“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.”[on.”]
Yes, Julia Ward Howe’s hymn is quite right. It sounds the keynote of America’s part in this world’s greatest tragedy of all history.
They returned a month later, boys no longer, but men who had been through the fire, and stood up to the grief. Tired, weary, chins pressed forward; hands on the straps to permit free heart action, dust swirled about the moving feet, and climbed up and settled on the stubby, unshaven face, streaked with perspiration, which in turn rose and formed an aura about the knapsack, as it bobbed up and down like a buoy on the sea. From behind the dust-topped bristles flash the steely eyes of the Soldier.
Such eyes! Not the calm, contemplative eyes of the sissy, but the strong, fierce, exaltant eyes of the man who has fought, and won.
One month had changed him; the longer he is in the Army the greater the change. Already he has seen there are things greater than fear, found something greater than Life.
He has realized that in union there is strength, that soldiers by acting together as a unit gain the objective, which brings the victory.
He wondered at the confidence of the French Poilu, and discovered that behind that soldier is every man, woman and child, every ounce of energy, every cent of money in France.