“The girls went down to decorate the two hundred American graves at Mandres, and even while they bent over the flaming blossoms and laid them on the mounds, an air battle was going on over their heads. Close at hand was the American artillery being moved to the front on a little narrow-gauge railroad that ran near to the graveyard, and the Germans were firing and trying to get them. But the girls went steadily on with their work, scattering flowers and setting flags until their service of love was over. Then they stood aside for the prayer and a song. One of the Salvation Army captains with a fine voice began to sing: ‘For loved ones in the Homeland Are waiting me to come Where neither death nor sorrow Invades their holy home: O dear, dear native country! O rest and peace above! Christ, bring us all to the Homeland Of His eternal love.’ “Into the midst of the song came the engine on the little narrow track straight toward where he stood, and he had to step aside on to a pile of dirt to finish his song. The same captain went on ahead to the Homeland not long after when the epidemic of influenza swept over the world; and he was given the honor of a military funeral.” Edward Marshall had an article in _Scribner’s Magazine_ in 1898 which is here abbreviated, about the unique conditions under which the boys sang “America” After the Battle “There is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory above all others now as I lie in a New York hospital writing. It occurred at the field hospital. About a dozen of us were lying there. The surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes literally saturated with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare the wounded for the journey down to Siboney. It was a doleful group. Amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces. Suddenly a voice started softly, ‘My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing.’ “Other voices took it up: ‘Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride—’ “The quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded Americans in the midst of the Cuban solitude—the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. There was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. It was so weak that I did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line, ‘Let freedom ring.’ Then halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly: ‘Land—of—the—pilgrims’—pride, Let—freedom—’ “The last word was a woeful cry. One more son had died as died the fathers.” Under different circumstances but in the same spirit of loyalty the tune of “America” was played in France as “our boys” promptly obeyed the order, “Salute America!”