She climbed a few wooden-faced earthen steps and then met the entire crowded level of the thing in one held breath. She did not know Hagenzeele Third counted twenty-one thousand dead already. All she saw was a merciless sea of black crosses, bearing little strips of stamped tin at all angles across their faces. She could distinguish no order or arrangement in their mass; nothing but a waist-high wilderness as of weeds stricken dead, rushing at her.
This is from “The Gardener”, collected in Debits and Credits (1926)
On the Western Front, Helen Turrell has lost her deeply-loved ‘nephew’, whom she has brought up as her son, and has come over to France to see his grave, among many many thousands of others.