Regimental Sergeant-Major Tawklish was crying.

You wouldn't see him cry often. In fact, he hardly showed any weakness at all.

But now he was sobbing, shuddering gasps shaking his frame. He was leaning against a broken post, and as paramedics and soldiers rushed all around him, he cried.

He cried for poor Lieutenant Jobert who laid at his feet, who would never dream of flying again. He cried for Colonel Horyse, for all the innocent schoolgirls, and for his lost comrades and friends.

A hand tapped him on his shoulder, jerking him around. It was a stretcher-bearer, pointing him in the direction of the makeshift first-aid tents.

"Your forehead's a little banged up, sir," the young man said. "Are you able to walk there yourself? You should get it fixed up."

Tawklish nodded dumbly, starting in the direction of the tents. His mind was in a whirl of confusion, and a sharp pain shot through his head as he stumbled. He reached out an arm to steady himself, and found that he hadn't tripped over a log, as he supposed, but a dead soldier. Memories came back to him like leaves on the wind, as he recalled the rotting corpses of the Dead, the intensely dark shadow at the door, wreathed in flames; and how he had seen his comrades die, the very life sucked out of them in moments.

He staggered away from it and sat down hard. A long time later- he didn't know how long- a strong arm helped him up. Tawklish allowed himself to be led to the tents, glimpsing along the way bodies covered in sheets, hearing the cries of the wounded, and remembering the battle. He shivered uncontrollably, and picked up a sympathetic voice near his ear.

"Poor man, he's going to be like that for the rest of his life."