Damon turned away from the table. He began to walk back down the aisle toward the exit.
As he walked, he noticed a very young soldier lying on a cot near the entrance. The boy was barely eighteen years old. He was sweating heavily, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he clutched his stomach in agony.
Damon stopped walking. He looked down at the young recruit. He crouched down in the dirt right next to the young boy's cot.
Damon reached out his large, rough hand. He gently placed his hand over the young boy's shaking shoulder.
"Be strong, soldier," Damon spoke softly. His deep voice was calm, warm, and highly comforting. It sounded like a father speaking to his son. "The worst part is already over. You fought well today. Just rest now."
The young boy opened his blurry eyes. He saw the General sitting beside him. He felt the warm, comforting weight of his commander's hand.
A weak, tired smile touched the young boy's pale lips. "Thank you... General," the boy whispered softly.
