It was common enough, to see so much death and want a child. Common, therefore human, and he wanted it all the more. When the wounded were screaming, you dreamed of sharing a little house somewhere, of an ordinary life, a family line, connection.
Writers are said to have superstitions and little rituals. Readers have them too.
Shall there be womanly times? Or shall we die?
Oblivion seemed the only reasonable option.
Self-consciousness is the destroyer of erotic joy.
When there are no consequences, being wrong is simply a diversion.