One of the most pathetic of the personal experiences which I had while I was in the service was in my association with a young poilu of about nineteen.

I had become well acquainted with the lad and we had many an interesting talk together, he speaking in his inimitable French manner and I responding in my butchered-up attempt at that language.

One day, however, after we had been speaking of how we were going to get the Germans, Jacques must have become a little careless, and when he went up to his fire step, raised his head a little too high, for he received an ugly skull wound.

Some time afterwards I was by his side and, in a husky whisper, he told me he was seriously wounded. He asked me to bring him a pencil, and said he was afraid he was "done in." He then fumbled clumsily about in the pocket of his grand-tunic, or great coat, until he found a piece of paper. It was in reality a piece of cardboard on which was a photograph of himself taken with his mother some years before. It was old, faded, and discolored, and on the back of it he wrote a message which ran something like this:

Dear Mother—It has been some time since I heard from you. You doubtless know that father and both brothers have been killed in the trenches some time ago. Now I am wounded also, and I may not be able to come to you, as I expected to do next week. But, Mother dear, even if I do not get to see you, don't feel badly anyway because you've given all for La Belle France, and I may see you some time—over there—beyond the range.—Lovingly,

Jacques.

Personally I had thought and hoped that his wound was not so serious and it would not be necessary for me to deliver the message to his mother. But he knew better than I. And three days later worse came to worst and poor Jacques "went West." The tragic duty of taking his body back to his lonely mother, somewhere in France, devolved upon me. I also handed her his message, but I could not remain. Her grief was too deep. I fairly ran away from that house.

But that mother's eyes penetrated my soul for days and weeks, and my thoughts, try as I might, could not get away from her lot. In about three weeks I felt a strong pull and I made my way back to her little humble home to see if I could in any way lighten her burden a bit, or perhaps say some word to bring just a little comfort or assuage her heart's grief. When I rapped on the door and she answered and saw who I was, she fairly beamed with pleasure and threw her arms about my neck exclaiming, "Mr. Benson, I am so glad you have come," and then rushing over to the dresser drawer she brought out that worn and faded photograph with her son's message on the back, and as she showed it to me she exclaimed: "I am going to keep it till I die! It's not for the value of the picture, but that message interprets the heart of my boy to me. It tells me that he loves me, and, Mr. Benson, do you know, I wish I might have another husband and three more boys to go and fight for La Belle France!"

That's an example of heroism and patriotism for America!

And after that, for several weeks, that little loyal French mother, now alone in the world, sent me regularly some cakes and delicacies, with the message that as she did not have any of her own now to care for, she must try to do her best to help those who were helping France to win the battle for liberty.

Poor Jacques had "gone West." And she need not send him any more clothes or food, but Jacques and his two brothers and his father too, have thrown their lives into the scale, and have added just so many more names to that honor roll, which already is large, of patriots of France. They loved their country. Every man, woman, and child over there does likewise, and France will honor them all eternally.

I pray God's blessing on Jacques' mother now.