I haven’t seen the sheet covered bodies, but a couple of things have been worse, in my opinion.
In Summer, 1966, my family ran a boarding house of sorts. I was 14, and a couple of residents were young soldiers from the Army post next to town. One night they were going to a package store (“beer joint”) a couple of blocks away and offered to be me a soda if I’d help them carry a couple of cases home. As we approached the store a driver lost control (or something) and crashed into a concrete utility pole across the street. It appeared to me the steering column had penetrated his chest just about in the center of his breastbone. It was pretty deep, and there was an awful lot of blood. There was nothing we could do. The store’s proprietor had already called the police, and there was of course no 911 in those days. The soldiers decided they didn’t want beer that night.
In Spring, 1970, several of us on a work crew were returning from Phenix City to Montgomery on a Sunday night. We came upon an 18-wheeler whose cab was on fire. The driver was apparently trapped inside, and his screams sounded awful. We couldn’t get anywhere near the cab on account of the heat. There was no way to call anyone until we came to a house several miles away. They allowed the crew chief to call the Highway Patrol.