My eyes opened. At least 30 people shared the set up under a dusty white tent on the battlefield. Roughly 25 patients groaned, shifting in their sleep as the nurses rushed between them. The dirt ground slowly turned into crimson mud with the blood from the injured. Flies clouded the air. Somebody moaned next to me.

I turned my head to see a young man. Boy still, age ranging around 16 years. His hair was curly and golden like an angels but now matted with blood and sweat. The sea green of his eyes, clouded with pain, bore into mine creating a tempest in my mind. His delicate nose was almost feminine but had attained some masculinity in the several times it was broken. He had a round face that was now drawn taught in hunger and pain. The thin blanket covering him sunk suddenly where the bottom part of his leg should have been. My stomach churned and my eyes darted back to his face. He smiled, surprising me. His face, covered in blood and war grime, suddenly grew peaceful. He closed his eyes and was gone.