Looking around the orchard for any familiar face, he counted “only twenty” riflemen. Failing to grasp the significance of this minuscule number, he asked the private hovering over him, offering a selection of rifle magazines and grenades from a khaki satchel, “Where is everyone?” Taken aback by the disconnected nature of Bennett’s query, the young private, who had watched the parade of ambulance jeeps haul out the wounded and dead all morning, paused; then, in a hushed tone, he responded, “They’re gone. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Just gone.”
