The attack had been planned for weeks and every able-bodied person was involved – women and men. It was a night-time attack, a final push to regain the land. Declan looked at Ben. Ben’s heart was pounding. ‘The first chance we get, we go,’ Declan whispered. Soon the tent was full of injured people. The two doctors patched up the ones they could and laid the fatally wounded outside, covered with sheets. It was pandemonium. People were running in and out, screaming, shouting, crying … Ben and Declan worked through the night until early morning when an eerie silence fell over the camp. The casualty count was high. The mission had failed. The remaining soldiers returned home defeated and depleted. Through the calm, Yonas came staggering into the tent with someone on his shoulder. He laid him down. It was Awate, with a gaping hole in his chest. ‘He’s fucked,’ Declan said. Ben searched for a pulse. There was none. ‘I’m sorry, Yonas, he’s dead.’ Yonas covered his face with his hands.
