French soldier; it got him squarely, leaving not a fragment of his body
to be seen.

Immediately after the death of our gun crew and the French captain our
gun position was moved, and that same evening after supper, consisting
of the usual bread, jam and tea, Walter Hope and I were on our way to
the dugout. When half-way there a sudden emptiness entered into my life
and the next thing I knew I was being lifted on to a stretcher. I
rebelled and got to my feet. What had happened was this, as told me by
one of the boys who was standing a short distance off,--a shell had come
and exploded almost at my feet, throwing me in the air for a distance,
as he said, of fully twenty feet. It is impossible for me to personally
make an estimate of the distance, as I was unconscious when I went up
and when I came down.

When I recovered my senses, Hope was hopping around holding his right
hand with his left and exclaiming like a madman. His hand had been
almost severed by a fragment from the shell and was hanging to the wrist
by a shred. He ran to the cookhouse and the cook advised him to go at
once to the dressing station, as he couldn't do anything for him;
instead, in his frenzy, he ran to the gun pits, going from one to the
other, looking for help. Every man there wanted to help him, but he
wouldn't and couldn't stand still; the concussion of the shell had
affected his brain and this accounted for his ungovernableness. Then a
few of us grabbed him and I bandaged it as best I could, walked over to
the road with him and started him on his way to the dressing station; I
could go no further, as we had commenced firing, and he made his way
alone. When nearing the station his senses completely left him for the
time and he plucked off his hanging hand and threw it from him. The poor
lad was then taken into the station, properly attended to and sent to