By Samantha Oliver - Year 13, Gore High School
Sweat cascaded down Ian's face.
Wisps of midnight black hair were glued to his forehead.
His frail frame moved with caution.
A thin layer of golden sand dusted his combat boots, and his grey uniform hugged his body.
Closely beside him walked his four-legged best friend - a German shepherd which thoroughly searched the ground for any familiar smells.
They moved suspiciously and carefully with their backpacks clinging to them and their rifles poised.
Sand stretched towards the horizon in all directions, covering the land like a giant blanket.
High above the soldiers, the sun hung in the sky, beating down on them.
They advanced through the wasteland, edging towards a layer of rolling hills.
The land was barren and dry.
The soldiers willed on a breeze to help with the sweltering heat, but it never came.
Trailing behind the group was an endless line of footprints that had imprinted on the sand like cautious carvings.
There was next to no noise, just the shuffling of feet and the occasional scattering of disturbed rocks.
As they reached the bottom of the hills, it was eerily quiet.
A chilling ''clink'' cut through the air like a knife.
Suddenly, it was as though everything was in slow motion.
Dirt, sand and fire rose out of the ground to the left of Ian with incredible force, throwing him to the ground like a rag doll.
Men were sent flying in all directions. Sand and dirt covered Ian's eyes and face. He could no longer feel his rifle in his grasp.
Pain slammed his body, wrapping around him and working its way up his legs, stomach and arms like fire consuming a wooden house.
He strained to sit up but crumpled back into the ground.
Every muscle in his body screamed with each movement he made.
All around him, men were crying out in obvious need of help.
Gunshots echoed through the air.
Ian felt around him, desperately searching for a familiar furry body, but his hands came up empty.
A single salty tear slipped from his eye and streamed down his face.
Parting his cracked, dry lips, he attempted to speak but his voice remained silent.
There he lay, feebly attempting to call out as blood gushed from his body.
His throat was dry and parched.
His words were lost among the painful cries of men and the echoing sound of gunshots.
His attempts to call out were stunted as the life was rapidly leaving his body.
The intense heat wasn't even enough to block the cold shivers from shaking him.
Blood-curdling and bone-chilling screams poured into his ears and he couldn't block the sounds out.
He wished for nothing more than to be home with his wife and daughter.
Finally mustering enough strength to move, he was barely able to pry out the small photograph nestled in his front pocket.
Brushing his finger over the photograph, he remembered the day it was taken.
Suddenly it was a lazy Sunday.
The sound of rain lightly tapping on the tin roof filled his ears.
Flour and other baking ingredients were spread all throughout the kitchen. It looked like a thin layer of snow had settled on the kitchen counter and lino floors.
The sweet scent of fresh baking surrounded him and he could feel the heat from the fireplace as he hoisted another log on to the flames.
High-pitched laughs rang out as his wife and daughter playfully wrestled over the last cookie.
Nothing about this day had been extraordinary in any way.
It was just a typical rainy Sunday afternoon, but holding the photo in his hand, Ian felt peace.
Brushing his finger over it and gazing at the pure happiness on their faces was enough to force the pain and suffering out of his mind.
He gently lay his hand over his heart with the photo firmly in his grasp.
