It’s 0312 hours again. I’m awake, staring at the illuminated green display of my watch. Sleep comes in spurts. The dreams are always the same.

We’re in the tracked metal box of a fighting vehicle, packed shoulder to shoulder, vibrating towards the target house. Everyone knows their place and everyone knows their role. No light shines in from the periscopes. There’s only the hot, sweaty, dark and the dim lights of the indicators. The turret whirs and slings around, searching out thermally highlighted targets in the desert night.

My watch reads 0309 when the ramp unlocks and we’re directed into the raid. We stack up, crowding along the wall next to the door. The Bradley backs up, knocking the adjoining wall inward in a shower of dust and debris.

We pour through the gaping hole, rifles raised and screaming commands, in an effort to detain anyone in the house.

A young boy enters the now open air living room, holding a nickel plated Russian pistol.

I fire two bursts. He falls.

Blood pools.

I wake up.