Who is it can smile with heart breaking the while
When the soldier bids loved ones "Farewell"?
Whose heart is it grieves, when the patriot leaves,
With an anguish that no tongue can tell?
It's only the mother! For man knows no other
Whose soul feels the weight of such woe;
Who can smile and look brave and for lonely hours save
The torrent of tears that must flow.
Whose heart is it knows that wherever he goes
He'll be true to his country and flag?
That he'll fight the good fight and die, serving the Right
With never a boast or a brag?
It's the mother whose breast as a babe he caressed
And who watched o'er his childhood with joy.
Though the years may have flown, and to manhood he's grown,
Yet to mother he's always—"My boy"!
Who is it can yearn for the soldier's return,
When the trumpet of war calls no more:
When victorious he sees his proud flag kiss the breeze
Of his own, his beloved, native shore?
It's the mother whose face like a halo of grace
Hovered near him to cheer him afar.
Angels envy her joy as she welcomes her boy
Triumphant returned from the war!
Who is it shall kneel at the graveside and feel
The full woe of a soldier boy, dead!
Who shall measure such loss, who shall carry the cross,
And yet live, when his spirit is fled?
It's the mother who'll wait at Death's golden gate,
Where sorrow and parting shall cease!
And she evermore with her boy as of yore,
Shall be crowned in the Kingdom of Peace!
One of the brave company commanders in this Battalion was Captain Hall. Coming to me he said, "Chaplain, if I get 'bumped' in this attack, I want you to do me a favor." He then gave me a written message to a certain person in the Division who owed him $300.00. "Get after him, will you, Chaplain, and see that the money reaches my folks." "I will be glad to, Captain," I replied. Then, as one good turn deserved another, I wrote out and handed him a little note, which, if he, and not I, came through alive, was to be forwarded to my Chicago home. The Captain was a graduate of West Point, and had seen hard service both on the western plains and in the Cuban war. His hair was gray, and he wore a long gray mustache of which he was proud, and which he was in the habit, when especially thoughtful, of stroking. My hair also was gray, especially since our last gas attack in Bois-le-Pretre.
A Captain from Philadelphia lying in the mud not far from us, noticing our two gray heads close together, mischievously and in a stage whisper remarked, "Old men for counsel, but young men for action!" What Captain Hall, blazing with sudden wrath, thereupon said to him, I think it just as well not to here record! At the time, however, it seemed that he sort of expressed my own feelings on the subject!
Gallant Captain Hall came through alive; but I can see him even now in the very thick of the fighting that followed a few minutes later. Standing out on the hillside in full view he fought with his steel blue "45" a duel to the death with a German officer who rashly attacked him. For a moment I held my breath, as they deliberately exchanged shot for shot. Then I saw the German fall heavily; and Hall, his right hand twirling his gun, and his left fondly stroking his mustache, coolly surveyed the line looking for another shot.
It was two in the afternoon before the fog began to thicken. The zero hour was at hand!
Although we had marched many weary miles, had lain motionless in the mud for five hours, and had meanwhile tasted neither food nor drink, we did not mind it. One ignores bodily needs under heavy mental stress. I carried a little meat and bread in my pocket, which, that noon, I shared with good Father LeMay.
At two-thirty, when the sheltering fog was thickest, quietly the word was passed down the line "Get ready." At that moment I was near the western end of the column near a stone quarry, strongly defended by the enemy with machine guns and automatic rifles.