Haditha – descriptive writing

Haditha is a prominent, imperturbable farming town situated in western Iraq. It is saturated with primitive, cover buildings that lace the sandy, debris-ridden roads. They be all painted a sickly smell of yellow which has flaked away from their exteriors over time and now reveals a get come out grey colour. The gigantic palm trees dwarf the grimy, one-floored houses. Most of the shops display stringent or boarded windows. The interiors ar eminently pertinacious. The wallpaper is badly torn and peeling away from the walls where it meets the ceiling.Scorch marks from grenades heavily stained the floor and sound bullet holes scarred the walls. No furniture is present just small, crafty pieces of broken glass and devastated shrapnel. Corrugated iron awnings hang over the pavement at the front of the shops, dismally shadowing the people that walk under them. There is a small, crumbling petrol station at the end of the big road that musical notes want it hasnt operated f or years. The attached shop also has smashed windows and indolent interiors.The sign on the roof of the building is badly corroded and crumble some of the red, Arabic letters have fallen bump pip completely. The pumps are severely damaged and submerged in litter and former(a) large pieces of wreckage the charred remains of a hatch-back lay next to them. Narrow, gloomy back alleys distort between the buildings of the town like a snake, creating a great labyrinth separated from the hustle and bustle of the streets. An M1 Abrams tank and a Stryker lie sleeping on the road.They are both surrounded by a convention of intimidating soldiers, with one of them lazily manning the mounted turrets. They stick out baggy, yellow and common camouflage clothes their chests buried in bags of ammunition and various other items. The rucksacks on their backs look huge in comparison to their bodies. A powerfully built soldier leans against the tank. He sweats under the intense cheerfulness a nd numerous layers of clothing he is tiring. He looks extremely athletic his huge muscles stretch the fibres of his clothes to their limits.His matter seems miniscule in comparison to his enormous, bounteous shoulders. He has a rugged, pasty complexion his appearance seems paler still compared to the dark skin tones of the Arabs that nervously rush past. Rough stubble covers his jaw it looks like he hasnt shaved in weeks A small boom mike is swung down the side of his deliver and hovers before his colourless lips. He is wearing dark sport shades, leaving the concealed part of his face to the imagination. His helmet isnt nip off together under his chin it is slumped on the top of his degree.The badly run up insignia of the United States Marine Corps (a golden eagle, globe and anchor) on his left(a) sleeve is ripped and torn, due to fall off at any minute. In his men, he grips a scratched, matt black M16A4 assault rifle that is cover with attachments a small sight, a cylind er-shaped laser distance finder and a grenade launcher. He is far from under-protected he wears thick, deep grey padded gloves that look ten sizes too small for the soldiers shovel-like hands along with camouflage pads that are loosely fastened to his bulging knee and elbow joints.The sun dismally hangs on the horizon, casting large, oblong shadows across the town. It slowly creeps down and out of sight, allowing the town to descend into darkness. The distant sound of repetitive accelerator pedal fire that rattles through the air is rather soothing. The noise of large surface rotors from several Apache helicopters fills the air as they fly overhead, deafening everyone for miles around. Their chiselled, futuristic exteriors confer something from a sci-fi movie. In a back alley, a dark-skinned insurrectionist stands facing a feeble-looking man, who anxiously holds a large, black leather briefcase.The insurgents head is covered with a red, patterned table-cloth type material that falls below his neck with only one small gap across his face that reveals his hard, piercing eyes. The rest of his body is draped in a first-class white, silk robe. A grubby AK-47 with no stock is loosely strapped to his back. The man safekeeping the briefcase has scars running across his face, the most prominent stretching from his ear decent down to his lips it looks like he has tried shaving with a quit grater. Standing next to each other, the insurgent is almost a head taller than the man.Sweat pours down the mans face as he nervously hands the briefcase over to the insurgent, who eagerly stands awaiting the delivery. Their meeting is interrupted by two soldiers yelling loudly and running towards them. The insurgent and the man quickly scurry off into the embracing darkness of the back-alley. The town sinks in to darkness for another night. The cool, chip air replaces the sweltering heat. A light breeze whistles over the leisure town as people start heading for their home s eventually the meanness of people in the streets declines into nothing.The few street lamps that braid the road faintly flicker. Bright green tracer from the direction of the distant gun-fire spontaneously shoots off into the night sky at various angles and then disappears from view. The lonesome soldiers cower together around the grumbling vehicles, desperately trying to share the trivial body heat they have. In place of dark sports shades, they now wear huge, black bulky night vision goggles. All the lights are off, chuck out for the moon that dimly lights up the night sky. The town is asleep.