There was a slight noise out in No Man's Land. "What's that, Doc, a
Boche?"

"I think not."

"You can't tell, Doc; they're everywhere. If I've seen one, I've seen
ten thousand to-night on this watch."

That old gray-haired secretary will never forget that night when he
walked among the men in the trenches with his little gifts and his word
of cheer, that memorable night before the Americans made themselves
heroes forever in the Bois du Belleau. He will never forget the sound
of that boy sentry's voice when he said, "Gee, Doc, I'm glad it's you";
nor will he forget the looks of the boy as he stood there in the
darkness, the guardian of America's hopes and homes, nor will he forget
the firm, warm clasp of the lad's hands as he walked away to greet
others of his comrades.

These are Soldier Silhouettes that remain vivid until time dies, until
the "springs of the seas run dust," as Markham says:

"Forget it not 'til the crowns are crumbled;
'Til the swords of the Kings are rent with rust;
Forget it not 'til the hills lie humbled;
And the springs of the seas run dust."


No, we do not forget scenes and moments like these in our lives.

Then there is the silhouette of the profile of the captain of a certain