It was the gas ward. I had held a vesper service that evening and had
had a strange experience. Just before the service I had been
introduced to a lad who said to the chaplain who introduced me that he
was a member of my denomination.
The boy could not speak above a whisper. He was gassed horribly, and
in addition to his lungs being burned out and his throat, his face and
neck were scarred.
"I have as many scars on my lungs as I have on my face," he said quite
simply. I had to bend close to hear him. He could not talk loud
enough to have awakened a sleeping child.
He said to me: "I used to be leader of the choir at home. At college I
was in the glee-club, and whenever we had any singin' at the fraternity
house they always expected me to lead it. Since I came into the army
the boys in my outfit have depended upon me for all the music. In camp
back home I led the singing. Even the Y. M. C. A. always counted on me
to lead the singing in the religious meetings. Many's the time I have
cheered the boys comin' over on the transport and in camp by singin'
when they were blue. But I can't sing any more. Sometimes I get
pretty blue over that. But I'll be at your meeting this evening,
anyway, and I'll be right down on the front seat as near the piano as I
can get. Watch for me."
And sure enough that night, when the vesper service started, he was
right there. I smiled at him and he smiled back.
I announced the first hymn. The crowd started to sing. Suddenly I
looked toward him. We were singing "Softly Now the Light of Day Fades
Upon My Sight Away." His book was up, his lips were moving, but no
sound was coming. That sight nearly broke my heart. To see that boy,
whose whole passion in the past had been to sing, whose voice the cruel
gas had burned out, started emotions throbbing in me that blurred my
eyes. I couldn't sing another note myself. My voice was choked at the
sight. A lump came every time I looked at him there with that book up
in front of him, a lump that I could not get out of my throat. I dared
not look in his direction.
After the service was over I went up to him. I knew that he needed a
bit of laughter now. I knew that I did, too. So I said to him: "Lad,
I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't helped us out on the
singing this evening."
He looked at me with infinite pathos and sorrow in his eyes. Then a
look of triumph came into them, and he looked up and whispered through
his rasped voice: "I may not be able to make much noise any more, and I
may never be able to lead the choir again, but I'll always have singing
in my soul, sir! I'll always have singing in my soul!"
And so it is with the whole American army in France--it always has
singing in its soul, and courage, and manliness, and daring, and hope.
That kind of an army can never be defeated. And no army in the world,
and no power, can stand long before that kind of an army.
That kind of an army doesn't have to be sent into battle with a barrage
of shells in front of it and a barrage of shells back of it to force it
in, as the Germans have been doing during the last big offensive,
according to stories that boys at Château-Thierry have been telling me.
The kind of an army that, in spite of wounds and gas, "still has
singing in its soul" will conquer all hell on earth before it gets
through.
Then there is the memory of the boys in the shell-shock ward at this
same hospital. I had a long visit with them. They were not permitted
to come to the vesper service for fear something would happen to upset
their nerves. But they made a special request that I come to visit
them in their ward. After the service I went. I reached their ward
about nine, and they arose to greet me. The nurse told me that they
were more at ease on their feet than lying down, and so for two hours
we stood and talked on our feet.
"How did you get yours?" I asked a little black-eyed New Yorker.
"I was in a front-line trench with my 'outfit,' down near Amiens," he
said. "We were having a pretty warm scrap. I was firing a machine-gun
so fast that it was red-hot. I was afraid it would melt down, and I
would be up against it. They were coming over in droves, and we were
mowing them down so fast that out in front of our company they looked
like stacks of hay, the dead Germans piled up everywhere. I was so
busy firing my gun, and watching it so carefully because it was so hot,
that I didn't hear the shell that suddenly burst behind me. If I had
heard it coming it would never have shocked me."
"If you hear them coming you're all right?" I asked.
"Yes. It's the ones that surprise you that give you shell-shock. If
you hear the whine you're ready for them; but if your mind is on
something else, as mine was that day, and the thing bursts close, it
either kills you or gives you shell-shock, so it gets you both going
and coming." He laughed at this.
"I was all right for a while after the thing fell, for I was
unconscious for a half-hour. When I came to I began to shake, and I've
been shaking ever since."
"How did you get yours?" I asked another lad, from Kansas, for I saw at
once that it eased them to talk about it.
"I was in a trench when a big Jack Johnson burst right behind me. It
killed six of the boys, all my friends, and buried me under the dirt
that fell from the parapet back of me. I had sense and strength enough
to dig myself out. When I got out I was kind of dazed. The captain
told me to go back to the rear. I started back through the
communication-trench and got lost. The next thing I knew I was
wandering around in the darkness shakin' like a leaf."
Then there was the California boy. I had known him before. It was he
who almost gave me a case of shell-shock. The last time I saw him he
was standing on a platform addressing a crowd of young church people in
California. And there he was, his six foot three shaking from head to
foot like an old man with palsy, and stuttering every word he spoke.
He had been sent to the hospital at Amiens with a case of acute
appendicitis. The first night he was in the hospital the Germans
bombed it and destroyed it. They took him out and put him on a train
for Paris. This train had only gotten a few miles out of Amiens when
the Germans shelled it and destroyed two cars.
"After that I began to shake," he said simply.
"No wonder, man; who wouldn't shake after that?" I said. Then I asked
him if he had had his operation yet.
"It can't be done until I quit shaking."
"When will you quit?" I asked, with a smile.
"Oh, we're all getting better, much better; we'll be out of here in a
few months; they all get better; 90 per cent of us get back in the
trenches."
And that is the silver lining to this Silhouette Spiritual. The
doctors say that a very large percentage of them get back.
"We call ourselves the 'First American Shock Troops,'" my friend from
the West said with a grin.
"I guess you are 'shock troops,' all right. I know one thing, and that
is that you would give your folks back home a good shock if they saw
you."
Then we all laughed. Laughter was in the air. I have never met
anywhere in France such a happy, hopeful, cheerful crowd as that bunch
of shell-shocked boys. It was contagious. I went there to cheer them
up, and I got cheered up. I went there to give them strength, and came
away stronger than when I went in. It would cheer the hearts of all
Americans to take a peep into that room; if they could see the souls
back of the trembling bodies; if they could get beyond the first shock
of those trembling bodies and stuttering tongues. And, after all, that
is what America must learn to do, to get beyond, and to see beyond, the
wounds, into the soul of the boy; to see beyond the blinded eyes, the
scarred faces, the legless and armless lads, into the glory of their
new-born souls, for no boy goes through the hell of fire and suffering
and wounds that he does not come out new-born. The old man is gone
from him, and a new man is born in him. That is the great eternal
compensation of war and suffering.
I have seen boys come out of battles made new men. I have seen them go
into the line sixteen-year-old lads, and come out of the trenches men.
I saw a lad who had gone through the fighting in Belleau Woods. I
talked with him in the hospital at Paris. His face was terribly
wounded. He was ugly to look at, but when I talked with him I found a
soul as white as a lily and as courageous as granite.
"I may look awful," he said, "but I'm a new man inside. What I saw out
there in the woods made me different, somehow. I saw a friend stand by
his machine-gun, with a whole platoon of Germans sweeping down on him,
and he never flinched. He fired that old gun until every bullet was
gone and his gun was red-hot. I was lying in the grass where I could
see it all. I saw them bayonet him. He fought to the last against
fifty men, but, thank God, he died a man; he died an American. I lay
there and cried to see them kill him, but every time I think of that
fellow it makes me want to be more of a man. When I get back home I'm
going to give up my life to some kind of Christian service. I'm going
to do it because I saw that man die so bravely. If he can die like
that, in spite of my face I can live like a man."
The boys in the trenches live a year in a month, a month in a week, a
week in a day, a day in an hour, and sometimes an eternity in a second.
No wonder it makes men of them overnight. No wonder they come out of
it all with that "high look" that John Oxenham writes about. They have
been reborn.
Another wounded boy who had gone through the fighting back of
Montdidier said to me in the hospital:
"I never thought of anybody else at home but myself. I was selfish.
Sis and mother did everything for me. Everything at home centred in
me, and everything was arranged for my comfort. With this leg gone I
might have some right now, according to the way they think, to that
attention, but I don't want it any longer. I can't bear the thoughts
of having people do for me. I want to spend the rest of my life doing
things for other folks.
"Back of Noyon I saw a friend sail into a crowd of six Germans with
nothing but his bayonet and rifle. They had surrounded his captain,
and were rushing him back as a prisoner. They evidently had orders to
take the officers alive as prisoners. That big top-sergeant sailed
into them, and after killing two of them, knocking two more down, and
giving his captain a chance to escape, the last German shot him through
the head. He gave his life for the captain. That has changed me. I
shall never be the same again after seeing that happen. There's
something come into my heart. I'm going back home a Christian man."
Yes, America must learn to see beyond the darkness, beyond the
disfigured face, to the soul of the boy. And America will do it.
America is like that. And so back of these shaking bodies and these
stuttering tongues of the shell-shocked boys I saw their wonderful
souls. And after spending that two hours with them I can never be the
same man again.
I could, as Donald Hankey says, "get down on my knees and shine their
boots for them any day," and thank God for the privilege. I think that
this is the spirit of any non-combatant in France who has any immediate
contact with our men on the battle-front or in the hospitals. They are
so brave and so true.
"How do the Americans stand dressing their wounds and the suffering in
the hospitals?" a friend of mine asked a prominent surgeon.
"They bear their suffering like Frenchmen. That is the highest
compliment I can pay them," he replied.
And so back of their wounds are their immortal, undying, unflinching
souls. And back of the tremblings of these boys that night, thank God,
I had the glory of seeing their immortal souls, and to me the soul of
an American boy under fire and pain is the biggest, finest, most
tremendous thing on earth. I bow before it in humility. It dazzled
mine eyes. All I could think of as I saw it was:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
That night I said, just before I left: "Boys, it's Sunday evening, and
they wouldn't let you come to my meeting! Would you like for me to
have a little prayer with you?"
"Yes! Sure! That's just what we want!" were the stammered words that
followed.
"All right; we'll just stand, if it's easier for you."
Then I prayed the prayer that had been burning in my heart every minute
as we stood there in that dimly lit ward, talking of home and battle
and the folks we all loved across the seas. All that time there had
been hovering in the background of my mind a picture of a cool body of
water named Galilee, and of a Christ who had been sleeping in a boat on
that water with some of his friends, when a storm came up. I had been
thinking of how frightened those friends had been of the storm; of the
tossing, tumbling, turbulent waves. I had thought of how they had
trembled with fear, and then of how they had appealed to the Master. I
told the boys simply that story, and then I prayed:
"O Thou Christ who stilled the waves of Galilee, come Thou into the
hearts of these boys just now, and still their trembling limbs and
tongues. Bring a great sense of peace and quiet into their souls."
"Oh, ye of little faith!" When I looked up from that prayer, much to
my own astonishment, and to the astonishment of the friend who was with
me, the tremblings of those fine American boys had perceptibly ceased.
There was a great sense of quiet and peace in the ward.
The nurse told me the next day that after I had gone the boys went
quietly to bed; that there was little tossing that night and no walking
the floors, as there had been before. A doctor friend said to me:
"After all, maybe your medicine is best, for while we are more or less
groping in the dark as to our treatment of shell-shock, we do know that
the only cure will be that something comes into their souls to give
them quiet of mind and peace within."
"I know what that medicine is," I told him. "I have seen it work."
"What is it?" he asked.
Then I told him of my experience.
"You may be right."
And so it is all over France; where I have worked in some twenty
hospitals--from the first-aid dressing-stations back through the
evacuation hospitals to the base hospitals--and have found that the
reaction of our boys to wounds and suffering is always a spiritual
reaction. I know as I know no other thing, that the boys of America
are to come back, wounded or otherwise, a better crowd of men than they
went away. They are men reborn, and when they come back, when it's
"over, over there," there is to be a nation reborn because of the
leaven that is within their souls.
V