Despite the excruciating pain in his wounded leg, GarGar insisted that his men bear him to the battlefield on a cot. When the soldiers saw him coming from afar, they cried their approval, lifting their rifles in the, and some even discharging. From the top of a slow incline, he examined the enemy’s position using his lucky, gold-plated field glasses.
“Save your bullets for the enemy!” Shouted GarGar, who nevertheless smiled and waved. “We will fight together! Or, if need be, die together!” This was why his men loved him so.
Two of his men hoisted him up, placing the inner crooks of his arms behind their necks. As soon as GarGar was in a vertical position, the blood began to race into his legs. The pain was nearly unbearable, and caused him to twitch from head to toe. He bit his lip to keep from crying aloud, but it was futile. “Set me down!” He hissed through gritted teeth. And then, more calmly, “Have pity on your poor general.”