They could see all the houses of the hamlet at once on their left; whitewashed walls; slender grey doors and shutters.  The three that looked out on to the barn were untouched.  A few yards ahead a small, empty wine-shop faced the open field; its doorstep and the path in front of its windows glittered with glass dust, with spikes and splinters, and heaped shale of glass that slid and cracked under your feet.  Beyond it, a house with its door and all its windows and the front slope of its roof blown in.  A broken shutter sagged from the wall.  Then the shell of the last house; it pricked up one plastered gable, white and hard against the blue.

They found the men in the last house but one, the house with the broken shutter.  They went, carrying their stretchers and the haversack of dressings, under the slanted lintel into the room.  The air in there was hot and stifling and thickened with a grey powdery swarm.  Their feet sank through a layer of pinkish, greyish dust.

The three wounded men lay stretched out on this floor, among brickbats and broken panes and slabs of dropped plaster.  A thin grey powder had settled on them all.  And by the side of each man the dust was stiffened into a red cake with a glairy pool in the middle of it, fed from the raw wound; and where two men lay together their pools had joined and overflowed in a thin red stream.

John put down his stretcher and stood still.  His face was very white, and his upper lip showed in-drawn and dry, and tightened as though it were glued to his teeth.

“John, you aren’t going to faint or be sick or anything?”

“I’m all right.”

He went forward, clenching his fists; moving in a curious drawn way, like a sleep walker.

They were kneeling in the dust now, looking for the wounds.

“We must do this chap with the arm first.  He’ll want a tourniquet.”

He spoke in a husky whisper as if he were half asleep....

The wounded head stuck to the floor.  They scraped round it, digging with their hands; it came up wearing a crust of powdered lime.  A pad and a bandage.  They couldn’t do anything more for that ...  The third man, with the fractured shin-bone and the big flesh-wound in his thigh, must have splints and a dressing.

She wondered how John would set about his work.  But his queer, hypnotised actions were effectual and clean.

Between them they had fixed the tourniquet.

Through all her preoccupation and the quick, dexterous movement of her hands she could feel her pity tightening her throat:  pity that hurt like love, that was delicious and exquisite like love.  Nothing mattered, nothing existed in her mind but the three wounded men.  John didn’t matter.  John didn’t exist.  He was nothing but a pair of hands working quickly and dexterously with her own....  She looked up.  John’s mouth kept its hard, glued look; his eyes were feverish behind a glaze of water, and red-rimmed.