TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 962, 3 May 1930, Page 19

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

“Through Hell With Soldier 8046, David King.”

A Graphic ; Moving Narration of Life in the French Foreign Legion

(Cam ri > ht 13 ~° bv L>u ß' eld Co- Distributed by the King Features Syndicate Inc.)

FOREWORD It teas in the year to tell you truth 1 don't exactly remember the year • • • • • but it teas in that strange era before the tear when a ll the problems of the human race lod been settled for good and all ... . when the millennium teas merely a Question of time it teas in that tague prehistoric period of our middleffgd selves before the year of grace jQjj that I paid my last visit to Cambridge. I don’t remember exactly why 1 should have returned to the banks of the Charles River, but in those days (if my memory serves me right) there were a few well-intentioned people who thought that I ought to teach History and they made discreet arrangements with certain College Authorities (jor whom I had a wholesome respect) to let me give a few lectures on my own chosen subjects and show what l could do and to see what could be done with me. ind it was, I think, during one of those futile expeditions into a hostile territory that Lin Neale. most faithful of friends, told me that he knew some sort of an infant in the Harvard jreshman class and that whenever I got tired of being on my good behaviour (which happened with astonishing and most regrettable celerity) I ought to call on this child and refresh my sagging spirits. And 1 remember that 1 climbed many stairs of a dormitory somewhere near or on the Gold Coast and that. I met a pleasant youngster (thirty-five talking to twenty-one) and that we tumbled at once into an incredibly rapid and vulgar jargon of French and American that we went to

strange culinary establishments (it was before the days of the Hygienic rafeterias, when ham-and-eggs was ham-and-eggs and not a combination of calories and hormones) and that whenever the conversation lagged we listened to the wails of those Hawaiian guitars which were then conquering the country by storm. Whereupon I departed (having been weighed and found scanting) and floundered for years through the dismal swamps of failure and disappointment and then someone in a distant land shot an inconsequential Hapsburg grandee and this fine pretty world came to an end and smne of us were blown to shreds and the others were blown to the four corners of the compass and the curtain descended upon the final act of our youth.

How and when and where and under what circumstances I met young King again I really could not tell. I have a hazy recollection that his brother one day swore loudly and eloquently and said, “Look what that damn-fool kid has done now,’’ and showed me a cable which read, “The joke is on you. I enlisted and am in the Foreign Legion."

Then silence until it was all over and seventeen million people (white, brown, red and intermediary shades) lay dead and buried and the rest of us returned from our different tasks to pick up the odds and ends of existence and try and shape ourselves some sort o/ tolerable future amidst the ruins o' our glories and our hopes. When l saw King again he sported the remnants of a uniform, he coughed distressingly, he hobbled slightly, and teas no longer a creature of flesh and blood, but one composed of the usual ingredients plus a considerable quantity of platinum and silver. Furthermore he grinned as if he had just lived through a very ghastly joke and talked a French dialect which was as utterly beyond my reach as if it had been a combination of Hindustani and Finnish. By and by a few English phrases filtered through his torrent o/ words and then I began to understand that he had not only served in the Foreign Legion but had actually survived the experience and was willing and even eager to let me know what he had seen and done and thought.

But this was no easy task for he resembled a man who has spent himself in a race. He had reached his goal but he was too much out of breath, too miserably exhausted to do anything but gasp and beat the air and say “oof." And so we looked at each other, smiled sheepishly and let it go at that. Until after nine years oj restless wandering, of endless trekking from place to place, he caught up with whatever was left of the procession and did a wise thing. He rid his memory of its ghastly burden and wrote a book. I am glad that he did and I am even glad that he did it the way he “*d if because we are sorely in need - mst such honest scraps of down,lQnt and fearless documentation. To ten y OXI the truth, I detest war. In the first place 1 am dreadfully scared whenever people begin to fire °u guns and throw bombs. In the second place, I have spent my life among the events of the past and I can see no earthly good in almost any -P r e zcept that it affords a Roman olxday to the more sadistically ina\nerl among our females and gives large number of our male neighbours . chance to escape from the uncomrtable bondage of modern civilsaf‘,on for once in their career do ~e ‘Bings they would like to do if V had been given their choice. san,e time I fully realise the l ‘ty of fighting the idea of “war" y J? err: oratory and moral precept. jirf " e brass bands are all on the other urn j, and w ßat chance has a shabby miJ* against a lieutenant-colonel in dr ass uniform• i Books, my friends, those little ,i by the poor devils who did matf tV wor ß. they are a different

> h . e V Bad a hard time coming into Khnt t1 Wn ’ TV ho wanted to read tche* • * common soldiers had to say lust Honourable Statesmen had blwns° nleacende<l to explain their Hibitf* an<l t 0 f avor us u-'ith their

"J'° r a long time the answer was "0 one.”

a change is coming over us. The lncredm e is happening. iiit* >. cann °u-fodder of yester-war is becoming articulate. The Un

known Soldier is endeavouring to explain why he, lies beneath a heavy slab of granite instead of disporting himself with his kids among the bloodred poppies which looked so lovely ln the dear poems about the Flemish slaughter-house. This book of David King's is not a sermon. It does not preach and it carries no moral. It says in fact: “Here, my good friends who made me into a beautiful hero, is what happened to me while I was gaining that title. Take it or leave it and be damned to you or have a drink with me or do whatever yon Please, but for Heaven’s sake don’t kiss me for I am spashed with the blood of my dead comrades and I am dirty with the grime of a million miles of road.” It says all this without any rancour, without any show of ill-feeling, patiently and a little pityingly for those who remained at home and sold ribbons for war medals and saved prunestones for gas-masks. May the Lord in his mercy deprive them temporarily of a sense of shame. Amen. HERD RICK AVILLEM VAN LOON. CHAPTER I. War Fever "Take o££ those socks!” My turu. No chance ot deception, as flat feet were a grave defect in the early days of the war, when men were still plentiful. Name. Age. Nationality. Stethoscope. Open your mouth. Weight. Height. ... A few prods and I was in. "Bon pour le service.” Not very convincing, that scribble on a bit of paper with some sort of government stamp on one corner. The little clerk in uniform seemed satisfied, however, and scribbled away like mad after every question. The cigarette,, stuck to the left side of his lower lip, seemed a permanent part of him, but as I looked it suddenly appeared on the right side, though both hands were busily engaged with the papers. It shifted again, and this time l discovered, with awe and admiration, that he could roll it from one side of his face to the other. I produced another cigarette which the scribe filed for future reference behind his left ear, and asked him a few questions. “What regiment will they assign me to?” "Can you ride?” “Yes.” “Probably the Dragoons or Hussars then.” Good news. That meant active service and no danger of being stuck guarding railroad bridges miles from the front. “Here you are. 9.10 a.m. tomorrow. Rouen. Gare St. Lazare. And report at the barracks of the 135th when you get there.” A hurried breakfast with two Hollanders I had picked up the day before, then by fighting, kicking, struggling, and the aid of a sergeantmajor, we gained the privilege of standing in a compartment with sixteen others. At Rouen we arrived at the barracks just In time to see the regiment, the 135th, march out to entrain. Fascinating scene —company after company filing out of the barracks-building into the square; adjutants and sergeantmajors running from section to section checking up equipment and emergency rations, officers standing around the colonel receiving final instructions, and the feeling of excited orderly confusion run riot through twenty-five hundred men tuned up to war pitch. A sudden sharp order and the confusion ceased. The lines stiffened into solid blocks of red and blue. Another order, drums began to roll. The blocks broke up into columns and swayed out of the barrack gates. The brazen blare of bugles swelled the rumble of the drums as they moved down the street, the glorious music rising and falling till only the distant rhythm of the drums could be heard. Last the clink of equipments and the steady soft swishing of hundreds of feet in step. We found the volunteers quartered in what had been a school for young ladies. An Arab in Spahis uniform stopped us at the gate, till we produced our orders from the recruiting office. We passed into the court and into, the Army.

The place was crowded but I found a bale of compressed fodder and camped down on it, fully convinced that T was already experiencing the hardships of war. I fell asleep listening to a couple of King's hard bargains discussing the possibility ot drawing two uniforms each and selling one. Five o'clock the next morning and everything stir and confusion. “Deux homm.es de bonne volontee!” My imagination ran wild. Perhaps the Germans were advancing on Rouen! It might mean lighting the fuse to blow up the bridge, or a forlorn hope, and seeing myself the last man in a desperate rear-guard action, I sprang forward to volunteer. Another American followed and the sergeant led us off. Disillusionment xvas ours. He handed us each a mop and bucket, and planted us before a row of filthy latrines. “Report to me when you’ve cleaned them all.” We had learned our first lesson: when sergeants are wandering around collecting men, pick up anything in sight and look busy. The city was teeming with a marvellous, heterogeneous collection: wounded from the British Army, stragglers from the Belgian Army, refugees, French reservists, British Army Service Corps units —all wandering around the streets aimlessly, some terribly depressed, others hilarious and singing, and a good portion of them drunk. We sat down in a cafe by the river, but before our drinks came some one had started a row. There were no windows or doors in front, just one huge corrugated iron shutter,, so when the trouble began the proprietor

simply pulled down the shutter, Naturally, feeling that they were shut off from the police, the trouble-makers redoubled their efforts. Then the patron made his second blunder: he put out the lights. Something, whizzed past my ear and exploded with the noise of a shell. A woman screamed like a horse, evidently cut by glass from the siphon which someone had hurled, and hell broke out in the dark. Five minutes later the police were

hammering on the iron front and prying it open with crowbars. There was a moment’s silence until they had lifted it high enough for a man to pass under, and then came the inevitable rush for freedom. Glasses, tables, chairs and police went down under the onslaught, and in thirty seconds the cafe had emptied itself into the street.

At reveille next morning, we were told to prepare to leave in an hour's time, and two hours lAer we were awaiting entrainment at the station. By this time there were four companies of new recruits. Drawn up on the station platform, they presented a mixed spectacle as far as equipment went. The first company had drawn bougerons, (coarse linen blouses and trousers used for work in the French Army) and Kepis (caps). The second had Kepis, but the only thing uniform about the third and fourth companies was the regulation French Army blanket, carried in a roll over one shoulder, and the Army quart (till cup) tied with string to the end of the blanket roll.

Fifty-six into forty—even without the eight horses —makes the only possible position, a half squatting one. until some climb out on the roof. Four days of this in the middle of August. At the beginning of the trip, large tins of Bully Beef w'ere issued, containing enough meat for one man for four days. The weather was hot, so we were told to form groups of four and open one tin a day among us. The Russian volunteers, however, were somewhat suspicious of one another, and each one cherished and opened his own tin the first day. All went well till the beginning of the third day when most of them came down with ptomaine; and by the morning of the fourth, they were being taken out of the wagons, dead. This, and the constant fights to fill our water bottles at the various stations, served to keep up interest in military life. N We arrived after sundown on the fourth day. The companies fell in on the station platform and moved off smartly, in columns of four through the streets of Toulouse toward the barracks of the IB3rd Infantry. We felt a certain amount of pride as we marched out, for each nationality of volunteers had its own country’s flag in the group. Surely the good citizens of Toulouse would appreciate our beau geste, and realise we were there of our own volition! To our amazement and chagrin, the column was greeted with hoots and boos, and presently apples, rotten eggs, and even dead cats. I was totally bewildered till I began to pick out some of the invectives hurled at us. “Ah. les brigands! Salles Boches! En v’la des prisonniers!” Brigands, Huns. Some prisoners! I realised then they mistook us for German prisoners. It was impossible for the officers and non-coms to make that howling mob understand the real situation, so we ploughed through our baptism of fire to the security of t.ne barracks square. Here we w-ere allotted to rooms, and, luxury of luxuries, beds again. In spite of four days in a truck, 1 tossed and pitched all night and woke in the morning convinced of a high fever. One look at the bites and marks on my chest, however, calmed this suspicion, but aroused another. I picked up the end of the barrack cot. and letting it down again with a

bump, could actually hear them as they plopped on the floor and scuttled for cover. The old timers knew what to do. After coffee a crusade started, and every bed was scorched by improvised torches and then painted with kerosene. The straw in the sacs a viande (coarse canvas bags filled with straw used as mattresses) was burned, and the bags themselves boiled, There were thirty-two men in the room. In the bed on iny right was an American of French origin, one Pheli-

zot, who had spent most of his life as a professional elephant hunter, round Lake Tchad. To my left a Belgian butcher with a mania for ripening little cheeses under his mattress. This, and a fixed idea on his part that it was dangerous to open the windows at night, leagued Phelizot and me together in a struggle for fresh air. Three times during the night I woke half suffocated and opened the window. Finally we rose together, and advancing on the sleeping Belgian, each hurled one of his boots through the panes of the fast-closed window. Then we slept, in spite of the coughs sneezes and curses of our cheese-cuddling neighbour. Barrack life began: but no one knew to what regiment the volunteers had been assigned. The training was carried on by old reserve officers and one or two corporals and sergeants from the Foreign Legion. Drawing uniforms and equipment was comic. We were marched off by sections (sixty men) to the magazine. Here harried sous-offieiers passed us out weird garments: uniforms, belts, buckles, shoes and caps, and we felt like Christmas trees as we staggered out. Back in the barrack room things began to take some sort of order. The capote (great coat) had to be folded and placed first on the shelf

above the beds, then the vareuses (shell jackets) and so on, until the pile was some three feet high. The belts, cartridge pouches and bayonets hung on hooks below, and any priv*t« belongings had to be hidden in the bed or behind the pile of uniforms. That day a detail was marched into the arsenal to bring back rifles, which were stacked in the arm racks at the end of the room. Route march training began. Every day the distance was increased and the loads were heavier. By the end of a fortnight the recruits were able to do at least

twenty miles a dav with full African Army equipment of a hundred pounds. Headed by a drum-and-bugle band, a battalion of bearded Legionaires marched into the barracks square, stacked arms, and were divided among the three battalions of volunteers. By nightfall they had sold the eager recruits all their spare equipment, and two days later they had it all back again.

There are certain hard and fast rules in the Legion. To take money

or valuables is stealing. To sneak equipment or any Government issue from your own section or squad is neither etiquette nor healthy. Otherwise, you can shift for yourself. (This is called System D.) Having bought the same blouses twice from two different Legionaires, Phelizot and I planned a come back. Regulation required a Legionaire to wear all his decorations on full dress parade and this rule was carefully checked. Our method was simple. These medals were for sale not to be worn, but as souvenirs: also they were easy to bang on to, so that by buying and holding them one could sell at exorbitant rates before dress parade, thereby breaking even. CHAPTER II “Only Just Fed” The French Army is sufficiently fed but only just. The bleus (recruits) are always hungry; you even see recruits scraping the squad soup kettles to get a little extra. As time goes on, their appetites fall off and. the old timers eat about half the rations served out to them, saving the rest for future reference. The first meal —four In the morning—is a cup of black coffee, sweetened, if the cook and the quarter-

master corporal have not been able to swap sugar for wine, otherwise not. No bread is issued in the morning. At eleven, comes the heavy meal of the day: soup with bread and meat in it, one cup of coffee and one cup of w-ine; at five, more meat made into a goulash with potatoes, beans, lentils or rice, and another cup of coffee and wine. This fare is occasionally varied, especially in the field where sections can draw and cook their own rations. The bread—one loaf per day—is coarse peasant bread, and heavily seasoned with saltpeter,

tor obvious reasons, stamped with the date of baking. Theoretically, you can refuse it after the tenth day, but refusal merely means self-denial. In time of peace, you have tin plates, knives, forks and spoons, but war-time equipment is simpler: a gamelle (tin-plated bowl with a tight cover, that is strapped at the top of the pack), a tin cup, called a quart, alleged to hold a quarter of a litre, and a fork and spoon. The food is all heaped into your gamelle, and coffee poured into your cup when you have finished your wine. Pinard (red army wine) is brought in, in a canvas bucket and ladled out with the corporal's cup. into each individual cup. By placing his thumb well down into his cup, in giving out wine to the half section, (thirty men) he can come out ahead, to the amount displaced by thirty thumbs. There is always a yell, and always the same excuse given: the canvas bucket leaks—although the buckets are usually so thickly covered with grease and grime that they could hold live 'Steam under thirty pounds pressure. The only way to prevent this cheating is to watch the deal. At the front, during the winter months, a quarter of a cup of rum is issued at daybreak, but no one dare take liberties with this The emergency rations were as follows: two cans of preserved meat known as singe (monkey), twenty biscuits and a small bag of sugar and coffee. The latter was carefully checked at all inspections—"unauthorised use of reserve rations: eight days prison.” This did not deter us from making coffee on the sly, as inspections took place in double rank and it was easy to cheat. All full sacks of coffee and sugar were lent to men in the front rank, and as the officer inspected and passed on, they were flipped back to the rear rank, to be inspected a second time as their turn came. Biscuits were as hard as rock, unless you knew the trick. No amount of soaking affected them, but put them in the oven or near the fire, and you could almost eat them. As for tobacco—considered as firewood is wasn't bad. Every ten days the Government issued a package per man, called Scafarlati des Troupes. It was mostly the stalks of tobacco plants, and you had to spread it on a handkerchief, pick out the longer pieces, and chop them up before you could possibly roll it into a cigarette Hardly worth the trouble as it was poisonous stuff, anyway. The barrack rooms became orderly, even quiet at night: the Legion cure for snoring is crude but effective. When they are sure the offender is asleep, two men picked for the job gently varnish his lips and close them. On waking, his mouth is firmly sealed, and the first unwary yawn tears strips of skin and flesh from both lips. Once or twice is enough. The victim takes his own precautions not to snore, even if he has to bind up his jaw with a handkerchief. As recruits we drew the magnificent sum of one sou a day. It did not spell luxury, so it was possible, if you had the cash, to hire old Legionaires to do anything from cleaning vour rifle to replacing you on guard duty if you wanted to go to town. But this scale of pay did not apply to men in their second and third enlistments. There were privates of fifteen and seventeen years’ standing, who, thanks to the bonus for re-enlistment and high pay for previous service, were draw ing two and three francs a day. Non-commissioned officers were forbidden to borrow money from their subordinates, but most of them did, especially the corporals. It was not bad policy to lend, even if you never expected to see the money back. They rarely borrowed twice from the same man, and it certainly greased the wheels. Strictly speaking sergeants could not drink with soldiers. Occasionally they would graciously drink off a proffered glass in passing a table, but to sit down at that table was beneath their dignity. Regulations are all very well, but what’s the use of stripes if you can't profit by ’em? Dry-nursed by the old Legionaires we began to shape up. Within three weeks, stiffened by three hundred anciens per battalion and the cadre of regular officers and non-coms, we were ready for service. We were a job lot, for the most pant Russian, Swiss, Belgian and English, though almost every neutral nation was represented. Some were there for the adventure, others from a sense of obligation to France, or be-

cause they could not get back to their own countries to join up, and quite a number because the war had thrown them out of a job. The old Legionaires were made of quite different stuff and were in it for reasons ranging from manslaughter to unrequited love. It struck me as strange, at first, that there were even Germans and Turks among the anciens. Vetman. the corporal of our squad, had been a Prussian guardsman in his day, but some dispute with a superior had forced him to desert and take refuge in the Legion. Where else

could he go? Born and bred to soldiering, it w-as the only life he knew or cared about, “Che foutrais etre un bombier a Baris” (His way of pronouncing “1 would like to be a Paris fireman.”) —This was his high-

est ambition. Tall-scraggy, and ungainly, except on parade ground, he was the typical soldier, and his lank form was tireless. Though a strict disciplinarian he had unlimited patience with stupid recruits. It was true he had been in the German Army, but after seventeen years’ service in Africa the French considered him a Legionaire, and their confidence was justified. He was killed six months later defending an exposed outpost. Therisien, a Breton, was my ideal of a sous-officier. He had been a lieutenant in the Navy. A fit of temper, a hasty blow, and cashiered! He buried himself in the Legion. With his ability and previous rank he soon rose to the grade of aspirant (cadet officer). Another hasty blow, and back to the again. Now he was sergeant once’ more. He could do what he liked with us, and his lectures on field tactics were worthy of a colonel. These were the best types but not the most amusing. Conti, an Italian, offered to show me the ropes and valet me. He was a likeable sort of rogue, but things had an unfortunate habit of disappearing. When my tooth brush went I put him through a third degree. “Conti, what did you do in civilian life?” "Me? I pinched bikes.” “Do you mean to say you were a bicycle thief?" “Sure, that was my profession and my father’s before me.” Such talent was beyond my means. Most of us Americans were in the same section, 57 varieties. My closest friends Phil, the elephant hunter, Denny Dowd, a lawyer from New York, Fritz —, an engineer, Stuart —, an artist, and Alan —, our dreamy, but! martial poet. (The reference here and later is to Alan Seeger, the poet who wrote the “Rendez-vous with Death” shortly before being killed in action.) Going into town was not so simple as it sounds. Every man had to pass the inspection of the sergeant-of-the-guard at the gate. Brass buttons must shine, boots, if not polished, be neatly greased; the broad blue woollen belt of the Legion must be wound around without a crease, and, as it was nine feet long, this was quite an accomplishment. If the sergeant happened to be in bad humour a man might be told to go back two or three times to make good minute defects. Coming back was easier, as all returned together. But even so, the lynx-eyed sergeant was on the watch for any men he considered sufficiently drunk to shove into the boite (prison). Re this, it was an amazing sight to see some of the old-timers. They would reel up the street roaring obscene songs, at the tops of their lungs. Twenty yards before they came to- the j gate the songs ceased, shoulders went back, and they would march through j the gate, saluting smartly like auto- j matons. Out of sight of the guard the singing would break out anew, as j they zig-zagged across the yard and • lurched up the stairway to their bar- , rack room. I wangled my way into a peleton | de sous-off (school for non-coms), and j soon regretted it. There were no j privileges, and lots of extra work, and chances of promotion in the immediate future were slim. CHAPTER 111.

Shaking Dawn

Alarums and excursions! The \ Powers-that-Be had decided to send off one battalion at once. Five hundred old Legionaires and five hundred ; volunteers picked from those with pre- ! vious military experience. I wracked ! my brain and finally remembered the | Columbia Institute Military Academy j in New York. I was only seven at I that time, but the words ecole mili- i taire work, wonders in France; and ; that night I was in the premier batail- j lon de marehe, likely to be sent to the front any day. Nothing happened for three days, j but we put on an extra amount of swank which we mistook for esprit de corps. Late one afternoon, town leave was refused, and we were assembled in the barracks square for kit inspection. Next morning, headed by the drum-and-bugle band,- flowers in the muzzles of our rifles, we were cheered through the town to the station. “40-B’s” once more, but this time what a difference! Forty men, and • forty men only, to a truck. Two 1 climbed in. and the rifles and sacks of i the other thirty-eight were passed up to them, and stacked at both ends of the car. The rest of us piled in; corporals stood in the doors to prevent anyone leaving, and the train pulled out. At the first big station the cars spewed forth food-seeking Legionaires like a disturbed ant-hill; and we got our first inkling of what the rest of the world thought of the Legion. We headed for the buffet to buy provisions, but the door was slammed I in our faces by an enormously fat chef de gare, who then rushed down the platform shouting at the top of his lungs, “Fermez toutes les portes! Voici la Legion!” Scouting around, i we found a canteen in a tent behind j the station, and after a struggle we bought sausages and white bread and returned to our car, hurt and indignant at the attitude of the authorities. The train pulled out of the station, and the anciens pulled out their loot. From under blankets, like rabbits from a hat. came a prodigious supply of food and drink— More beer, in little kegs. Many dozen hard boiled eggs. And goodies to a fabulous amount.” No deception—quite simple. Merely a matter of slitting the back of the tent, and helping themselves, while we —innocent decoys—engaged the enemy over the counter. Maybe that chef de gare wasn’t so far wrong after all! We thought this was worthy of commemoration in song, so, to the tune of the “Boys in Blue are Marching”; We are the famous Legion That they talk so much about. People lock up everything Whenever we're about.

We re noted for our pillaging, The nifty way we steal. We'd pinch a baby carriage. And the infant for a meal! As we go marching. And the band begins to play— Gor’blimee! Yoil can hear the people shouting. Lock all the doors, shut up the shop, the Legion's here today. At the Camp de Mailly we saw the effects of shell fire for the first time. The iron shutters of the station were riddled with shrapnel and some of the buildings demolished. Decidedly, we were getting nearer the war. The next day we were sent out to round up some Uhlans hiding in the woods. They had been cut off during the retreat, and had managed to exist on their iron rations, raw vegetables and anything else they could steal, hoping to lie hidden till the German Army should advance once more, and free them. They were a sullen crowd, gaunt and ragged, but we admired their pluck. It was at the Camp de Mailly that Monsieur Toto et Cie. made his first public appearance. He probably came from the Arabs in the Legion—the Koran extends a closed game season to cooties. It was the irony of fate that our poet should be the first to complain of the roughness of armv underwear. For several days Alan scratched body and soul in forced aloofness, but there was no avoiding them. From that time, like the poor, they were always with us. How Alan must have suffered! He took them as seriously as he did everything else. I never saw him laugh. He was always scribbling and occasionally showed me the results. At the time I didn't realise he meant his “Rendezvous With Death” in earnest. He couid fight as well as write though, but that comes later. . . . Then the march to the front began: thirty-five kilometres a day, with full equipment. The first night our squad was in luck; no sore feet, and billeted in a real house. The old lady who owned it was horrified at the idea of our sleeping on bare boards? and produced four enormous eiderdowns. The next day- brought out the real discipline of the Legion. There is no issue of socks in the French Army, and the bleus began to suffer. You can either put your boots on barefooted, or use little squares of cheap mus’.in (chausettes russes). Placing your foot in the middle of it, you wrap the muslin carefully around the foot and ankle and slide into the shoe. This sounds simple, but it takes months of practice to do, without having the cloth shift and the feet blister. Those of us who could afford socks had chosen them badly and Stuart and I were suffering acutely. Our shoes felt as if they were filled with painful marmalade, and we fell out by the side of the road to investigate. Sure enough—they were blistered aud bleeding. We decided we were fit cases for the ambulance. This illusion. however, was rudely shattered by a bull voice coming from the top of a horse. “Que faites vous la?”

Heroically, we stood up, saluted our colonel and exhibited the pitiful spectacle of our feet. "Nos pattes sont en marmalade, mon colonel. Nous ne pouvons plus marcher.” (Our feet are cut to ribbons, colonel. We're all in.”) Revolver in band, he roared, “Marchez quand meme!” And we did, rejoining our section at the double. The night was spent in the arcades of a monastery; where Vetman took us in hand and showed us what to do for our feet. (The Legion cures blisters by passing a greased thread through them, cutting the ends off each side—this acts as a drain. They then smear the whole inflamed part with tallow, also the outside of the sock, to prevent chafing. This done, they put their boots on again—painful, but easier than doing it next morning when feet have had a chance to swell.) Stuart and I had it out In the morning. "Look here, Cocky—l'll carry a razor if you’ll pack the blades.” "All right—and one mirror will do for both of us. What’s more, I don't see the use of keeping a hair-brush.” “What about this packet of Bromo paper—can’t we split it?” “Oh, all right—be fussy! But tile sooner you ask your friends to write ; you on thin, soft paper the better!” “How in Hell can I?” I “Kid 'em along: tell’ em you like to ! carry their letters with you, to read : over—” A two-day march had taught us that possessions are a curse. Other bright volunteers had reached the same conclusion, and the shower of safety razors, mirrors, combs, extra soap, shirts, and underclothes was eagerly i seized upon by the old-timers. The third day we hit the little tow u jof Verzy near Epernay. This was on ! the front. The town itself was on j raised ground, and the edge of it, looking over the green vineyards, was like a quay by the sea. About three miles from the town were front-line | trenches, and we all crowded into the I streets to see the shells bursting till ian enemy plane went over, and we I were driven back into quarters, like I chickens when a hawk hovers near. Rumours began to fly again: we were ' going into line that night—we were ] to attack —etc., ad nauseam. In the meantime we were confined , to billets during the day. Our company was quartered in some long sheds used by the grape gatherers during the vintage, and we slept on concrete platforms, which sloped toward the middle of the room, divided by low partitions like stalls in a modern stable. The anciens found wine, and the night was made hideous by song, drunken laughter, and squabbles. African troops had been there before us, and we were given a warm welcome by the Algerian | Cooties’ Rotary Club. Here we waited for orders to join ! some Army Corps, but the various | generals seemed to think the Legion might corrupt the morals or discipline of their troops. Anyway, there was j no ugly rush to take us over. (To be continued daily.)