"Going for the guns."

There was, she noticed, a certain longish interval between shells. John
and the wounded men would be safe from shrapnel under the shelter of the
wall. She brought out the first gun and stowed it at the back of the car.
Then she went in for the other. It stood on the seat between them with
its muzzle pointing down the road. Charlotte put her arm round it to
steady it.

On the way back to the dressing-station she sat silent, thinking of
the three wounded men in there, behind, rocked and shaken by the
jolting of the car on the uneven causeway. John was silent, too,
absorbed by his steering.

But as they ran into Ghent the romance of it, the romance of it, came
back to her. It wasn't over yet. They would have to go out again for the
wounded they had had to leave behind at Berlaere.

"John--John--It's like nothing else on earth."

"I told you it would be."

Slowly realization came to her. They had brought in their wounded under
the enemy's fire. And they had saved the guns.

* * * * *

"Do you mind," John said, "if Sutton goes instead of me He hasn't
been out yet?"