I think that woman, myself, must have been in a trance, or under some horrible spell. Her feet are lumps of fire, her face is clammy, her apron is splashed with blood; but she moves ceaselessly about with bright burning eyes and handles the dreadful wreckage of men as if in a dream. She does not seem to notice the wounds or the blood.
It seemed to me that the crazy crowded bright hot shelter was a beautiful place. I thought, 'This is the second battlefield. The battle now is going on over the helpless bodies of these men. it is we who are doing the fighting now, with their real enemies.'
We dig into the yawning mouths of his wounds. Helpless openings, they let us into the secret places of his body. We plunge deep into his body. We make discoveries within his body.
We stare at the obscene sight of his innocent wounds. He allows us to do this. He is helpless to stop us.
we send our men to the war again and again, just as long as they will stand it; just until they are dead, and then we throw them into the ground.
Just as you send your clothes to the laundry and men them when they come back, so we send our men to the trenches and mend them when they come back.
What do you mean by telling me that they are men?... They are not the usual shape. They only remind one of men.
Because he was so big, his helplessness was the more helpless.
He lay on the ground like a felled ox, a bull mortally wounded, breathing noisily.
It is impossible to be a woman here. One must be dead. Certainly they were men once. But now they are no longer men.