Turned and led forty-two into attack. Went beautifully—in formation, with song. Death loves pomp.
His unit burned alive. Fire mines turned men to torches inside armor. Water traps drowned in boiling streams. Ash whirlwinds tore lungs. Living stones crushed bones.
I saw from hill. Beautiful, senseless death.
Only he remained—maimed but alive. Half face burned, hand twisted, limps. Alive—miracle or curse.
Three years he tells me one: "If you'd gone other flank, my men would live."
His voice—echo of pain, stone to face.
And I think I did right. Not heroically—just right. Marshal later admitted: no one knew of mines. All but me.
If we'd gone together—both die. I'd be called traitor. Easy to judge dead.
Forty-two died because one believed honor, other instinct. Who's right? No one. In war no rights—only living and dead.