Something remotely resembling a laugh came from the bandaged head, but there was not the slightest visible sign of mirth. "I can manage it fairly well," he returned confidently; "my right arm has only a few wounds." Only a few wounds! And he could lie there and speak calmly of them! He might have been excused for hysterics. The English officers in the other beds smiled appreciatively: "He’s a brick!" I heard one murmur. The nursing sister, a keen, young woman of ability, looked across the bed at me with a slight smile of pride. She made no remark but as she leaned over her patient to unwind his bandages, a flush of pleasure at his heroism dyed her cheeks. We would have no cause to be ashamed of our own boys. As we stood beside the bed of that gallant chap, the epitome of all that was best and bravest from home, a lump arose in our throats and choked back speech. With the aid of cocaine, I removed about a dozen small pieces of shell from his chest and arms. His face was mottled with myriads of splinters of stone, and his right eye was practically gone. The hair had been completely burned off his head and in the centre of the scalp a piece of nickel, about the size of a penny and as thin as a wafer, had been driven. One large piece of shell had buried itself in the right leg; half a dozen more smaller scraps were in the left; his wrist watch had been smashed to atoms and the main spring was embedded in the flesh. "I can’t see yet," he explained, "so please watch where I lay my cigarette. I suppose my eyes will come around in time?" How much would we have given to have been able to assure him of such a possibility! I had grave doubts, but answered as encouragingly as I dared. Reggy came in later to examine the eye and shook his head over it despondently. "There’s a chance for the left eye," he remarked to me, as we passed out into the hall, "but the right eye will have to be removed as soon as he is able to stand the operation." (Apart from this loss, in the course of time, he recovered perfectly.) We went into the room of a young officer from British Columbia, who had also just reached the hospital. He was a tall, handsome, fair-haired youth. He rose to his feet, trembling violently, as we entered. He was still dressed and after we had passed the customary greetings I enquired: "Have you been wounded?" "No," he replied with a smile, although his lip quivered as he spoke. "I wish I had been. It’s rotten luck to get put out of business like this. I got in the way of a ’Jack Johnson’; it played me a scurvy trick—shell-shock, they tell me, that’s all."