He did not know that he would shoot again, in two weeks, on the range at Stickledown and that Bellamy, Rogers and Smyth would crawl off their mats to watch the accumulation of the yellow markers on the V-Bull, and that Cox would pack away his Garand rifle, hover behind him and shake his head in awe, that Jenkins would rummage in his kit for an old, tarnished silver spoon and present it to him, that the report of the vintage Lee Enfield No. 4, Mark 1 (T) would blast out over the familiar heathland.
And he did not know that a young officer, from the Ministry of Defence, would come and grip his hand, mutter apologies to his sun-gaunt and hurt-ravaged face, when he would not understand what offence demanded apology.
And he did not know that for a month the city of Kirkuk would be under military dusk-to-dawn curfew because her name was scrawled on walls and beside her name was painted the crude outline of a rifle shape topped by the bulk of a telescopic sight and that a torturer would be recalled to Baghdad for investigation.
And he did not know that his grandfather would weep an old man’s tears when told where he had been and what he had done.
And he did not know that he would light a candle each evening and set it on the window sill of his home, and sit with a dog on his lap and remember the fire over the oilfield at Baba Gurgur, and a faraway place and faraway people.
And he did not know where the road he had walked would finish.
Gus felt the heartbeat of the dog against him and began to climb the path to the ridge.
His shadow danced in front of him.
Behind him the sun fell and its flame guttered.