Battling a Human Tide

The accumulated stink of life was unbearable. Jackson put his hand over his dust mask and fought the urge to vomit. The faces of the refugees stared up at him; each one was different, but had the same half-starved grime covered expression of fear and confusion. It plastered on every face, be they baby, grandpa or mother.

He couldn’t stand any more. The hatch clanged when he brought it down above him, and he peered into the periscope.

“How bad is it?” asked the gunner.

“You don’t have any idea.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Minus one hundred.”

“Shit.”

The gunner fell silent. He was a curious person, always quizzing Jackson on what the commander could see. The aiming scope of a gun was hardly the ideal means for taking in the outside view.

It was hot inside the armoured vehicle, and sweat prickled Jackson’s back. He could hear the driver muttering an endless stream of profanities. They were trying to make their way by road to a nearby ridge, but so far it had been like trying to row against a strong tide.

The refugees were fleeing the country. Usually other countries tried not to get involved with civil wars. But when the rebels battling the government of this particular backwater had boasted of being possession of a nuclear weapon and the intention of using it, other countries had no choice but get their hands dirty.

As a lowly sergeant, Jackson wasn’t privy to intelligence as to whether there was a nuclear bomb, but the fact he was in the area gave a worrying clue. There was an uneasy cease-fire, but the coalition forces had wasted no time in backing up diplomacy with military might.

Jackson wasn’t going to complain about his situation.

“Let’s get off this bloody road,” he said, then took a deep lungfull of the humid air and opened the hatch once again.