While this was the bravest act I saw in two and a half years on the firing line, I readily recall the most pathetic. It was the second line of men in the Russian trenches. They were unarmed soldiers. There were no guns for them. They took their places there expecting that the man in front might drop, and the second line man could pick up his gun and take his place. The reports that some of the Russian soldiers have desperately fought with switches I have no doubt is true. I have seen many of the allies die. They all die bravely. At Dixmude when the fusiliers arrived 8,000 and went out 4,000 there was magnificent courage in death. The Frenchman dies calling upon his God. The Englishman says nothing or feebly jests; just turns his face to the wall and is still. The Russian is mystic and secretive. The Russian lives behind a veil of reserve. You never fully know him. In the last moments you know by his rapt look that his soul is in communion with his God. One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the German power of hatred. It is past measuring. An example occurred at Dixmude. When we had been there three days we were driven out. I took my car filled with the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after we had crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot had torn the bridge to pieces. Three weeks later to our hospital was brought a wounded German. "I know you," he said. "We nearly got you at the bridge at Dixmude." "I remember," I said. That man's eyes used to follow me in a strange way. Build no beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing, or being swallowed up in his gratitude. There was no such thought in his mind. The eyes said: "I wish I had killed you. But since I didn't I wish I might have another chance." This after I had driven away a group of zouaves who had taken everything from him, including his iron cross, and who were debating whether to toss him into the canal then or that night. It is quite true that the Germans fire upon hospitals. Don't believe any disclaimers of such acts. There have been many of them. The aeroplanes were circling about and above a rough hospital we had constructed and we had to leave it in a hurry. We told the patients of their danger and hurried them into ambulances to take them to a safer spot. One of the patients was a German. Both his arms had been shot away. He was in great pain. I went to his cot and offered to help him. "Lean on me," I said. But he turned upon me a baleful look. "No," he said, staggering to his feet. His tormented body reeled as he made his way to the door. "No," he repeated. "I will take no help from the enemy." It is true that a shell has burst at my feet. It has happened dozens of times. That isn't alarming. If it burst a few feet away I should be killed. Shells glance down and under the ground. That saves one if he is near it. A shell bursting near one is a commonplace in war.