What happened about 2 years ago...

Egyptian Sudan
Sudan provinces, Nubia
Nubian Desert
7 July 1896, 4:43 p.m.

Benjamin blinked and wiped his arm across his face, wet with sweat. The burning desert sun provided a dry, blistering heat in a cloudless sky. Sand hung in his eyelashes, scattered all over the skin on his face and elsewhere in every crack of his body and equipment. Several times their rifles had already gone on strike because the sand had jammed the loading mechanism. Here, at the end of the world, meticulous care of their equipment and especially their weapons was therefore vital for survival. It might have decided today whether one lived or died bleeding to death like a mangy mutt in the desert sand.

Something was reassuring about it. Cleaning the weapon, putting it back together, and knowing that the tool for survival would work when it mattered. It, along with other unremarkable little things, gave him a deceptive sense of security. More or less, at least. For security was an illusion in this place. There was no security in war, not even in the small settlements. A fortnight ago, an elderly local had given them bread and shortly afterward the first ones spat out bloodstained shards. Thick red drops smeared on the bread, drying from the heat and turning it an ugly brown.

Benjamin paused in his movement and stared at his comrade, from whose mouth the roughly chewed chunks fell to the ground. How he gasped and tried to scream, but choked and gasped on his blood. Benjamin remembered the sickening crunch of the broken pieces in his mouth, between his teeth. One of his comrades did not survive the attack, two suffered serious injuries. Fortunately, more had not eaten of it. And although this memory would always haunt him, if only because it taught him how quickly death could come in the most inconspicuous of moments, it was not these shadows that kept him awake. It might sound simple. But like everyone else, it was the gunfire and the uncertainty, along with the casualties of the battles, that wore him down.

It could happen at any time of the day or night. While one was snoozing, fast asleep, trying to bury one's legacies somewhere. While one was cleaning the gun, cooking, or tending to a wounded man in the military hospital. When they played cards or read letters from home to each other, sharing welded them together in a different way than anyone could ever understand. When another lover didn't answer when she stopped writing so often. When their mothers' tears blurred the ink in the letters or a thick envelope arrived with pictures from home, they shared these things with each other just as they shared the last of their snuff, alcohol, and cigarettes.

One moment they were handing their comrade a worn, already partially tattered book. The next, all hell broke loose with thunderous gunfire. And always, in the end, motionless bodies remained in the sand. Theirs or the Mahdists'. Death made no difference, nor did the vultures. Sometimes they didn't even have time to bury or retrieve their dead comrades. Let alone secure at least some of their property so that their parents had something to bury...

Benjamin wiped at his beard, which was already overgrowing his face more wildly than was good for him. He had not been able to wash or shave for days. Nor had he slept enough. In his hand, he turned the silver flask that his friend had given him shortly before his death. It was such a small, inconspicuous, actually not-so-valuable trinket. A flask like there were dozens, hundreds, or thousands. Only especially of the kind in which the engravings were a little more careful instead of cheap, as you could get them at any pawnbroker. Still, it was the most valuable thing he owned at the moment. Intertwined engraved letters formed a "P" and an "R" on the bottle: Percy Richmond. His thumb stroked the initials.

Ben closed his eyes. A brief gust of wind swept over the camp of sand-colored tents that had been provisionally erected on a barren hill of rock in the middle of the desert. Behind them, the mountain rose to their advantage and disadvantage as a means of cover, but at least it provided some shade for part of the day. The beige fabric protecting him from the sun on the back of his neck fluttered slightly as he leaned back. But the wind brought no cooling, no relief from the heat. It was warm and nauseating and Ben sank into thoughts of the distant, rainy home in England. It would be hours before the sun would sink and the cold of the night would gather them by the fire. Now, most of the other soldiers were holed up in the corridors of the ruins or in the few shadows of the temple remains that rose from the sand.

Round stone pillars lined avenues long since buried under the sand. Some lay toppled and fallen, like the age from which they came, on the ground. A few others of the thick stone blocks still towered, only to end in roughly crumbled pieces. Only a few were still standing, giving a hint of the old splendor. It had taken them a while to recognize the old foundations and temple walls in some of the stone blocks.

It took even longer for one of them to find the narrow entrance into the old corridors revealed by a stone slide. Between rubble and rock, a gap opened up that led into an ancient temple or tomb. The passages had been cut into the stone, the walls hewn and once painted. Now, much of the paint had crumbled off the walls. What wooden grave goods and furniture had been there, largely destroyed by termites and weather.

His gaze slid away from other tarnished columns. The one at his back was wide enough to lean against and seek some shade. Now his eyes were glued to the passage in the stone, a little way away. It was still in his stomach that most of his comrades had pounced without restraint on the remaining offerings and grave goods like magpies. Antique jewelry, talismans... the greed was too great, the opposition too weak. Their commander hurriedly stopped the quarrel, which had degenerated too quickly into a full-blown brawl. Still, enough had filled their pockets in the hope of taking more than traumatic experiences back home with them. For him, it was a desecration of graves and theft from the dead. Although he was not an overly devout man, it still outraged him.

Maybe it was because of his upbringing and origins, which some comrades still held against him. And that, even though he trudged with them through the same damned sand, did the same dirty work and choked down the same food. He thirsted and hungered as they did - he, too, was basking in the unrelenting Sudanese sun. But yes, Ben did mind looting ancient temple sites like filthy grave robbers. With puckered lips, Ben slid the flask back into his uniform and then reached into the outer pocket. His fingers felt the palm-sized piece of metal, groped along the curves and edges, then pulled it out.

The hot desert sun slid over tarnished gold or brass, partially cracked but still pretty semi-precious stones on two spread wings of a talisman. A Ba amulet, he had learned, for some of the allied soldiers were Egyptian. He had found the talisman under the desert sands as he had raged away from his tomb-desecrating comrades who were digging through the broken open burial chambers. It was far enough away that it was probably not from the grave. That was the only reason he pocketed it - and yet struggled every day to bring it back. But Anwar, one of the locals, had told him that such amulets if found, brought good luck. Therefore he should keep it. And so he did.

Sighing, he put it back and wiped his forehead. Dirt and sand smudged with sweat, drawing streaks on his tanned skin.

In the distance, he heard thunder. A low whistle. Then, completely unexpectedly, a projectile detonated not far from him. The projectile dug into the ground. Sand, earth, and rock rose meters high into the air, filling it with dust and sandy, earthy smoke. Stones flew about, clattering against larger rocks and digging deep into the soft desert sand. Ben's ears rang. Wiped sideways by the force of the impact, it had flung him against one of the wall remnants. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut, blinked, and ordered his senses back to work. 

Everything was spinning, colors a blur of beige and grey. He snorted and his breath hit hot sand, swirling away a few grains of dust. His head buzzed and beeped. An agonizing, shrill sound that sat in his temples and behind his eyes. Disoriented, Ben tried to pull himself together. Great clouds of dust swirled up, worsening his vision by the second. The smell of gunpowder was in the air, then the first rifle shots rang out. Thunder rumbled at too short intervals, flashes of muzzle flashes. Like hail on corrugated iron roofs, pattering like drumbeats.

Ben's thoughts were racing. A cauldron of sensations seethed in his chest without room or a valve. He heard barking orders and saw comrades taking up positions, taking cover behind pillars, remnants of walls, and anything else they could find. Ben also threw himself behind a half-height pillar. Hunched over, crouching behind the stone, he tried to orientate himself and get an overview. Not far away, a cannonball struck, tearing stones and people away. Screams mingled with explosions and the deafening bang.

With trembling fingers, Ben fumbled for the leather strap around his shoulder from which hung the weight of his Winchester. Not once had he fired at a human being. It went against his oath, yet he carried it like any other soldier.

He flinched when a shot hit the wall behind which he was crouching. Some sandstone burst off and trickled over his head, onto his shoulder, and from there across his chest. His fingers tightened around the stock of his rifle.

More and more of his troops fell victim to the unexpected attack. Dead bodies began to line the camp. One hit soldier tore into one of the tents as his dying body collapsed over it.

Ben could barely breathe, then one of his comrades, hit by a ricochet, screamed for his life. Benjamin left cover and crawled to him in the bloodstained sand. A young lad, certainly no older than his early 20s, writhed in pain as his blood seeped into the desert sand. It spurted from the wound like a freshly risen spring. Ben's hands pressed down on the profusely bleeding stomach wound, soaking themselves in the warm, sticky red. The boy's eyes were wide, hot tears streamed down his cheeks and his face was contorted in sheer terror. Ben could see the light of life going out behind his soul mirrors. How his pupils dilated - they became rigid, and his fingers went limp. Then the young man stopped moving.

"FUCK!" Ben screamed the loss and frustration off his chest and tore at the strap of his bag. His fingers left bloody marks on the leather. Then something clicked. A cock pulled back. Much too close.

He jerked his head up and saw a Mahdist standing just a few steps away from him. Ben's body stiffened and he immediately felt sick. He felt his fingers trembling as the man raised the rifle. Ben swallowed hard and his lips were dry as he raised his arms to show he had no intention of shooting. He pointed very slowly to the bandage on his arm, which had a cross emblazoned on it. Medic. If the man possessed anything like honor or compassion...

The gunshot shattered every sound in his world. Ben felt the impact on his body. How the force of the shot hit him and for a heartbeat time stood still. Ben opened his lips, closed them again and his chin tilted towards his chest. On the sandy beige uniform, the red of his own blood opened around the blackened center of powder soot, like a flower opening. How it soaked the fabric and ran down his chest and stomach. He stared at the wound, then at the man in front of him, and another shot rang out.

It hit him in the shoulder, causing him to turn sideways on impact. Ben's world flickered as he fell to the sand. His body shivered, he felt the cold despite the searing desert heat. His field of vision blurred, metallic taste filled his mouth, but he no longer even possessed the strength to cough it out. The black veil tightened, as did the pressure around his chest. His limbs tingled, then went numb. And Ben was aware that this was the end of him. That he was leaving his life here in the sand.

He was wandering through an endless white desert. His thoughts were formless and had as little permanence as the sand that tickled his skin. He felt bottomless peace. An everlasting peace.

نورك ،

ثم تكمن الأرض في ظلام شديد ،

لا عين ترى الآخر

وجه الجميع أعمى.

هل تنهض لتضيء

(*) ثم يتم فتح كل عين من جديد.

A voice echoed in his mind, through his very essence. It felt as if it penetrated deeper than mortal words could, groping for his very soul. Glaring light stung his eyes, blinding him, and the beating of wings sounded in his mind. Wings brushed his face, Ben tried to blink, but the light burned like a sun in his eyes.

Suddenly his world wavered and spun as an hourglass turned abruptly upside down. Then he suddenly took a deep breath and filled his lungs with sandy air. His senses awoke as if struck by lightning, but his body was heavy and leaden. As if he had just woken from a long slumber. Ben moved his fingers with difficulty, struggled, and braced himself to rise.

Sand had buried him, now trickling out of his hair and off his body: the grains of fine desert sand fell innocently rustling back into the endless mass that surrounded him as if it had graciously bedded his eternal sleep. Ben felt disoriented. Lost, as if he had been walking in circles for many weeks. His mouth was dry, his chest felt as if it would have to learn to breathe again. Slowly he raised his eyes... and his blood froze in his veins. Around him lay his comrades, motionless like dolls in the desert sand. Partly covered by small dunes like dusty shrouds of death from which fingers, arms, and legs peeped out - torn open empty eyes without soul and without life. Around him lay the destroyed, burnt camp, and not a sound could be heard. Dead silence.

Ben's body convulsed under the force of too many thoughts washing over him, and with jerky movements, he felt for his chest. The blood on his clothes was brown and had long since dried. Roughly and with cold fingers he undid the buttons on his uniform, and impatiently tore open his shirt. He felt over his bare chest felt the beat of his heart inside it and found nothing but smooth, unbroken skin.

Then there was a knock at his door and Ben opened his eyes.

* Arabic: If you go down in your land of light, then the earth lies in concentrated darkness. No eye sees the other, everyone's face is blinded. If you go up to give light, then every eye is opened again. (Ägyptische Hymnen & Gebete, 214, Jan Assmann)