Rounds thwacked into the first line; men grunted from the blows, those who survived describing it as a feeling like you had been kicked by a mule or hit with an ax handle. Some just simply collapsed, comrades on either side sprayed with blood and grey, sticky matter if the man next to them had been hit in the head. Others turned, staggered backward, dropping rifles, more then one man not being hit by a round but struck instead by a broken weapon spinning through the air or from splinters kicked back as a laser tore through a gun stock. Some paused, doubled over, and then, with iron will, staggered back up, pressing forward, dropping after a dozen feet. Some simply sat down, not quite comprehending, looking down at a shattered leg, seeing the bright blood spurting out, knowing what it meant, and then quietly lying back, gaze fixed on the heavens....