'm going to win out even though it is harder to fight--than
fighting--the Germans--up front. We Italians licked Hell out of them--a
million years ago. Old General Caesar did it and he used to bring them
back to Rome and put 'em in white-wing suits on the streets."

For all his quaint knowledge of Caesar's successes against the
progenitors of Kulturland of to-day, Frank was all American. Here was a
rough-cut young American from the streets of New York's Little Italy.
Here was a man who had almost made the supreme sacrifice. Here was a man
who, if he did escape death, faced long weakened years ahead. It
occurred to me that I would like to know, that it would be interesting
to know, in what opinion this wounded American soldier, the son of
uneducated immigrant parents, would hold the Chief Executive of the
United States, the man he would most likely personify as responsible for
the events that led up to his being wounded on the battlefield.

"Frank," I asked, "what do you think about the President of the United
States?"

He seemed to be considering for a minute, or maybe he was only waiting
to gather sufficient breath to make an answer. He had been lying with
his eyes directed steadfastly toward the ceiling. Now he turned his face
slowly toward me. His eyes, sunken slightly in their sockets, shone
feverishly. His pinched, hollow cheeks were still swarthy, but the
background of the white pillow made them look wan. Slowly he moistened
his lips, and then he said:

"Say--say--that guy--that guy's--got hair--on his chest."

That was the opinion of the "dying Wop."

After Frank's removal from our ward, the rest of us frequently sent
messages of cheer down to him. These messages were usually carried by a
young American woman who had a particular interest in our ward. Not
strange to say, she had donned a Red Cross nursing uniform on the same
day that most of us arrived in that ward. She was one of the American
women who brought us fruit, ice cream, candy and cigarettes. She wrote
letters for us to our mothers. She worked long hours, night and day, for
us. In her absence, one day, the ward went into session and voted her
its guardian angel. Out of modesty, I was forced to answer "Present"
instead of "Aye" to the roll-call. The Angel was and is my wife.

As Official Ward Angel it was among the wife's duties to handle the
matter of visitors, of which there were many. It seemed, during those
early days in June, that every Ameri