The stench of the front had followed the wounded into the ward, so that the bandaged men reeked of a mixture of sweat, tobacco, soil, dried blood and disinfectant. A few still smelled of cordite. There were no loud voices, no laughter, no careless boasts of courage, no slogans of glory here.
Fresh from the horrors of Bakhmut, their limbs penetrated and shattered by flying metal, the soldiers spoke to one another softly, if at all, as they waited to have their wounds dressed before being evacuated westwards. Some were silent, staring into space as they reflected on what had brought them here.
