His nephew Hamudi ran amidst the flames.
The poor creature had at least three shrapnel wounds piercing through him, his uniform soaked with fuel, his whole body like a human torch.
He took a dozen steps, each leaving a burning footprint on the sandy ground, before falling to the ground, his limbs still twitching while the flames completely engulfed his face.
Hamudi was twenty-seven years old this year.
He had just gotten married three months ago.
His wife was seven months pregnant.
Abdul opened his mouth, wanting to call out his nephew's name, but only a mouthful of bloody froth surged up his throat.
What is happening!?
Who is attacking us?
A shocking thought flashed through his mind at this moment.
By the time the three-minute shelling ended, the Dulaimi Tribe had already lost at least two hundred people.
But the real nightmare was just beginning.
"Cease fire."
Milosh's order was brief and crisp.
