As Winters gingerly walks forward, weak fingers reach gently toward his arm, touching him in gratitude and disbelief, clasping him with the desperation of men too long denied strength and good health. The gesture speaks volumes of their despondency, louder than any oration. One man's skin is literally green, so deprived of nourishment is he. Winters removes his helmet as Nixon did -- he's uncomfortable, but not because he fears these creatures; rather, he fears the breed of man who could perpetrate such atrocities, and he fears the bigger force propelling them. Winters chokes that he needs Liebgott immediately, because Liebgott can speak German. Donnie runs back outside the camp to fetch the soldier, ordering the remaining men to distribute water and rations to these starving, dying people.
Nixon stops moving. "Oh my God," he almost gags. "Dick?" Winters joins him, emptily staring ahead. We suddenly see what they do: hovels lining two sides of a dirt passage, extending deep into the horizon. Prisoners stagger brokenly into the light, squinting as if they hadn't dared step foot outside since being herded into their caves. Thick smoke clogs the air. Men limp in droves toward their saviors, barely able to milk movement from their diminished legs, hobbled into twisted, weak echoes of humanity. Malarkey covers his nose and mouth, sickened by the smell of decay, death, and charred ruins. Prisoners grab each other, drawing whatever support they can from each others' frail frames. Bones protrude from under waxen skin, dangerously close to penetrating the surface. Sunken bellies turn concave, flanked by starkly visible rib and pelvic bones. One fragile man carries the wispy skeleton of another, magically still breathing despite legs feebler than a string of rags. His bones have all but disintegrated, his body barely human, his eerie, ashen skin stretched like tissue paper over his skull. He is a feather. Faltering, the man with him sinks to his knees, unintelligibly begging for help. Speirs stares bewildered at this, and finally sputters that someone needs to give this person water. Either Talbert or Grant doubles over and vomits. "Jesus, Web, can you believe this place?" Luz whispers. "No," Webster answers grimly.
A prisoner, his eyes liquid pools of undiluted emotion, stumbles toward a soldier and limply embraces him, kissing his cheek. The man cannot speak, but his body convulses with sobs pent-up from month upon month of barbarous oppression. "It's okay," the officer murmurs. But the man weeps anyway.