TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 972, 15 May 1930, Page 5

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

By

DAVID W. KING

(CcvyrigKt tot 9, by Duffictd and Co. Distributed by the King Features ■ Syndicate Inc.)

SYNOPSIS David King, voung Harvard student, enlists tn the French Foreign Legion in Dll and immediately is thrown into the front-line trenches, still wearing the scarlet trousers of the Legion costume. After losing the sight of his right eye, he shifts his rifle to his left shoulder. Defending Verdun, hunger and thirst increase the suffering of the Legionalres. Mutilated bodies, minus arms and legs, hre carried out in baskets. “Phil,” an ea-elephant hunter, and Alan Seeger, the American poet, are King’s buddies in the a* national varieties forming the Foreign Legion. “Phil” dies after a brawl between Americans and foreigners in the Legion, and later Seeger is killed in action.” CHAPTER XX (Continued) The shells descended upon us, and Ole and I crouched in our shelter, smoking furiously. “Well Ole, It looks as if we’re in for h this time. Do you believe there is anything on the other side?” “I dunno. I don’t believe much in nothing.” And, with his usual afterthought: “Anyway, if a shell bane hit this dugout w-e bane go together.” We were interrupted by a series of crashes and screams from the pits some twenty yards back, and rushed over to see what we could do. One of the. young class was standing w ith h!s back to the pa.rapet, breathing spasmodically, a glassy look in his sye and the whole back of his head blown ofT, No time to waste on him — reflex action. (I once saw a man buried with the earth heaving up and down, from muscular convulsion, as they covered him.) The others were in a bad way. One was disemboweled, and the sergeant was screaming—and with cause. Both legs were shat’ered, but the thing that broke his nerve was a shrapnel bullet through ■fle palm of his hand. We dug them TttanjJ bandaged thqm. The poor «*M*ed screatnfiJs* “Put mf(

out of it! Be good fellows, and put me out of it! I’m done!” We assured him in one breath and cursed the Boche in the next: “You’re all right old man. Steady on. The stretcher bearers will be along presently. Hope to hell we can get another chance at them before we clear out!” I gave him one of my morphine tablets. That left one for Neilson and two for me; one for a wound, and two to go out with if I were badly crippled. The morphia began to take effect, and the sergeant quieted for a moment. Suddenly he screamed again, and then, in a strange, small voice: “Can’t you stop that man screaming? He's getting on my nerves.” The stretcher bearers turned up. I scribbled a label that he had had morphine, and stuck it in his tunic. Twenty yards to the rear all five of them were wiped out by a shell. I had copped it in the groin the first day of the attack, but a.s Ole was firmly convinced that nothing would happen to him while he was with me, I tried to stick it out. After four days though, the pain was unbearable. “Sorrv Ole. Can’t stick it any more. Try and get a light one yourself, and get to the same hospital.” “That’s right. You got to go old man. Goodbye. I think I’ll get it next time.” I dragged myself along to the clearing station, where I was examined and ticketed. I took such of my things as the Red Cross men had not stolen, and crawled into an ambulance. I never saw Ole again. CHAPTER XXI. The ambulance jounced over the rough roads. , I “Stop 1 Stop! Oh, for Gods sake stop. My shoulder. My poor leg!” The driver was g-reen and pulled up to see what was wrong. A.s he,

appeared at the door, he was greeted by a storm of protest. “Bougre de charroigne d’ embusque! Do you want us to be killed, after getting this far back? —Get on—step on it—beat it!” They dumped me in a hut on the outskirts of a field hospital, and there I lay, forgotten, in the rush to entrain the wounded . . . Two days later orders came to evacuate the place, and in collecting the cots, I was discovered —so low, they rushed me to hospital at Amiens. The battle of the Somme was still going full blast, and the town was crammed with wounded and British staff. Every hospital was full —they finally found me a bed in the citadel . . . This place was a catch-all for the general overflow—everything from prisoners awaiting court martial, to shell shock cases. One poor devil was muzzled and strapped to the bed. for he bit and clawed furiously at anyone coming within reach. Another was fully convinced that the whole damn war was being waged for the benefit of the moving picture companies. He refused to take his medicine, go to the shower bath or even get up, before he had been reassured that the lights were correct, and cam-era-men waiting and ready. A third had been blown up in a sapping operation. He was a public nuisance. Military hospitals are wonderful things—in novels. Spotless, sun-lit wards, sympathetic doctors, charming Red Cross nurses, and well-behaved wounded. Propped up on fresh pillows, with neat strawberry stained bandages round their heads, they smile in heroic endurance. Emergency hospitals don't come up to scratch. The floors may be scrubbed, the walls and ceilings remain in status quo. Spiders have fled from the reek of disinfectants, but their deserted homes still wave gently in the breeze. Doctors are overworked—efficient but hectic; and the charming nurse is replaced by some fat old orderly, who, as a great favour, smuggles in wine—at a price. If rude and unromantic the treatment is effective, and wonderful operations have been done in these improvised hospitals. “Unfit for the Infantry. Send him to the Artillery.” The judgment of three medical colonels, after the dqctor had drawn ; diagrams on me in bhie pencil, and

the oculist had put in his report. And so to the Artillery School at Satory Satory was ten minutes from Versailles and only an hour from Paris. The major’s striker sold bits of paper, stamped with the battery’s seal, for a franc apiece. Then you wrote your own leave, made a squiggle for the signature, payed somebody three francs to replace you on guard duty—et voila! Perfect —unless you were

caught. Better still, Satory was only three miles from Buc, where I found many old friends who had transferred to the Aviation. One of ttem, a schoolmate, was brigadier moniteur (Corporals and sergeants in cavalry and artillery are called brigadiers and marechaux de logis.) in charge of the American eleves pilots (cadet pilots). Pete was having a deuce of a time keeping the new ones in oj’der. It was a different story from running a

squad in the cavalry, with the discipline of the whole French Army to back him. They were nice boys and keen on the job. But they seemed to think that, having volunteered before America came into the war, they were released from all rules, regulations, and discipline to which the rest of the French Army might be subject. Quite a problem! He thought of me. Foreign Legion from the beginning of the war- —if I

Therefore, they all started on an equal footing, and they should consider themselves just as subject to regulations as the French! I piled it on till Taps sounded, and started back to Satory. It was a dark night, and after two or three attempts to find my way through the woods, I gave it up and went back to the aviation school, returning to Satory for roll call next morning. I slid into line just in tinjg to answer my name, but I was told that

and that I was sure they would do well when they got to the front. At the same time, the fact that they had come of their own free will was offset by the point that they had been admitted, at once, into the most sought after arm of the service. That their French colleagues now training with them had only gained entrance to the school at Buc through conspicuous bravery, or wounds that incapacitated them for the Infantry or Artillery.

didn't knew what discipline was, who did? The very motto, on the colours of the Legion, substitutes “discipline" tor “patrie.”—Just the man! I was asked over to dinner, and the new recruits were invited to meet an l talk with this veteran of two-and-a-half years. I gave a marvellous harangue on duty, discipline, and obligations. I got more smug with each drink. 1 pointed out that it was a fine act on their part to volunteer, that they deserved a great deal of credit for it,

mustangs looked interested but unconvinced. “Salles betes!” They were as stubborn as mules. “B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r" — this time accompanied by a threatening gesture. The Canadians understood the gesture and registered indignation and restiveness. “Qu’ils sent ■ feroces!” Stepping up to a horse, 1 grabbed the bridle: “Back up. boy—back!” A look of relief came over ■ the mustang's face and he back'd gently and gracefully, delighted to oblige. From then on I did overtime handling remounts. We found a new way to get out of barracks. Forming in line, we would march across the yard, with an obliging corporal shouting fierce orders. “One. two —one, two! Left —Left— Left! Even if this is a fatigue. you'r« going to march in step!” “Halt! Where are you going?” This from the sergeant on guard, at the gate. “Fatigue to get hay.” And we swung smartly out of the barracks, dispersing two hundred yards down the street, for the four corners of Paris. It started at the “Hole in the Wall. Billy Dugan, some XVlth Canadian Highlanders and myself. We adjourned to Weber's —more drinks, and decided to hold Grand Fleet manoeuvers on the Champs Elysees. Seven fiacres were commandeered. The flag-ship was stocked with ammunition. rum, whisky and H. E. Brandy. Being in blue, I was Admiral. I named my Captains, and off we went; line ahead formation. Every light. rakißh craft on the horizon wanted to come alongside and board us: but, somehow, when women I join a show of that sort, men disappear mysteriously. I signalled “repel boarders.” This was neatly done by I exploding our gas balloons with cigarI ettes. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)

i the Captain wished to speak to me, at once. The interview was short but j sharp. “Where were you last night?” “At the aviation school, Captain.”' “What were you doing there?” “Oh, just talking to some friends." “Why didn’t you return to the bar- 1 racks in time for call over?” “I lost my way in the woods.” “Hm! Bad as that, was it? Well, there was a counter roll call last ; night, and you were missing. I don't care whether you're an American or not—you must be taught that there is such a thing as discipline in the Army. You have come from the Legion; somebody should have hampered it in- ] to you by this time. No explanations! Shut up! Four day’s prison.” So, for four days, the disciple of discipline meditated on the beauty of discipline—for others. CHAPTER XXII. We were trained on the old 155 guns—Systeme Benge breech —obsolete. Almost as dangerous to the gun crew as to the enemy! On the firing grounds ... a recruit pulled the lanyard—r.o result. Missfire! He opened the breech to see what had happened—the powder sack was smouldering. In a frenzy he tried to close and lock it. fumbling badly. With a backhander, the sergeant knocked him flying. and in the same stride threw- open the breech. He yaunked out the burning sack, throwing it on the ground, to burn harmlessly. “Gerbaut, four days’ prison! That'll teach you not to monkey with a breech till five minutes after a missfire! If that powder had caught in the gun you’d all have been blown to bits. Brigadier, go on with the practice—” and he walked off to the infirmary, to have his burned hand dressed. 1 Change of regiments. Due to ' mathematics at college, I was sent to - a sound-ranging section at Vincennes. For a fortnight we did odd jobs [ around the Artillery barracks of the l 13th field guns, waiting for our offl- • cer3 and apparatus to materialise. ■ Here I got the reputation of a mag- > nificent horseman. Though fairly ' well broken and trained, the Canadian remounts did not understand French, > so the French drivers were up against t, It. "R-r-r-r-rV’ they wmttd eeya the