“Such a waste of so many fine young men. Does it ever go away, the helplessness one feels in the face of such death and destruction, the sadness?"Mark shook his head slowly as images of his friends brought down by the enemy's fire and men under his command trampled beneath their horse's hooves rose before him. “No. It never really does. The first spurt of anger one feels at the sight of such things becomes a slow, steady burning and that is what keeps one fighting, courting one's own death and destruction."“And do you ever ask what it is for?"Gently he wiped away a tear that was beginning to trickle slowly down her cheek. “No. I know what it is for. It is to end all this so that people here can live in peace, can go back to their farms and their sheep without fearing that some Frenchman will take them all away.” He would not allow himself to wonder what he would do with his own life once the conflict was over.“You are fortunate to be able to do something about it."Mark reached over and lifted one of the hands clenched tightly in her lap to his lips.
