Athel Nora
31-07-2004, 12:51
Mulele-Mai, Mulele-Mai, Mulele-MAIIII !!!
The shouts were drowned in the sound of automatic fire, Highway 7 was under attack again. Under a strange starlit sky the residents of the jungles poured from the tree line swarming towards our position, paying no heed to the firepower we presented, they never payed any attention to how many of their numbers fell, they just ran on screaming, shooting uncontrolled bursts in our direction and chanting, always repeating two words as one, Mulele-Mai!
I do not know if it is some sort of prayer or curse and telling the truth, I don’t give a damn. What is important is that they want to kill me and I don’t want to die, more importantly I have the means of stopping them. So I squat behind the sand bags and shoot streams of rounds from my trusty Berechnaus at the attackers, trying to remain calm, and to remember to shoot short bursts, and believe me it isn’t easy. Unwillingly visions of previous conflicts come to mind, visions of men in red coats desperately fending of dark skinned, half naked savages and failing. History, it appears, enjoys making circles.
Back to the present I take a longer break as my loader attaches a belt of ammo to the one still loaded this method is soppused to be shorter than the traditional way, maybe it is but the break always eats up my nerves. During that break the tide comes closer to our strong point, once known as an Esso station, now as Outpost 47 and to our platoon stationed here. With a click the ammo belt is attached and I begin firing again, my bursts added to those of the other members of my platoon. Suddenly a bright flash followed with a loud boom appears informing me that the locals are in range of stick grenades. Only the AI in my goggles save me from going temporarily blind, the locals don’t have this luxury though they continue to move towards us, repeating the phrase over and over, Mulele Mai!
I have to cover a larger area with my MG, fighting the temptation to let loose a constant stream of rounds, that would only waste shots. More grenades are flung, the noise silences for a second the sound of automatic fire and the chanting. One of my colleges falls back with a cry, an order is shouted and the others fix bayonets while the medic tends the wounded. Now I’m almost covering a 90 degree area in front of me, constantly swinging the bulk of the MG from one side to the other. The ammo belt is growing drastically shorter, and the loader is signaling me to stop shooting. I stop though the enemy is so close now that I can see their crazed eyes and the spent shells flying out of their AK’s.
As the loader attaches the belt I realize that soon they will swarm into us and then what? Death?
The shouts were drowned in the sound of automatic fire, Highway 7 was under attack again. Under a strange starlit sky the residents of the jungles poured from the tree line swarming towards our position, paying no heed to the firepower we presented, they never payed any attention to how many of their numbers fell, they just ran on screaming, shooting uncontrolled bursts in our direction and chanting, always repeating two words as one, Mulele-Mai!
I do not know if it is some sort of prayer or curse and telling the truth, I don’t give a damn. What is important is that they want to kill me and I don’t want to die, more importantly I have the means of stopping them. So I squat behind the sand bags and shoot streams of rounds from my trusty Berechnaus at the attackers, trying to remain calm, and to remember to shoot short bursts, and believe me it isn’t easy. Unwillingly visions of previous conflicts come to mind, visions of men in red coats desperately fending of dark skinned, half naked savages and failing. History, it appears, enjoys making circles.
Back to the present I take a longer break as my loader attaches a belt of ammo to the one still loaded this method is soppused to be shorter than the traditional way, maybe it is but the break always eats up my nerves. During that break the tide comes closer to our strong point, once known as an Esso station, now as Outpost 47 and to our platoon stationed here. With a click the ammo belt is attached and I begin firing again, my bursts added to those of the other members of my platoon. Suddenly a bright flash followed with a loud boom appears informing me that the locals are in range of stick grenades. Only the AI in my goggles save me from going temporarily blind, the locals don’t have this luxury though they continue to move towards us, repeating the phrase over and over, Mulele Mai!
I have to cover a larger area with my MG, fighting the temptation to let loose a constant stream of rounds, that would only waste shots. More grenades are flung, the noise silences for a second the sound of automatic fire and the chanting. One of my colleges falls back with a cry, an order is shouted and the others fix bayonets while the medic tends the wounded. Now I’m almost covering a 90 degree area in front of me, constantly swinging the bulk of the MG from one side to the other. The ammo belt is growing drastically shorter, and the loader is signaling me to stop shooting. I stop though the enemy is so close now that I can see their crazed eyes and the spent shells flying out of their AK’s.
As the loader attaches the belt I realize that soon they will swarm into us and then what? Death?