The ambulances, filled with wounded, stretched a half-mile in front of him, but he had grown so used to such sights that they did not move him long.

Moreover in this war a man was not dead until he _was_ dead.

The small bullets of the high-powered rifle either killed or harmed but little.

It was the shrapnel that tore.
The road led across low hills, and down slopes which he knew were kissed by a warm sun in summer.

It was here that the vines flourished, but the snow could not hide the fact that it was torn and trampled now.