EXT. NO MAN'S LAND - DAY
Smoke rolls over broken wire and burning wrecks. A squad of rabbits in brass armour walks toward us through the haze. Every gun points the same way: frame right, toward an enemy we never see.
CORPORAL HOLT, the squad's gunner, plants his boots. Spent brass rains into the mud around them.
Inside the helmet, his breathing is the only sound. Through the visor slits: smoke, and nothing else.
HOLT
(to himself)
Hold the line. Watch the right.
The feed spits brass, round after round. The belt is almost empty.
He drops to one knee behind the wire and fires into the smoke. What he hits stays off screen.
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