The battlefield was dark and muddy and was already strewn with the wounded and the dead. Looking at how many men I could see lying face down in the cold wet mud, it struck me that there would not be enough stories and songs in the whole world for them all to be remembered.
The noise was terrible. Metal swords hitting wooden shields, and swords hitting the metal of other swords. Men shouting to encourage their comrades, men shouting in pain, and worst of all, men calling out and being silenced forever as they died. (pb)