Something cold and raw ripped into me. Without thinking my left hand clutches at the base of my throat, while my right is anchored by the overwhelming weight of my gun. My eyes stutter across the desert surroundings. Strong winds have picked up and swirl the sand into a fog barrier, barring my view of whatever caused the rupture in my body.

Pulling my hand away I see the causation of my shock - blood. My left hand shivers as if it has been plunged into ice. Then I feel that cold rise through my forearms, tendrils of the icy feeling shocking through me. My right hand falls numb and the gun clatters silently to the sandy bed.

I try to take a breath, but all I exhale is blood. My legs go numb, and in a solitary motion I buckle onto my knees before collapsing onto my back. The helmet lands awkwardly, causing a crook in my neck - but in that moment the comfortability of my neck is not a priority. I feel a pulsing in my throat and a thick liquid pour into my mouth. My continuous attempts to breathe cause a pain unrecognisable and unfamiliar. It’s as if a tennis ball is being jammed in my throat.

Helpless. That’s all I am. Helpless.

Tears well up in my eyes. I knew the risk when I agreed to a second tour; we both did. In a madness only possessed in a dying man my left hand rips at my left breast pocket, and from it removes a photo of my pregnant wife. The ball is getting deeper, the liquid is rising, the pain intolerable. I caress her face with my bloody fingers as if I were wiping her gentle brow for a final time.

I hope my child knows their father died for his country, died for them, died for the mission. I feel the other soldiers reach into my pocket and take my piece of the device. I feel the picture slip from my grasp. I feel…