Titrick Frontline, 9:30 a.m.
The sandstorm remained fierce.
Visibility was less than five meters. The wind was not just carrying fine sand but gravel-like particles that hit the armor with the sound of dense popping.
Northern city "Old Market District," a platoon-level position of the Kurd Armed.
Sergeant Khalid clutched a scarf tightly over his mouth and nose, yet the sand managed to infiltrate his eyes, nose, and ears. Squinting, he looked ahead and saw only swirling murkiness.
The radio had been down for a long time. The last order from the company commander was "hold the position," then communication was cut off.
"Is anyone there?" he shouted beside him, his voice immediately swallowed by the wind.
Suddenly, an explosion sounded from the left front—
It wasn't a shell; it sounded like a grenade!
Then came the terrifyingly close rattle of automatic rifles.
Khalid instinctively dropped down, raising his gun to blindly fire towards the sound.
