Bullets and Sand

Prologue

Missing the fresh colour of grass was the least of their worries as they trundled across a nameless wasteland, to fight a nameless army for reasons no one understood. No one knew where they were going, who they were going to fight or why- but it didn’t matter. It just didn’t matter. 

The men missed the warm smell of fresh cut grass, easy on the skin, with a comfortable sun and a sweet wind to cool off the shine. But that was far behind them, replaced by sharp sand that lifted with every breeze, and hailed the men through their ears, eyes and noses. The great masses of the yellow kingdom cut their skin and dulled their senses. The sun boiled their blisters drawing out a sticky sap. It’s hateful glistening was endless. Neither sweat, nor urine could quench their thirst. Tiny rations of warm, stagnant water and cigarettes kept them from clawing at their parched throats but still left them praying for a hidden oasis. The sounds of their voices just about kept them within the solemn nature of man.
They seldom spoke of the day and rarely of the future. Their words were only memories of goodness from the past. And no one cared for each other’s stories, instead only their own. They didn’t need to be heard by others, they only wanted to hear it themselves, to prove that it was real. That it all once happened, a long time ago.

One night, Hudson said that for every grain of sand in the desert, a memory had died with the soldier who held it. Soon enough, he said, all their memories would turn to sand too. Nothing but sand, and all would be forgotten.
Billy, green but bright, reflected aloud: All men who die turn to sand. Eventually. And no one, in time, would remember any of them.
Hudson smiled at Billy’s acceptance, then grimaced with the rest of the men at the thought of not even existing in memory. That was enough talk for one night. Hudson commanded his men to get some rest and walked among them, giving each man a tap on the head as he always did. Turner winced, as he always did. When Hudson was asked why he did it, he said, To check they’re not already sleeping.

*

“C’mon lads.” Captain Hudson led the way. “Just up this next hill.”
“Then what?” Billy walked with him.
Hudson lowered his voice. “Then probably another hill, and another after that.”
Billy smiled wistfully. “Of course.”
The golden abyss went on forever. There would be a village here and there; maybe it’d be hostile, maybe it wouldn’t. Either way it was something different. There could be food. Or water.
Turner trembled whenever a building blurred into view. He hated the bleak treks across the sea of dust as much as any man, but the dust could only cut so much and it was soft to lie on. Grit is softer than bullets, he’d always say. The men often joked that he’d keep half the desert between his eyelids if it meant avoiding a battle.
He would often walk without full protection, leaving his face exposed so that he could “taste the air,” though there was no taste, and no freshness. He shed layers in the heat, trading protection for a bare chest battered by hot, dust-laden winds. It was his choice and he rarely complained.

In time they called him Sandy: partly because of his strange love of the desert and partly because he claimed his skin was rough like sandpaper. Every hour or so, all the soldiers in the company would empty their boots. If they didn’t, every step would be sharper and harsher than the last. They had to rid their feet of the sand or they’d suffer from devastating blisters and a cankerous cousin of athlete’s foot they had appropriately nicknamed dust bite. However Sandy almost never emptied his boots, for he calculated that it made his foot hard and strong. Sandy could tolerate the pains of the golden abyss better than anyone, but if he were to find himself in a gunfight, he’d likely whimper like a little girl who had dropped her ice cream.
“There’s not a village, is there?” Sandy called from behind.
Billy’s breath was heavy and thick. “No, no village.”
“Good, that’s good.” He muttered, comforted.
Hudson wiped spit from his dry lip. “We’re almost out of water Billy.”
“Small wonder sir, aren’t we always almost out of water?”
“Yeah, you don’t say. Maybe we should just give Sandy to the desert, he’d like that ey? Then we’d get his water and cig rations.”
“Hell, he don’t even smoke sir.”
“He don’t?” Hudson laughed a rough, forced chuckle. “Well, damn us. We must smoke more than we think.”
Billy laughed along too, at nothing in particular.

Hudson and Billy often walked together. The oldest and the youngest. Opposites, but close. Many of the men thought Billy was Hudson’s son from the way they were with each other, but they were very different in appearance. Hudson wore a tired bristled beard on a scar ridden face, much like craters in a stoney wasteland. He had patches of freckles and wrinkles to make up the gaps along his forehead and cheeks. His hair had worn out to a dark grey and his once strong and thick eyebrows had withered, turning thin. However Hudson’s stern jawline remained young and sturdy, enough so that he would often appear as the fittest man in the company. All the while Billy only had a few tufts of blonde peach fuzz on the edge of his chin, with a smooth and young face. A face that seemed too kind to belong to a war. He was lean with blonde hair and stood proud and ready, following Hudson at every turn. They enjoyed the company of one another as much as any two friends would and amid all the desolation, it quietly displayed a sort of hope for everyone. For everyone- except Ethan Harper.

*

It would be wrong to suggest Harper was well loved in the company. No one could stand his arrogance. He was second in command, though no one knew why. Anyone with a bit of sense could tell he didn’t belong there. He was unable to even grasp the basic concepts of his duties. He would only use his newly given power to get what he wanted, leaving any notion of respect behind, before he had been promoted to Sergeant. Of course he didn’t have half the skill set of any living Sergeant, but his father was a high ranking officer and that meant he got what he wanted. It was a wonder to Hudson that they still live in a world where men would bat an eye over something like that, something that puts lives at risk because a disillusioned posh kid wanted to play a career man.
“Come on. Pick it up!” Ethan Harper barked, his pale face painted red from the heat. “I should have you shot for this. It is only by my generosity that you’re still breathing, you dirty mutt.”
He spat at the Arab boy who trembled in fear, fumbling to pick up cases of Harper’s personal supplies. His voice was sharp and rough with a southern American accent. Every time the company passed through a village, their Sergeant would look for trouble. It was just another excuse to unleash his petty cruelty.
“Hurry up. I need to take a shit, you’d better hope it's not on you.” Harper laughed.
“Y-yes, yes, of course.” The boy stammered.
Harper’s face hardened. He grabbed the boy’s chin in a tight grip, sneering
“Sir. I told you to call me sir! Do you not learn boy?”
“Sir?” A deep loud voice suddenly came from behind. “Why should anyone call you that? You aren’t his Sergeant. Hell you shouldn’t be anyone’s Sergeant. Leave the poor lad alone.”
Harper let go of the boy and stood up straight, his face had turned soft and embarrassed. He turned to the man. It was Hudson - his face screwed up, and anger boiling. He had come along with half the company and Billy at his side.
“He er... He’d dropped my supplies on purpose, my cases, I saw it. I only meant to knock some sense to the kid. Teach him some respect, y’know?” Harper spoke quietly and less confidently, though he didn’t appear ashamed.

“Respect?” Hudson spat. “You know nothing about respect. This is their country we’re in, their land! You think they owe you submission?”
Harper looked to the floor and mumbled something only himself could hear.
Hudson glanced down at an open case on the floor revealing porn magazines.
“Get your shit together Harper...” Hudson growled. “Before I put your head in the sand and leave you there.”
The Captain turned and walked away, disgusted.
Ethan Harper stood humiliated as his fellow soldiers watched and tittered. He slowly crouched down and began to collect his things. As he looked up, he noticed the Arab boy he had been bullying, bravely smirk at him.

*

Every soldier was different, but they seldom argued over their differences. A soldier's choice of luxury was one of the few things that could tell something of him. Maybe he would carry his special zippo, as so many men would, or maybe a picture or note from his wife, as so many men would. They could have their favourite chewing gum, a fresh pack of cigs or a rare bag of mints from a town off the coast of Wales.
Hudson carried a picture of his kids and his wife. Billy carried a key to his house, to remind him of home. Sandy of course carried a large jar which he filled with different sand from all the different deserts they’d trekked across. It was almost full, but he said he’d get a new one and fill that one up too. Harper carried a fine array of American porn magazines, having been the only man who came from America. He prided himself on the beauties in them. He also had over 30 tubes of colgate blue mint with him because, he claimed, that the plain mint paste they all got in their ration packs gave him an allergic reaction. Everyone knew it didn’t give him any sort of reaction and he just didn’t like it. He believed that as an upper-class soldier, he deserved the finest toothpaste—that his mouth should be clean, fresh, and ready for miles of desert.
The men weren’t sure how many miles of desert they had left to cross, but at the pace they were going, Hudson’s patience was wearing thin. And Harper’s ego was growing larger.