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[h1]Gwyn Therwyn[/h1][/centre]
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What a bloody idiot. Sure, Gwyn, stare at the corpses and never mind the fact that you've got a job to do. You're a bloody soldier, aren't you? Can't be breaking down at the sight of a little blood. Oh, the Imps would have a field day with him. Blanching at a little blood, a sweet young lad like him? They could worm their way into your head, they could. He heard all sorts about them. Apparently if they captured an enemy soldier, they would pop out his eyes and blend it into a cream. Gwyn had never tried eyes cream, but he couldn't imagine it would taste very pleasant, and he certainly wasn't volunteering any ingredients.

In a strange way, it was comforting to think about the Imps like that. Not as people, but as monsters, every bit as demonic as the name implied. It made the field of gore he saw that littlest bit easier to stomach. It wasn't the act of savage human beings, but evil, otherworldy beasts. Monsters. A human would never be capable of that.

It also made it a little bit easier to come to terms with the fact he was going to kill one by the end of the day. With any luck, it would be from a safe range, with some nice, controlled detonations, crushing Fritz under a ton of rubble and mud, never to see the light of day again. Yes. He'd quite like that. No need to watch the light leaves his eyes, or blast away his childhood memories of eating schnitzel, or watch him pitifully mewl his last, crying out for a mother who wouldn't come or a lover he'd never see again. Just plant the bomb, press the button and boom.

Those two soldiers were getting all cosy, weren't they? He couldn't judge. You set a bunch of teenagers raging on hormones in mixed divisions into a life or death situation, you're gonna hear the phrase "you don't want to die a virgin, do you?" being bandied about a lot. There was bound to be someone willing to bite the bullet and start a battlefield romance. He just prayed to whatever god would listen that they would last.

He was getting far too pessimistic. He hadn't even seen combat yet and he was already reminiscing like an old veteran. But still... if Command could make such a fatal error with the cavalry, how did he know they weren't doing the same thing here? Who knew what kind of traps and ambushes were laid out in the tunnels?  He knew he shouldn't think like this. He couldn't keep looking over his shoulder, waiting for an artillery shell or a frustrated Imp with a rifle and some daddy issues to work out. Jittering at every noise wasn't the cool-as-ice authority figure he was ostensibly trained to be. But he wasn't on the training ground any more. These weren't little wooden figures on a table, and this wasn't a friendly game of football. This was war. Everything had to go perfect, or it would be him joining the putrid slurry that so haunted his vision. He wouldn't forgive himself if one of his friends got killed trying to protect him.

Gwyn sighed and fell in close behind Michael and Lucia. He only caught the tail end of their conversation, but from what he heard, it sounded like they were just as frightened as he was. That... was a relief. At least he wasn't the only one. At least he wasn't letting them down.