The smell of gunpowder and blood still seemed to cling to his throat. Every ragged breath tugged at the searing pain beneath his left ribs.
Old Alistair drifted in and out of consciousness as he was jostled along, the stretcher-bearers' heavy footsteps in his ears and the faint echoes of cannon fire in the distance.
He could feel warm blood beneath his ribs steadily seeping through the hastily tied, sweat-soaked field dressing, draining his strength and body heat.
"Hang on, sergeant. We're almost there!"
A young voice sounded beside his ear, urgent with worry.
Old Alistair tried to smile, but managed only a painful gasp. Then an overwhelming terror rose within him.
He had fought in wars before the Republic. Back then... back then, being wounded meant dancing cheek to cheek with death.
Memories surged like muddy river water: dim, filthy tents, straw covered in filth strewn across the ground, flies buzzing over festering wounds.
The Wounded Soldiers' Camp had reeked of despair—a dreadful mixture of rot, sweat, and cheap alcohol.
The wounded had howled day and night, the sound sawing at everyone's nerves like a dull blade, denying them even the peace of unconsciousness.
The army surgeons in those camps had been more butchers than doctors, wielding rusty saws and red-hot irons. Strong liquor had been the only "anesthetic."
Old Alistair had personally watched far too many men die, not from the severity of their wounds, but from pain itself, or from uncontrollable infection and fever after those crude "operations."
Amputated limbs had been tossed like rotten wood into the filthy drainage ditches outside the army tents, where they blackened, decayed, and rotted away, exposing stark white bones and maggots writhing through putrid flesh... one glance was all it took to know this was hell.
"We're here... quick, this