordering a retreat.

“Fall back to the farm!” he called out to the men around him. “Retreat to the farm! Go! Get out of here!”

Seconds later, the Cobras arrived, moving in close to fire on the PLA in the smoke. The gunners peered through the smoke with their onboard infrared sights, picking out the masses of heat signatures within it. Their guns rattled away, quickly tearing apart many of the Chinese infantry trying to advance. Two Chinese APCs, which had just now begun to advance again, were spotted and struck with a barrage of rockets from the gunship’s Hydra 40s. The helicopters had quickly turned back the enemy attack, inflicting a number of casualties in the process.

The final obstacle between the Americans and the landing zone at the farm was a long, thick field of wheat growing abnormally high at an average of about five feet, blocking any real sight. The men quickly broke and disappeared into it, soon losing each-other within it. Thankfully, all only had to run in the same, straight direction to reach the other end. Each soldier used whatever strength left to hustle through the dusty field.

Braxley himself was just entering behind them when he heard voices over the radio shouting again. At first he thought nothing of it, knowing he had to retreat first or risk being left behind, until he heard a large explosion behind him. He glanced back to see one of the Cobras falling from the sky as a burning wreck, fallen victim to a Chinese MANPAD team. 

He pulled out the radio again as the second Cobra retreated over him, but halfway past it was struck in the tail by another MANPAD missile. He only heard the pilot call out that they had been hit as the gunship spun and crashed into the field. A sizable cloud of dust marked the crash site.

“Cotton do you read?” he tried once before grasping the situation and quickly returning to the retreat.

He ran into and across the fields, knowing there was now nothing left between him and the PLA. In the mad dash, he incidentally also stumbled upon the crash site, seeing the Cobra on it’s side. The pilot was clearly still moving, trying to break out of his cockpit. The Sergeant elected to help him, knowing fully how quickly the danger was encroaching on him, but not willing to sacrifice others for it. Chained to a devotion to his allies, somewhat frustratingly for himself, he ran to the helicopter and began to aid the injured man as the others continued running through the field, cut-off from one-another.

Henry, like most of the others, ran blindly through the dry field, terrorized at the prospect of being left behind to the enemy. Running through the wheat kicked up a fair amount of dust as the soldiers realized how dry the fields were from lack of proper rainfall. The dust coated the men, covering and stinging their eyes and choked them as the exhausted troops gasped for air. Still, the men did not dare stop; driven forward by a fear for survival, they stumbled ahead until they reached the end. 

Charging forward through a sea of brown and gold he suddenly burst out into an opening, clear for a long ways ahead save for a barn and farmhouse. He had made it, and bent over coughing and gasping, desperate for a clean breath. Many of the other soldiers were also around him, though lacking any further cohesion, milling about in confusion. Sergeant Braxley was nowhere to be seen, and Sergeant Pete was busy conversing with the family of farmers who lived there. No one seemed to know what to do anymore, and the helicopter that was supposed to bear them to safety had not yet arrived, causing an increasingly noticeable panic. 

“Hey… where… where’s the chopper?” he asked one of the nearby soldiers.

“I don’t know man!”

“They’re coming, just hang on,” Orlov responded coldly, going through his remaining ammunition. “Calm yourself and get everything in order.”

“Shit, what now!?” another worried. “How long till the chopper gets here? We can’t hold out here for long.”

“Hey, give me a hand damn it!” they heard a voice call out as Braxley struggled out of the field, helping the injured pilot on his shoulder. “Orlov, get over here and help me! You, you too! Bring him to the barn, get a medic to check on him.”

Braxley handed the wounded man off as his squad and several others gathered around him. Sergeant Pete had to break off his conversation with the farm ponies and fall in to his superior, though the frantic civilians, not knowing what was happening, followed and ended up listening in from outside the circle of soldiers. Despite the confusion it was clear the situation was dire, and the only hope the men had was to survive. With their ammunition and their own bodies exhausted, and without true organization and cradling wounded men, there was no chance of real further resistance. The only chance was if the helicopter could arrive before the Chinese began their advance again, and with each passing second it was looking to be less likely.

“How many guys are left? Do we know?” Braxley questioned his men.

“I don’t know, I can’t catch them all,” Pete replied.

“I counted up to twenty,” Axel answered instead. “Probably more, I had to stop and more came in. Seven of them are wounded, counting the man you just brought in.”

“Most are guys are taking cover in the barn,” one of the other surviving sergeants added. “Can’t even tell who’s from what unit anymore.”

“Sir! What’s happening!?” the farmer pony shouted, becoming increasingly frightened by the dire state the soldiers were in. “What’s wrong!? I was told the front was way up ahead. Isn’t it supposed to be farther ahead!?”

“We got attacked, it’s not the Shadows, the Chinese are attacking us. They broke through our lines.”

“What!? Who-”

“Look, we don’t have any time for this! You and your family need to leave, right now! We can’t hold and they’ll be here any minute.”

“This is my farm! I can’t leave my home!”

“Well you can take your chances with the Chinese and the Shadows that follow, but… well I guess it’s my moral fucking duty to request you not take that chance,” Braxley shot back coldly. “Now get your family and whatever small belongings you can carry and go!”

“I… but I’ve got foals, we can’t outrun-”

“Then you’ll fucking come with us!” Braxley decided. 

“You sure about that Sergeant?” Henry asked. “I’m not trying to be a dick, but we got to focus on taking care and ourselves and each-other before the civvies.”

“If we can find time to help,” the Staff Sergeant answered. “But we’re just sitting here waiting for evac. Fitting them on the chopper shouldn’t be hard, that’s all we have to do.”
“Yeah, I guess.”

“Axel, head to the farmhouse and help get the family and some of their stuff out of there.”

“WILCO Sergeant!”

“Sir, we know when the chopper will get here?” a corporal, seperate from the squad, asked him.

“Ah… few minutes?” Braxley replied, unsure of the exact time. 

“We might not have that long, Sergeant.”

“We don’t have a choice, we can’t run anymore,” Pete pointed out. “We just have to pray the pilots get here before the commies do.”

“God I hate fucking waiting,” another private swore in frustration.

A loud warning from Private Yakubov acting as the lookout at the top level of the barn cut the conversation short, as if to suddenly kill any planning they might have started.

“Movement! I got movement at our previous position! Hostiles are reorganizing for another push!”

“Can you tell how many?” Sergeant Pete yelled up to him.

“Negative, but a lot! Seeing some dust and vehicle movement as well, they got some kind of armor coming!”

“Fuck man, this is it!” one of the men panicked slowly. “Soon as they get through that field-”

“Can that shit Corporal!” Pete fired back, trying to control the situation.

“Fuck, we can’t hold against that. I’m sorry Sarge… but, fuck we’re done. We can’t.”

“There’s no way we can hold off any advance. Especially not with armor,” Braxley admitted. “We can’t run anymore, too exhausted, and the wounded.”

“I say we fight, long as we can,” Orlov added coldly. “Kill as many as possible.”

“It’s just till the chopper gets here right?” Henry remarked.

“No way we can hold, and if they get across… even if the chopper gets here it’ll land in that open area behind the barn… totally exposed.”

“They’ll shoot it to shit.”

“Yeah… fuck… I’m sorry guys.”

“Orlov is right, we should go out fighting, killing our enemy. That’s how warriors die,” Yakubov continued without change to his demeanor. “That’s how a Russian should die.”

“Yeah well I don’t want to fucking die yet Ivan!” another soldier shot back.

“Staff Sergeant, what’s the plan!?” Yakubov called from the barn to his superior.

“We did all we could, I… I don’t know… anymore,” Braxley responded up to him, loud enough to get the attention of the rest of the men. “I don’t want the wounded to die, I don’t want the rest of you to die… I… maybe we should tap out.”

“Surrender!?” Pete jumped. “Sarge, what-”

“I don’t know what else to do alright! I don’t know what else to do… there’s no point in us all dying, we bought time for the guys behind us to retreat. We fought hard, didn't we? We did what we had to, we did good. We can call it quits with a little honor I think. Fuck… maybe get a white sheet from the farmhouse… roll it up the barn, I don’t know.”

There was an air of dead silence among the men, punctuated only by the sounds of far off battle. Many were left in a silent state of shock, and others dimly tried to bring themselves to the reality they were facing. All of them would be prisoners of war, subject to an unknown kind of treatment, but one that was likely to be painful. The broken Staff Sergeant’s words had put some solace to the beaten soldier’s pride, and now that the remaining option seemed clear and their fates sealed it was a matter of acceptance.

Each man slowly realized what they were about to lose. They would no longer be able to help their countrymen in this war, unable to help tip the balance to victory over defeat. They would no longer be able to see their friends or family, their homes and the happiness it brought for an extensive period of time, several years perhaps. It was quite possible they would not return home at all; depending on their treatment and which enemy nation kept them they could spend their last years of life suffering under the pain of a brutal camp for torture or reeducation in China. Each came to their own conclusions on the matter, but each soldier reserved his final solemn thoughts as a free man to himself.

“Alright… I’m going to call up the evac chopper and tell them to break off. Everyone get rid of your weapons and we’ll see-” Braxley started to order before being hit by a fit of coughs. “Ach-ah… fucken… ugh.”

“You good Brax?” Henry asked.

“Yeah, just some of that damn dust got in my mouth,” he said, spitting a bit of it out. “Damn dry fields.”

“Wait! I got it!” a new voice shouted. “Staff Sergeant, I got it!”

The voice belonged to Private Raul of the squad’s Bravo Fireteam. He was almost always silent unless he was required to speak, and had kept this up through the discussions of the men since they had reached the farm. His sudden surprising outburst was enough to grab everyone’s attention.

“Raul? What’ve you got?” Henry asked.

“We burn it! We burn the fields!” he declared. “I worked on a farm before this, you know that. We had to be careful when it got this dry. When it does get this dry it will burn up!”

“Scorched earth?”

“We just need to light it! With wheat this tall and dry, we’ll create a wall of fire between us and the Chinese!”

“You crazy fucking farm boy!” Pete exclaimed happily. “All that time you spend flipping that half-dollar must’ve turned you into a genius!”

“Yeah, yeah that could work!” Braxley agreed. “It’s like Sharpe said, the Chinese stick to the book. Their infantry won’t advance through a flaming field like that, and if they don’t advance the armor won’t either.”

“Alright, we’re doing it!? We’re doing it! Yak! Hey Yakubov! Find me some of those oil lanterns from the barn and bring them down here!”

“I’ll phone the chopper and tell them to expect a big smoke plume,” Braxley said before turning to Henry. “Corporal I uh… I need you to break the news to the farmer.”

“Oh shit you just have to ruin the moment by giving me that job huh Sergeant?”

“Just go tell him Corporal.”

Henry complied, taking his time to walk over towards the farmhouse and going over the wording of the explanation in his head. He met the farmpony halfway there and saw Axel accompanying the family members out of the house, lugging a few suitcases with their belongings. The farmer was clearly already in a state of heavy distress, and it hurt Henry that he was now about to make it far worse.

“Hey, so how are we getting out of here?” the small, stout pony asked. “Is it one of those, flying things, the-”

“Helicopter.”

“Is it here yet?”

“Well not yet it's… going to be a bit longer but-”

“How much longer!?”

“Uh… Sir we… look, we need to buy time for it to get here, and the only way we can do that is by lighting the wheat fields on fire.”

“What!?” the pony shrieked, nearly falling from the revelation. “You can’t burn my fields! This is my life!”

“We need to keep the Chinese at bay. Only way we can do that is creating a big fire between us.”

“But you can’t! I grew all that, that’s-”

“Watch out Henry!” Orlov called out, running to the fields with Yakubov and some others, carrying some lanterns and other flammable materials.

“No! Stop it! No you were supposed to be here to help us not burn everything!” the farmer yelled, trying to run after them before Henry restrained him. “Stop! Stop them! You have to stop them, let me go! You-”

“We’re all fucking dead if we don’t do this!” the young soldier shouted. “We can’t stop them, this is the only way we can get out of here. I’m sorry I- I wish we could do something else.”

“No… why… why,” the pony started repeating.

“We just can’t.”

“Why is this happening? Oh sweet… why does this have to happen?”

The American soldiers began to slam the lanterns into the ground at the edge of the field, shattering the glass and spilling the oil as the flames quickly jumped across the ground. Fistfuls of hay and other items were added as kindling and some began using their personal lighters to speed up the process. None knew if the Chinese were advancing already, but the drive to survive and escape drove them to fan the flames quicker.

Raul’s advice proved true as the dry, dusty plants quickly caught fire. The burning line grew within seconds and expanded greatly, the flames eating into the tall, tightly packed wheat. Soon the whole field was being eaten by a long line of fire inching across it towards the Chinese’s end, the flames reaching higher than the men who lit them. Tall clouds of smoke covered the air ahead of them as everyone watched. Henry still held the farmer back for safety, though he looked to be on the verge of tears while his family had already broken down and started crying, falling to the earth below them.

“Why… why?”

“God… son of a bitch. I’m sorry, I promise we’ll take this land back, we’ll take your land back one day,” Henry swore. “And one day I’ll… Hell, I’ll come over and help you grow all this back. We’ll fix it, I’ll help.”

Having spent most all of his life in Brooklyn, Henry felt this was somewhat of an empty promise. He knew nothing of growing any kind of plant, much less farming like this, but he felt he had to say something, anything to ease the pain, while inside the prospect of the lie to false hope stuck at his heart like a needle. All he said he would do was help, and he reconciled with himself that, once the war ended, there would always time to learn new things.

A handful of minutes passed and the fire line continued to burn forward towards the other end of the field. It seemed to be doing it’s job, as the Chinese facing it made no attempts to advance across the inferno. Soon the American soldiers were greeted with the sound of relief, a droning kind of hum from their rear, and soon after a long Chinook helicopter appeared, speeding into their airspace.

“Baker this is Funnel, y'all still kicking down there, over?”

“Affirmative Funnel, this is Baker! We’re still here, ready for evac, over!”

“Hell and damnation, what did you boys do down there!? That damn fire looks worse than when I dumped some gas on my grill!” the pilot replied, bringing his heavy helicopter to a stop and adjusting it as he descended. “You boys had better count yourself lucky the wind was blowing the other direction! God knows if it was the opposite, I wouldn’t be able to land, all that damn smoke blowing everywhere.”

“Very lucky, the smoke’s probably obscuring their vision, they might not see you.”

“Well then hurry the Hell up and get on board Baker, don’t be wasting time!”

“Will do Funnel, thank you, out!” Braxley finished. “Alright, our ride’s here guys! You all, help the wounded get on board! Everyone mount up, we’re getting out of here!”

The Americans moved with a fervor, collecting the various wounded men, including the surviving Cobra pilot, and helping them onto the Chinook first, seating them close to the back near the cockpit as the door gunners watched the flanks. Next the civilians came with what luggage they had, roused from their grief and brought into the cabin. Henry joined Braxely at the ramp and looked over the area, seeing if there were any stragglers, though with the noise of the helicopter every soldier knew where to go, and as such none would be left behind.

The two watched as each man entered the helicopter. Each one’s face was a mix of exhaustion, terror, and yet ultimate relief, dirty and gaunt and some rather bloody, but each was brought into their little ark. Each was a man, a life, and a soul saved in this Hellish scenario they all suffered through, and there was a great sense of pain at the small numbers of the men contrasted with one of joy at each man that was being rescued, and each boarding was personally relished. Their squad was the last to join; Corporal Jarvis and Sergeant Nick Clovis were not among them, but Henry went over the ones that were as their faces passed him to board the Chinook. ‘Pistol’ Pete, Orlov, Raul, were followed by Axel and Yakubov, then Braxley, and finally himself.

The heavy-lift helicopter’s rotors sped up and pulled the Chinook into the sky, making it’s course away from the battlefield and on to friendlier skies. It was a crippling battle, which some began calling the Battle of Goldfields, in reference to the town, and which many of the individual troops began calling the Battle of the Wheat Field in their own grim, dark sense of humor. The entire army had suffered, and the 5th Division was hurt; Baker Company and many of its other allied units were left beaten, bloody, and half-crippled. So many men of the company, of other units, all American soldiers, were left dead or wounded and captured on the field. Still, as Henry went over this in his mind, in the safety of the helicopter, he noticed with a smile and a feeling of delight that the cabin was uncomfortably cramped; the Chinook’s belly was quite full.