There was an apple tree to the south of the hill, at the foot of the rocks. I retrieved myself a bundle of the apples to bring forth to the cavern. There were brightly colored fruits, and I took 14 by the cover of my shirt. We shared the apples by the river there, hungry and thirsty, but mostly longing for clean water. ''We must find more of these, bring them and keep em.'', said a man.
I spent my sun-rise time by the river, watching the tail of fish dodge by in the water quickly. One dashed pass my legs, and it was within range of my grab. The trees swayed, receeded, then returned brushing up against each other's branches.The sky above those trees was clear, until a rumble disturbed its winds. ''Hey, theres more of em copters comin!'', shouted one of the men at the cavern. ''Oh God, not now, not here!'', said the stranger, who had told us his name, Max Washington. Mr. Washington stood without hesitation, and then regarded those inbound flights of the enemy with a frantic breath. ''Pick your children and pick your apples, we have to leave now!'', he ordered us. I caught my apples, and my witts, and ran hurryingly down the hill side along with my fathers. We had lost sight of the others, but the man, Mr. Washington kept with us along the woods. The rumble of the enemy flight was at its closest mark over us. One militant craft exceeded us, and behind followed its companion vessels. We halted, panting, and witnessed ahead of us the greatest dischargement of guns and rockets, of firepower and clatter, of whipping and thunder. It was an interception of some sort, as it was known to Mr. Washington's thoughts. ''It's a battlefield.'', he said by himself. His face, pale and astounded by the violent volley of guns and artillery, missiles along with them. At the edge of a vast pit, we saw in the field before us, great flashing and thunder-like firing from both sides of the field there. Aircraft deployed, in a mass of movement, the scattering of many explosives across that pittiless battlefield. Long tubed pounders hammered the camps of militants half a mile across the landscape. Aircraft bombarded those scurrying fridgets at sea. It was, indeed, warfare.
We managed to hide ourselves from the barrage of lightning guns and passovers of enemy fleets dispatched into the action. We hid in an earthly pit, steaming with the heat of a shot shell. The soil before me was still scorching in the heat, and I saw that I was covered in it. My chest, with the pounding strikes of my heaving heart , was also scorched in such a heat to the skin, and until it had reached my face painfully. I peered over the edge of the pit, and avoided the blown earth and soil which might have struck my face, as there were concussive eruptions all around us from coming shells, and there was a strong force of wind from above, where the enemy fleet resided, and brought heavy dirt over me. Across the field, the scope of my viewing was unclear, as that unsure cover of haze and smoke enclosed the field of the fight. Only vivid flashes, almost dream-like, and heaving ground in the roaring explosions , did I perceive from my safe vantage. Two air vessels fired their projectiles ahead, and with an abrupt flash, two eruptions quaked the ground about.
''They're battling across the land, and they're driving their weapons against us!'', called out Mr. Washington, half dumbfounded by the blinding storm of the war. We saw one war tank drive in full speed, stop, then disengage a heavy shot into the side of my scope. He had struck a going convoy of troops, soldiers hurrying into the action of the guns, and in good time, fired back against the onslaught of those accelerating gunners. Much of the fight then was a struggle in the smoke of the field, but it was clear of those ejections of blazing clowds and detonations across the land, clear that the war was awfully massive. Only by the end of those thunder-like happenings would I dare to investigate myself the trail of the enemy advancements. But for that restless night, I had to endure those infernal strikes of noise and sight.