Running blind up the street, Harald realised that he didn't have a plan where to go next. They were heading back toward the square, which was undoubtedly overrun by now and were being pursued by Valk knew how many Imperials. A voice snapped him out of it, the Private from before; she was right too. He could see flashes of Imperials running parallel to them in other roads, caught glimpses of helmets bobbing along behind low walls; they were surrounded... Pulling up fast, Harald waved the others into an open door to take cover and give him a chance to think. Outside the footsteps faded, replaced by gunfire and increasingly distant explosions; the front line must have moved past them, which could only mean bad news for Rinneheim. Fairly confident that they were at the moment safe, Harald took a knee and turned to his squad. [b]'... I don't think there's much that we can do here, so... We'll wait five minutes, then sneak back up the way we were going to the armoury. Once kitted up, we'll pick up Krauss and Varrot, then head north to link up with any other survivors.'[/b] The frustration he felt was clear to see; he wanted to do his part but Squad Four simply was not combat effective right now. [b]'There's a camp twenty odd miles north that we were going to stay at tonight, during the march to Randgriz. The rest of the company will likely be there.'[/b] 

In the ensuing silence, his wireless crackled to life once more. [b]'Roger that Varrot, change of plans. Support whatever friendly forces you can from there, then meet us at the grain silo just out of town to the north. Try to get away quiet if you can. Good luck.'[/b] Clipping the wireless back to hs webbing, Harald sighed deeply as he reloaded his freshly fired revolver; only twelve rounds left. [b]'... If you guys have any input, I'd be glad to hear it. Running away doesn't sit right with me, but neither does a suicide mission.'[/b] They were probably safe here for the moment, so he tried to coax a few words from the at least.

Things weren't going so well for the Captain. After holding their position against a determined infantry assault, his squad had run afoul of an Imperial tank. The result was unsurprising and Meulemann found himself staggering down a side alley, carrying the last unconscious member of his unit. Pausing at the entrance, Tarquin silently cursed the Gallian Army and their ineptitude; the Milita had chosen Rinneheim as a mustering point because the Army had deemed it safe. He needed to escape as soon as possible, rally the survivors and make for Randgriz; Hell would freeze over before a Meulemann let the incompetence of another derail [i]his[/i] enlistment parade! The gunfire had faded somewhat now, bar the occasional crack of a rifle. [i]Snipers then. Outstanding...[/i]