"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta." The sound was real now, and too close not to be soldiers I know.

"Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba," the 50-cal weighed in, barking its distinct rhythm. I lay in bed, listening.

Earlier today we rolled up some of the flaps of the tent exposing the screens. The ground was wet from the recent heavy rains and the smell of the damp earth, drying in the midday sun, drifted in musty and dateless, the antediluvian mud of the crescent, the smell of the history of mankind.

It is the twilight of seasons here. In the early morning the air is cool, but by afternoon, the tent is warm. When you touch the roof with your palm you can feel the heat radiating in. The temperature rises when you stand and you do not need to touch the canvas to feel the heat it emits. The heat is an ancient presence and announces its inevitable return to bear down on us all, a castigation.

"Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba." I lay there in the dark listening, relaxed, and unworried for myself. I feel the shame of that comfort, the guilt of it all.