He doesn’t see them as human—he just puts a bullet in them, wipes the dust off his boot with the shirt of a fallen soldier and moves behind a cement plastered wall, shielding himself from both return fire and the tormenting desert sun. He reloads his assault rifle with haste and skill.

An automatic weapon spits in the close distance. Hot metal whips past, inches to his left, whistling just below the sound barrier like potential promises to end his life. Particles of sand explode at his feet like shrapnel—stinging his face. He winces, then waits.

The silence means they’re either busy reloading, or pretending to—hoping that their prey senses an offensive weakness and decides to peer out with thier enemy eyes for a shot at glory. Then BAM ! another breathless mother is holding a letter back in America.

Maybe they've left, he thinks just before the patters 
of footfalls grow louder.

His headset crackles, “Area secure,” the seargent assures. “Get back into formation soldier.”