England.

Thankful am I to tell that he came through all right and is now working
in Toronto earning his living by writing with his left hand, which he
has learned to manipulate with practically the same agility the lost
member possessed. We were deeply regretful at the loss of Hope from the
crowd--fearless Hope, as he was known, and, sometimes, hopeless
Hope--because never in all my experience have I seen a man who was so
utterly regardless of danger; he would expose himself to what seemed
certain death, and, as luck would have it, he got his blighty at a place
that ordinarily would be considered about as safe from harm as could be
found.

On the fifth day of the second battle of Ypres, April 25, 1915, McKay,
an orderly, came up the line with ammunition for the guns as our supply
was exhausted. As soon as the shells were delivered it was his duty to
report at once to the Captain for further orders. The poor fellow was
starving for something to eat and he thought he would steal the time to
slip up to the cookhouse and get a bite of grub. He rode his horse
across and was in the act of leaning over to get a couple of hardtacks
the cook was handing him, when a splinter of a shell that had exploded
at his horse's feet, struck him in the neck, killing him instantly,
slightly wounding his horse and destroying the rations and vessels in
the cookhouse. The Captain yelled, "Ammunition orderly wanted," and I
volunteered. I jumped on the horse, galloped him as well as his limping
leg would permit, and weathered the storm of shells through the fire
zone, making my way to the wagon lines, where I gave the Quartermaster
the order.

Then I had the pleasure of witnessing for the first time the admirable