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f' ■* . j-n-r,: 4 . *«—.m—i;; r ,r i • ifn rt<^ JK .•'*s ; -■(s& 4'it MX.s> *%•« ' I® ■ 7 v \7 , T3 7 a 1 r '*"* II 'oould Ye Wet watch Iwo Hours 'V'/ith Me ? ” Give to the Army Y. M. C. A. You Give to the Enlisted Man It is the night before Zero. The whole plain of Flanders seems to move forward, teeming with thou sands on thousands of men, all marching silently, in full equipment of attack, on toward the ridge where bursts the barrage fire of a thousand guns. In among the mov ing men are motor trucks, lorries, battery teams. There is no cheering, no .singing, no loud talking. No man looks to the right or the left. Every man's face is set and stern. The officers' concern is with the gas ma:.l;s, the rifles, the emergency ration. These boys have written their last letter, “to be mailed in the event of casualty." They have put behind them the warmth and laughter and petty interests of everyday life. Though they walk amid thousands of comrades they travel the loneliest road since Gethsemane. They file into the front trench. On the t : k of the watch there is a rushing as of a great wind, a t i tusand DETROIT TIMES guns roar their message of death, and the doors of hell swing wide. Tense, crouched for the leap, hugging the cold steel of the bayonet to their breasts, they wait the eventful moment, while overhead the sky is slashed with flares that light with a ghastly light the tangled morass of No Man’s land. And yet —one touch of home! Down the french comes the Y. M. C. A. field man, his helpers bearing the cauldron of steaming tea. A cup of tea to a man —a bar of chocolate to take along into No Man’s land —a pat on the shoulder and a whisper of “Good Luck, Old Boy!” When they come out of that maelstrom out from the shadow of death —what are YOU going to say to the lads who in pain of soul cried out, though their lips were mute — COULD YE NOT WATCH TWO HOURS WITH ME? N O V E M HER 1917.