A meeting in a converted hay-loft in Brouville was suddenly announced by the Y.M.C.A. secretary. The big stone building was used to billet the soldiers. Their "bunks" filled almost every available foot of space. In one corner a group were playing cards. In the middle of the room a lank, angular figure was "coiled" about a mandolin, coaxing an old hymn from its strings. Some were sleeping, others were chatting, and a few were reading by the light of tallow candles. The secretary announced the meeting. It was Sunday evening. Song books were distributed. The mandolin player volunteered to "pitch the tune." Three or four hymns suggested by the fellows were sung heartily. A brief petition asked for forgiveness and blessings on the boys who with undaunted courage would soon go into action. A few verses of Scripture served to introduce the message of the hour. Quietly but earnestly the practical side of a man's religion was presented. The card game, which up to this time proceeded without disturbance, was now voluntarily abandoned and the players' attention riveted on the speaker. When it was over they quietly returned to their game, more thoughtful, because they had themselves chosen to hear the truth. The Y.M.C.A. hut at Reherrey was a mile and a half behind the line. Briggs was the secretary. His fine, erect carriage and soldierly bearing brought him many an unconscious salute from the buck private. He was a Billy Sunday convert. "I have drunk enough rum to float a battleship" was the way he told of his wild career. The boys at Reherrey loved and respected him. His Bible class was the most enthusiastic I saw in France. When he announced a Sunday evening service the hut was filled. Candles served as chandelier and desk lamp. With a sergeant who was a live wire at the piano and Briggs as song leader, the singing of the fellows not only "raised the roof" but it also raised the spirits of the men. About half way through the talk a terrific explosion told us that Fritz was getting busy. Quietly all candles were blown out. It was a military order. Aside from this not a man stirred. The message went right on, punctuated by the exploding shells. There was no fear but an intense interest in the great call of God to the duty of the hour. At the close the men pressed forward to grip the speaker's hand, and as we walked out under the stars, a widow's only son acknowledged that he had long been the victim of the drink curse and had broken his mother's heart. "I have taken my last drink," he said; "I will write to my mother, _but she cannot believe me_. Won't you write her too and tell her that her son has given himself to the Lord Jesus Christ?" [Illustration: VARIETIES OF SHELLS AND BOMBS (Photographed at Nancy)]