40 paces...45...50. Then turn and 50 more. His legs weak from lack of food, but adrenaline and fear keeping him awake. Other "soldiers", just out of puberty pushed past him, unable to sleep through the constant sound of American bombs. Occasionally one would land close enough to light the sky and the faces of his fellow conscripts. One clutched his arm, tears streaking the dust that ringed his eyes. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he just shook his head, released his grip and shuffled on. A young boy, who should have been playing in the street or studying in school, stopped him. "Please tell me the Americans won't come here" his eyes pleaded with him. "I heard they were dropping food." He pulled the scarf around his neck that his mother had given him when he left for the front, snugged his threadbare jacket and prayed that she would escape the bombs. He remembered that today was his sister's third birthday. The roar of a jet engine shook the ground. He looked up just as the bomb rushed down on him.