In one American attack the Little Major followed the Lieutenant over the top just as the barrage was lifted. The Lieutenant looking back saw him struggling over the crest of the parapet, laughed and shouted: “Go back, Major, you haven’t even a pistol!” But the Major did not go back. He went with the boys. “I have no hesitancy in laying down my life,” he once said, “if it will help or encourage anyone else to live in a better or cleaner way.” He was always striving for the salvation of his boys, and in his meetings men would push their way to the front and openly kneel before their comrades registering their determination to live in accordance with the teachings of Jesus. One tells of seeing him kneel beside an empty crate with three soldiers praying for their souls. It was because of all these things that the men believed in him and in his God. He used to say to the men in the meetings, “We are not afraid because we have a sense of the presence of God right here with us!” One night the battalion was “in” after a heavy day’s work strengthening the defenses and trying to drain the trenches, and the men were asleep in the dugouts. The Major lay in his little chicken-wire bunk, just drowsing off, while the water seeped and dripped from the earthen roof, and the rats splashed about on the water covered floor. Across from him in a bunk on the other side of the dugout tossed a boy in his damp blankets who had just come to the front. He was only eighteen and it was his first night in the line. It had been a hard day for him. The shells screamed overhead and finally one landed close somewhere and rocked the dugout with its explosion. The old-timers slept undisturbed, but the boy started up with a scream and a groan, his nerves a-quiver, and cried out: “Oh, Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The Little Major was out and over to him in a flash, and gathered the boy into his arms, soothing him as a mother might have done, until he was calmed and strengthened; and there amid the roaring of guns, the screaming of shells, the dripping of water and splashing of rats, the youngest of the battalion found Christ. An old soldier came down from the front and a Salvationist asked him if he knew the Little Major. “Well, you just bet I know the Major—sure thing!” And the Major is always on hand with a laugh and his fun-making. In the trenches or in the towns, where the shells are flying, the Little Major is with his boys. No words of mine could express the admiration the boys have for him. The boys love him. He calls them “Buddie.” They salute and are ready to do or die. The last time I saw him he had hiked in from the trenches with the boys. He carried a heavy “war baby” on his back and a tin hat on his head. He was tired and footsore, but there was that laugh, and before he got his pack off he jabbed me in the ribs. “No, sir, we can’t get along without our Major!” So says “Buddie.”