She lay down. She stared at the ceiling. She began to see patterns in the cracks in the thick paint and its patina when she didn't want to see anything. She shut her eyes, but still she could see; at first mostly blackness, with flashes of red and yellow, then, unbidden and unwelcome, images of war: men, bits of men, their insides on the outside, obscenely glistening, hands trying to push portions back inside mushy holes. She imagined groups of men, faceless. She was trying not to hear the sounds of war, the explosions, screams, whimpers. The smells: blood, faeces, rottenness, stale breath, damp - no, wet - no, sodden wool, that's overpowering - suffocating, in a confined space, like a dugout, or a grave.