The wagons waited there, the horses stamping now and then, and the wounded men on the only wagon that was filled, moaned and cried.
Shrapnel whizzed overhead--sometimes crying, like an echo, in the far distance, sometimes screaming with the rage of a hurt animal close at hand.

Groups of soldiers ran swiftly past me, quite silent, their heads bent.

Somewhere on the high road I could hear motor-cars spluttering and humming.
At irregular intervals Red Cross men would arrive with wounded, would ask in a whisper that was inhuman and isolating whether there were room on my carts.

Then the body would be lifted up; there would be muttered directions, the wounded man would cry, then the other wounded would also cry--after that, there would be the dismal silence again, silence broken only by the shrapnel and the heavy plopping smothers of the rain.

But it was myself upon whom my eyes were fixed, myself, a miserable figure, the rain dripping from me, slipping down my neck, squelching under my boots.
And as I stood there I was afraid.