Above the postcard on the business notice-board the chief wrote: "The
pluckiest piece of writing that has ever reached this office." And by
that he stands.

At Treport Sydney Baxter has his last experience of the Y.M.C.A. in
France.

"One of its members came round the ward, speaking cheery
words and offering to write home for us. It sounds a small
work, but it was a boon to those of us too weak for even a
postcard, or those who had lost or injured their right arms.
The nurses are far too busy and cannot do it, and other
patients are in a like condition. I always looked out for
that gentleman of the Y.M. I was not allowed to read or sit
up, and the days dragged horribly. Thursday evening came and
many were sent to Blighty. I worried the doctor as to when I
should go, and always received the non-committal reply,
'When you are fit to travel.' Saturday, however, found me on
board of a hospital ship, and at 9 o'clock that night we
arrived at Southampton. Ant-like, the stretcher-bearers went
to and fro, from ship to train. For some reason or other
they dumped me in a corner with my head nearest the scene of
activities, so that I was unable to interest myself in
watching the entraining of others. I feverishly hoped they
wouldn't forget me and put me in the wrong train. I was not
forgotten by one person, however. He was not an official,
not a R.A.M.C. man--no, just a Y.M.C.A. man, ministering to
our comfort, lighting cigarettes for the helpless, arranging
pillows, handing chocolate to a non-smoker, with a smile and