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The day that we, the 89th armored infantry battalion aka “Long Sword” was deployed was when I and my company were marching through the dark, fuming swamp, the sky grey as a wolf. Our orders were simple, take advantage of the open enemy flank and blast our way through. That is until the first shots were fired, then it became a desperate fight for survival. The second the first blast sounded, one of our worthogs exploded into a ball of flame. I knew some of the men in there for years, all their training, all their efforts, all affections, all their hopes and dreams, put to waste in one single flash. Next thing we knew we were surrounded and shooting randomly in all directions praying for a hit. They had us outmanned, outgunned and out maneuvered three to one. There were pieces of shrapnel flying everywhere as most if not all of our armor was set ablaze. Those that remained were quickly being caught out in the open with no one to support them. Before I knew what was happening myself a medic dragged me to the still smoking remains of a worthog and started removing a large piece of shrapnel lodged in my thigh. Every second I lay there, the medic by my side, dozens of men all around me fell screaming as the sky lit up bright as day with gunfire. Yet in the end we pushed on. Through the mud, the pain, the tears, to the end. The battle was considered pyrrhic, yet those of us who remained emerged, The Fighting 89th.