James was halfway through a plate of beans when the transport officer came into the mess tent shouting names.
"Ganner! Hale! Tiernan! Ward! Anybody seen Ward?"
"He's at the toaster," somebody said.
"Vehicle park. Now. Your session's off."
Outside it was cold enough to see your breath. Two ambulances were being loaded with stretchers and oxygen, and a third truck had its benches folded up for casualties. An engineer stood on the step of a recovery truck, shouting down at the driver.
"The chains, not the tow bar! I'm not pulling a truck out of a ditch with a tow bar!"
A military policeman walked backwards through the lines, waving vehicles out of the ambulances' way.
The officer in charge had a map spread on the bonnet of a jeep, held down with a radio and three rocks. She was tall, in her thirties, hair scraped back under her helmet.
"Captain Quinn," she said, when the four of them were round her. "This is a recovery. Not a fight, I hope."
