"How do the Americans stand dressing their wounds and the suffering in
the hospitals?" a friend of mine asked a prominent surgeon.

"They bear their suffering like Frenchmen. That is the highest
compliment I can pay them," he replied.

And so back of their wounds are their immortal, undying, unflinching
souls. And back of the tremblings of these boys that night, thank God,
I had the glory of seeing their immortal souls, and to me the soul of
an American boy under fire and pain is the biggest, finest, most
tremendous thing on earth. I bow before it in humility. It dazzled
mine eyes. All I could think of as I saw it was:

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."


That night I said, just before I left: "Boys, it's Sunday evening, and
they wouldn't let you come to my meeting! Would you like for me to
have a little prayer with you?"

"Yes! Sure! That's just what we want!" were the stammered words that
followed.

"All right; we'll just stand, if it's easier for you."

Then I prayed the prayer that had been burning in my heart every minute
as we stood there in that dimly lit ward, talking of home and battle
and the folks we all loved across the seas. All that time there had
been hovering in the background of my mind a picture of a cool body of