LETTER FROM FRANCE.

Otautau Standard and Wallace County Chronicle, Volume XII, Issue 583, 25 July 1916, Page 7

LETTER FROM FRANCE.

1 KING'S SON AS TRENCH HERO. DRAMA IN THE WAR ZONE. (Translated by Professor F. W. Haslam..) Since my last letter to you I have been reported as fit for active service, and have now been some days in* the trenches at . The first news I got on arrival - was of the death" of a brother officer. This, you will say, is an event, alas! so frequent as hardly to merit recording. But my friend was i m himself no ordinary man, and was especially interesting as an example of what Victor Huo called "the universal hospitality of France." In the first place, he was a full-bjoodod negro ; j secondly, he was a imr.'.-e of- *he iil'ood j royal, being the ony s»i of Hehaiyin, i the late bloodthirsty tyrant of Da- j homey, *vlio you may remember fowul his chief delight m human sacrifice by J the hecatomb. But those .v.i-re, comparatively speaking, fortunate days when cruelty appeared to !*e the monopoly of negro kings. Since then the ex-tyrant of Dahomey has found imitators who have not, like him, th« excuse of ignorance. History with avenging pen will write the names of ' both m her category of LiUrderous ' criminals against humanity, Jut m the case of the savage she will allow a plea of extenuating circumstances as compared with his rivals, who pretend to be civilised. Besides, it sometimes happens that sons are able to rehabilitate i^ie memory of criminal fathers, and from this point of view also the comparison will be found favorable to his negro majesty. For Behanzin had a son, also colled Behanzin, who was a young man of great intelligence, well educated . and i of a refined character. When I first knew him fortune did not smile upon j him. He spent his days chiefly m going ! from one Minister's office to another petitioning for some small appointment m the public, service. He said that he got plenty of promises but never a post. >He gave up the quest m despair, but his failures did not sour him. In- : deed, he used to recount the history i of his innumerable disappointments j with a refined irony and a pretty ' wit that were very amusing to all those who could spare time to listen to his experiences. In the meantime he ! worked for his living. He had no false ■ pride, and one day, finding downright starvation staring him m the face, he took the position of sculleryman at a restaurant m the suburb of Montmartre. Figure to yourself the son of a king washing up dirty plates ! Alphonse Daudet himself m his 'Kings m Exile ' never • imagined such an example of downfall. But I should not say decadence. In the case of Behanzin it was not downfall, but only temporary abdication. He never lost his natural grace of manner, and he had withal such a pretty pride and such a quaint dignity that the modesty of his functions only seemed to bring into higher relief the fact that he was truly a " Royal Highness." "There are no honest occupations which are degrading," I remember his saying, as he pensively dried a plate with an immaculate dishcloth; "but some of them are terribly uninteresting." The outbreak of war surprised his Royal Highness m the midst of. his courtship of a little " fillette " of the working class to whom he was engaged to be married. Without a moment's delay he bore himself away from his pleasant idyll of love, and on the first day of mobilisation he joined his* corps to defend with h,is life his newly adopted "patrie" against rthe assault of the barbarians. He was received with, open arms by his brother "poilus" arid his -combination of camaraderie and royal dignity \soon gained him the affectionate soubriquet of "Behanzin II." m the regiment. In eyery attack he was the first man *m\t of the trenches, and m every baj'onet charge his gleaming black face was seen leading his comrades by yards across the deadly zone of "No Man's Land." No Zo\iave or Chasseur, however lightfooted, ever outstripped him, arid when he "arrived" his bayonet play was as rapid and brilliant as the rapier play of a fencing master. Before long he gained the decoration of the Croix de Guerre and his commission aY sub-lieutenant. But, alas! his lungs were not built to stand the cold and wet of a winter m the trenches m Flanders. Yet he would hot.-,. report himself sick, though racked with coughing and short of breath. It was touching to see how his old comrades made it a point of courtesy now to shepherd him m a bayonet charge and never to outstrip him lest they should hurt his pride, however much they wished to hurry through the bullet-swept zone of "No Man's Land." If younger soldiers new to the regiment pressed forward beyond ' ' Sous-Lieutenant Behanzin II." some " vieux moustache/ would "very soon . teach them, the etiquette of the regiment. "Why should. I go on the sick list?" said Behanzin to a brother officer., "I can't live many days anyhow, and. l'd sooner die for France on the battlefield." His wish was granted. . His colonel'; knowing the state of his health, sent for him and ordered him to report himself sick. Behanzin saluted — and disobeyed. Instead of going to the medical officer, lie went back to the trench, took over charge of a' bombing party that was just setting out, and fell gloriously, shot through, the heart, asjhe stood exposed on the parapet, pelting the Bosches with bombs as fast as they could be lighted and passed up to him. As I said before T tell you_shis story as an illustration of what Victor Hugo called "the universal 'hospitality of France." This son of a savage, bloodthirsty, fetish - worshipping African king had become a true son of France — a Frenchman — and not only a Frenchman, but-VE venture to say it — a thorough Parisian. His story reminds me of an English poem which my father used to recite to us boys. As you know he was half Alsatian, half English, and fought m the war of 1870, and the recitation of this address by France to Germany was fne of his ways of keeping our memories green on the woes of his native province. lam afraid I only remember two verses now. France says to Germany : . - . . I am conquered — you say — let us sec; Strong man with the long yellow hair, . Strong man with the steady regard, Let us see what these conquests are. Have you torn out the heart from my bosom, , . . That whoscsp'.er head there haS' lain, Arab, Spaniard, Alsatian, Italian, , Forgetteth we never, again;' — \ My father was a bit of a scholar, ; and he used to frown somewhat ovei ' the rhyme m the first verse, but by th<

time lie got to this last one he was on | his feet with flashing eyes and hands [ outstretched m the direction of his be- [ loved Strassburg. All we boys and j my sister too would be carried away ' by his fervor, and all join with him m j this verse with the best English accent !we could manage, which is probably , why I remember it. • We do not altogether neglect the lighter side of warfare, though I have not shown you much of it lately. But my company have written a little oneact play which they have called ' The ! Bosche-boy m Heaven,' and I will get a copy of it and send it to you. The acting isn't half bad, especially when you come to think that, "owing to circumstances over which we have no control," every man m the company has to understudy every part. The enemy's machine guns are no respecters of " dramatic persona;," and the other week we had three St. Peters knocked out of action or acting m three successive days. My sergeant-major, who is a devout Catholic, opines that the devil tells the Bosehes who is cast for the part each day, "and the ' sacres ' Lutherans know jolly well that they would have no chance of getting St. Pierre to open for them the- gate of Heaven, and so they take it out of his representatives on earth." The censor won?t let me tell you much, but I think I may say, if your sporting friends are inclined to bet on the subject, go and put your Jast shil- | ling and shirt and shoe on Verdun and I General Petain.