"He remembered all the boys he had shot for the sake of an enormous lie told by a nation that thought it was superior to every other. He remembered the months he had tortured his wife and children with his absences, and the words he would never get back. But most of all – more than the abstracts of what wasn't or what might have been – he remembered the blood. Forever etched to the inside of his eyelids were the unshakeable images of flesh and limbless torsos crawling through filth."