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." "_Only_ lost"--that seems to me great. 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.