"Put him down here."

The group carrying the wounded soldier, one man with both legs and a soldier apiece for the arms, dropped their charge on the ground and scampered back out of the demolished building. Within seconds of unloading their devastated cargo, the soldiers were out of sight, hidden by the demolished building. The sergeant, who had been a step ahead of the improvised stretcher party, stayed behind with the wounded man. The wounded soldier, screaming in pain and fear, had been deposited close to the wall of the demolished building, which provided some shade.

The wounded soldier was yelling and screaming, his body shredded by the implements of war. His helmet had been blown off and his uniform was ripped and torn in various places. The wounded soldier's face was streaked with sweat, dirt and soot. His hands were dark with blood and grime.

"Sergeant, get everyone up to the wall." The lieutenant, standing tall and looking every inch the parade ground warrior, strode toward the sergeant and the wounded soldier. The lieutenant was a recent addition to the unit, part of an seemingly endless supply of replacements churned out by a factory. Here today, dead tomorrow. How many soldiers would the lieutenant take with him? The sergeant knew all too well that the most dangerous weapon in any army is a fresh lieutenant straight from the parade ground, equipped with lessons learned from books and indifferent instructors.

The lieutenant had an intent look on his face. The lieutenant had shouldered his rifle and as he walked toward the sergeant from the other end of the demolished building, it seemed to the sergeant that the lieutenant was actually marching to some mental cadence. The lieutenants arms swung freely to the invisible beat. The uniform was too clean and the face was too soft for the sergeant. The lieutenant appeared ready to yell again when a sudden burst of fire that sounded near caused the lieutenant to wince and duck, involuntarily.

The lieutenant recovered, but was now distracted by other events. The lieutenant strode back towards the other end of the demolished building. The sergeant watched the lieutenant march away, catching sight of a distressed and frightened radio operator who had been crouching behind the lieutenant. The sergeant shook his head, experience telling him that such a man, someone foolish enough to stand tall on a battlefield, would be dead sooner than later.

The wounded soldier continued to yell out in pain. The sergeant had heard the animal bellows of many a wounded and dying man. He had learned to block the screams and cries for the most part. The battle was gaining in intensity and the sergeant had an obligation to the survivors.

"Medic! Doc! Where's the doc?" The sergeant, standing slightly erect amidst the chaos and destruction, intently scanned the demolished building and the surrounding terrain, looking for the medic, anyone, to aid and comfort the wounded soldier. The sergeant needed, wanted, to be on the front line. The sergeant, still posed between a crouch and standing tall, tipped back his helmet and wiped his brow, making his already dirty hand a shade or two darker.

"Oh, God. Oh, God." The wounded soldier shook and grimaced at the damage done to his body. He lay on the ground, leaking blood from wounds unseen, yelling and shouting to relieve his fear and pain. The wounded soldiers arms were alternately flailing about as he screamed or covering his face. The wounded soldiers leg moved very little; it appeared the lower half of his body has stopped working.

"Easy, Stabler, easy. Wait for the doc. It's going to be okay." The sergeant proffered the empty words of solace and hope, reciting the same words he had used on many other wounded soldiers. The wounded soldier on the ground ignored the sergeant's comfort, writhing as the pain and fear overtook his existence.

The sergeant knelt next to the wounded man, steadying his rifle in his left hand and placing his right hand on the arm of the wounded soldier. Outside, soldiers ran by the demolished building, crouched in the traditional pose of the poor bloody infantry, weapons cradled at the ready. Incoming fire from the distant tree line zipped through the air. Explosions crested and broke in the distance, pillars of smoke and fire dotting the bleak landscape. The battle's intensity increased with each passing second, yet the sergeant waited for the unseen medic, not wanting to abandon the wounded soldier.

"Sergeant, move it up. I need every man on that wall." The fresh lieutenant had made his way back towards the front of the demolished building and was standing tall behind the cover of the remnants of a wall. The radio operator crouched besides the platoon leader, wincing with every explosion. Dust shook from the wall as rounds or debris impacted the bricks.

"Yes, sir. Just waiting on the doc for Stabler, here." The sergeant looked back over his shoulder as the lieutenant walked around the area, trailed by the crouching radio operator. Satisfied by the answer and apparently just spotting the wounded soldier lying on the ground, the lieutenant nodded and continued to walk around the demolished building. It was obvious to the sergeant that the lieutenant didn't know what to do and was simply looking like he was in command. The sergeant shook his quickly and looked back to the wounded soldier.

Over the noise of the battle, the sound of tumbling bricks and crackling wood reverberated in the demolished building. A thin man clad in a dirty uniform with a red cross arm band ran forward and ducked into the demolished building at the far end, tripping and skidding on the debris. Scurrying past the lieutenant and crouching radio operator, the thin man finally came to a rest beside the sergeant and the wounded soldier. Huffing and panting from his exertion, the thin man, the medic, pushed back his helmet and threw a kit bag on the ground as he lay against the remains of the near wall, facing the sergeant and the wounded soldier.

"Holy hell." The medic gasped for breath, looking around at the surroundings. The building, once a farm house or barn or something similar, has been ravaged by fire and no longer was covered by a roof, or protected by four solid walls. "We're getting killed up here."

"Doc, check him out." The sergeant was relieved that the medic had finally shown up. The wounded soldier was known to the sergeant, but it was obvious the shattered body would soon give up the last beats of life. The wounded soldier swiveled his head back and forth as he lay on the ground, blood pooling in the dust.

"I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die alone. Not now." The pained pleas came out of the wounded soldier and could be heard above the din of the ongoing battle. The wounded soldier grabbed at the sergeant and the medic, seeking some solace in human contact. The medic shrugged off the attempts, but the wounded soldier's right hand found and clasped the sergeant's arm. The wounded soldier's hand quickly worked its way down and grabbed the sergeant's hand. The grasp was tight and painful, but the sergeant obliged the wounded soldier and held on just as fiercely.

"You're not alone, Stabler. I'm here, the doc's here." The sergeant glanced over his left shoulder, back at the lieutenant. The lieutenant was distracted, shouting on the radio. The crouching radio operator grasped a rifle in his left hand and tried to use his right hand to his right ear in a vain attempt to muffle the noise of the battle.

From the holes in the walls of the demolished building, the sergeant could see men running, bent over at the waist, to the stone wall that ran in front of the demolished building. The sergeant could hear the incoming and outgoing fire. Spend enough time in combat and you could develop an ear for the different sounds of the battle. The sergeant, a well-blooded veteran, knew every nuance of combat. He could feel the explosions; small ones caused by grenades, medium ones caused by mortars, the largest detonations shaking everything as the artillery belched onto the battlefield.

Aside from the din of battle, the weather made its presence felt. The day was hot as the afternoon sun baked the soldiers on all sides in its relentless heat. The air was thick with smoke and dust. It was difficult to fill ones lungs with clean air, and the burning sensation of near complete exhaustion was overcome only by adrenaline and fear. Or hatred. A cloudless sky was blocked by the smoke generated by the multitude of explosions. It was a thoroughly unpleasant day.

"Where are you hit?" the medic asked the wounded soldier. Almost delirious with pain and suffering, the wounded soldier kept shaking his head back and forth, unable or unwilling to contemplate the damage done to his body. The medic rummaged through his kit bag for supplies and started touching and feeling the wounded soldier, looking for signs of damage.

"Check his chest," the sergeant said. "He took some frags there. Maybe his back." The wounded soldier still grasped the sergeant's hand, though the grip was slowly but surely loosening. The sergeant continued to survey the situation through the holes in the wall. The sound of the battle grew louder with each passing second. Casualties had been high to that point and it looked like more men would fall dead or wounded.

"Ah, shit," the medic said. A look of disgust covered the medic's dusty face, a sad frown sprouting as the medic found the cause of the wounded soldier's suffering. The medic turned his head away from the wounded soldier and spit. "Really sliced up."

"Oh, God," the wounded soldier kept repeating, the volume rising and falling as the life flowed from his body.

More explosions, near and distant, covered the battlefield. Instinctively, the medic covered the wounded soldier, while the sergeant remained in his pose, kneeling, one hand cupping his rifle, the other holding on to the wounded soldier's hand.

"Come on, doc," the sergeant said. The sergeant needed to get to the front, to be with his men that were still alive and fighting. The wounded soldier was out of his reach, gone, if not dead. The medic was here, but the sergeant hadn't the courage to break the grip, yet.

"Okay, hold on. Listen, listen to me," the medic said, addressing the wounded soldier. "I need you to stay with me, okay? Stay with me." The medic unpacked dressings and syringes from his kit bag. The wounded soldier shook and grimaced, but the movements were slower and less violent.

A loud explosion shook the remaining structure of the demolished building. Dust and bits of debris fell from the wall. The medic covered the wounded soldier and even the sergeant ducked his head for cover. The sergeant remained kneeling beside the wounded soldier, still holding hands, though, still attentive to the battered man.

The sergeant picked his head up and looked around the demolished building. It was drawing enemy fire and provided minimal cover, but it was better than being in the open. The sergeant noticed that the lieutenant and radio operator had left the demolished building. With that realization, the sergeant's mind eased a bit and he turned his head back to watch the medic attend to the wounded soldier.

"Okay, we need to get him evac'ed, now," the medic said as he cut away the wounded soldier's uniform and started to apply dressings and bandages to the many wounds that had been exposed. "Where'd that radio get to? Order up an evac."

"Don't go, stay with me. I don't want to die alone. Not alone, please," the wounded soldier pleaded, clinging to the sergeant's hand. The sergeant tried to stand up, but the wounded soldier tried to stand up and follow him, unable and unwilling to release his only grip on life.

"Easy, man. Easy," the medic said, trying to keep the wounded man calm and prone. "You - don't stand up, come on." The medic struggled with the wounded soldier, who had rolled over on his side, clinging to the sergeant.

"Okay, okay, one second," the sergeant said. The sergeant stopped standing up, knelt back down next to the wounded soldier and considered his options. The sergeant surveyed the demolished building and noticed some men cowering in the far corner. "Hey! Hey! Call for an evac, we have a wounded man here. Call for an evac."

One of the cowering soldiers shouted back and got up and ran from the lonely cover of the demolished building. The sergeant didn't understand what had been said and didn't know if the word had been passed on successfully. The other two soldiers sat in the corner, huddled against the wall. The sergeant let them be for the moment and turned back to the wounded soldier.

"Okay, help's coming, Stabler. It's on the way."

The wounded soldier smiled, a faint and wan grin, and his teeth shone white through the dirt and grime that covered his face. The medic continued to dress the wounds.

Bullets impacted the wall on the outside and bits of dust and fragments of the building material showered on the medic and the wounded soldier. The medic tried to cover the wounded soldier, who lay meekly on the ground, his energy spent in a last attempt to maintain in touch with the sergeant.

The sergeant held on to the hand of the wounded soldier, a hand that grew limp as the seconds ticked away. The wounded soldier blinked, and his gasps of air grew softer, less audible. The wounded soldier no longer screamed or shouted, just mumbled the same phrase over and over.

"I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die alone."

The medic continued to attend to the wounds and did his best with limited means to heal the wounded soldier. The sergeant knelt next to the wounded soldier, still holding hands.

A head poked into the demolished building through one of the many hole the battle had punched in the walls.

"Shit. Found you," the helmeted head said in a surprised voice. "Hey, doc, we need you up here. Craig and Rassmussen are hit!" the helmeted head shouted. The medic turned to look at the new intruder.

"I'm busy here. Find someone else."

"We can't. Doc Murray got zapped. You're it. They are really bad, doc," the helmeted head said, imploring the medic with a new sad tale.

"Goddammit, Custis, the doc's taking care of a man here. He'll be up in a second," the sergeant said, barking his words with intent. The sergeant sensed that the situation was falling apart without his presence. He had to go, he had to leave the wounded soldier behind and rejoin the battle.

"They're dying," the helmeted head said, yelling to be heard over the gunfire. The medic and sergeant exchanged glances, first to each other then to the wounded soldier on the ground between them. The medic stared at the sergeant, silent but confirming the worst outcome. The wounded solider would be dead in a matter of minutes, if not seconds. Other men needed attention, men that might be saved. The medic, a man dedicated to saving lives, a man who would go to any lengths to patch up his comrades, looked at the sergeant.

The sergeant already the answer to the unasked question. He nodded slightly and turned back to the helmeted head poking through the hole in the wall of the demolished building.

"Get back to the front. We'll be up in a second," the sergeant said and the helmeted head disappeared from view. The medic looked down at the wounded man and the made a few last alterations on the dressings that had been applied, dressings that were dark with blood after only a few minutes.

"Stabler, I gotta go, man. I gotta get up there," the sergeant said, talking in a calm tone. The wounded soldier's grip was limp.

"I don't want to...not here...alone...die." The wounded soldier was fading from life, every word a chore, an exertion that marched the wounded solider closer to his fate.

"Doc?" the sergeant said, looking at the medic. The medic had almost finished packing up his kit bag. Without looking up, the medic answered the sergeant's question.

"He needed an evac. Shit." The medic did not look at the sergeant and slung his kit bag over a shoulder and stood up, ready to head for more carnage and suffering. The medic spat again, a spiteful spat at death, at a fate the medic had been unable to alter. "Shit."

"Not alone," the wounded soldier said. The sergeant dropped his hand and stood up, and bounding over the body was quickly out of the demolished building, followed by the medic.

The wounded soldier lay on the ground, the last drops of blood leaking from the bandages. The medic had medicated the wounded soldier to make it easier and less painful. The pain that had wracked the wounded soldier slowly faded away as the medicine took affect. Staring up at the smoky afternoon sky, the bright sunshine obscured by the flames of war, the wounded soldier listened to the last sounds he could hear.

Gunfire. Explosions. Yelling. Swearing.

No happy memories or peaceful thoughts of home and family entered his conscious as the wounded soldier drifted away. No images of a life half-lived, no epic narration of how he had died for country or peace broke the growing silence. The wounded soldier, his right arm draped across his shattered chest where the sergeant had dropped it a few moments ago, moved slightly in a last effort to keep life close. His leg twitched as the wounded soldier tried to stand, to walk, to reach someone, anyone. His great fear was to be realized, and the wounded soldier tried and failed to change the circumstances of his passing. Death didn't frighten the wounded soldier, just the solitude of meeting his end.

"Not alone...not alone."

A few seconds and all sound deserted the wounded soldier. His last gasps of air escaped into the hot afternoon and his eyes blinked slowly. It was not a dramatic moment, just a quiet passing of humanity as the world struggled around him, consuming life.

The wounded soldier died, alone.