The Battle for aleppo

He can hear his own breath, coming fast and heavy. His armour, his lifesaver, weighs down on his shoulders. Underneath his back is sweaty, another drop of condensation rolling down his neck. He is glad of his short hair and how easy it is to wash dirt out of. He doesn’t like having a grainy head.

The hut is basic, and he crouches by the window, a glorified hole in the wall. He can appreciate that it is an aesthetically pleasing rectangle, but for what it shows of the outside he would rather it not be there. The edge of his gun digs into his hip uncomfortably and he knows that when he takes aim it will dig into his shoulder too. But he likes using the gun, because it is precise, and the world makes sense when things are in the middle of the viewfinder. The four lines join up and make four neat quarters.

He also likes the army, because there is routine. If someone does something wrong he doesn’t have to be angry because an important person tells them off for him. He can make his bed as tidy as he wants and line up his things and no-one minds.

The other men were drinking last night. He doesn’t like to drink. It makes his head hurt and he gets sleepy.

It is satisfying to know that they are suffering this morning and he is not. They didn't know there would be a mission. This is what he doesn’t like about the army; sometimes his day is a mess. He once complained to the man with the splinted finger that tap-tap- tapped against the keys of the laptop but the man never looked up. 

He counts his breaths as the person in charge of the detonator hovers their finger dangerously close to the trigger. It makes him nervous. It’s not even a comical red button, like they used to have in films, but a small and uninteresting switch. There’s a signal, and with a gleam of silver metal flashing in the sun he is temporarily blinded. Then he is shaken. The ground moves, rocked by the explosion. He almost topples over, grasping the sandy window ledge and knocking the brim of his helmet so it slips to one side. Another solider laughs at him. “Rookie.” 

They are moving, suddenly, like a strange camouflaged snake. There’s lots of shouting and whooping as they near the truck, most men skipping the proffered step entirely in their excitement. He is more sensible, and uses the step and the handle. They are obviously there for a reason. As he pulls himself up, the truck moves away. Nobody reaches down to help him.

If he shuts his eyes and concentrates on the sun and the wind against his face he can block out their racket. It mostly works, and people leave him alone because they think he is asleep.

The vehicle slows and he knows they have entered the settlement. There are people in the streets, and it is noisy, too noisy. He would like to be on his own, but that would be breaking morale, and you mustn’t do that, so he stays, and endures the celebrating, adjusting his helmet so it is straight on his head again.