"Let's go on foot, and see where the Germans were," suggested "Scotch."
We came to burned peasants' houses. Inside the wreckage, soldiers
crouched with rifles ready at the peek-holes. A Reckitt's bluing factory
was burning, and across the field were the Germans. The cottages without
doors and windows were like toothless old women. Piles of used
cartridges were strewed around. There stood a gray motor-car, a wounded
German in the back seat, his hands riddled, the car shot through, with
blood in the bottom from two dead Germans. I realized the power of the
bullet, which had penetrated the driver, the padded seat, the sheet
metal and splintered the wood of the tonneau. We saw a puff of white
smoke over the field from a shrapnel. That was the first shell I had
seen close. It meant nothing to me. In those early days, the hum of a
shell seemed no more than the chattering of sparrows. That was the way
with all my impressions of war--first a flash, a spectacle; later a
realization, and experience.

I went into Alost during a mild bombardment. The crashing of timbers was
fascinating. It is in human nature to enjoy destruction. I used to love
to jump on strawberry boxes in the woodshed and hear them crackle. And
with the plunge of the shells, something echoed back to the delight of
my childhood. I enjoyed the crash, for something barbaric stirred. There
was no connection in my mind between the rumble and wounded men. The
curiosity of ignorance wanted to see a large crash. Shell-fire to me was
a noise.

I still had no idea of war. Of course I knew that there would be hideous
things which I didn't have in home life. I knew I could stand up to
dirty monotonous work, but I was afraid I should faint if I saw blood.
When very young, I had seen a dog run over, and I had seen a boy
playmate mutilate a turtle. I was sickened. Years later, I came on a
little child crying, holding up its hand. The wrist was bent back
double, and the blood spurting till the little one was drenched. Those
shocks had left a horror in me of seeing blood. But this thing that I
feared most turned out not to have much importance. I found that the man
who bled most heavily lay quiet. It was not the bloodshed that unnerved
me. It was the writhing and moaning of men that communicated their pain
to me. I seemed to see those whom I loved lying there. I transferred the
wound to the ones I love. Sometimes soldiers gave me the address of wife
and mother, to have me writ