FICTION

TO FOOL THE EYE

Being The Wartime Experiences Of Lieutenant Comar And The Story Of His

Sacrifice For His Country

s I lay in the hastily erected hospital bed in the little French village of Lance de

Feu, the bombardment shook the earth, and every shellburst found an echo in my aching head. My throat was parched, and my ton- gue felt like a bit of old salt beef. I struggled up from my pillow.

"Nurse!" I called. "Water!"

A chill of horror trickled

down my spine. Was that pip- ing, girlish treble MY voice? Or was it that sickness had made it weak? Summoning my ebbing strength, I called again:

"Nurse! I want a drink!" Icy spiders of horror crawled slowly up my back. My voice was girlish thin, tinkling, and brittle, like the sweet sound of glass bells; and formerly it had been base!

The nurse came with a glass of water. I gulped it down.

"My voice!" I gasped. "What

has happened to it?"

She flushed.

"I'll fetch the doctor, Lieu- tenant." And, tearing her apron out of my frenzied grip, she rustled crisply down the room.

When she had gone, I tried to think. I had "gone over the top," and had dropped in a shell- hole. A big "Coal Box" shell had exploded; then needles of

Gingerly, I moved my legs. Yes, both there, thank God! The same with my arms; and a wiggle in my bed told me that my spine was still in working order. I was trying to croak a verse of "Tiperary" when the Doctor came in with two assistants at his side.

He stopped at my bedside and plunged straight into a list of questions? What was the matter with me? Where had I been injured? What ailed my voice?

"Lieutenant Comar, you have always been a brave man, so I will not hide the truth. You were almost blown up by the shellburst but the deep shell-hole you dropped into saved you from the worst effects; but shrapnel had been driven deeply all over the body. We had to operate very danger- ously to get it out. One of the bits of shells cut your throat right to the vocal cords and the cords were almost severed, but we luckily patched them