The steel flood of Louis has already moved away.
What remains in the canyon is not the cheer of victory, but a fear that hasn't yet cooled.
Refugees kneel in the mud, their hands still tainted with flour.
Some clutch their injured legs, biting on cloth to silence their cries, while others stare dazedly at the distant flames, as if still not awakened from the madness.
They originally thought they would be abandoned here.
But before long, a second wave of people entered from the canyon entrance.
They were not cavalry there to harvest, nor phalanxes to clear the field.
They were the logistics and medical team.
Hundreds of soldiers carried bulging march bags, their steps steady and quick.
Their uniforms were uniformly colored, a glaring grey-white, as if designed to stand out in the mud and gore.
Their faces were concealed by bird-beak masks and layers of gauze, revealing only pairs of weary but alert eyes.
