Doug Bishop’s back was playing up again. As he gingerly stretched out of his camp bed, his spine cracked. Running his hand across his chin, his stubble itched. Although it was only six am, it was already thirty degrees.

As he emerged from his tent, the 29th regiment filed past. Piquing his curiosity, Bishop made his way over to the marshalling point. The order had been given to retake the police station, which had been overrun by the insurgents. Finally, some action, Bishop thought.

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Alfred Spitteri rose as he always did at seven am sharp. His feet touched the floor precisely where he had placed his slippers the night before. A dressing gown was neatly draped across a chair laid within easy reach. The morning was clear and the air crisp. Today was going to be a good day. Today Alfred was being awarded a commendation for bravery and service to the community. People would speak of Alfred in revered tones and afford him the level of respect he deserved. 

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First fifteen pages of feature draft for screenwriting competition.