He was young, even by the standard of the enlisted troops. He drank too much and became bawdy. The officers didn’t reprimand him, know that he may survive the morning if he was late, or early.

Others watched the campfires, sullen. They knew the fate that awaited them, the reaper cometh. Death had come close to them before. Some were thought heroes, but they themselves knew better.

It was luck, or fate, that had let them survive. Any skill was laughable compared to this war.

Others slept. Paradise would be their reward, after the fighting was over.

Those who watched the campfire were mostly silent, waiting for the crimson to come across the sky, foreshadowing the blood that was to be spilled. There part would start soon.

The skirmishes started. Soldiers with night-vision glasses starting the attack before dawn. The sound of small arms and mortars cracking against the clear sky, silencing the few sounds of conversation left.