ld me by
one of the boys who was standing a short distance off,--a shell had come
and exploded almost at my feet, throwing me in the air for a distance,
as he said, of fully twenty feet. It is impossible for me to personally
make an estimate of the distance, as I was unconscious when I went up
and when I came down.

When I recovered my senses, Hope was hopping around holding his right
hand with his left and exclaiming like a madman. His hand had been
almost severed by a fragment from the shell and was hanging to the wrist
by a shred. He ran to the cookhouse and the cook advised him to go at
once to the dressing station, as he couldn't do anything for him;
instead, in his frenzy, he ran to the gun pits, going from one to the
other, looking for help. Every man there wanted to help him, but he
wouldn't and couldn't stand still; the concussion of the shell had
affected his brain and this accounted for his ungovernableness. Then a
few of us grabbed him and I bandaged it as best I could, walked over to
the road with him and started him on his way to the dressing station; I
could go no further, as we had commenced firing, and he made his way
alone. When nearing the station his senses completely left him for the
time and he plucked off his hanging hand and threw it from him. The poor
lad was then taken into the station, properly attended to and sent to
England.

Thankful am I to tell that he came through all right and is now working
in Toronto earning his living by writing with his left hand, which he
has learned to manipulate with practically the same agility the lost
member possessed. We were deeply regretful at the loss of Hope from the
crowd--fearless Hope, as he was known, and, sometimes, hopeless
Hope--because never in all my experience have I seen a man who was so
utterly regardless of danger; he would expose himself to what seemed
certain death, and, as luck would have it, he got his blighty at a place
that ordinarily would be considered about as safe from harm as could be
found.

On the fifth day of the second battle of Ypres, April 25, 1915, McKay,
an orderly, came up the line with ammunition for the guns as our supply
was exhausted. As soon as the shells were delivered it was his duty to
report at once to the Captain for further orders. The poor fellow was
starving for something to eat and he thought he would steal the time to
slip up to the cookhouse and get a bite of grub. He rode his horse
across and was in th