TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 966, 8 May 1930, Page 5

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

By

DAVID W. KING

(Copyright lilt), by Dugield and Co. Distributed by the King Features Syndicate Inc.)

SYNOPSIS' ™?m = ™ nS .a llarvar ?.’ * David King-, under nnlitaij age, enlists m tlie Foreign m es .m VI !' a , nce - In a few days, he is VUV.'i? front-line trenches, wearing the . trousers that made excellent targets for the enemy. All nationalities are nte . f .U; r \ ?, he Le S‘°n. King’s budjiVn o Phl ’ A ll ex-elephant hunter, tin Seeg-er, the American poet, later n,-i <l n! n action. After this baptism of 2.*®! the Legion is back in rest billets, three , ;,t nl ?ses ,he execution of 1 1 enc-h families caught spying. nffiJ-Vn efuses to partake of roasted cat feeding on “hit' is'Tnjmld in foreigners in® th e b LX!om Americans “J

CHAPTER VIII. An officer rushed in to stop it, calling on the sergeants to help him. “A moi les sergeants!” He drew a gun but bet ore he could Are Therisien, roaring J arrive, mon Lieutenant, hurled himself at the back of his knees and bowled him over. Finally the guard turned up and stopped the tight, but not before five Americans and six Legionaires had been knocked cold, and several others mildly marred. Both sides retired, growling at each other, and our billets were changed. Phil was in a bad way, and growing worse daily. He thought it was a return of African black water fever, but it was hard to get proper treatment for this sort of thing. The doctor on duty was not impressed, and after painting the wound on his head with iodine, pronounced him fit for service.

I tried to beg, buy, or steal him some hot milk, but to no avail. The good Samaritans slammed their doors in my face, in spite of my offers to pay. Two days later we moved up to the second line. The march finished him. He was taken to hospital, babbling with delirium, and died after three days of agony—tetanus. The Alsacian was court-martialled, hut acquitted on the ground that he was drunk at the time. Why shouldn’t we get drunk? Goaded by criticism for having started the row, Bronstein walked over, followed by the section, and picked a fight with the Alsacian. In two minutes it was general, but the Alsacian was a marked man. While we kept up a milling battle with the others, every one of us concentrated ou the. Alsacian. When he went down it was all over. It is surprising how quickly hob-nailed Army boots can reduce a man’s head to pulp. Then the guard turned out, and we were all arrested. The major examiued the case, and privately sympathised with us. But what could lie do? There had been a row between the two sections, and a man had been killed. How could anyone tell who had done it? Anyway, he explained to our sergeants, putting us under arrest was as much to protect us as anything else. Most of the muleteers of the machine gun section carried knives and in case another row started—? SCRAPS

May 1015. The train was teeming with Tommies, officers, W.A.A.C.’s, and other feminine military organisations

necessary In conducting a war, and I was a very blue spot of blue In all that khaki. With true flegme brittanique. I was discussed, but not spoken to. ‘‘l say, old horse, whatever is he?” “I don’t know, must be a Belgian.” ‘‘What’s his rank?” ‘‘Couldn’t say, old bean, must be an officer, travelling first.” 1 was out of luck; the compartment was full of temporary gentlemen— Flying Corps, at that. I wondered what had happened to that finest type

of man, the pre-war British officer. Had they all gone west at Mons? Southampton at last, and I started aboard the leave boat. I was stopped at the gangplank by an M.E.0., who demanded my travel warrant. I explained I was not travelling under orders but was a French soldier returning from leave. The British had apparently never heard of leave being granted, at least not to a private; and I instantly became a suspicious char-

acter, and was referred to the civilian passport control. Why had I, a soldier in uniform, come to the civilian authorities? . . .

Because the military police had sent me .... Then where was my passport, and visa? ... I had neither . . . . Then I came under military jurisdiction.

Finally I was turned over to a military embarkation major. I explained my case, pointed out that if I did not catch that boat I would be tweniyfour hours late; and twenty-four hours absence in time of war is desertion, the penalty for which is death, in the Foreign Legion. The major, a decent sort of chap, ax-gued the matter for ten minutes through a curtain with an irate general who had apparently retired for the night, but to no avail. Whereupon the highly suspected spy was turned loose in the town and told to look up the French Consul next day.

The Consul was furious and gave me a letter stating that I had presented

myself in plenty of time, papers in order, and that I was not to blame for the delay. This was fortunate, for the British made amends by a very curt note which would have been about as helpful as a death warrant, I found out later. On arriving in France, I had to go back to the depot of the Legion, then situated at Orleans, and wait for the next draft before rejoining the regiment at the front. Life at the depot was hell. I successfully resisted the offers of the doctors there to pronounce me physically unfit for a thousand francs, but gained the enmity of most of the depot draft by asking to leave for the front with the next reinforcements. A slim officer in general's uniform, followed by his staff, rode up to the entrance of the square, and the clique (drums and bugles) of the first Etranger crashed out the Generale. The drums and bugles of the other regiments took it up as lie reached them. He tore along at full gallop with the figure and elan of a young cavalry officer. In spite of years of responsibility, he had kept his fire, but the keen hawk face was that of an old man. He made the round of the regiments and came to a halt in the centre of the sauare. and the massed bands played Au Drapeau and then the “Marseillaise.”

I think most of us had a choky feel ing. A dav like this made up for a lot. A staff officer went down the line, informing the various captains that the general wished to speak to all those who had served with him in Africa- There is something of the Little Corporal in Lyautey: the cynical. hard-bitten Legionaires returned to the ranks, shoulders hack and eyes shining. Then the march past began. For the first time we heard the march of the Legion played by a full band. The zouaves, Moroccans and Algerians

filed past with their strange gliding swing, to the air “Sidi Brabim.” Their way of sliding over the ground seemed to fit in with the combination of weird Algerian bagpipes (nubas) and bugles. The rumble of guns and caissons, the thunder of cavalry riding by at the charge Ca y est —it was over! CHAPTER IX. We were getting soft —good food and no work —so forced marches were tile order of the day. The first was a little jaunt to the top of the Balon de Surveillance and back —fifty-seven kilometres with a climb of fifteen hundred feet. Before re-entering the village, the clique went to the head of the column and the Legion marched in with their long, rolling swing as if they had just started. However, in spite of the efforts, to tame them down the men were in the pink of training, and fights and drunken brawls in the various bistros were becoming a nuisance. I was sitting with Boh, the negro prize-fighter, in the most disreputable

cafe in the place, when the door flew open and a little Italian Legionaire tore through the room, like a scared dog through a country village, and out the other side. A minute later, an enormous halt-breed Algerian, his pock-marked face lit up like a Tibetan devil mask, and stark raving mad with cheap liquor, lurched through the door. He was followed by a huge Russian in similar condition. Lolling over the nearest table they questioned the little group of serious drinkers as to the whereabouts of Marius, evi dently the late departed bar-room sprinter. “Have you seen Marius?" “No!” “You lie! Baade de salauds'” (You swine! )

Whereupon, they each grabbed two empty bottles by the neck, broke the bottoms off against the table, and with these improvised glass daggers, blundered down the room slashing out Impartially as they went. Bob’s reaction was immediate. “Look here, boy! Ah seen this befo'. You do like me." And he promptly ducked under the table. I bumped heads with him in my eag erness to imitate. As soon as the roisterers had swept by, we were oui and up; wrenched a leg apiece from the table, and stole after them. Bob crowned one and I the other, and then the guard came. Next day was pay day and the night was hell. The American seetion was on guard duty. Three or four Legionaires had determined to enter a housand the women were hanging out of the top storey, yelling. We arrived in time to see an attack worthy of a battlefield- The Legion Lotharios lined up across the street, bayonets fixed, rifles at the correct angle. (To be Continued Tomorrow.)