Softly she asked him, "Would you like water?"

Unable to speak, he nodded assent. A firm arm raised his head so he could drink. She had the fresh thyme and lavender scent of the Spanish hills, discernible even through the stench of injury and death. The light was too dim to see her face, but his head was resting against a warm curve. If he could move, he would bury his face against her blessedly soft female body. Then he would be able to die in peace.

His throat was too dry to swallow, and water spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin. She said matter-of-factly, "Sorry, I shouldn't have given you so much. Let's try again."

She tilted her vessel so that only a few drops trickled between his cracked lips. He managed to swallow enough to ease the burning in his throat. Patiently she gave him more, a little at a time, until the excruciating thirst was gone.

Able to speak again, he whispered, "Thank you, madame. I'm… most grateful."

"You're very welcome." She lowered him to the straw, then rose and went to^the neighboring pallet. After a moment, she said sorrowfully, "Vaya con Dios." Go with God. It was a Spanish farewell, even more appropriate for the dead than the living.

After she moved away, Michael dozed again. He was vaguely aware when orderlies came and removed the body on the next pallet. Soon after, another casualty was laid in the space.

The new arrival was delirious, mumbling over and over, "Mam, Mam, where are you?" His voice revealed that he was very young and terribly afraid.

Michael tried to block out the wrenching pleas. He was unsuccessful, but the steadily weakening words showed that the boy was unlikely to last much longer. Poor devil.