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A blinding white light tore through the darkness, between the lids of a pair of eyes. Driven by an irrepressible urge they started to open, flinching, gradually and painfully, encrusted in a sticky coating of hot blood and fine pale sand. Two pupils dilated inside blood shot eyes that were frantically darting about trying to focus on a point away from the scorching sun in the featureless sky, being able only to concentrate on a deafening ringing sound that seemed to emanate from deep within.

The man let out a confused groan of frustration shutting his eyes tightly, struggling to stay conscious through the throbbing pain in his head and a total buzzing sensation in his body. He suddenly and violently coughed from deep within his tired aching lungs, dryly expelling sand, blood and phlegm over a grimy red woven blazer, fringed in noble golden patterns.

He groaned again and slowly raised his right hand from below the roasting sand and arched his arm over toward his face spilling small grains over his chest. The sleeve of his blazer, already halfway rolled up slipped down the rest of his arm to his shoulder. Gingerly he moved his sandy fingers to examine the source of the pain. Being dazed and confused state, he ran his fingers carelessly across his numb clammy face and into a large bleeding gash on the side of his head above his ear. Immediately his hand was violently flung away in agony from the gash and back into the sand, followed by a horrifying scream of pain that seemed to make no sound to him. Echoing his scream and rousing him slightly from his confused state was the emerging menacing crackle of gunfire and the shouting of other men that seemed to be so far away in the distance that sent violent shivers deep down inside his gut leaving him tingling with fear.

He once again raised his arm over his body and rolled over onto his front, snorting out sand that had been blown up his nose by the gently breeze. He placed his tar-blackened hands flat upon the hot desert floor, fine sand wisped between his fingers, single grains lifted into the air with the slightest flurry of wind, blow away into the endless desert expanse. Despite his head that was pulsing with pressure and swollen with the wound, he managed to slowly raise his torso followed by his bleeding head, he opened his eyes to see a trail of bloodied saliva trickling to the ground from his lips and smouldering ash blowing underneath him. He slowly arched his head towards the direction of the ash to see a small burning crater and his peeked helmet and rifle about three feet away from the place where his head had come to rest after he had fallen.

He coughed again and his vision swiftly flickered between grey and black, his remaining conscienceless blew away with the wind and lost its grip on the worlds face. He came thudding back down onto the ground with an abrupt thud, his face pushed under the sand. "AY MATE ARE YOU OK?" came a voice in the distance. He was unable to give a reply. "Oh God, not another one, MEDIC! Medic medic medic…" the voice echoed off into the eternal darkness.

His eyes were tightly fused but as he regained partial consciousness he was aware of a dim tawny orange light bathing him in its gentle radiance, filling him with golden memories of sunny days, walking in the park with his loving wife and child, so real he could almost reach out and touch them. The buzzing sound was no longer troubling him, he could here the squeaky grid of wagon wheels, the clip clop of horses and something far worse, the grim shattered groans of the dying bodies lying over and around him. The foul, rancid, stench of death and pain lingered all about him, causing him to gag

Two whispering voices could be heard a few feet away; "What a waste…Poor sods, they never stood a chance!" muttered one of the men coldly. "Theirs’ is not to ask why but to follow orders." said the other reassuringly "Well its war you know and it’s not all fun and games, people die. Half of these didn’t even know why they were here!" "Shhh! They’re not even dead yet, you call yourself a humanitarian! Show some damn respect! These men came here to fight for their country, no matter how futile you think it is!" he replied angrily.

The thudding of a galloping hoarse interrupted their argument. Over the crest of the hill in front of them galloped a cavalry scout, riding full pelt, kicking up a long trail of dust from the dry savannah track, his gold edged ornamental uniform glinted and shimmered in the sunset like a halo as he neared them. He reached them and pulled along side the lead wagon, his stone grey warhorse gave an exhausted snort and reared up in protest, turning around on the spot, its eyes flashing wildly. A harsh tug on the reign brought it back under control and it returned to the side of the wagon, snorting and trotting impatiently. "Lieutenant Ramsey, 3^rd royal scout brigade reporting, sir!" he stated in a gruff dignified voice "Very good, go ahead." replied one of the wagon tenders "The camp is exactly four miles from here, you should reach it just after nightfall, I have informed them of your numbers, sir." he said while pointing his sleek sabre toward the distant horizon. "Good work, tell the others." "Yes sir!" he jerked on the reign, the horse snorted again, pulled left and galloped to onward toward the other wagons.

A fearsome balding man in a bloodied apron, wielding a surgical blade stood poised for action, clenching his stubby fists, barking out instructions to the frantic orderlies in the near darkness of the camp. The remnants of his grey hair wisped about madly in the warm humid wind, his beady eyes bulged and his head dripped with cold sweat and blood as he boomed out the orders through the chaos. "Come on! Move it lad! They’ll be here before long, finish off with this lot. Get it out of the way!" He shouted, directing a young man to a lifeless case. "YOU! Yes you, Peterson, move it over there! Smith! Get that damn drip ready and clean that ops table, NOW!!"

In the distance a tiny flickering light could be made out through the gloom, followed by another, and another until a total of seven could be seen in a staggered line with assorted smaller lights glittering at the rear descending upon the squalid collection of tents. As the lights neared, they could be made out as the swinging lanterns fixed onto the heads of the wagons and the smouldering torches of the walking wounded, the grim faced soldiers were illuminated in the eerie pale glow like phantoms marching into hell, they all new the pain and anguish to come, far worse than any dealt by the enemy.

As the wagons pulled into the centre of the camp the frantic orderlies became a well-oiled machine, their knowledge and experience took over from apprehension and repulsion. Some cases were immediately disregarded, their souls long since departed, their bodies, destroyed beyond repair. Others were directed to the waiting tent, which doubled as an operating theatre. The ‘fortunate’ ones were stretched onto the cold steel operating tables and were immediately set upon by the surgeons’ knife.

The remorseful grimace of the face of the surgeon was over in a minute; he placed down his tools, looked up to the orderlies and stated boldly "He is dead. The shrapnel is in to deep. Well? What are you waiting for? Get moving! He is dead! Oh and clean this knife boy!"