the ripped shreds of grass, startlingly green, in the boy’s yellow hair.
The boy stared at him. “Water,” he begged again. When he spoke, a new spurt of blood drenched the coarse cloth across his chest and sleeve.
One of Jonas’s arms was immobilized with pain, and he could see through his own torn sleeve
something that looked like ragged flesh and splintery bone. He tried his remaining arm and felt it move.
Slowly he reached to his side, felt the metal container there, and removed its cap,
stopping the small motion of his hand now and then to wait for the surging pain to ease.
Finally, when the container was open, he extended his arm slowly across the blood-soaked earth, inch by inch, and held it to the lips of the boy.
Water trickled into the imploring mouth and down the grimy chin.
The boy sighed. His head fell back, his lower jaw dropping as if he had been surprised by something.
A dull blankness slid slowly across his eyes. He was silent.
But the noise continued all around: the cries of the wounded men, the cries begging for water and for Mother and for death.
Horses lying on the ground shrieked, raised their heads, and stabbed randomly toward the sky with their hooves.
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