He is nineteen years old and takes a swig from the near empty bottle of Johnny Walker red. It makes him gag. It tastes like wood and smoke and something he thinks should be called peat. He doesn't know what peat is, to him it's an idea. Reminds him of wet mud and grass. Something …
The boy is a trained killer in woodland-camo, rip-sole jungle boots, a kevlar helmet and a scowl. He digs shovelfuls of wet sucking mud from a hole. Drenched and miserable, he is sick as fuck of the army and all its machinations. The hole is for a sixty-caliber machine gun that will be aimed at …
