in front of him, a lump that I could not get out of my throat. I dared
not look in his direction.

After the service was over I went up to him. I knew that he needed a
bit of laughter now. I knew that I did, too. So I said to him: "Lad,
I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped us out on the
singing this evening."

He looked at me with infinite pathos and sorrow in his eyes. Then a
look of triumph came into them, and he looked up and whispered through
his rasped voice: "I may not be able to make much noise any more, and I
may never be able to lead the choir again, but I'll always have singing
in my soul, sir! I'll always have singing in my soul!"

And so it is with the whole American army in France--it always has
singing in its soul, and courage, and manliness, and daring, and hope.
That kind of an army can never be defeated. And no army in the world,
and no power, can stand long before that kind of an army.

That kind of an army doesn't have to be sent into battle with a barrage
of shells in front of it and a barrage of shells back of it to force it
in, as the Germans have been doing during the last big offensive,
according to stories that boys at Château-Thierry have been telling me.
The kind of an army that, in spite of wounds and gas, "still has
singing in its soul" will conquer all hell on earth before it gets
through.

Then there is the memory of the boys in the shell-shock ward at this
same hospital. I had a long visit with them. They were not permitted
to come to the vesper service for fear something would happen to upset