North Damascus, November Brigade position, nine in the morning.
Colonel Bashir's left hand was gone.
The army doctor cinched a tourniquet around his wrist, the dark brown rubber tube biting into the flesh; the bleeding stopped, but the pain had him shaking all over.
He leaned against the wall of the trench, looking at that young soldier—the one who had been crying just now—now squatting at the edge of the trench, peering down. His face was all grime, with two white streaks where tears had cut through the ash.
"What's your name?" Bashir asked.
The young man turned his head. "Yusuf, Colonel."
"Yusuf, did you fire just now?"
"I did."
"Did you hit anything?"
Yusuf lowered his head. "Hit the armor, ricocheted."
Bashir laughed, and the laughter hurt. "First time on the battlefield, being able to pull the trigger is already something. First time I went to war, I didn't even fire my gun. Wet myself."
