down my tunic.

"They made way for me, uttering cheery words, 'Stick it,
Corporal, you'll soon be in Blighty,' one said. Another,
'Best of luck, old man.' I made my way slowly--not in pain,
I was too numbed for that. My officer gave me a pull at his
whisky bottle, and further on our stretcher-bearers bandaged
my head and wiped as much blood as they could from my face.
I felt I could go no further, but a 'runner' who was going
to H.Q. led me back. I held on to his equipment, halting for
cover when a shell came near, and hurrying when able. I
eventually got to our First Aid Post. There I fainted away.

"I awoke next day just as I was being lifted on to the
operating table, and whilst under an anaesthetic my eye was
removed. Although I was not aware of this for some time
afterwards I did not properly come to until I was on the
hospital train the following day bound for the coast. I
opened my eye as much as possible and recognised two of my
old chums, but conversation was impossible; I was too weak.
The next five days I spent at a hospital near Le Treport. My
mother was wired for, and the offending piece of shell was
abstracted by a magnet. It couldn't be done by knife, as it
was too near the brain."

Thus far Sydney Baxter tells his own story of the great day of his
life. I leave it as it stands, though I could add so much to it if I
would. Will you picture to yourself this sightless young man, with
torn head and shattered hand piteously struggling from those shambles?
Will you look at him--afterwards? It's worth while trying to do so.