‘Maybe we should shoot it.’ He’s the first to speak in hours. The soldiers lie in harsh angles beneath the sprawl of a dead tree, savouring whatever dappled shade they can find. The land is the underside of a stone pan dusted with orange sand that spits and sputters wherever it is disturbed. Blown by the infrequent breeze, the irritant grains stick to any sweat-slicked flesh they can find, ingraining themselves between thick plates of armour and nestling against the chafing skin.
Of the twenty soldiers, at least one should be keeping vigil. None do. They are too enveloped in self-preservation against the endless drone of the heat. Closed eyes locking-in thoughts of cooler places that would fry the moment they left the mind.
It disturbs everyone when Owolabi speaks. His voice is unexpected and forces them to unfurl from whatever cocoon they have manifested for themselves. It brings an immediate and unwelcome reminder of their present situation and their lack of care.
‘Shoot what?’ says Walker, making no effort to hide her irritation.
‘The sun,’ says Owolabi, as if it is obvious.
There is a collective groan.
‘Shut it,’ complains Walker. She aims her rifle at the sun, then lets it fall back into her lap. The effort wasn’t worth the humour.
The soldiers go back to cooking alive in silence.
Paddy Dobson
12th August 2020