Wasps

It was hot. Hot like hell itself. It was Rosh Hashana – Jewish New Year - and it felt as if summer was giving one final burst, unleashing a wave of desert heat, before surrendering to autumn.

I stood outside the ammunition bunker at the artillery base, webbing strapped to my body, rifle in hand. The uniform weighed on me in a way it never had before. Sweat trickled slowly down my back and soaked the collar of my uniform. Even the slightest movement made the fabric cling tighter to my skin. The air itself felt thick and exhausted, as if the whole desert had stopped breathing.

I was on guard duty.

It was the worst shift possible – the one between two and six in the afternoon. Three hours and fifty-three minutes. I told myself that sounded encouraging. It didn’t.

Behind me stretched the bunker, rows of artillery shells resting there silently, almost peacefully, harmless for now. Ahead of me, beyond a low hill and several kilometers of empty desert, ran the main road. The base itself was hidden behind another hill, far enough away that it barely felt real anymore.

Nothing moved out there. No voices, no engines, no radio chatter. Just heat and dust.

And the endless buzzing of wasps.

Someone from the previous shift had left scraps of food behind, and now the wasps were celebrating.

Truth be told, the bunker was the perfect place for guard duty. I could sit back and let the silence stretch around me without any fear, knowing I’d see anyone crossing the distant hill long before they spotted me.

And even if the battalion commander showed up in his jeep, I would’ve heard the engine long before he arrived. And on Rosh Hashana, of all days, even he probably wasn’t motivated enough to come check on the bunker guard.

I could easily lie down on the rickety folding cot beside me, take a nap, and no one would ever know.

If only it weren’t so hot.

And if only those damn wasps would leave me alone.

The wasps circled me like restless bullets. The worst part was knowing they could sting me at any moment, for no reason at all.

Three hours and forty-six minutes left.

Time seemed frozen. And even once my shift was over, someone back at the base would still need to remember I existed and walk all the way down here to replace me. Another fifteen minutes, at least. An entire hour could disappear like that.

Then I’d have to walk all the way back to the base myself. Barely enough time for a quick shower before the next guard shift.

I shifted my rifle and slung it around my neck so I could rest it on both shoulders.

A few wasps – two or three of them – crawled across the ground, feeding on a piece of candy someone had left behind.

I slowly raised my rifle and looked at them through the sight. Then I lowered it again and went back to pacing in circles.

The heat was unbearable. I thought I was going to lose my mind. Three hours and forty minutes left. I should’ve brought a book or something. But I had nothing with me except my thoughts and the heat.

One wasp flew past my ear with an ominous buzz, and landed on the edge of the folding cot I was sitting on.

I stared at it.

It looked as if it were waiting for something. Or maybe it was simply resting from the heat.

I stood up and raised my rifle again, aiming at the wasp.

It didn’t move. I could load a magazine into the rifle, chamber a round, and fire. Then I could quickly remove the magazine, replace the missing bullet, sling the rifle back over my shoulder, even radio innocently to operations that I’d heard a shot fired somewhere south of the base. By the time anyone even began wondering where the shot had come from, everything would already look perfectly normal again.

I kept staring at the wasp. It was a big one, its body swollen and translucent. I would’ve nailed it, no doubt about that.

Slowly, I opened the pouch on my webbing and pulled out a magazine. I slid it into the rifle and chambered a round.

The wasp still didn’t move.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Fly away and you’ll get out of this alive.”

But it didn’t move.

I pressed the rifle’s stock against my shoulder socket, just like I’d been taught in basic training. The wasp aligned perfectly in my sights, and the rifle was steady and rigid in my hands.

I took the safety off. I exhaled slowly, emptying my lungs, and wrapped my finger around the trigger. I began to squeeze it gently, waiting for the crack of the shot and the recoil slamming into my shoulder.

I could already picture the wasp blown away, its friends rising into the air in panic, dust bursting from the ground where the bullet would strike. I could almost smell the unmistakable scent of gunpowder.

Any second now.

And suddenly, the wasp shot into the air and flew straight at my face. Startled, I swatted wildly, completely forgetting about the loaded rifle hanging from my shoulder. The wasp circled me for a moment, then flew away, buzzing with what sounded almost like satisfaction.

My heart pounded wildly in my chest. I stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to understand what had just happened. For a second, I had completely forgotten I was holding a loaded rifle. The thought sent a cold wave through my body, strange and out of place in the middle of that unbearable heat.

I quickly put the safety back on, removed the magazine, and slipped it into the pouch on my webbing.

I could still see the wasp buzzing in the distance, as if it was mocking me, before it was gone.

I looked at my watch again. Three hours and thirty minutes left.

It was so hot.

So miserable.