Sarge took point as the MG crew started covering their run to the shacks to check it for enemy activity. Though it was more to take up position to gather the sticks, as any commies in the shacks would've opened up by now. Hopefully not even civvies were in there, but this looked like something subsistence. And his gut was right. As they kicked in the doors and piled in with their guns drawn, there was not a weapon in sight. Nobody uniformed. Just an old father of the house, his wife, their sons and daughters, and two crying babies. Every room, every corner of the house was checked, but nothing of a threat was found. "CLEAR", Francis shouted at the top of his Texan lungs, and soon after every other party sounded off - doing much to frighten the locals who didn't have a clue what was going on.

Now to the second problem at hand: There was supposed to be a battalion of three hundred effectives dropped. At the current position, Jackson's section of forty-two and the rest of the company, totaling 126 guys, only made up about half of the paper strength. There were supposed to be two heavy weapons sections and another company at the farm, too. In short: They couldn't move out until they had a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. Francis took a moment to grab the pack of cigarettes from his helmet and lit one up with his zippo, scanning the perimeter. The bombardment by the Thunderchiefs and Stratojets, and not an enemy bird in the sky. Just the frantic fire of anti-air guns, lighting the sky up with their tracers. It was beautiful.

If Francis had more time to admire it, he would. Sadly, he had a programme with a few important signatures on it, and he had to stick to it. So he grabbed the lad carrying the radio and started inquiring as to where the hell those greenhorns and their sticks were. As Bobby came in to the Sarge's building for a better firing position for future ops, together with the rest of the guys, Sarge looked at him entering. And right as he stepped through the door, Sarge erupted into rage with no regard for the frightened civvies in the corner. Fortunately for Bobby, he was on the radio.

"ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT YOU'VE BEEN TO WEST FUCKING POINT AND YOU'RE INCAPABLE OF MARCHING HALF A COMPANY, INCLUDING [b][u]MY[/u][/b] HEAVY WEAPONS SECTION, OVER HALF A CLICK FROM TWO PLACES? YOU'D HAVE A POINT IF THE COMMS WERE DOWN, YOU YELLOW-BELLY MONTANA---"

And before he could state that expletive, the section came under small arms fire. There didn't seem to be automatic weapons -at least not many- and as all directions were being scanned, a small explosion which was more like a rifle grenade than anything landed about ten feet away.

"WHERE IS THAT FIRE COMING FROM?!", Sarge shouted as he grabbed his flare gun and shot it into the sky to illuminate the fields. It was full of Cuban troops, advancing on the farm. With the stock of his M14, he knocked the lights out and shouted that everyone should kill all sources of light. Subsequently he spat his cigarette on the floor and grabbed the radio again. "SECTION THREE, UNDER ENEMY FIRE - DRAG YOUR ASSES HERE IMMEDIATELY!"

Enough talking. Time for shooting. The Cubans were 'special' enough to open up from more than 150 yards with no cover, merely concealment -granted there was a lot of it-, and now they had to pay for it.