In the wake of the battle, there was much smoke, and there was much death, and there was much of a lack of aftermath, with a sense of suffering, of doubt, of gloom. Some of the men were still alive, writhing, stunned, unconscious, never to waken. Some lay with blasted eardrums and exploded thighs and throbbing heads, their hands shot off, their boots the only thing connecting their feet to their legs. It was quite a thing to survey such a despoiled plot of ground as this battlefield, however when one was used to seeing such sights, and used to lifting the limp and heavy bodies of friends and comrades, it wasn't quite so bad.

The war was a pitiful thing, petty to the core, as if these thousands of men had died for such a simple thing as a piece of change striking weakly on a polished, antiseptic board room table, before the cruel, dead eyes of the Company directors. General Dayne surveyed the scene atop his horse, which stood incoherently on an elevated rise, his white gloves clean, his beard trim, the seams of his uniform pants unsoiled and crisp. He had been down there, before, as a young private in some other war, his ear shot off, rolling in the grass in cowardly agony, his comrades dead around him with broken faces and twisted limbs and empty stares. He had wondered then what this was all about, and he wondered now, though from a different standpoint. He watched his victorious army move forward numbly, their faces unbelieving, refusing to acknowledge the slaughter and price in which they had won this day. The enemy was running, their losses frightening, their brethren massacred and sent to the hell of death, their souls caught in the viselike grip of Forever and Doubt. The enemy was running from their fate, running futilely as cackling demons rushed after them, knocking their bodies down with cannon and shot, ripping their souls out and flying skyward with them, before slamming down into the ground as their captives' arms waved and legs kicked against the never-ending current of the River Styx.

Vaguely, General Dayne heard a horse trotting up easily behind him, above the roar of the artillery farther west, where more bodies were being tossed backwards by explosions and torn apart by volley fire. That's what his men were, right? Bodies. Not humans. Not people with hopes and dreams and love interests and family. Meatloaf. Death loved the taste of meatloaf.

The voice that spoke behind him, belonging to this languorous horse rider, was slow and easy, unconcerned and unaffected. "General, the enemy has been routed. Colonel Edwards reports the enemy is in full retreat. They have left behind them a valuable number of cannon and shot. The Field Marshal will be arriving shortly to congratulate you." Dayne's eyes hardened under the clean white brimmed hat he wore, which covered his freshly washed hair. He could picture in his mind' eye this content fool's smile, imbecilic, proud in the fact that men had been slaughtered for politicians and businessmen, happy that the depths of Hell could torture more souls in its loneliness and desolation.

"Major Daniels," Dayne said.

"Sir?"

"Why aren't you fighting?"

Daniels, behind him, his regal posture and smug face still unseen by the General, started back as if punched. He wanted to beg the General's pardon to repeat himself, but Dayne spoke first. "You're probably wondering what the hell it is I just said, since you heard me, but you can't believe what you heard." The General turned, a distant smile on his own face now, and Daniels could see past the august general the smoke and slaughter of the battle raging further west. "The enemy is running, correct?"

"Well, yes sir."

"Who says? You aren't there. You're here, smiling at me."

"I'm not-" Daniels said, forgetting himself. Dayne's glare withered him, and Daniels apologized, making sure to say "sir" at the end.

"You're smiling at me behind your pathetic expression of smug contentment. You're telling me that the enemy has fled the field, and we can claim about 30 or 40 miles of ground between here and their Army Headquarters, where they will most likely rally a stiff defense and slaughter scores of our men once again. You're telling me that we have 'won', though we go on killing and wasting energy and arms chasing an enemy that can outpace us and turn on us at the first sign of reinforcements."

"The enemy should not be allowed to fight another day. By chasing them, we- "

Dayne held up his white-gloved hand, his eyes transfixed on the Major's face, and Daniels stopped speaking instantly. "Save your academy drivel, Major. They taught you that in some classroom in the recesses of that damned building. The politicians and staff workers groomed you to fight their insignificant battles and win their petty wars. They trained you from the beginning to stand in front of paper maps and plot advances, taking into account the sheer fact that you have thousands of bodies to throw into the meat grinder. The goal is to win, obviously, but not for peace and for the well being of the citizenry, but for the industrialists, so they can have more land to exploit, more families to diminish, more money to make. My goal is to do my best to do the least I can for the war and these politicians, while still pretending to work for them. Do you understand, Major?"

Daniels said nothing. Dayne didn't admonish him at all for not responding to a superior officer's inquiry. At least he was acting more like a human and less like a professional soldier, lacking eloquence and sensitivity and rationality, possessing only enough energy and humanity to kill with pride, to destroy with skill, and to drench in carmine the blasted countryside.

General Dayne swept his arm toward the battlefield where the wounded lay dying, left there until the medics arrived, whenever they arrived. "Major, what do you think will become of this land we have won? What will become of these trees, this field, this soil and rock?"

Daniels' composure was gone. His horse seemed stupid and pathetic, standing there with this useless man seated atop it. Daniels' whole being and essence appeared inconsequential next to the noble and human General Dayne. After a prolonged silence, Dayne actually laughed, the sound coming from deep within him, from a reserve that was both mocking and heroic. "What's the matter, Major? Didn't they teach you how to have your own opinions at the academy? Or, did they teach you that it was best not to question things when you're in battle?"

"I merely came to report that the battle is won, and the Field Marshal will be arriving shortly to congratulate you, sir," the Major said.

"Get down there and join the fighting, since you're so happy we've won. That's an order," the General said. Major Daniels looked as if he were going to cry, the way the edges of his face twitched and the way his eyes appeared as if filled by a stream. He turned on his horse, and left the General to turn back and survey the broad swath of uniformed corpses before him, their stares questioning, empty and silent. For this was the depth of humanity, and as far as mankind could go to solve its problems. The problem itself was greed and power, and not anything as lowly as patriotism and national pride. For, when it comes down to it, what are millennia of national identity and cultural unity in the face of the fact that human beings are all family and parts of a whole? How can tradition and cultural conceit even stare transcendental brotherhood in the eye without blinking or breaking into tears? How can one man shoot another in the chest over nationalism, snuffing out his existence, extinguishing his dreams? General Dayne wondered how this was so, and wondered how he had allowed himself to contribute so greatly to the suffering of humanity as a whole.