A newspaper paragraph in a Paris paper said: "Dale was last seen in a
village just before the Germans entered it, gathering together a crowd
of little French children, trying to get them to a place of safety."
Dale has never been seen since, and that was two months ago. Whether
he is dead or alive we do not know, but those who knew this manly
American lad best, say unanimously: "That was just like Dale; he loved
kids, and he was always talking about his own and showing us their
pictures."
No monument will ever be erected to Dale, for he was just a common
soldier; but I for one would rather have had the monument of that
simple paragraph in the press despatches; I for one would rather have
it said of me, "The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a crowd
of little children"; I would rather have died in such a service than to
have lived to be a part of the marching army that is one day to enter
the streets of Berlin. That was a man's way to die; dying while trying
to save a crowd of little children from the cowardly Hun.
[Illustration: "The last seen of Dale he was gathering together a crowd
of little children."]
If I had died in that kind of service, in my dying moments I could have
heard the words of John Masefield from "The Everlasting Mercy" singing
in my heart:
"Whoever gives a child a treat
Makes joybells ring in Heaven's street;
Whoever gives a child a home,
Builds palaces in Kingdom Come;
Whoever brings a child to birth,
Brings Saviour Christ again to earth."
Or, better, I would have seen the Master blessing little children,
taking them up in His arms and saying to the Hebrew mothers that stood
about with wondering eyes: "Suffer the little children to come unto me,
and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
And perhaps I should have heard the echo of Joaquin Miller's sweet
interpretation of that scene, for when men die, strange, sweet
memories, old hymns and verses, old faces, all come back:
"Then lifting His hands He said lowly,
Of such is my Kingdom, and then
Took the little brown babes in the holy
White hands of the Savior of men;
Held them close to His breast and caressed them;
Put His face down to theirs as in prayer;
Put His cheek to their cheeks; and so blessed them
With baby hands hid in His hair."
And I am certain that last of all I should have heard the voice of the
Master himself saying:
"Insomuch as ye have done it unto the least of one of these little
ones, my children, ye have done it unto me."
Thank God for a death like that. One could envy such a passing, a
passing in the service to little children.
I have seen some of the most magnificent episodes of service on the
part of men in France, scenes that have thrilled me to the bone.
I know a Protestant clergyman in France who walked five miles on a
rainy February day to find a rosary for a dying Catholic boy.
I know a Y. M. C. A. secretary who in America is the general secretary
of one of the largest organizations in one of the largest Eastern
cities. He has always had two hobbies: one is seeing men made whole,
and the other has been fighting cigarettes. Never bigger fists or more
determined fists pounded down the walls that were building themselves
up around American youth in the cigarette industry. He was militant
from morning till night in his crusade against cigarettes. Some of his
friends thought he was a fanatic. He even lost friends because of his
uncompromising antagonism to the cigarette.
But the last time I heard of him he was in a front-line dugout. This
was near Château-Thierry. The boys were coming and going from that
awful fight. Men would come in one day and be dead the next. He had
been with them for months, and they had come to love him in spite of
his fighting their favorite pastime. They knew him for his
uncompromising antagonism to cigarettes. They loved him none the less
for that because he did not flinch. Neither was he narrow about
selling them. He sold them because it was his duty, but he hated them.
Then for three days in the midst of the Château-Thierry fighting the
matches played out. Not a match was to be had for three days. The
boys were frantic for their smokes, for the nervous strain was greater
than anything they had suffered in their lives. The shelling was
awful. The noise never ceased. Machine-gun fire and bombing by planes
at night kept up every hour. They saw lifelong friends fall by their
sides every hour of the day and night. They needed the solace of their
smokes.
Their secretary found two matches in his bag. He lit a cigarette for a
boy, and the match was gone. Then he used the other one. Then he did
a magnificent piece of service for which his name shall go down forever
in the memory of those lads. Forever shall he hold their affections in
the hollow of his hands. He proved to those boys that his sense of
service was greater than his prejudices. He kept three cigarettes
going for two days and two nights on the canteen beside him, smoking
them himself in order that that crowd of boys, coming and going into
the battle, in and out of the underground dugout, might have a light
for the cigarettes during the few moments of respite that they had from
the fight.
What a thrill went down the line when that news got to the boys out
there in the woods fighting. One boy told me that a fellow he told
wept when he heard it. Another said: "Good old ----! I knew he had
the guts!" Another said: "I'll say he's a man!" Another came in one
evening and said: "I'm going to quit cigarettes from now. If you're
that much of a man, you're worth listening to!" Another said: "If I
get out of this it's me for the church forever if it has that kind of
men in it!"
Is it any wonder that they brought their last letters to him before
they went into the trenches? Is it any wonder that they asked him for
a little prayer service one night before they went into the trenches?
Is it any wonder that they love him and swear by him?
Is it any wonder that when one of them was asked how they liked their
secretary, the boy said: "Great! He's a man!"
Is it any wonder that when another boy was asked if their secretary was
very religious, responded in his own language: "Yes, he's as religious
as hell, but he's a good guy anyhow!"
That kind of service will win anybody, and that is exactly the kind of
service that the boys of the American army, your boys, are getting all
over France from big, heroic, unprejudiced, fatherly, brotherly men,
who are willing to die for their boys as well as to live for them and
with them down where the shells are thickest and the dangers are
constant.
More than a hundred Y. M. C. A. men gassed and wounded to date, and
more than six killed. One friend of mine stepped down into his cellar
one morning, got a full breath of gas, and was dead in two minutes.
There had been a gas-raid the day before, and the gas had remained in
the cellar. Another I know stayed in his hut and served his men even
though six shell fragments came through the hut while he was doing it.
Another I know lived in a dugout for three months, under shell fire
every day. One day a shell took off the end of the old château in
which he was serving the men. His dugout was in the cellar. But he
did not leave. Another day another shell took off the other end of the
château, but he did not leave. He had no other place to go, and the
boys couldn't leave, so why should he go just because he could leave if
he wished? That was the way he looked at it. One man whom I
interviewed in Paris, a Baptist clergyman, crawled four hundred yards
at the Château-Thierry battle with a young lieutenant, dragging a
litter with them across a stubble wheat-field under a rain of
machine-gun bullets and shells, in plain view of the Germans, and
rescued a wounded colonel. When they brought him back they had to
crawl the four hundred yards again, pushing the litter before them inch
by inch. It took them two hours to get across that field. A piece of
shrapnel went through the secretary's shoulder. He is nearly sixty
years of age, but he did not stop when a service called him that meant
the almost certain loss of his own life.
I know another secretary, Doctor Dan Poling, a clergyman, and Pest, a
physical director, who carried a wounded German, who had two legs
broken, through a barrage of German shells across a field to safety.
But all the Silhouettes of Service are not in the front lines.
There are two divisions to the army. They used to be "The Zone of
Advance" and "The Zone of the Rear." Now they call the second division
"The Services of Supplies." All the men who are not in the actual
fighting belong to "The Services of Supplies."
"How many men does it take to keep one pilot in the machine flying out
over those waters to guard the transports in?" I asked the young ensign
in charge of a seaplane station.
"Twenty-eight," he replied. "There are twenty-eight men back of every
machine and every pilot."
The service that these men render, although it is hard for them to see
it, is just as real and just as heroic as the service of those in the
front lines. The boys in "The Services of Supplies" are eager to get
up front. I have had the joy of making them see in their huts and
camps that their service is supremely important.
One cannot tell what service is more important.
When I landed at Newport News, the first sound that I heard was the
machine-gun hammering of thousands of riveters building ships. I know
how vital that service is to the boys "over there." They could not
live without the ships.
Then I came from Newport News to Washington, on my way home, and we
entered that great city by night. The Capitol dome was flooded with
light. As I looked at it I said to myself: "To-day from this city
emanates the light of the world. The eyes of the whole of humanity are
turned toward this city. That lighted dome is symbol of all this."
As I looked out of the train window as we entered Washington from
Richmond, Virginia, I thought: "Surely not the shipbuilding but the
ideals that go out from the Capitol are the most important 'Services of
Supplies.'"
The next morning I was in Pittsburgh. As my train pulled into that
great city, all along the Ohio River I saw great armies of laboring men
going and coming from work. As one tide of humanity flowed out of the
mills across the bridges, another flowed in, and I said: "Surely not
the shipbuilders, nor the ideal-makers at Washington, but this great
army of laboring men in America forms the most important part of 'The
Services of Supplies'!"
Then I came to New York. In turn I spoke before two significant groups
of men and women. One was a group of women meeting each day to make
Red Cross bandages, and knowing the scarcity of such in France, and
knowing how at times nurses have had to tear up their skirts to bandage
wounds of dying boys, I said: "Surely this is it!"
Then I spoke before the artists of New York, with Mr. Charles Dana
Gibson heading them, and as I had seen their stirring posters
everywhere arousing the nation to action, and knew what an important
part the artists and writers in France had played in "The Services of
Supplies," I said: "Surely these are the most important!"
But I have found at last that none of these are the most important of
all. There is another section to "The Services of Supplies," and that
is more important than the mechanic behind the pilot, more important
than the man who assembles the motor trucks and the ambulances in
France, more important than the ship-builders, more important than the
lawmakers themselves, more important even than the President, more
important than that great army of laborers which I saw in Pittsburgh,
more important than the artists and the Red Cross workers, and that
supreme and important part of the great "Services of Supplies" is the
father and mother, the wife, the child, the home, the church, the great
mass of the common thinking, feeling, suffering, praying, hoping people
of America. If these fail, all fails. If these lose faith and courage
and hope, all lose faith and courage and hope. If these grow
faint-hearted, all before them lose heart. These are they who furnish
the real sinews of war. These are they who must furnish the morale,
the love, the letters, the prayers, the support to both government and
soldier. Yes, the common folks over here at home, I have seen clearly,
are the most important part of the great division of the army that we
call "The Services of Supplies." May we never fail the boy in France.
These are the Silhouettes of Service.