My first words in this night’s report are, ‘A good day.’
Why?
None of my men died this day.
Losses have grown grim, friend piled on friend.
The dead march with me, rank upon rank.
I now dread Minas Tirith homecomings: wives and children surrounding us when we enter, seeking husbands, fathers. Not always finding them among my company, where once they stood.
Tonight, no letters to distant kin, telling of a lost brother or son. No bundles to return without owners. No empty places at our fire.
It was a good day.