Every man has his opportunity to worship God in his own way and as
nearly as possible at his own altars in France. There was the story of
"The Rosary."

It was Hospital Hut Number ----, and half a thousand boys from the
front, wounded in every conceivable way, were sitting there in the hut
in a Sunday-evening service. Many of them had crutches beside them;
others canes. Some of them, had their heads bandaged; others of them
carried their arms in slings. Some of them had lost legs, and some of
them had no arms left. Their eager faces were lighted with a strange
light, such as is not seen on land or sea, and on most of those faces,
unashamed, ran over pale cheeks the tears of homesickness as the young
corporal whom I had taken with me from another town sang "The Rosary."
I have never heard it sung with more tenderness, nor have I heard it
sung in more beautiful voice. That young lad was singing his heart out
to those other boys. He had not been up front himself as yet, for he
was in a base port attending to his duties, which were just as
important as those up front, but it was hard for him to see it that
way. So he loved and respected these other lads who had, to his way of
thinking, been more fortunate than he, because they had seen actual
fighting. He respected them because of their wounds, and he wanted to
help them. So he lifted that rich, sweet, sympathetic tenor voice
until the great hut rang with the old, old song, and hearts were melted
everywhere. I saw, back in the audience, a group of nurses with bowed
heads. They knew what the rosary meant to those who suffer and die in
the Catholic faith. They, too, had memories of that beautiful song. A
group of officers, including a major, all wounded, listened with heads
bowed.

As I sat on the crude stage and saw the effects of his magical voice on