understood.

If only she could get him into a clean bed. If only she had had time
to take his boots off. It would be all right if only she could bring
him in alive.

He was still alive when they got into Ghent.

She had forgotten John and it was not until they came to take out the
stretcher that she was again aware of him. They had drawn up before the
steps of the hospital; he had got down and was leaning sideways, staring
under the stretcher.

"What is it?"

"You can see what it is. Blood."

From the hole in the man's head, through the soaked bandages, it still
dripped, dripped with a light sound; it had made a glairy pool on the
floor of the ambulance.

"Don't look at it," she said. "It'll make you sick. You know you can't
stand it."

"Oh. I can't _stand_ it, can't I?"

He straightened himself. He threw back his head; his upper lip lifted,
stretched tight and thin above the clean white teeth. His eyes looked
down at her, narrowed, bright slits under dropped lids.