He sat watching as life continued on across the river. He could just barely make out people walking on the paths and streets on the other side. Barely make out the cars driving by. Important people with places to go things to do. Too important to worry about the likes of someone they considered deemed filthy and unworthy. Just another “drunken slum dirtying up the streets”. His past, his sacrifices, meant nothing. It didn’t matter that over the years he saw several of his comrades die… Didn’t matter that time and time again he was told buck up & toughen up. Didn’t matter that time and again he turned to drink to forget. That last fiery hell, watching a brother die just feet away, had been the final straw that drove him to drink himself to oblivion. His life had fallen apart after that till he had nothing left.