“Whistle” by James Jones (excerpt, p 66)

Prell had a hard time of it, in the Division rear hospital, to keep from breaking down completely when the remnants of the squad—and there were only nine now—filed out of the big tent after saying good-by. He had to exercise all his considerable will power to keep tears from coming in his eyes. These nine men had saved his life. They had put together a makeshift stretcher for him without even being asked, and had carried him at least a mile along slippery trails, without being ordered to. At great risk to themselves. And without so much as one word of complaint or grumble. They had performed like princes. And they had saved him, and Prell hated to see them go away from him a last time. What they thought of him meant more than whether he ever got any medal, and they clearly thought well of him. For this, he loved them back.