"There's a long, long trail that's leading
To No Man's Land in France
Where the shrapnel shells are bursting
And we must advance."

* * * * *

And then:

We're going to show old Kaiser Bill
What our Yankee boys can do.

Jim Barlow, his hands in his pockets, backed up against a house and
listened to the clear, high, little voices. "No Man's Land in France--We
must advance--What our Yankee boys can do."

As if his throat were gripped by a quick hand, a storm of emotion swept
him. The little girls--little girls who were the joy, each one, of some
home! Such little things as the Germans--in Belgium--"Oh, my God!" The
words burst aloud from his lips. These were trusting--innocent,
ignorant--to "What our Yankee boys can do." Without that, without the
Yankee boys, such as these would be in the power of wild beasts. It was
his affair. Suddenly he felt that stab through him.

"God," he prayed, whispering it as the little girls passed on singing,
"help me to protect them; help me to forget myself." And the miracle
that sends an answer sometimes, even in this twentieth century, to true
prayer happened to Jim Barlow. Behold he had forgotten himself. With his
head up and peace in his breast, and the look in his face already,
though he did not know it, that our soldier boys wear, he turned and