Let one of them also answer for himself. I do not know his name, but he is a young Wesleyan minister who enlisted in the R.A.M.C. last October, and who is, as I write, now at the forefront of the fight. The following extracts from his letter were published in the _Daily News_: "The call comes for stretcher-bearers, and I volunteer to go with No. 3. The medical officer comes out, flashes his torch, and gives the order: 'Men to march in front of the waggon. Whole party walk--march!' "We are off. Ten paces ahead walked the medical officer, a captain; behind him a sergeant and four men of the squad. Then comes the ambulance waggon, with the great Red Cross on both sides, one man driving. Inside are the stretchers (one man in the squad carries a surgical haversack), and behind the waggon comes the drag-horse, with a waggon orderly mounted on it. This horse will help us out of a ditch or the mud, if the waggon gets stuck in it. "We head straight for the trenches. It is very dark; light rain splashes on our faces, and there is a cold wind. Occasionally the captain flashes his electric torch as we pass an outpost or a belated infantry man returning from the firing line. The rattle of the waggon sounds like the passing of heavy guns in the still night, and we wonder whether we shall draw the enemy's shell fire. A road with a waggon on it is a good spot to drop a 'Jack Johnson' on now and then. "Suddenly the sky is illuminated by a brilliant German star-shell with a long white tail. Every figure, every tree, every stone in the road is revealed for one moment to the enemy's snipers and artillery. Egyptian darkness follows the flash, and out of it ahead we hear, coming towards us, the tramp of many marching men. Their officer stops us. "'I have left two men on the road--ptomaine poisoning. Pick them up, will you?' he asks. "'Yes. Good-night!' "On we go again. The rain pours, the wind is rising to a gale. The road is very narrow. The wheels of the waggon plunge into a deep rut and send a spray of mud up into our faces. Soon we pull up before a little building at the side of the road not far from our firing line. It is the dressing station where the wounded are brought until the waggons can come to convey them to the hospitals out of the fire zone. "Our captain and the sergeant enter the building, and a corporal in charge of the place whispers, 'Sir, we have one dead here.' "'One dead! We did not know that. We have no chaplain.' "The sergeant whispers to the captain that I am a Wesleyan minister. The captain calls me. "'Are you a minister?' "'Yes, sir.' "'Can you bury this man?' "'Yes, sir.' "'Carry on, then!' "What is his religion--the dead man? No one knows. One of the soldiers has a Prayer-book on him, so we decide to read the Church of England service.