TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 970, 13 May 1930, Page 5

TEN THOUSAND SHALL FALL

By

DAVID W. KING

(Copyright 1029, by Dv.ff.eld and Co. Distributed by the King Features Syndicate Inc.)

SYNOPSIS leaving Harvard, David King, under military age, enlists in the Foreign Legion in France. In a few days, he is in the front-line trenches, wearing the scarlet trousers that made excellent targets for the enemy. All nationalities are represented in the Legion. King's buddies are '‘Phil,” an ex-elephant hunter, and Alan Seeger, the American poet, later killed in action. After this baptism of tire, the Legion is back in rest billets, where King witnesses the execution of three 1 reach families caught spying. King refuses to partake of roasted cat offered by an Arab, as he had seen it feeding on a corpse. "Phil” is injured in a general fight between Americans and foreigners in the Legion. CHAPTER XVI. Six vicious cracks overhead! The Germans are sweeping the roads with Austrian SS's and 130's. One or two shrieks, a little confusion; the stretcher men pass along the line to find the wounded, and the column moves on. There is little talking, and that in low tones, as if the men are afraid of starting the shelling again—the same feeling one has on a mountain trail, where avalanches lie in wait for the loud-voiced traveller. Soon we are at a huge dark mound, and word comes back that it is the redoubt of Vaux: we are to relieve the present garrison. Then begins a weary wait while they bring out their wounded. Pitiful sights—some of them hobbling aloug between two friends, then an endless procession of stretchers—among them the “basket cases.” Why they don’t put them out painlessly, then and there, is beyond civilised intelligence. Mere trunks, both arms and legs shot off, some of them blind as well, what possible use can they have for life, except that horrible instinct to live? Yet they must be carried for miles, go through torture in hospital, aud drag out lives of helpless hell, to satisfy a squeamish sentimentality we called humanity. Here are the needles. See that he dies While the effects of the drug endure. . . What is the question he asks with his Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure. The last of the wounded disappear into the night aud we move into the redoubt, while the other battalion flies down to the village to dig in and create a first line of defence. . . . Barricades are built of everything they can find. Houses are ransacked for mattresses to be used as sand bags. Then the clown in all soldiers comes out. Absurd figures dance around tho streets dressed up in everything they can lay lfauds on, from top hats to petticoats. Men in the most fantastic mixtures of full dress uniforms of officers. One soldier dressed as a woman minces along putting up a ridiculous small parasol every time a shrapnel bursts. A wedding procession forms, but the shelling becomes serious and everyone scuttles for cover. The village of Vaux and the newlymade trenchds are raked from one end to the other. As house after house is crushed and crumpled into smoking ruins, the survivors take to the trenches. All eyes are strained toward the edge of the slope leading up to the village, expecting each minute to see the grey-green wave of the attack surge over it. Then a sinister heartstopping whistle. A blinding flash—an almost simultaneous series of crashes which dislocate the pit of the stomach, prolonged by the roar and rumble of falling tiles and masonry. The survivors turn to the wounded. Another salvo—the solid stone house is a gutted shell, one side strewn across the street. A sharp order to evacuate, and the men spring to pick up their helpless comrades. But a third salvo strikes and all are buried under a smoking pile of beams and bricks. In the meantime the trenches are catching it. Retarded fuse shells and shrapnel, a sullen subterranean rumble aud yards of the line are hurled into the air—men, sacks, rifles, gabions and earth, all falling back in a torn and tortured heap, while shrapnels crack like demon whips over all.

The shelling redoubles—then a nerveshattering calm. The veterans know —their shrill cry of warning comes down the line. "Attention! 11s vont donuer!” As if conjured up by the cry, a solid green-grey mass of men roils over the rise in front. Crash! The salvos once more before their barrage lifts from our front line. Firing breaks out in vicious crackling bursts, and the machine guns take it up with their steady wop, wop, wop, wop, wop. The firing increases spasmodically as the reserves from the redoubt arrive in the first line in breathless handfuls. But the mass of veld-grau rolls on. Heavy toll is taken, but they are advancing in the famous mass formation, and as soon as one man drops another takes his place and the line seems impervious. We are praying for our guns to put down a barrage, and cursing the gunners. A single rocket goes up from

the fort. “What the hell's the use of lengthening the range; don't they know we want a barrage!” Ten seconds later two white rockets go up and almost immediately the 75's come into action. To us it is the most cheering sound in the world, that continuous roll —like drums —the sharp, spiteful crack of the shells! The whole German line is blotted out in gobs of thick white smoke. Great gaps have 'been torn in the line. The attack wavers, stops, fails. This lasts all day. Seven times the attack surges over the rise, seven times it breaks, and retires under the combined rifle, machine and field gun fire. The four companies in the redoubt are copping it, too. One company is in bomb-proofs under the main rampart, but these shelters are only protected in the rear by a parrados some twenty feet hack. A three hundred aud eighty millimetre shell bursts in the open space and the shelters become a shambles. Of the two hundred and fifty men, only six survive, and the walls are plastered with blood, brains and bits of smoking uniform. March 2, 1016. “Dear Gerald: The shelling has become so fierce today that we can't keep anyone on deck, and are all huddled inside the so-called bomb proofs, which the

bodies are chewing big pieces out of each shot. I feel a lot better now, but a few minutes ago the shock of the shell and the blasts made me faint and sick, and I had to lie fiat till the blood ran back again. The bodies are attacking now, and our feu de barrage of big guns and field pieces and their preparatory bombardments are something hellish. I hope you don’t mind my writing you these things, but I want to register them with someone who can keep them. They should be interesting later. They have just shot away a whole corner of this redoubt—and the damn thing was made of reinforced concrete and steel plates. The devils have been at it for nearly four hours now with an average of one shot a minute at this particular little . redoubt. I mean one big shell of 210 or 3SO mm. calibre. The little ones only hdi) to make a row and sweep the ramparts. Allah knows how long this old box will hold together. We laugh and munch army biscuits and smoke, but there is cold death in the eye of every man. Some of the men are fast asleep—sheer nervous exhaustion. I took some pictures yesterday of this dump before the real riot started. If I can. I’ll get some of what it looks like after it’s over. Goodbye old man, more later if I can. Keep this. Affec., Ding.” The inside of the casemate looked like Goya’s picture of a madhouse. No room to lie down and no benches to sit on, we squatted on our heels. Here and there a smoky kerosene lamp lit

up a group of faces, hollow-eyed, guant. We had to relight the lamps continually as the concussion of direct hits blew them out. Periodically, the silence in the room was broken by a shout from the man nearest the door. “Sentinel’s killed! Send up another!” Then a slight commotion as the next man on the list groped his way to the door, and almost certain death. Suddenly a cry from above galvanises us into action. “They are coming!” The major telephones desperately to the brigade commander asking for a barrage. “Hallo! La brigade! Faites donner les soixante quinzes devant Vaux!” No answer. The sergeant telephonist almost tears off the handle in his effort to ring through—the wires have been cut. “Two runners.”—They go.—“ They are down, Captain.”—“Two more.” “One of them is through. No. he is down too.” “Fire the two rockets.” (The signal of the day for a barrage.) One of them misses fire —(Oh God —is i everything against us!) At last the Superfluous hair destroyed by “RUSMA” (Regd.). Signed, stamped, guaranteed cure, £5 12s Sd.— Florence TTullen. C.M.D.. 7 Courtenay Place. Wellington. Send stamped addressed envelope for particulars. *

signal is given; and as the 75’s begin to roll, we pile out of the fort to reinforce the first line. CHAPTER XVII. March 3. * “Dear Gerald: Well, we got out of that bombardment all right, but I hope I never have to go through the like again. They burned up 1,200 big shells on that little fort alone, all 15 or 10 inch. Good Lord, things are moving fast! night we were in reserve waiting to attack. We rushed six miles to get into position, and at the top of a hill were met with gas shells. We had to catch our breaths in our respirators. Like eating' a banana under water, it can be done, but it’s difficult ” At dawn we moved out of the woods and advanced toward Fleury. Word was passed around that we were to attack and take it, and then continue toward Douaumant. The usual soldiers’ grousing broke out on every side. “What! Attack after two days with nothing to eat! Just let them give the order, they’ll see whatTl happen. I’m going to throw up my hands and go kamarad” . . . But when the whistle blew we went forward like fresh troops. French soldiers are a cool lot. We were taking cover behind a railway embankment before the final rush to take the village. Everyone knew we were to attack within the next min ute, but each was attending to his own little affairs as if he were in rest billets. I was having quite a struggle with a dead Algerian. My rifle was broken, and I had a shrewd suspicion I might need it in the house to house fighting ahead of us, so I tried to borrow one from the dead “Bikho.” (Slang for Algerian Soldier.) I grasped it firmly by the muzzle and pulled, but the Bikho’s hands were locked around the trigger-guard and sling, and lie clung to it in grim death. Then J tried a little pressure with my foot on his chest, but though his arms gave, he still hung on. So I borrowed one from a less tenacious stiff. Some of the men were writing post cards; they explained it was not often they had a chance to write just before an attack. Others were busily hunting in the packs of dead men for emergency rations. At the preparatory command wc* crouched ready to spring forward. “En avant!” And we flowed over the embankment, like water over a dam; greeted by a murderous fire from the German batteries. The station of Fleury was enveloped in a red haze as shell after shell hit the red-tiled roofs. The village was like a gigantic Noah’s Ark hammered to pieces by a child. The streets were littered with dead cows and horses, lying on the backs, all four legs stiff in the air. Furniture abandoned by the refugees was scattered everywhere, and chickens and ducks fled squawking before us. We took the village in a series. of short rushes, but the Germans pulverised it with shell fire and as w*e advanced we lost heavily. Once Fleury was cleared, the regiment was reformed and we started off in the direction of Douaumont. The original intention was to take the village that night, but 'casualties were so heavy' that it was decided to wait for what was left of the second battalion before pushing on. So we crouched in a valley where we were spotted by airplanes and shelled till nightfall. At dusk I took a detail of sixteen men down to bring up food. This not being the Foreign Legion, the soup kitchens were considerably in tit 3 rear: in fact it took us four hours to find them. The comments of some of the old Legionaires were acid. The negro prize fighter was mumbling and grumbling to himself as he forged through the mud. “What’s the matter now, Bob?” “Hungry yesterday. Hungry today. Hungry the day before. Don’t care how soon my military experience terminates.” Neither did I. We had to keep to the roads, as the mud was impassable in the open fields; but on the other hand the roads were being continually swept by a fire from Austrian SB’s and 130’s, the j shells that give no warning. Between i Fleury and Souville the road was j strewn with broken artillery wagons. ! exploded caissons. mangled and | puffed-up bodies of horses, men, rifies. j equipment, baby carriages, mattresses j and bird cages. | Finally we discovered the field kit- ; chens and fell to for a square meal \ before starting back—natural but ini-

prudent. You can’t go three days without food and then gorge; two minutes later we slid our lunches to a man, and compromised on a cup of coffee apiece. The stew might have been edible when we left, but it was nothing but cold grease by the time we reached the line. Of the sixteen, who started out. seven got back. We arrived at the edge of the wood, just at dawn, and then the worst happened: in the final rush to the trenches, the man carrying the two canvas buckets of coffee was hit, and of course fell ou them as he went down. This was bad. for the men in line had been iwo days with nothing to drink. Some of them scooped up snow and ate it, which only made matters worse, adding dysentery to thirst. Dawn and fresh complication?. The village of Douaumont was not held, as we had supposed, by French Infantry, but by German machine guns, and our line was exposed to fire from the right flank and rear. Sandbags had to be placed—at any price . . . The morning mist cleared, and we started on our handiwork. Line after line of grey-green German dead lay stretched in front of us, piled three feet high in spots—almost as if the slow-rolling waves, that come after a storm, had been frozen as they climbed the beach. Heads rose from the enemy’s trenches. Germans anti French stood up and looked at each other at a distance of only forty yards ; numbed. Nobody fired* nobody spoke. Both sides were fought to a staud- \ still . . . At. nightfall sounds of arriving reinforcements came from the German lines, and we prepared- to repel :i . fresh attack. But there was stealthy

movement behind us, and “Chasseurs ■ Alpins” began dribbling into rhe! trenches. Our relief had come also— l and just in time. We had scarcely i dropped over the hill into comparative ! safety when the German attack broke loose. But they were met by fresh 1 troops, and we could hear the yells of the “chasseurs'’ driving forward a counter attack. All we could think of was our l thirst. I waded into a shell hoi and drank greedily from the greenscummed water. A rocket flared up what I had taken for a log. lying in the pool, was a corpse! I didn’t give a damn, only glad 1 had drunk before I saw it. A shell burst unpleasantly close and I lumbered after the dis-, appearing section. From a letter;— “. . . Next day. we hung around in some woods about three miles back of the line in reserve. As luck would have it, the Boches chose that day ; for a systematic search of the surrounding country with their big guns. They began at six in the morning and kept it up until five that night. I saw whole squads of men go up twenty feet in the air, sacks on their j and come down a shower of arms, legs, j heads and red hash. That night, we ; pulled out for the rear, and inarched ; fifteen kilometres. You may guess , [ what condition we were in when I tell | you two men dropped dead from ex - ; ; haustion. We.stayed a day in a little town, and then marched twelve kiloi metres, where we took autos, just back ! of Verdun. Another man dropped ' dead on the way. The autos took us ; to a village about 60 kilometres oft. We stayed there one day. and then | started marching -5 miles a day. The next three days were like a nightnv-re to me. T couldn't eat. and 1 had the ; colic and dysentry as had over 7a p*. r

1 cent, of the men. How we ev r j marched is a mystery; every day men I dropped dead. Anyway, here we are for a few days’ rest. The brigade 1 went into it with 5,300 rifles, and came i out with 3.100. but we stopped 'em, by , God. Best luck, old man. and write soon. Artec.. Ding.” VERDUN' AGAIN—AND SPRING With the fresh drafts Ole Neil-on a huge Swede who had been wounded in the Legion joined the 170th. During his long stay in hospital he had got badly out of hand, and I had a job keeping the peace between him and ‘Georges, our sergeant. I finally pet suaded Georges that If he would be lenient with Neilson in rest billet.-, he would find him worth the trouble' !in line. In consequence Ole stuck : to me like a big overgrown puppy. We shared everything, though I was not partial to the tins of dead fish an l other Swedish delicacies he got from j home. 25th April. Orders to move up. i Verdun again. Bad news. EveryJ one gloomy. Motor trucks. They evidently need us badly. 28th April. Faubourg Pave—not so bad. Found pianola—wild night. 27th April. Hear we're to go up into line tonight. Rumours say counter attack. Everyone pretty sober. The very names around here are ominou. . Mort Homme-Ravin de la Mort. Even Vaus and Douaumont sound like bi : . guns. (To he Continued Tomorrow.)