The Little French Hero

He was a lad in the French Army. His people at home had never thought very much of him, and, when the news of war came to his little village, nobody said very much either way when he enlisted. If it had been the young marquis at the castle, of course, everyone would have said, “How brave of him to go to fight! How like his father he had grown! What a fine soldier he would make!” The fact that young Jean, who used to serve in the village store, was gone to be a soldier did not cause any excitement. His mother was sorry, because she knew that, although he was such a quiet lad, he was a real help. And the rest of the village soon forgot him.
Weeks went by, and very little news came of his regiment. But the French serving boy was showing that he had true courage, and his captain knew it, but, manlike, seldom praised him. They had little time in those grim days for praise, and seldom need for blame. Then the unexpected happened, and Jean was captured by a German regiment. He was taken to a farmhouse at the head of the main street of the village near which his comrades were camped. Little thinking that the French lad could understand their talk, the German soldiers planned to surprise the French regiment. They knew the French were shortly to march through the village, and by hiding their German soldiers they planned to surround the unsuspecting men, and surprise them by a swift attack. All this the boy heard, and his one thought was, “How can I save my friends?” He knew that if he gave the sign of warning he would be shot by his captors. But he knew also that it was very probable they would shoot him in any case.
He had not long to decide. If he could warn the first approaching French soldiers as they entered the village street it would mean their salvation. The farmhouse windows commanded a view of that road, and anyone calling loudly from them would be easily heard in the street. In his own mind the boy never hesitated. And when the first French soldier appeared at the top of the street, the boy rushed to the open window and called aloud in clear, ringing tones a warning to his French comrades that they were to be prepared for a German ambush. The few words of warning were enough. The French regiment prepared for battle, and the Germans were defeated.
But the warning given by the boy was not suffered to pass unnoticed by the Germans who had captured him. As he shouted to the French, they shot him down. Later in the day his countrymen turned to the farmhouse to see how it fared with their brave helper. They found only his lifeless body riddled with bullets. Despite the exigencies of war and the need to hasten on, his comrades waited that they might give him reverent burial. Quickly they made a rough wooden cross and placed it in the ground at the head of his grave. The name of the boy they did not know. They could carve no name above his grave, but they put these words upon the wooden cross―

“He saved others. Himself he could not save!”
And what finer tribute could be given to that brave lad? To help his comrades he did not hesitate to give his life.
There was One who hung upon a cross twenty centuries ago of whom these words were said: “He,” the Son of God, “saved others” — sinners such as you and me. “Himself he could not save.” “He died the just for the unjust to bring us to God.”
“Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.”