went through it instantly.

Among those who had fallen on the exposed ground outside was a young officer—almost a boy, with fair curling hair and a soft little moustache.

He lay severely wounded under the frail protection of a bush round which shot and shell were raining fearfully. Corporal Thorogood observed him, leaped over the earthworks, ran through the iron storm, raised the youth in his strong arms, and brought him under cover in safety. The Corporal’s shako was riddled, and his clothes were torn in all directions, but nothing had touched his body save one bullet, which cut off the forefinger of his right hand.

For this gallant deed Corporal Robert Thorogood afterwards received the Victoria Cross. What pleased him far more, however, was the fact that the young officer’s life was saved, and he ultimately recovered from his wounds.

“Ah, then,” said the big Irishman, with a look of pity when Bob showed him his bleeding hand, “your sodgerin’ days is over, me boy.”

And so they were. At the close of the war our Corporal retired from the service with a small pension, leaving two fingers behind him!