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On one of the beds, a small girl lies crying. Eric sees that she has a broken arm. Where there should be a cast supporting the arm and helping it heal, two tree branches are affixed with Scotch tape. One cold, wintry day he trudges back to the house where he sheltered the first night of the war and rediscovers dozens of half-smoked cigarettes, the ones he thoughtlessly discarded during his first experience with shelling. Now, on his hands and knees, he gathers up every last one. Treasures. āWhat am I accomplishing?ā he writes in a chronicle of his experiences. āNothing. Or very little. Itās all so inadequate. Civilians donāt need humanitarian assistance; they need someone to protect them by force⦠Wouldnāt it be better if we slammed the door and refused to participate in this scene?ā