“Did you even go so far with your lone one-man congregation as to have a benediction?” I asked him.

“No, I just said what was in my heart when we were through, ’God bless and keep you, boy,’ and went on.”

“I never heard a finer benediction than that, old man,” I replied with feeling.

And the silhouette of that one Y. M. C. A. secretary holding a religious service with a lone sentry of a Sunday evening, bringing back to the lad’s memory sacred things of home and church and the Christ, giving him a new hold on the bigger, better things, bringing the Christ out to him there on that road, that silhouette is mine to keep forever close to my heart.  I shall see that and shall smile in my soul over it when eternity calls, and shall thank God for its sweetening influence in my life.

And so this comfort may come to the mothers and fathers of America, that through the various agencies of the American army, through General Pershing’s intense interest in righteous things, through that Lincoln-like Christian leader of the chaplains, Bishop Brent, through the Y. M. C. A., and the Salvation Army, and the Knights of Columbus, your boy has his chance, whatever creed, or race, or church, to worship his God as he wishes; and not one misses this opportunity, even the lonely sentinel on the road.  And the glorious thing about it is that boys who never before thought of going to church at home, crowd the huts on Sundays and for the good-night prayers on week-days.

Just before the battle of Chateau-Thierry, “Doc,” of whom I have spoken in this chapter before, said:  “Boys, do you want a communion service?”

“Yes,” they shouted.

Knowing that there were Catholics and Jews and Protestants and non-believers there, he said:  “Now, anybody who doesn’t want to take communion may leave.”

Not a single man left.  Out of one hundred or more men only two did not kneel to take of the sacred bread and wine.  Two Jews knelt with the others, several Roman Catholics, and men of all Protestant denominations.  Half of them were dead before another sunrise came around, but they had had their service.

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