Sharpsburg, Maryland, United States of America
September 18, 1862
Limping through the military camp with my crutches, I see the aftermath of our victory yesterday. Privates patting each other on the back, a black gentleman giving an eye-witness testimony to a sergeant, soldiers mourning their fallen brethren, two guys carrying a soldier with both his legs injured. It was bittersweet. Victory was finally within range, but one must still respect the cost.
Finally I find the tent I'm looking for. I approach the entrance with a private guarding it. I'm one rank above him, so he salutes and says "Sir."
"At ease," I reply as I salute back. After he stands aside, I walk in to find a middle-aged man behind a table. He's relatively tan-skinned with a thick mustache, a long-sleeved white shirt with a black vest, and beige pants. "Mr. Kartal?"
"Yes," he says with his thick- I'm guessing either eastern European or western Asian- accent as we