“I can’t remember anything,” the man muttered, “I can’t tell if this is true or a dream.”

“Deep,” I replied, not looking up from my work on his leg, wondering if I’d given him too much morphine.

“Down!” Called a man peeking over the wall, as he jumped for the dirt. I made out the whistle of a mortar round. There was a deafening pop, a crash: the wall came down, the sentry somewhere under it. Without that old mud wall, we were exposed.

“Inside!” called one of the Lieutenants from a nearby doorway. We set out carrying the wounded inside, to what had been moments before dedicated to the operating theater.

“I hear the scream…” said my patient, probably referring to the shriek of the rocket that had ruined his leg. I was determined to save it, but the doctor was busy saving a man with more than a limb at stake.

“Nothing…” said the doctor to his assistant.

“Israel!” Called out the corpsman sincerely to the groaning man on the table. He turned to the doctor. “But… pain…”

“Now!” Ordered the doctor.