of nights "down the line," when I have heard them in small groups and
in great crowds singing the old, old hymns of the church, have burned
their silhouettes into my memory never to die.

One night I remember being stopped by a sentry at "Dead Man's Curve,"
because the Boche was shelling the curve that night, and we had to stop
until he "laid off," as the sentry told us. Between shells there was a
great stillness on the white road that lay like a silver thread under
the moonlight. The shattered stone buildings, with a great cathedral
tower standing like a gaunt ghost above the ruins, were tragically
beautiful under that mellow light. One almost forgot there was war
under the charm of that scene until "plunk! plunk! plunk!" the big
shells fell from time to time. But the thing that impressed me most
that waiting hour was not the beauty of the village under the
moonlight, but the fact that the lone sentry who had stopped us, and
who amid the shelling stood silently, was unconsciously singing an old
hymn of the church, "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me." I got down from my
truck and walked over to where he was standing.

"Great old hymn, isn't it, lad?"

"I'll say so," was his laconic reply.

"Belong to some church back home?" I asked him.

"Folks do; Presbyterians," he replied.

"Like the old hymns?" I asked.

"Yes, it seems like home to sing 'em."