Eastern Syria, deep within Deir Ezzor province.
There is no dreary London rain here, only dust storms and the cold moonlight.
A camp formed from the remnants of an abandoned oil field looms between the desolate hills.
The walls, compacted with sand and bullet-ridden, are clumsily patched with tattered cloth and rusty iron sheets.
The air is thick with the stench of cheap diesel, lingering gunpowder smoke, and an indescribable, intense smell of blood and sweat.
A massive black flag stands in the center of the camp, flapping fiercely in the hot wind, the twisted white lettering on it resembling some evil totem.
The largest "command post" in the camp is nothing more than a relatively intact brick house.
Inside the room, it is oppressively hot, with a single small window mostly shrouded by a heavy blanket, dimly lit.
A rough operational map hangs on the wall, the areas marked with thumbtacks of different colors.
The floor is covered with a few ragged carpets.
