There is a body in the trench as lifeless as he is headless, the remains of the machinegunner. Another of his comrades will soon join him: Lying in the moonlight with no protest, no breath, only scorched blood marring his pallid face.
The others are quite a bit more vocal.
The nearest is crawling to his fallen comrade, grunting in pain and pleading with the man to understand. "It's not my fault, she moved--the bitch!--she moved, I didn't mean it, that's not what was supposed to happen, I'm sorry Phil!"
Phil? English? Sure enough, the bloke ten yards down the ditch is screaming in English as well, no discernible accent to be heard. "Just stop! Leave us alone, it's not our fault brah! C'mon man, it's nothing personal, just... Jesus-shit-shit-shit, I can't feel my toes, just, just somebody help me out, I-I was against this from the start..."
The Minimi and the Chinese assault rifles lie where they were tossed when personal gain took a back seat to wounds and pain. The QBZ-97, distinct from the -95 by the STANAG mag well. Few of the Chinese infiltrators had been discovered with the -95, as supplying it with the distinct Chicom 5.8mm ammo on a deep cover mission of indefinite duration would be problematic to say the least. The -95, however, chambered for the 5.56mm NATO? Common enough to say the least.
At least, among Chinamen. But these are whiteys, through and through. Curiouser and curiouser.
The men aren't the only ones screaming. There is the shrieking of the startled pack horse to contend with, and the rattling of Bob's truck as the beast bucks and tries to flee the gunfire and the scent of death: Death of men and death of the donkey, or what remains of it.