Our dear friend, A.A.L., who has been so devoted in her work among the soldiers all through the Great War and after, has sent the following letter from a dear soldier, W.M.T.
Dear Miss Loosemore, ... I will tell you the incident which I mentioned to you in my last letter. You remember the first parcel of tracts you sent me. I distributed them as far as I could. I was taken unwell, but did not report myself ill. There were one or two large tracts in the parcel, and I asked the chaps to pass them round when they had read them. This they did, and then something seemed to go wrong with me. I slept a long sleep. I was so queer that I could not rest in my sleep, and it was then that I saw that God was going to use me for work for Him. I saw myself being laughed at because I was a Christian. I saw myself almost in despair, but glory to His blessed name, I saw Jesus in a new light, and He said to me, “Blessed are they, which are persecuted for my sake. Go on; your work shall not be in vain.” The next day I went on a route march, but my sickness overcame me, and over I went. I was taken to the hospital in a lorry.... When I came out of hospital I went to stay with my battalion as a trained sniper, not a nice occupation was it, having to lie in wait for any of the enemy to come in sight and then bowl them over. A young chap came to me and said “Are you one of those kind of people that they speak of in the Moody and Sankey books?” I asked him what he meant. He said, “You know, don’t try and kid me that you don’t understand, because you will spoil it for good. You are the chap that gave us those story books at M―, before you went to hospital.” “Well,” he continued, “I read one or two, and I also read this one,” and he placed his hand in his pocket and showed me his precious Bible, with the tract nicely wrapped in a little slip of paper, with my name, and where I gave it to him. It was “The Dying Drummer Boy,” and he said, “you know I’ve cried over this book.” I asked him why. He replied, “I cannot understand how such a little kid should have such faith, or as you Christians say, such a God, to trust when in such trouble.” I asked him if he had faith in God. He answered, “Not faith like that.” I simply said, “God bless you, old chappie, and enlighten you.” Then we got down and spoke to our loving Father, who is ever ready to listen to us. When he got up he said “I can see it now a little better, if God could give such faith to a little drummer boy, He would give him the same faith.” We parted that night; I left him to God to deal with, but these thoughts came to me as I recalled his face. I remembered how, the night I had distributed the tracts, he had laughed at me when I told him about his soul―he laughed when I told him what might come. Then the words of my dream came to me, the words God spoke to me, “Your work shall not be in vain”; and here was the very man who vas the worse for liquor when I gave away those little books―the man who laughed when spoken to about his soul. Here he was before God, crying like a little child. He wanted to understand more about the Saviour, who is mighty and willing to save and keep. This man was saved through reading the little book, “The Dying Drummer boy,” The dear fellow met his fate the night we were relieved. He was blown to pieces by a shell falling full in his lap, but glory be to God, I know he was ready for his blessed promotion to glory and I shall meet him in heaven before the throne of grace.
Yours still serving Christ, W.M.T.