We had just connected up with our party on the left when I felt a pressure of tons upon my head.  My right eye was sightless, with the other I saw my hand with one finger severed, covered in blood.  A great desire came over me to sink to the ground, into peaceful oblivion, but the peril of such weakness came to my mind, and with an effort I pulled myself together.  I tore my helmet from my head, for the concussion had rammed it tight down.  The man in front bandaged my head and eye.  Blood was pouring into my mouth, 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.  You and I have got to see war before we can do justice to the warrior.

The piece of shell which entered his head just above the right eye opened up the frontal sinuses, exposing the brain.  “It is wonderful,” wrote the doctor who attended him, “how these fellows who have been fighting for us exhibit such a marvellous fortitude.”  He had lost the end of his fourth finger and another has since been entirely amputated.

To the amazement of all, Sydney Baxter, within a few hours of his operation, asked for postcards.  He wrote three—­one to his mother, one to someone else’s sister, and one to his firm.

This last postcard is a treasured possession of Sydney Baxter’s business.  It runs as follows: 

July 4th, 1916.

“Have unfortunately fallen victim to the Hun shell in the last attack.  I am not sure to what extent I am damaged.  The wounds are the right eye, side of face, and left hand.  They hope to save my eye, and I have only lost one finger on hand.

     “I will write again, sir, when I arrive in England.  At
     present am near Dieppe.”