You have not felt true horror, true sickness.
Rot in the pit of your soul, and self loathing, until you have had to kill another man.

Which is exactly what you find yourself in, when a war rages.

The acrid, sharp, horrible smell of gunpowder, lacing the air like a taunt, a threat, 'I'm here to kill you, I'm here to help you kill'

And red, so much red, blood, and torn flesh, and their coats.
The colour red, it makes him sick, like he wants to double over and vomit at the sight of it.

Blinded by the flashes of gunfire and the glint of sun off sword and bayonet, and the smell of gunpowder mixes with the smell of fear and blood.

And the air is alive with bullets, like the swarming of a thousand angry hornets, cold sweat beading, dripping, starts again, and the smell of sweat joins the fear and blood.

the battle ends, for the day anyway.

How many have you killed?

it didn't matter.

It was your duty.

How many did you kill; Thomas?