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 write that they were well. Then when the wounded
came in, I thought of these wives and mothers. I knew how they felt,
because I felt so. I knew, as the Belgian and French women know, that
the war must be waged without wavering, and yet I always see war as
hideous. There was no glory in those stricken men. I had no fear of
dying, but I had a fear of being mangled.
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