Mirage

The heat relentlessly radiated over the dry yellow world that laid out into eternity. The ghosts of the dead flickered over the harsh world crying for their lost souls only to disappear again as the wind subsided. The black mirages and their false shapes were a constant reminder of the unknown of this place. Free will was a lost concept here. Fate was unknown. The only guarantee was that the solar fire would fall away over the horizon into orange oblivion only to return again hours later bringing with it horrible heat and light. The unstoppable cycle of nature forced time forwards. Humanity in this place welcomed the darkness; as darkness was the only escape from the daily hell. In Iraq there was only two ways to escape to from this inferno. One was to survive into the night, and the other was to die.

Leaning on the machine gun positioned by the road, he sighed. The only relief was that the sun moved still, an indicator that the world continued. He looked at it briefly through his shades and wiped sweat from his camouflaged brow smudging the color of desert across his face. The blue sky showed streaks of white across its endless canvas. It was the only thing left he recognized in this mess, because the only thing that this hell had in common with the English heaven of home, was that sky. He thought of his son’s inquisitive face. Or Sarah’s tranquil voice as she called out to him whilst he sat in the modest garden of the yellow bricked home in that quiet spot of South London. The image began to fade into those false desert shapes with the increasing heat. Looking to his left the other men stood quietly looking out onto the concrete grey snake they were to watch. He checked his watch, mainly to see it still ticked but also to see how long it was till he could return to the sanctity of the compound. Looking up again into the yellow arid hell, the sound of combustion sneaked into his ears as another vehicle approached the checkpoint.

The hazy outline of the car wound along the grey tarmac slowly at a leisurely pace trying to wade through the flickering mirage into focus. The heats optical illusion lost its potency as it approached. The clarity of the outline increased. A normal saloon car, red in color neared them. The fan belt needed attention, and the sound of modern Iraqi music could be heard from inside. ‘Fire a warning shot Grant’ Lieutenant Barton said nonchalantly meters away biting into a segment of a tangerine. Peterson clicked off the safety and applied pressure to the trigger. The loud silence was replaced with the familiarly awful sound of gunpowder exploding into metal. The tracers flew from the barrel into the blue sky with the echo dying out of ear shot across the sandy sea and out of consciousness. The car suddenly stopped on the road letting up sand and dust as the wheels felt the force of break pads. The fan belt could be heard clearer as the engine stood still for a moment waiting for the delayed human reaction of the inhabitant. Inevitably, and for the uncountable time that day the car suddenly engaged in a roar of engine and made a desperate spin on the tarmac. With a high pitch scream from the battered engine the car turned a full one hundred and eighty and disappeared along the road throwing up dirt and sand as it sped away from the British soldiers. Corporal Grant Peterson watched as it disappeared along the grey line back into those ominous ghosts the heat created. Peterson felt no guilt on instilling fear into people that came his way. This baron world was full of it, and one more scared Iraqi civilian could not suck more life from this place. This country died a long time ago.

The huge orange sun hung low away to the west, its fire was less tormenting and a cooler air blew over the four men. Private Shah returned from taking a leak and stood next to Grant nodding to the man.
‘Not long left now, almost dark’ he said with a quiet enthusiasm looking out over the road.
‘I fucking stink. Cant wait to get back to the compound and have a wash’ Shah continued with a whiff of his armpits.
Overhearing this, the Lieutenant stood from the plastic chair under the small canvas shelter and joined the pair by the sandbags.
‘Don’t get your hopes up Private. Washing has been cutback due to a water shortage. The insurgents blew one of the last pipes into Basra’
Grant stayed quiet and looked at the sun as it penetrated the horizon almost falling off of this world. Grant liked to think that although the sun fell here, it meant it would rise in another world where blood didn’t flow faster than water. As the days went on, he doubted this place existed and even home began to fade away from him like the sand storms of this place. Picturing his sons face grew harder as the weeks passed.
‘For fucks sake, why do we bother patching up this shit hole when the wankers keep wrecking it’ Shah complained shaking his head. Barton shrugged his shoulders in response.
‘I don’t know private. Good question’ He slapped the private on the shoulder returning to the plastic chair by the ammunition crates and radio.
‘It’s almost like they don’t want us here’ he finally said lighting a cigarette.
‘Here comes another one’ Grant said looking out to the road with the sound of a automobile. With the heat retreating the car fell into view quicker this time as it came over the shallow hill. A people carrier approached, faster than normal. Its engine revved as it slipped into a higher gear increasing speed its lights on high beam obscuring the soldiers vision. It snaked along the road, and its back wheels slid a little as the traction struggled to hold onto the tarmac by the pace.

Lieutenant Barton looked out from his plastic throne, slightly agitated.
‘You know the drill’ he said.
Grant fired the shots, the tracers more recognizable as they flashed into the darker sky once more. The car continued on towards them. It was around 200 meters away and its impressive speed meant it would reach the point soon. Whoever piloted the vehicle had not responded to the deadly warning.
‘Shit! Fire again Peterson’ the officer said, his composure lacking now standing. Shah leaned onto the sand bag pointing his weapon in the direction of the vehicle. Gibson at the other sand bag looked to the Lieutenant for an order with a worried expression. Grant fired again this time closer to the vehicle, the tracers glow flashed across the sky. No response.

‘Unload on the the bastard’ Gibson ordered dropping his lit cigarette to the sand, and flicked his own safety off. Shah fired first, his SA-80 rifle fire cracked into the vehicles engine plate the sparks flew off into the ground. All four men let loose uncontrollably into the people carrier, the engine grate feeling the full force of the impact of gunfire. The machine gun would give the most damage and Grant focused on the engine as he was trained to do fighting against the recoil. The thundering roar of gunpowder and flying metal echoed into the landscape in waves of noise. It continued on a little more as smoke began to bellow from the underbelly of the rogue vehicle. Its engine failed from the barrage of shrapnel, and it veered off the road slowing. Its tires shredded where it rolled for a short while onto the desert itself coming to a complete stop around 100 meters away. Standing poised they waited for any sign of movement from the battered vehicle. None came.

‘What should we do?’ Shah asked whilst his eyes still trained onto the car. The lieutenant stood quietly for a second thinking.
‘Gibson, Shah approach it slowly and carefully. Me and Grant can watch form here. We will cover you, be bloody careful’
With a look to Grant the lieutenant waited for acknowledgement.
‘It’s covered’ he responded. Shah looked to Gibson with trepidation as they both stood away from sanctity of the sandbags and stood side by side ready to advance.
‘Fuck it’ Shah said, and moved off towards the smoking machine, gun raised pointed towards the menacing metal mess.

Grant watched as the pair stalked in a straight line towards the wreck. Smoke billowed away obscuring the view, but Grant focused as well as he could keep his gun trained on target. His heart raced with the thought of what threat awaited them, he worried about explosives. So many other men, American and British had been wiped from the earth because of the infamous ‘IEDs’. Grant hated the insurgents for using these tactics when he first landed. Why couldn’t they fight like in the honorable wars of before? But as time took its toll and the dead mounted, Grant realized one thing about war. There was no honor.

The lieutenant went to the radio and stood waiting; back up might be needed. He watched now as Shah approached the van now only meters away peering into the passenger seats. From the gun grant could see that something wasn’t right. Shahs face conveyed something that illustrated beyond any amount of words that something was terribly, horribly wrong. It looked like he had looked onto something unnatural, inhuman. Gibson approached the van also and his hand fell over his mouth as he dropped his gun to the sand.
Barton looked with confusion and stood by Grant.
‘What could be going on?’ He said shakily looking to the corporal for reassurance. Grant watched as Shah took his helmet off and dropped it to the ground. He turned around and crouched down covering his hands with his face. He clumsily stood and waved the other two over as he walked away from the van and stood alone looking away into the blackening desert.

Looking to one another the lieutenant and corporal stood away from the bags and jogged towards the smoking car. Grant felt his heart in his neck, his face, and his fingers and came over to see what the thing in the van was. He approached slowly, waving the dying smoke as he approached into the fog of black terrified of what he will find. After a few more steps he came across the abhorrence causing the other men’s reaction and lowered his weapon. On the driver’s seat sat a man, he looked local. He was alive but he held his arm where a bullet had hit him. He didn’t move, he didn’t flinch, and he didn’t acknowledge the four soldiers. He just sat and silently gazed, his black eyes seemed to look at something thousands of miles away, a stare into an abyss. Following his gaze Grant saw the girl. Her pretty face was quiet, and her eyes were closed. Her brown hair fell slightly over her face and a small splatter of blood rested on her tiny cheeks. She wore a white dress. And in the centre of her chest a small hole was visible on the fabric with blood surrounding it still seeped out as they watched. It was a machine gun hole.

Shah turned towards the car now marching forward a primal rage on his face
‘WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP’ he screamed and made to the driving seat of the car ‘Ill kill you, stupid fucking Arab.’ Lieutenant Barton grabbed Shah and wrestled him to the ground where he moaned in a mixture of anger and grief. Gibson stood meters away shaking his head. ‘Why are we in this country?’ is all he could say. ‘Why are we here?, Now we are killing kids’

Grant stood silently watching the small child. He heard commotion going on, but he didn’t register. After some moments the Iraqi man stood from the driver’s seat numbly and went to the back removing the seatbelt from his lifeless daughter. He took her into his arms and walked slowly away from the car and from the soldiers into the desert back along the road. He made no noise, no fuss. These lifeless reactions were something Grant didn’t understand when he landed here weeks ago, but he started to understand. Grant still watched the car seat where blood was visible and a hole in the fabric where the bullet had ripped through her body. He tried to register his emotions, but he couldn’t. A dull numbness fell over his consciousness. He couldn’t feel the world anymore, he felt detached from it as if he was in a strange dream that people experience just as they drift off to sleep where its vagueness is forgotten when they awake. Something inside died.

____________________________________________.

Back at the compound Grant lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling of the large khaki tent as it billowed slightly with the wind. The sound of sleeping men surrounded him, their deep breaths rhythmically rising and falling. He tried to picture his son, but it was gone. The picture was gone forever, only to be replaced by the quiet tranquil face of the small girl. Her blue lips, the red splatter on her cheek, the way her hair fell onto her brow obscuring her closed eyes. That white and crimson dress. But it didn’t matter how often her face sprang into consciousness because there were two ways to die in Iraq. The innocent girl had hit Grant with a force beyond any human made weapon of destruction. Whether he breathed was irrelevant. Grant was killed that night, he was dead. The corporal had joined the ranks of the walking dead, like millions of men of war before him trapped in the misery of purgatory. The picture of the girl would rip the life from anybody living, so made no impact here. Hell would be better, because at least in hell men can feel pain reminding him he is human.

But of course, Hell would only have to wait until the morning.