Romhilde stares at the bandage, one of several she had torn from her own shirt months earlier. A good deed? Or a wasted effort? Compassion? Or weakness? She stares at it remembering the event, what she did was right. Her commander told her it was stupid. She wads up the rag and goes to throw it in her trash bin, but she hesitates. She stretches it out again, folds it over a couple of times and slides it into a pocket in her flight jacket.