TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 963, 5 May 1930, Page 5

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

By

DAVID W. KING

(Copyright 1929, by Driffield and Co. Distributed by the King Features Syndicate Inc.)

SYNOPSIS Long before the United States enters the World War, David Iving, Harvard student, answers the call. He joins the furious French Foreign Legion. His buddies :n the Legion are “Phil,” an ex-elephant hunter, and Alan Seeger, tie American poet, later killed in action. All nationalities are represented in the Foreign Legion Most of them are in it because of unrequited love or manslaughter. In a few days they are marched to a shelled town behind the front. CHAPTER IV. One morning motor-trucks appeared out of nowhere, and all that day Battalion C rolled along the roads to Fismes. We arrived just at nightfall and our section being the section of the day, went on ahead to act as campement (billeting party) for the rest. The battalion was to be quartered at a little village called Cuiry les Chaudards, but in the dark we must lave passed beside it, and struck the frst line. In those days there were ro trenches or barbed wire. The first i.itimation we had of our mistake was a salvo of 77’s from the enemy’s batteries. The shells were high and hirst some hundred yards behind us. The old Legiondires, and the men who lad seen service before, flopped on their stomachs. The rest of us stood (lumb-founded for a moment and then, in our iguorance, began to laugh at the nervousness of the veterans. The main thing proved, however, was that the section was off its course, so ’ v ’e retraced our steps and eventually found the village, with the battalion already installed and the major furious. The night was restless. Violent fusillades broke out in the line in front of us, and each time, our sousotficiers, accustomed to the suddenness ot Moroccan warfare, had us stand to arms. Our squad was quartered in the attic of a one-storey house, and hostile relations with the owners were established immediately. In the first place, th «y bitterly resented our efforts to clean up the quagmire and dunghill in jhe farmyard. Also, we found out later, this family and three others Were in communication with the enemy and, naturally, thirty men snooping around cramped their style. Cuiry les Chaudards was a small ■arming village, which in summer was entirely surrounded by fields of crops, and in winter by mud. It boasted some forty surly inhabitants, of whom one or two of the more enterprising nad opened little shops in their houses. They were driving an amaz’hg trade in sweet biscuits, infamous hn-canned jam. and viu mousseux. i he caporal ordinaire (quarter-master corporal) took a wagon to Fismes overy day, and could be bribed to buy extras there. Such were the luxuries or lif e . The labours consisted of s> manoeuvres, digging a second Ine °* trenches, carrying logs for struts and shores, and cleaning up the ullage. i was flat—fauche—broke! At uiry les Chaudards they mistook my - merieaa g D ] c i p| eces for gold bricks. hurt to plunk my last few francs hto soap, but the laundry business

seemed the only industrial opening for a bright young man, so I went into partnership with a Norwegian architect. Down by the river, the day’s work was divided: “All right, Henri, my turn to wash. Where's the soap?” “I put it in your haversack.” Scrub —scrub—“Here—rinse these, and spread ’em on that log—No—not the rock. Picot's got his stuff too near it—he’d pinch ours.” “Dave, where is the Adjutant’s shirt ?” “I gave it. to you to dry. For God's sake—didn’t you watch it? There goes Conti! Catch him, and tell him you want it back.” Five minutes later Henri returned with the shirt—Conti had made a slight mistake in picking up his wash! And so it went on—business throve—if you watched while you washed. * * $ “Faites les sacs—-Tout le moude en bas! Les sous-offs au capitaine—et grouillez—vous!” (“Make your packs, —everybody turn out! Sergeants call. Make it snappy!”) A brief consultation with the major, the captains joined their companies, and we moved off through the night, in column ot twos. We soon left the metalled roads for a lane through the woods, and there struck one of the real horrors of the war—mud. Liquid mud—full of treacherous roots. Mud like chewing gum—squelching—sucking our boots off. Mud with a stench obscene and putrid—Black mud—black night. Somebody down. Up again, cursing foully. . . . We were in Indian file now, picking our way by the skyline of the trees. . . . Hours and hours we floundered through the pit black night. Then suddenly we were through the woods. Shadows rose out of the ground—whispered hurried directions and warnings, disappeared into the night. We slipped into the rifle pits. With the dawn came reaction. The peaceful landscape hardly seemed to justify last night’s caution, and five bleus wandered off in the sunshine to see where the war was. They saw nothing. . . . Three of them probably never even heard the shell. You see, we wore red trousers in those days—they were beautiful targets. We paid high for the thoughtlessness of the five as the sector came in for an hour’s heavy shelling. There was no barbed wire as yet, so at nightfall covering patrols were sent out into No-Man's-Land. I went out with one commanded by an American soldier of fortune, veteran of Spau-isb-American-Phillippine and Mexican campaigns—he was a good soldier, but slightly erratic and impatient. The long, cold vigil on the ground exasperated him —we were all pretty jumpy. About midnight the moon began to show through the clouds and my heart skipped a beat. “God—here they came!” Stealing silently up the slope in skirmish order were ten or twelve shadowy forms. A warning liiss from Sergeant Morlae, and we retired to our lines to report. “Every one up—Load—Commence tiring!” Denny and I held our fire, waiting to see something to shoot at, congratulating ourselves on our coolness. This, however, called down the wrath of the top seargeaut, who told us in no gentle manner to Are level with the ground till we could pick our shots. The enemy replied. A gale of bullets whistled overhead, and we could see the flashes of rifles toward the left of the line. This went on for half an hour; then tiring stopped, and an old Legion sergeant volunteered to go out and reconnoiter. Half an hour later he came back convulsed with mirth. The enemy we had seen proved to be twelve cows grazing between the lines, of which nine had paid the full penalty. The firing came from another battalion ot the Legion that had come up and occupied the edge of the woods in front j of us, forming one side of a V with our own lines. Naturally, these j. trenches were dubbed les Tranchees ides Vaches. The officers believed in having the

field kitchens as near the front line as possible; consequently, a magnificent emplacement was dug for the “hash guns.” A German plane circled overhead, and half an hour later Fritz, having mistaken the kitchen for a battery, proceeded to demolish it, just as grub was ready. More casualties and no soup. The kitchens were moved back and soup details became a nightmare. Stumbling through the woods, sliding and falling in the mud, with two kettles full of hot, greasy stew or a bucket of coffee to fill one’s cup of bliss. How we loved our enemies! Ajudant Pellotti was a Corsican; there were a lot of them in the Legion. (ITie grade of Ajudant is the equivalent of Battalion Sergeant-Major. What we call an Adjutant the French call Capitaine adjoint— Captain attached to the Colonel—usually the senior Captain, in line for his majority.) He was a thick-set, coarse swine, ancl liacl been bothering the life out of a big, mild sort of feilow called Marco. When Marco ignored the sly pats and pinches Pellotti made liis life a Hell, in a hundred and one ways, as a sous-offieier can and still keep within regulations. The aight ef the relief we were in high spirits, iu spite of the march before us. Marco had a good, trained voice, and was giving vent to liis feelings in song. Suddenly the men behind him were pushed aside as Pellotti bustled forward. Whipping out his revolver. he shoved it into Marco’s ribs. “Singing again! Stop that bloody row or I’ll blow your liver through your backbone! Shut up!” Marco shut up; the threats and abuse went on. Nothing was said, but somewhere behind Pellotti there were three ominous clicks, the noise of breecli bolts being snapped closed as three cartridges went home. Pellotti fairly hurled humself to the front of the line. It was too easy for somebody to stumble and have a rifle go off by accident in that dark, muddy labyrinth. The hint was enough. Men will forgive much in a brave and efficient sous-officier. ’ Pellotti was neither. Once during l-lfle inspection a victim of his persecutions, maddened by cafard, threw up his rifle and fired at him point blank. (Cafard comes from the word meaning “black beetle.” In army jargons it means blues or melancholia. The African Army troops are very subject to this periodically due probably to the heat and bad wine. In the more acute cases the victims are convinced that their brains are being eaten by black beetles.) Unfortunately he missed the ajudant and killed a corporal standing nearoy. A night came, however, when Pellotti took out a reconnoitring patrol. He advanced a certain distance into No Man’s Land, and ordered them to proceed while lie waited for them. Half an hour later he crawled back, dying, with three French bullets in him. .The rest of liis patrol had lost their bearings and mistaken him for a German outpost— At least., that was their story, and they stuck to it.

CHAPTER V. IN FOR KEEPS In the early part of the war troop's were scarce, and reliefs were few, and far between. I have done as much as twenty-eight days at a stretch in the first line. Often our rest was merely a few days in the sceoud line d-ugouts. The word “rest” was euphemistic. By the end of ten days digging trenches, building dugouts, cutting and carrying enormous logs of wood and barbed wire, we were quite ready to go up into line again. During one. of these rest cures, Denny and I came down with dysentery, and were too weak to crawl when the battalion moved up. Nobody seemed to care. The Sergeant mumbled something about reporting to tile doctor, and we were left alone in a little hut in the woods. Two days later we managed to drag ourselves to our Infirmary to beg some opium pills, but found, to our horror, the medical staff of another battalion. There was no way to get medicine or food, nor was there anyone tp vouch for us. We suddenly realised that if anyone in authority should question us they would consider us deserters—so we beat a hasty retreat. We lived like hunted animals: stealing what we could from the kitchens after dark, and hiding whenever we saw an officer or a sergeant. The third day a cyclist from our own battalion turned up, and we went up into line with him that night: <To be continued tomorrow)