both in black. They walked slowly up the steps and in through the
great doors to pray for their daddy aviator, who had been killed a year
before.

A man at the door told me that every day they come, that every day they
keep fresh the memory of their loved one.

"But why does she come so long after he is dead?" I asked.

"She comes to pray for the other aviators," he added simply.

It was a tremendous thing to me. I went into the great, beautiful
cathedral and reverently knelt beside them in love and thankfulness
that no harm had come to my own wife and baby. But the memory of that
woman's brave pilgrimage of prayer each day for a year, "for the other
aviators," the picture of the woman and child kneeling, etched its way
into my soul to remain forever.

"As I shot down through the night, falling to what I was certain was
immediate death, I had just one thought," a young aviator said, as we
sat talking in a hotel in Paris.

I said: "What was it?"

"I said to myself: 'What will the poor kiddie do without his dad?"'

Then there is that Silhouette of Sorrow that my friend brought back
from Germany, he who was on the Peace Ship Commission, and who saw a
train-load of German boys leaving a certain German town to fill in the
gaps caused by the losses at Verdun; and because this sorrow is