Death was something he'd always something he hated.

It split families, including his own, and had meant he'd watched too many good men slowly and painfully being killed, some of whom had families to remember them, others just disappeared without anyone caring or realising they were even alive.

And yet now, as he lies in the mud, with a staff blast wound to the blast, knowing that death is close, knowing that this time there will be nothing Fraiser or the other medics will be able to do, no amazing miracle to save his life; he's not angry, he's happy.