We are the children of Britain. Recruited from her Council estates - Our arms are covered in ink. Panthers and Snakes coil around each other. Dragons fly above love hearts emblazoned with the word 'Mum'
The London boy next to me grins. White teeth flashing through an oil stained face as the War machines engines whine and groan slowly lifting us into the air.
'It's like the Wild fucking Geese' He screams into my ear. His laughter drowned out by the helicopters rotor blades. I am 11 years old again. On the television I can see Richard Harris limping down a runway, pleading with Richard Burton in the Film. 'Shoot me... Shoot me...'
I look back at Sven. An unlit cigarette hangs from his mouth. He has an imaginery friend called Mr Far-Far and in his Vehicle is a bow and some arrows. He jabs a finger toward a small window. Other Chinooks are in formation with us. Red Tracer fire spews out from them smashing into the desert floor below.
We land heavily. Hundreds of troops pour out of the aircraft. We run to the cover of fortified positions. No rounds come in. Safety. Laughter. Then we stand to.
Above us B-52's smudge vapour trails into the blue sky. Night falls and is broken by the man made daylight of carpet bombing. Flashes erupt on the horizon. Then the rumble of High Explosive is carried across our trenches.
Across the front line Britains children ready themselves for war. Charms are kissed and prayers are whispered. Night remains day and the enemy dies. I smoke a cigarette as I watch a hundred lives ending. Sven is talking to Mr Far-Far 'This shit gives me wood' He chuckles. I laugh too. The world has gone insane..