I have been asked again and again whether it is true that on both sides of the line disheartened soldiers have committed suicide during this long winter of waiting.  I have always replied that I do not know.  On the Allied side it is thought that many Germans have done so; I daresay the Germans make the same contention.  This one instance is perfectly true.  But it was the result of an accident, not of discouragement.

The sentry was alone in his hut, and he was cleaning his gun.  For a certain length of time he would be alone.  In some way the gun exploded and blew off his right hand.  There was no one to call on for help.  He waited quite a while.  It was night.  Nobody came; he was suffering frightfully.

Perhaps, sitting there alone, he tried to think out what life would be without a right hand.  In the end he decided that it was not worth while.  But he could not pull the trigger of his gun with his left hand.  He tried it and failed.  So at last he tied a stout cord to the trigger, fastened the end of it to the door, and sitting on the bench kicked the door to.  They had just taken him away.

Just back of Ypres there is a group of buildings that had been a great lunatic asylum.  It is now a hospital for civilians, although it is partially destroyed.

“During the evacuation of the town,” said the Commandant, “it was decided that the inmates must be taken out.  The asylum had been hit once and shells were falling in every direction.  So the nuns dressed their patients and started to march them back along the route to the nearest town.  Shells were falling all about them; the nuns tried to hurry them, but as each shell fell or exploded close at hand the lunatics cheered and clapped their hands.  They could hardly get them away at all; they wanted to stay and see the excitement.”

That is a picture, if you like.  It was a very large asylum, containing hundreds of patients.  The nuns could not hurry them.  They stood in the roads, faces upturned to the sky, where death was whining its shrill cry overhead.  When a shell dropped into the road, or into the familiar fields about them, tearing great holes, flinging earth and rocks in every direction, they cheered.  They blocked the roads, so that gunners with badly needed guns could not get by.  And behind and all round them the nuns urged them on in vain.  Some of them were killed, I believe.  All about great holes in fields and road tell the story of the hell that beat about them.

Here behind the town one sees fields of graves marked each with a simple wooden cross.  Here and there a soldier’s cap has been nailed to the cross.

The officers told me that in various places the French peasants had placed the dead soldier’s number and identifying data in a bottle and placed it on the grave.  But I did not see this myself.

Unlike American towns, there is no gradual approach to these cities of Northern France; no straggling line of suburbs.  Many of them were laid out at a time when walled cities rose from the plain, and although the walls are gone the tradition of compactness for protection still holds good.  So one moment we were riding through the shell-holed fields of Northern France and the next we were in the city of Ypres.