The rain cascades down in sheets, pounding away at the earth, sending fountains of thick, wet mud spraying up into the night sky.

Explosions loud enough to blow out a person's eardrums echo across the field, accentuated by the crisp staccato rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire that blasts at everything in sight.

Shadows, swift and agile, leap and frolic in choreographed patterns, darting from side-to-side, only pausing to reload their firearms, which they carry close to their chests with every step they take deeper and deeper into the blackness of the night.

The entire scene is almost theatrical; shadows perform death dances, lots of graceful spins and twirls before they fall face-first to the ground.

Those shadows left standing after the first round of gunfire move as if they are marionette puppets, their movements out-of-control and spastic, their aim slipshod and careless, their expressionless faces twisted into images of sheet panic.

They fire their weapons continuously, almost as a safety precaution; as long as they have their finger pressed down on the trigger, they are seemingly immune to the death that surrounds them.

More and more shadows fall away into nothingness on both sides, their dramatic performances coming to rapid ends; tortured shapes twist right and left, disappearing into clouds of billowing smoke that seem to rise from the earth itself.

Agonized screams ring out into the night like rockets, reaching a crescendo that only grows in might, never ceasing…

This is reality –

This is war.