He doesn’t see them as human, he just puts a bullet in them, wipes the dust off his boot with the shirt of a fallen soldier, and moves behind a cement plastered wall— shielding himself from return fire and the tormenting desert sun— reloading his assault rifle with haste and skill.

An automatic weapon spits in the close distance. Hot metal whips past his ear whistling just below the sound barrier like a potential promise to end his life. Particles of sand explode at his feet like shrapnel stinging his face. He winces and waits.

Silence. They’re either busy reloading, or pretending to, hoping that their target will sense an offensive weakness and advance on them lying in wait. Then POW! Another breathless mother is holding a letter back in America.

Maybe they’ve left, he thinks. A patter of footfalls approaches. He clutches his gun tight with shaky hands.

His headset crackles, “Area secure,” the sergeant assures. His unit rounds the corner, sees him, and lifts him onto his feet, “Back in formation.”