The Fundamental Soldier

Heat and blood.

"I can't believe General Gordon has you spendin' time with that damned Paki." shouted Gunther over the roaring engine.

"Someone's got to keep an eye on him, don't they?" I replied. Squinting my eyes to avoid the dust being thrown up by the wheels of the truck. I pulled my gun closer.

"Bit annoying ain't it? Smells of ball sack and curry in his shabby tent!" He laughed. "Honestly Alan, I don't know how you deal with it."

"You've got to do what Gordon tells you to do. Don't be such a cunt. General Shah's a good lad. We wouldn't be alive if it weren't for his men."

"Pfft! Yeah, right. None of 'em Arabs are my definition of good lads, mate. Fuckin' terrorists! All of 'em!" He scowled. His strong jaw clenching with anger.

The Iraqi driver glanced back at me and before I could muster a frown to apologize for Gunther's behaviour, he had turned around and stopped the vehicle. I looked at our surroundings only to find desecrated, four-story flats with bullet holes and rooms missing. Bright coloured clothes hung from electricity wires, pottery lay strewn across the floor and television sets were piled by lamp posts for collection. Though there were no people about, we knew that the flats were still heavily populated with infuriated men, women and even children. General Gordon's warnings about stopping in enclosed areas such as this were all to familiar to the passengers of the truck; our guns were no longer behind our backs, and our safety locks were off - this was incredibly dangerous.

Gunther, General Gordon's grandson was short and muscular, he was considerably attractive with his sharp jaw and grey eyes, but his boisterous and arrogant personality nullified all of the attractions a person could have for him. His blonde hair was in disarray as he jumped out of the truck to see what was going on, his boots creating an unnecessarily loud thud.

"Oi! Mustafa, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sir, there is a child on the road. I think he is unconscious." Mustafa, the driver, replied hesitantly. He was all too aware of Gunther's way of handling things he didn't like - especially things that weren't white.

I followed Gunther to the front of the truck where a small boy was lying face down on the sewage-covered road.

"Dead!" He shouted back to us. Kicking the boy hard in the ribs.

"Gunther!" I shouted, "You fucking cunt!" Flinching at my newly accustomed to use of swear words, I bent down to check his pulse. It was slow, but beating.

"He's alive. We're taking him back."

"Not another piece of shit to add to our basket, Alan. For fuck sake." Gunther moaned, he was already heading back to the vehicle. He knew all too well that I wasn't one to argue with when it came to children. I picked the boy up from his shoulders and onto my back, the release of pressure from his chest caused him to vomit blood all over my neck and shoulders. Gunther had ruptured a lung. Shit.

"Get back to camp!" I shouted. "Quick!"