“Serving in the ambulances, serving in the Legion, serving in the air, serving Liberty, obeying the same impulse as that which brought Lafayette to these shores, many young Americans leaving home and family have offered to France their lives. Those lives many have lost, and never, even in antique times, was there shown such abnegation and generosity, such firmness of character: men like that Victor Chapman, who died to rescue American and French co-aviators nearly overcome by a more numerous enemy, and whose father, so justly admired for his gifts of mind and heart, decided that his son’s remains should be buried where he had fallen: ‘Let him rest with his comrades’; or that Richard Hall, killed by a shell while on the search for our wounded and whose mother hesitated to accept a permit to visit his flower-wreathed tomb at the front, because French mothers are not allowed to do so; or that Harvard graduate, the poet of the Legion, Alan Seeger, who felt that his hour could not be far remote and in expectation of it had written from the blood-soaked battlefield where he had fought for Liberty. The Frenchman who goes up is possessed with a passion beside which any of the other forms of experience that are reckoned to make life worth while seem pale in comparison. It is a privilege to march at his side—so much so that nothing the world could give could make me wish myself anywhere else than where I am.” And Emory Pottle, in telling for the _Century_ the story of a “Christmas at Pont-à-Mousson” (1915) when he and his fellows of the American Ambulance Service in that sector had a “bonne fête,” superintended by Mme. Marion and pretty little thirteen-year-old Jeanne, says: “It was a gay meal, recklessly, happily so. No one in the sector to which we were attached was wounded that day. That, maybe, was the real holiday note. Though it may seem incredible, the meal ended with a huge plum pudding. “It ended, too, with something very grave and as I now think of it, very beautiful. The festival meal and the gifts were forgotten in the face of it. For it was, oh! not strangely, one of those events which lift men, if ever so briefly, out of their daily selves into unseen things. Our chief of Section was called to the telephone. He came back—we all saw it—with saddened face. ‘Fellows,’ he said slowly, ‘Richard Hall of Section III has been killed, blown off his car by a stray shell in the Vosges. He is the first of us all to go.’ “We stood very silently and soberly about the table. Such news drove home abruptly, cruelly by reason of our Christmas gaieties—just what being there involved to us, to those who loved us. Very often we had jested and joked about death. None of us was a coward, I think; but—Hall dead—the first of the lot of us—dead—so far from home—Christmas! “‘Boys, let’s drink to him, the first of us to lay down his life for France. Here’s to Dick Hall, good old scout!’