" 56

Sightless Canadian Four " " 66

Basket Weaving " " 84

THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT

CHAPTER I

MY TICKET FOR BLIGHTY

In the World War, it was not only the men who went "over the top" to
assault enemy positions who ran great risks. Scouts, snipers, patrols,
working parties, all took their lives in their hands every time they
ventured into No Man's Land, and even those who were engaged in
essential work behind the lines were far from being safe from death or
wounds. On the morning of June 7th, 1917, before dawn had broken, I was
out with a working party. Suddenly, overhead, sounded the ominous
drumming and droning of an aeroplane. It proved to be a Hun plane; the
aviator had spotted us, and was speedily in touch with the battery for
which he was working. Fortunately for us, he had mistaken our exact
position, and evidently thought we were on a road which ran towards the
front line about thirty yards to our left. The enemy guns, in answer to
his signals, opened up with a terrific fire, and the scenery round about
was soon in a fine mess. Shells of varying calibre came thundering in
our direction, throwing up, as they burst, miniature volcanoes and
filling the air with dust and mud and smoke. This shell-fire continued
for about three-quarters of an hour, but due to the defect in the
aviator's signals and our own skill in taking cover we suffered no
casualties. We were congratulating ourselves that we were to pass
through this ordeal uninjured, when suddenly a 5.9-inch shell fell
short. It exploded almost in our midst, and I was unlucky enough to get
in the way of one of the shrapnel bullets. I felt a slight sting in my
right temple as though pricked by a red-hot needle--and then the world
became black.

Dawn was now breaking, but night had sealed my eyes, and I could only
grope my way among my comrades. I was hit about 2.30 a.m., and it
speaks volumes for the Medical Service that at 2 p.m. I was tucked
safely in bed in a thoroughly-equipped hospital many miles from the
scene of my mishap.

Willing hands tenderly dressed my wounds and led me to the foot of the
ridge on which we were located. I was then placed on a stretcher, and
carried up the slope to one of the narrow-gauge railways that had been
run to the crest of Vimy Ridge. I was now taken to the end of what is
called t