Adult Aboriginal warriors heard the warning alarm, rushed out of the stone houses, led the war horses out of the stables, and jumped onto them. But after a frantic gallop to the main entrance of the camp, they all came to a sudden halt.
The first to rush out were the patrolling tribesmen, who by now had all been turned into broken flesh, dyeing the gravel a shocking crimson. However, even more terrifying were those huge steel mech suits, which, like monsters, were spewing a barrage of metal bullets, tearing down the wall in the blink of an eye.
Whiz, whiz, bombs fell with a shrill whistle, splashing soil everywhere, while bullets also flew in. The Aboriginals could resist, but the war horses beneath them could not, being hit until they were a blur of blood and flesh, wailing ceaselessly.
"Fall back, regroup in front of the chieftain's stone house," shouted a British man in his forties, waving his armature to make the Aboriginals retreat and regroup.
