The hospital work was a large feature of the service performed by the Salvation Army. In every area this testimony comes from both doctors, nurses and wounded men. Yet it was nothing less than a pleasure for the workers to serve those patient, cheerful sufferers. A lassie entered a ward one day and found the men with combs and tissue paper performing an orchestra selection. They apologized for the noise, declaring that they were all crazy about music and that was the only way they could get it. “How would you like a phonograph?” she asked. “Oh, Boy! If we only had one! I’ll tell the world we’d like it,” one declared wistfully. The phonograph was soon forthcoming and brought much pleasure. A lassie offered to write a letter for a boy whose foot had just been amputated and whose right arm was bound in splints. He accepted her offer eagerly, but said: “But when you write promise me you won’t tell mother about my foot. She worries! She wouldn’t understand how well off I really am. Maybe you had better let me try to write a bit myself for you to enclose. I guess I could manage that.” So, with his left hand, he wrote the following: Dearest Mother:—I am laid up in the hospital here with a very badly sprained ankle and some bruises, and will be here two or three weeks. Do not worry, I am getting along fine. Your loving Son. Two automobiles, an open car and a limousine, were maintained in Paris for the sole purpose of providing outings for wounded men who were able to take a little drive. It was said by the doctors and nurses that nothing helped a rapid recovery like these little excursions out into an every-day beautiful world. A boy on one of the hospital cots called to a passing lassie: “I am going to die, I know I am, and I’m a Catholic. Can you pray for me, Salvation Army girl, like you prayed for that fellow over there?” The young lassie assured him that he was not going to die yet, but she knelt by his cot and prayed for him, and soothed him into a sleep from which he awoke refreshed to find that she was right, he was not going to die yet, but live, perhaps, to be a different lad. A sixteen-year-old boy who at the first declaration of war had run away from home and enlisted was wounded so badly that he was ordered to go back to the evacuation hospital. He was determined that he could yet fight, and was almost crying because he had to leave his comrades, but on the way back he discovered the entrance to a German dugout and thought he heard someone down in there moving. “Come out,” he shouted, “or I’ll throw in a hand grenade!” A few minutes later he reached the evacuation hospital with thirty prisoners of war, his useless arm hanging by his side. That is the kind of stuff our American boys are made of, and those are the boys who are praising the Salvation Army!