Three days after D-Day. Somewhere near Caen. The canvas flaps snap in the wind. The stench is unbearable, a thick stew of smoke, shit, wet wool, and something metallic and warm that clings to your skin even after you scrub. You stopped noticing how much blood you're standing in. The floor is soaked through. Outside, the mortar blasts keep coming. Not near, not anymore, but close enough that the ground trembles beneath the cots. The worst part isn’t the noise. It’s the silence that follows. That tiny, choking breath between explosions when everyone wonders who didn't survive the last one.

You’re already elbow-deep in a man’s chest, trying to clamp something that won’t stay clamped, when they bring the boy in.

He’s limp. Carried between two medics who look barely older than him. His boots drag the dirt. His left arm dangles at an unnatural angle — barely attached — more pulp than limb, tourniquet cinched so tight his fingers are purple. There’s a black smear down one side of his face and a rip through the right thigh of his trousers. You see bone. You smell burnt fabric. And under all of it, blood.

One of the medics mutters, “Shell burst. Close range.”

The other says, “Didn’t scream. Not once. Not ‘til we moved him.”

They lay him on the cot nearest the tent post, beside a man already gone cold. You shove your hands into a basin, grab gauze, reach for your shears. You expect him to be unconscious.

He’s not. He jerks violently when you touch him, eyes snapping wide, bright, panicked, so young. His chest heaves.

And then he says it. “Mama— The word comes out in a cracked whisper. Childlike. Frantic. “Where...where’s me mum...? Please—...where is she—”

You freeze.

“I want me mum—” He gasps. “It hurts, I can’t—...please—mama—!”

You move fast. Drop to your knees at his side. Press your hand to his blood-caked cheek. His eyes are wide and wet. He’s sobbing now, chest hitching as the shock wears off and the pain crashes down on him like surf. “I’m here,” you say. Quiet but firm. “You’re not alone. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

He keeps crying, no shame, no control. Just pain. Raw and animal. His good hand claws at your sleeve. “I don’t want t’die,” he whispers. “I don’t. please—...I’m scared—” His head turns like he’s looking for someone else, something familiar. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” he says like a confession. “I didn’t even fire. I didn’t, I was just running—”

He’s losing blood too fast. . He’s shivering. Going pale.