Hamerlin own instincts for action and the need to do things had broken the PTSD for now seeing the flash of the gun fire and the enemy engaging. The rattle of the machine guns brought back the thoughts of the deafening booms and sounds of heavy machinery as main battery cannons fired shells that could not be lifted by less than 10 men…

“Well mi lady, I must serve in the noble defense of this flying vessel, keep us on track and keep the speed up, we will need the montium to break the final set of hills.” The older officer said with a little bit of a roguish style and some drama, honestly he was risking life and limb, he might as well have a little fun while he was doing it. It was better than breaking down anyway. If he had to go, he would go rogue and not hide if death chose to claim him after missing him the first time. 

The old man could break down later. Right now he had lives relying on him, a crew that relied on unity and some instincts remained regardless of time, space or nation. 

He moved out into the cold wind as the flew through the passing low valleys and into the cover of the walls and terrain that would hopefully mask their route and slow down enemy radio communications. 

“Right, lift, link, lock, cock, and release the safety…” He said to himself as he saw the machine gun, a gun he was not fully trained on but had remembered enough from the weapons demonstration trials at military exhibition to know the basics. “Burst Fire, keep it cool, reset, fire again…repeat ” He said recalling the drill in the machine gun contests, the teams that won had not let the guns get away with themselves and controlled their fire. 

“Angle of attack… range, ballistic with a higher than ground elevation…” He recalled his artillery training. 

Each slotted in as he pulled the trigger. The first bursts were wildly off target but he began To walk the gun into the area of the flashes, controlled smooth fire. “Left”

Even with the fixed mounting a heavy machine gun recoil was punishing and reminded him with each volley how much ground combat was a younger man's game, old men were meant to be smarter or know when to quit. 

That did not matter as he ran shots along a stream bank where he thought he saw a flash. “Reloading port side.” he shouted over the din as he reached down with a groan to grab a new box of ammunition and sent the old box crashing to the metal deck plates empty and smelling of burnt cordite. 

The old box must have been least half used during the previous fight, no one had time to check everything in the chaos of their flight to safety from the reds.