TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 973, 16 May 1930, Page 5

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

By

DAVID W. KING

(Copyright 1020, by Dufficld and Co. Distributed by the King Features Syndicate Inc.)

SYNOPSIS David King, young Harvard student, enlists in the French Foreign Legion in 1914 and immediately is thrown into the t'ront-line trenches, still wearing the scarlet trousers of the Legion costume. After losing the sight, of his right eye, lie shifts his rifle to his left shoulder. Defending Verdun, hunger and thirst increase the suffering of the Legionaires. Mutilated bodies, minus arms and legs, are carried out in baskets. “Phil,” an ox-elephant hunter, and Alan Seeger, the American poet, are King’s buddies in the M national varieties forming the Foreign Region. “Phil” dies after a brawl between Americans and foreigners in the Legion, and later Seeger is killed iinaction. ”

CHAPTER XXII (Continued.) The uext evolution, line abreast across the whole avenue, brought down an attacking flotilla of police and gendarmes. They caught sight of me in French uniform, and the fight was on. Dugau was in blue too, but bavin? eaten a tube of tooth-paste he was foaming at the mouth. Not even the gendarmes cared to tackle that apparition. A brawny Highlander saved the day. Kilts flying, heedless of

traffic, he tore down the line, bellowing: “Change carriages! Race around the fleet and back!’’ Instantly every one piled out, giving an imitatio.n of a subway rush going to Jerusalem. The police fell back and we steamed full speed ahead for a restaurant in the Bois and scuttled our ships. . . . . . . The brawny Scot had been sinking lower and lower. Of a sudden his eyes became flxed —he sat bolt upright—he bounded from his chair. Out on the road stood two steam rollers, deserted for the night. Inviting wisps of smoke floated from their chimneys. No need to explain—with a whoop they surged after him. and climbed aboard. The French have a huge sense of humour, but most gendarmes are Corsican —and i was A.W.0.8. anyway. When I last saw them, they were waddling down the road like outraged hens —the Great Steam Roller Race had started.

It was at Vincennes that Mata Hari was shot. Every week we were called out for military executions. “Mort, avec degradation militaire.” For desertion in the face of the enemy, or in time of war—Death, with military dishonour. We used to laugh—what difference could it make, if they were going to shoot you anyway? That was in the early days. After we had seen our first execution. . . . It might have been a parade, or an investiture. Everyone spick and span. The regiment in a hollow square—officers, colours, and band, in the centre. “To the Colours” the band blared out. Was this going to be an execution? Must be. There was the prisoner standing between a guard with fixed bayonets. “Right shoulder arms!” Yes. we usually presented arms at this point. Drums and bugles sounded “Attention!” “Soldier Jean Dubios, class of IS9S —married, father of three children. Croix de Guerre, two palms . . . desertion while on leave, and attempted escape to Spain . . .” The voice droned on, “absent twenty days . . . time of war . . . tried by court martial . . . Dijon . . . found guilty. Mort avec degradation militaire.” A group of non-coms gathered round the prisoner. When they stepped aside, his coat hung open and ragged buttons, decorations, insignia were gone. We saw him start at one side of the square, the guard ai’ouud him, hands clinched, head up, looking as if he’d see us all in hell. I think most of us were sorry for him . . . but he couldn't understand that, and only felt hundreds of eyes denying him. About half way, it began to get him. His head drooped—his hands hung loose. They took him around the whole of that dreadful square ... At the end. he could hardly shuffle along. I think he was in a sort of stupor when they put him up against the post, for he never made a sign when they asked him if he wanted his eyes bandaged. Then a squad, from another regiment, stepped up. And they shot him .. . A little, crumpled heap on the ground. “Mort avec degradation militaire.”

The life at Vincennes was too good to last. Our Lieutenant turned up

while we were all A.W.0.8. in Paris, and decided that we had run wild quite long enough. Within a week we were on our way to the front. There were thirty-five of us in the unit —mixed pickles. Barring those chosen for their mathematics, and kids who had volunteered before their class was called, we were all cripples.

Castagnole was a dark sallow hoy, with a saturnine sense of humour. He had stopped a 77 with his hack and was pronounced unfit for further service. After working in the Chemical Warfare Laboratory for three months, he volunteered for the front again. Though thorougly disillusioned, and often in pain, he never shirked his job. Redheaded, hot tempered, Durupt had been a professor at the University of Nancy, but though he examined young officers in mathematics, was only a corporal himself. The sergeant was an antique dealer, and our other corporal’s chief claim to fame was the fact that he had sung with Mayol. I imagine it was a case of "Heinie played with Sousa once — but only once.” CHAPTER XXIII At Boucourt in the St. Mihiel sector, no one wanted us. They seemed to

This was great fun as the ground was frozen hard, and a pick was as likely as not to bounce back and crack you over the shins. Then miles of telephone wire was strung out, connecting the posts with the central office; and finally the central itself was ready. I soon discovered that life in the instrument room lacked privacy and independence, so when the wind and observation station was established, I put in for it. The idea was to note the velocity and direction of the wind and temperature of the air every time a Ger.man shot was fired. When it came to running an annometre, stop watch, telephone, twirl a thermometer on a string, and register everything in a note book, all in the same moment, I used to regret the loss of our caudal appendices. I lived at the post, on a hill just over a wireless dugout. Somewhat exposed to wind and shell fire, but off duty I was master of my fate. Boom! A shell would whirl overhead. B-r-r-r-r-r would go the party wire, joining the outposts to central. The Lieutenant’s voice “Hello! Posts one, two, three, four, five, six? Set

think a Sound Ranging’ section would draw fire, so for weeks we were shunted from one farmhouse to another.

For awhile we found shelter in a barraque Adrian. It was bitterly cold. We had a miserable little stove, but no coal; even the partitions in the hut were coated with ice. The potatoes froze- and in the Army when potatoes freeze there is one result — scurvy. Our gums swelled and oozed black blood, but it wasn’t till our teeth began to wobble that we recognised the trouble, and sent for lime juice and tinned vegetables. The hut was Infested with cooties and fleas, but the last straw was added when one man spread the itch. In spite of these little trials, we began the work of installing the section: building dugouts for the advance posts, setting up the microphones, cutting and planting telephone poles.

your microphones.” Ring—-Br-r-r-r “Hello, the wind! They are firing.” (You don't say so!) I would climb out, set my instruments, put on the telephone receiver, and hang the mouthpiece around my neck. Boom! “Shot P 1.” “Shot P 3.” “Shot P 4.” “Yes, Yes —Yes! Hullo, P 2, didn't you hear it?” "No.” “Hello, the wind! What's the direction?” “Forty degrees—speed 60—temperature 10 degrees C.”

And so on Ihis way for hours, rain or shine, till the German firing stopped.

Thunderstorms were not so amusing. The lightning would strike the wire and box my ears. “Hello, Central! there's a thunderstorm overhead.” “Yes —yes! We know.” That was ail the satisfaction I got. I shared the dugout with a wireless ! operator. Oursan. He was twice my i age-—a master carpenter—hard boiled j on the surface, but one of the whitest

men I have., ever known. We lived, cooped up together in a tiny room for months, without a quarrel. Post number three telephoned in one day, that Fritz was putting down a gas barrage, and his gas mask leaked. The sergeant, knowing I was headed that way, asked me to take him' up a new mask. I passed our dugout on the way. Oursan was watching the barrage between us and post number three. “Hello, where are you going?” “Nosal’s gas mask is out of commission. I’m taking him up another.” “Through that?”

“Yes, I hope so.” “If that good for nothing, slackjawed fool can’t take care of his gas mask, why in hell doesn’t he come down and get another, himself? What business is it of yours anyway? You’re nothing but a god-damned half wit, forging through barrages for a fool like that. Here —you stay,here— I’ll take it.” “Nope, can’t do it. Lessure told me to go.”

“Told you—told you hell! Don’t you know he couldn’t order you to?

It’s a volunteer job. Ob, well, go ahead! But I wash my hands of you.”

So I went ahead, but Oursan went with me to the edge of the barrage. Half an hour later I found him where I had left him—still cursing. He got distinctly rude when I asked him why he was waiting. But I saw he had his gas mask ready, and I knew my man. If I had been hit, I wouldn't have lain there long.

I wore sabots stuffed with straw to keep my feet warm, and thought myself rather clever. Then I tried to climb down the ice-coated ladder. . . . I landed sudden and hard, and through some strange contortion, probably the same by which men acquire black eyes, stamped on my little finger. My hand got black—two days later I saw the doctor. “Tiens, tiens! How did this happen?” “I stepped on it.” “Are you trying to be impertinent?”

I explained the circumstances; he grunted, and took up a pair of scissors. “Look the other way.” ... I didn’t try sabots again. “So you come from America?” Yes.” “Did you ever meet my cousin Jean Dupont? He went out to Buenos Ayres.” “No.” And the conversation would languish. When we declared wart everything changed, and I was bombarded with questions. About this time I began to think I had better get into my own Army. My first application was returned with a note attached: If 1 would return to America and put in for Plattsburg they would consider my application. “Very much obliged to Jesus,” as the British Tommies sang.

Through, friends at court, I was allowed to take the exams, in Paris, while on leave. The day came, and I presented myself—scared stiff. The three officers, who were to examine me, whispered among themselves; the Major (afterward General) Nolan spoke.

“Mr. King, we don’t know much about the French Army, and you probably know less about the American, so we don’t see how we can examine you.” My heart sank “But we have looked at your record and are proposing you for a first lieutenancy, Infantry.” As I left the building, an officer was coming up the steps. In my ignorance I mistook the black braid on his sleeve for a misplaced mourning band. There was something in his face, however, which spelt general, so I clicked to and saluted. Just in time'. He seized an unobservant lieutenant by the arm and spun him round. "You’re in uniform! Are you u soldier, or not? If so, why the d —— can’t you salute?” He stumped upstairs, before you could say Black Jack —and Genera! Black Jack himself it was!

CHAPTER XXIV. Back with the section —and lifa dragged along as it can, when you are ■waiting for an important letter. It was hot on the observation platform and I installed a barrel filled with water. Therein, I spent my time when not actually on the job. The Major passed one day just as I stepped out, and ran to tell Lieutenant Delva that I had gone stark naked mad. Castagnole told me later, that when Delva explained I was American, a relieved smile came over the Major’s face. "Ah, I see! A redskin!” From that time on, they spoke to me in the terms of Fenimore Cooper. “Oh, my Red Brother.,” “Noble Watcher of the Winds,” "Rain in the Face!” Our Lieutenant worked us hard, but he didn’t spare himself. We were a damned happy section, and I never saw an outfit where rank counted less.

The long expected official envelope finally arrived. Alas, it contained only an unsigned copy of an extract from a cable. True, it said I had been commissioned a Ist Lieut., Infantry, but Delva and others were not convinced. Letters to the AdjutantGeneral’s department were of no avail. I appealed to friends once more, and a signed and sealed notice arrived. More complications! The American Army asked for my full record, with all changes of regiments, since enlistment. Delva wrote to the oth Artillery, at Avranches, who referred him to the 13th F.A., at Vincennes. The 13th F.A. referred him to the S2nd H.A., at Satory. The 82nd H.A. referred him to the 170th Infantry, who referred him back to the 83nd H.A. Thereupon, the S2nd denied all knowledge of my existence, and considered the matter closed. Where was my record since I left the 170th? A day in Paris would have settled it all, but there w r as no chance of leave for mouths. However, regulations state that if a man is court-martialled, and acquitted, he is entitled to 10 da)'s’ leave. I asked to see the Major. “Mon Commandant, I demand a court-martial.”

“On what grounds?” "Desertion; from the time I left the 170th Infantry till I was transferred to this regiment.” “But this is serious!” “It is, Sir. I’m in earnest.” “Voyons, Voyons, what’s the trouble?” Now a Major commanding the Artillery of a sector, has troubles of bi 3 own. He can't be expected to dry

nurse every gunner, unless the gunner makes it plain that the safety pin is sticking into him. The moment l explained, he became human, and started buzzing off dynamic wires . . Midnight—Oursan and I woke with a jump. Hammering on the door—and a liaison runner calling. "King—King—your papers have come! You're to report at Central tomorrow, with all your junk, and you leave tomorrow night for the depot. Here—take your orders." He handed me an envelope, then stiffening up, he saluted. "Bonsoir, mou lieutenant,” and he left. I turned, to find Oursan with tears streaming down his face, swearing like a trooper. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)