* * * * *

She had waited a long time with her car drawn up close under the house
wall in the long street at Melle. McClane's car stood in front of her,
waiting for John. He was up there on the battlefield, with Sutton and
McClane. McClane had kept him off it all day; he had come to her when
they started and told her not to worry. Conway would be all right. He
would see that he didn't get into places where he--well, unsuitable
places. He would keep him driving. But in the end one of the stretcher
bearers had given in, and John had to take his turn.

He had been keen to go. Keen. She could see him swinging along up the
road to the battlefield and McClane with him, running to keep up with his
tall stride.

She had taken her turn too and she knew what it was like up there.
Endless turnip fields; turnips thrown up as if they had been pulled,
livid roots that rotted, and the wounded and the dead men lying out among
them. You went stumbling; the turnips rolled and slipped under your feet.
Seeing things.

Her mind looked the other way, frightened. She was tired out, finished;
she could have gone to sleep now, sitting up there on the car. It would
be disgraceful if she went to sleep....

She mustn't think about the battlefield. She couldn't think; she could
only look on at things coming up in her mind. Hoeing turnips at Barrow
Hill Farm. Supposing you found dead men lying out on the fields at
Stow? You would mind that more; it would be more horrible.... She saw
herself coming over the fields carrying a lamb that she had taken from
its dead mother. Then she saw John coming up the field to their seat in
the beech ring. _That_ hurt her; she couldn't bear it; she mustn't
think about that.

John was all right; he wasn't shirking. They had been away so long now
that she knew they must have gone far down the battlefield, deep into it;
the edges and all the nearer places had been gleaned. It would be dark
before they came back.

It was getting dark now, and she was afraid that when the light went she
would go to sleep. If only she wasn't so tired.

She was so drowsy that at first she didn't hear McClane speaking, she
hadn't seen him come to the step of the car.

McClane's voice sounded soft and unnatural and a little mysterious.

"I'm afraid something's--happened."

"Who to?"

"We-ell--"

The muffled drawl irritated her. Why couldn't he speak out?

"Is John hurt?"

"I'm afraid so."