One night, I awoke to the sound of an infant crying, followed by the thunderous roar of an explosion nearby. "Incoming artillery!" Private Piper shouted, his voice barely piercing through the chaos. For the next three to five excruciating minutes, the air was filled with the relentless barrage of explosions, leaving only the echoes of the infant's cries resonating throughout the abandoned apartment complex, now surrounded by rubble, twisted beams, and metal scraps.
The field medic rushed to assess the situation. "We're losing her fast; we need to head back!" he yelled urgently.
"Roger that, Piper! Status report!" I barked out, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
"I can give us about a minute opening now!" he replied.
"That's all the time we need!" I affirmed.
"Y-yeah," the medic stammered, his focus shifting back to his patient.
"Piper, Junior, grab Mrs. Parker! We are leaving. Medic, keep me informed about her condition as we move!" I commanded.
"Let's get going!"
In a whisper tinged with urgency, Piper asked, "Why is there artillery, Captain?"
"That, Private, is the question," I replied grimly.
As we navigated through a hellscape of destruction, the sounds of barking dogs, distant explosions, and the sporadic crackle of gunfire filled the air. The sky was painted in shades of orange and red, the smoke swirling around us as anti-aircraft guns fired at enemy bombers and fighter planes overhead. In the distance, a half-collapsed church stood ominously between us and a patrolling group.
Piper leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper, "Hold up, patrol group up ahead."
"Okay, let's maneuver around behind them," I instructed. "We're going guerrilla tactics."
With a collective nod, we steeled ourselves for the dangerous path ahead, ready to navigate the chaos surrounding us.