I had that dream again. That dream that has me waking up in a cold sweat, with my pulse racing, gasping for air as if I were drowning. My hearts about to go off like a claymore. No matter what I do, I close my eyes and I'm suddenly back in the desert...

Afghanistan.

I'm scuttling over the sand dunes on my belly like a lizard. My camouflage fatigues blending with golden grains that ripple beneath me, carving a trail, like a ship sailing across a calm stretch of water. Even in my dreams the desert is hot. The scorching sun relentlessly beaming down upon me. The rays blistering my dark skin; cracking and splitting like crackling on a spit roasted pig. Grains of salty sand seep into these bloody sores, causing me to wince.

I'd spent many a night in barracks, after End Ex, rubbing cocoa butter into my skin. The same way my mother had done for me as a child. The sweet creamy aroma of the moisturiser was always a great comfort to me when I was in the barracks, when the thunder of distant mortar fire set us on edge. The soothing smell of cocoa butter would always take me home.

But there was no comforting smell of cocoa butter in my dream to bring me peace.

I wouldn't be wearing it. Not then. Not on a mission. Not for those rag head fuckers to smell. When you're a spotter for a sniper, you've got to be invisible. Leave no trace. Not of any kind. No hint that you've been under their very nose.

This dream...is always the same. Same mission. Same objective.

Me and the sniper advance to the outer perimeter of a Taliban compound. Our presence hasn't been detected. We position ourselves behind the cleft of a dune. A camouflage sheet draped over the pair of us. Concealed from any eyes in the sky. No drones. No spotters.

We don't have long. The more time we spend in one place the more chance of being exposed. We get in. Take our target. And scarper. In and out. No dawdling. I scower the compound through my field binoculars for a target. Any target. The dream is so vivid. I can make out every detail of the camp; the dusty tent covers, the yawning cave entrances into the mountains, the endless piles of Kalesnikoff rifles. But nobody is there. Not a soul to be seen. No guards on sentry duty, no afghan civilians taking a breather, nothing.

Are they at prayers? I wonder.

I inspect the tents. Seeing if one is being used as a make shift Mosque.

'Williams?' the sniper barks, 'Tyrone?! What's going on?!'

I glance at him. He or she has no face. It's concealed. Veiled in camouflage paint. A wide brim hat sheilding Its identity. The capped rifle scope pressed against Its eye.

'We're running out of time,' the shooter hisses, 'you're taking too long. You're going to get us killed!'

I peer back through my lense seeking out a victim. Anyone who'll do. Like a macabre game of Where's Wally. Beads of sweat gather on my furrowed brow. But I can't see a soul.

'No target,' I reply through gritted teeth, 'I have no target.'

'Negative. You must find a target.'

'I can't! There's no one there! Abort. We must abort the mission.'

I try to get up to retreat, but the sniper grabs me by the elbow with a vice like grip. I am rooted to the spot. I turn to face the gunman, but the gunmans face is gone. It is a giant bloody wound with two beaming white eyes glaring up at me. I had seen many faces like this in my tour. Vacant eyes rolled up into their sockets. A caked bloody shroud. The sound of flies buzzing around the wound, crawling in the gore.

'You can't go anywhere soldier. You can't leave till the mission is over. You can't desert your post. You must stay with me. You must stay with all of us! We all stay here. All of us. We can never leave. And nor shall you.'

I tremble. Even in my dream I tremble as I stare into the lifeless eyes of this phantom sniper. It is then that I hear it. A hollow, distant whistle, growing louder and louder in pitch. I know that sound. It is a sound that causes your heart to skip a beat. A sound that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. A sound that makes you want to open your bowels. I turn to the clear blue sky and see it. The winged herald of death.

As the missile draws closer.

'They've seen us! How? How can they have seen us? We're invisible! I'm invisible!'

I try to free my self from the snipers grasp. I feel sharp needles raking my skin. I glimpse down at my arm. The hand that holds me fast has turned to bone. Skeletal fingers scratch at my flesh till it's red raw. The wooshing sound of the rocket is almost deafening. I have enough time to turn and face my doom. The nose cone comes down upon me like an arrow. I stand powerless. Helpless. Awaiting the inevitable as I'm struck down...

All turns to darkness.