We came to the field hospital at last. The natives pushed a stretcher into the cart beside me, and one intelligent fellow nimbly jumped up and stood on my smashed hand. That was the last straw. I cursed him. When I stopped for want of breath they attempted to lift me on to the stretcher, but I begged them to stop. I tried to get on by myself, but could only manage to get my knees on and could not lift my body. The natives were chattering round the cart, so I started shouting "English, English. Fetch English," and at last a "Jock" came up to see what was wrong. I begged him to put his hand under my shoulder and help me on the stretcher, and in a moment I was lying on my stomach--not very comfortable on account of my laboured breathing, but it was a rest for my left side. When my hand had been cleaned and dressed I was put on a mattress in a bell tent, where I tossed about in a high fever. In the morning I was put in a paddle-boat, and I slept till it started in the afternoon. We were taken ashore at Orah that night, and there received better attention. I was placed on the operating table and the bullet located and removed. I will not describe my stay at Orah or the trip down the Tigris in the paddle-boat to Bussorah. My hand was a fearful size and very painful. When the ship was moored in front of Bussorah Hospital I was very weak. Two orderlies helped me on to the stretcher, and I was carried down the gangway to the entrance of the hospital. A Major took particulars and consigned me to a veranda ward on the second floor. And so I was placed in one of the whitest, cleanest, and most comfortable beds in the world. SPIRIT OF YOUNG AMERICA--HOW WE WENT "OVER THE TOP" _Experiences of a New York Boy with the Canadians_ _Told by (name withheld), Wounded in France_ This is a letter from an American boy at the front. It symbolizes the spirit of young America. In his frank, simple, human way, he tells with outbursts of quaint humor how he went "over the top," faced death, was wounded, and longs to get back into the fight. It is but one of the tens of thousands of private letters that are reaching friends in America every time a ship comes in from Europe. I--"IN WAY OF FRITZ'S SHELLS" 1st Canadian Hospital, France, August 27, 1917.