in addition to his lungs being burned out and his throat, his face and
neck were scarred.

"I have as many scars on my lungs as I have on my face," he said quite
simply. I had to bend close to hear him. He could not talk loud
enough to have awakened a sleeping child.

He said to me: "I used to be leader of the choir at home. At college I
was in the glee-club, and whenever we had any singin' at the fraternity
house they always expected me to lead it. Since I came into the army
the boys in my outfit have depended upon me for all the music. In camp
back home I led the singing. Even the Y. M. C. A. always counted on me
to lead the singing in the religious meetings. Many's the time I have
cheered the boys comin' over on the transport and in camp by singin'
when they were blue. But I can't sing any more. Sometimes I get
pretty blue over that. But I'll be at your meeting this evening,
anyway, and I'll be right down on the front seat as near the piano as I
can get. Watch for me."

And sure enough that night, when the vesper service started, he was
right there. I smiled at him and he smiled back.

I announced the first hymn. The crowd started to sing. Suddenly I
looked toward him. We were singing "Softly Now the Light of Day Fades
Upon My Sight Away." His book was up, his lips were moving, but no
sound was coming. That sight nearly broke my heart. To see that boy,
whose whole passion in the past had been to sing, whose voice the cruel
gas had burned out, started emotions throbbing in me that blurred my
eyes. I couldn't sing another note myself. My voice was choked at the
sight. A lump came every time I looked at him there with that book up