* * * * *

I was talking to one boy—an American; he was a little premature, he was in
the fight before his country.

“Sonny,” I said, “you’re an American?”

“Yes, sir. I was born in Michigan.”

“Well, what are you doing, fighting under the British flag?”

“I guess it’s my fight too, sir. This,” he said, “is not a fight for
England, France, or Belgium, but a fight for the race, and I wouldn’t have
been a man if I had kept out.”

I told that story to one of our Generals who died last September.

“Ah!” he said, “that boy got to the bottom of the business. It’s for the
race. It’s for the race.”

“Are you a Christian?” I asked.

“No,” he answered; “but I should like to be one. I wasn’t brought up. I
grew up, and I grew up my own way, and my own way was the wrong way. I go
to church occasionally—if a friend is getting married. I know the story of
the Christian faith a little, but it has never really meant anything to
me.”

Then he continued slowly, “On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly
wounded”—he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix—“I