He started out alone again. This time in rocky, wooded territory - it vaguely reminded him of descriptions he'd heard of Italy or seen once or twice in France. But it was too dry, too rocky to be the Russian steppe. North Africa? Away in the distance he could hear gunfire, see explosions. Always just out of reach or beyond sight. Still, he moved towards the sound of the guns, half-crouched, moving at a steady pace. He would have to find someone, wouldn't he?
He wasn't that surprised to find himself back in his uniform, carrying his rifle and field equipment, grenades stuck into his belt and boots. He moved forward at a crouch, ducking once or twice as something large swooped by over head. This couldn't be real. Where was he? What was this? He tugged his steel helmet a bit lower, moving forward through the fire and steel of the battlefield.
Spent bullets pocked the ground around him and ahead, he could see figures. Some dead, some dying. Others scurrying back and forth. And just there, two figures, one bent over the other. A wounded comrade? He could tell - this was his side. He belly-crawled forward under machine-gun fire, trying to make out their faces in the dim light.
"Achtung!" He hissed, before blinking, startled. A woman? The man she was desperately clinging to was hit badly and unless someone got to him very soon, he would probably be dead, "Medic!"
He reached out to tug on her sleeve (a strange uniform - brown coat over civilian clothing - partisans?), "You cannot stay here! You'll be dead in a minute if you do!"
He popped up, squeezing off a round into the darkness. As he fell back to his belly, he worked the bolt with a distinct 'click-clack as he chambered another round.
no subject
He wasn't that surprised to find himself back in his uniform, carrying his rifle and field equipment, grenades stuck into his belt and boots. He moved forward at a crouch, ducking once or twice as something large swooped by over head. This couldn't be real. Where was he? What was this? He tugged his steel helmet a bit lower, moving forward through the fire and steel of the battlefield.
Spent bullets pocked the ground around him and ahead, he could see figures. Some dead, some dying. Others scurrying back and forth. And just there, two figures, one bent over the other. A wounded comrade? He could tell - this was his side. He belly-crawled forward under machine-gun fire, trying to make out their faces in the dim light.
"Achtung!" He hissed, before blinking, startled. A woman? The man she was desperately clinging to was hit badly and unless someone got to him very soon, he would probably be dead, "Medic!"
He reached out to tug on her sleeve (a strange uniform - brown coat over civilian clothing - partisans?), "You cannot stay here! You'll be dead in a minute if you do!"
He popped up, squeezing off a round into the darkness. As he fell back to his belly, he worked the bolt with a distinct 'click-clack as he chambered another round.