“Jamaica Albert * of the Foreign Legion

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1010, 28 June 1930, Page 18

“Jamaica Albert * of the Foreign Legion

Ex-Officer’s Tale of Strange Desert Hero . . . Public School Song as War Cry ... A Strange Meeting in London.

once more in civilian T?| life, a former British C3j officer ivho served in ||| the French Foreign jgj Legion, contributes a thrilling post-war story ot a hero of the desert who passed under the soubriquet of "Jamaica Albert." The story opens among the sanddunes north of Beirut, the Syrian seaport, where a small detachment of the Camel Corps are celebrating the first anniversary of the Armistice in 1919. The writer, who styles himself “Old Timer,” was the officer in charge, and late at night he was making his way l ack from the village of Ber Hassin to ,oin his men in the celebrations. His route lay through a small forest, and it. was while hurrying along a path, partly hidden by undergrowth, that he had an unexpected adventure. “I had got half-way across the forest path," his narrative runs, “when I heard a faint shout. It was an English voice! Forcing my way through the thick brambles, X found myself on the . dge of a small clearing. In the middle food a low, flat-roofed building and, with his back to the wall, I saw what I took to be a British soldier. Hnarling like tigers in front of him were a number of natives. Two he had already beaten to their knees. Suddenly the rest made a rush at him, but he kept them at bay with an entrenching tool. Then lie sprang among them, and singing the song of a famous public school he wielded his weapon with deadly effect. I sent a hot over, and the Arabs broke and scattered into the bush. I ran up to 3mn and found him choking the life out or a burly Uillman, Flinging his captive aside, he turned to me, his face covered with blood. ‘Sir. - he remarked, "you have saved my life. I will not forget.’ I could not tell what was his tank, for his clothing was torn to shreds, but I noticed as he picked up his hat. that a remount badge adorned it. I walked with him to the foothills, and wished him ‘Cheerio.’ He took my hand, and said, ‘X never forget a good turn.' Then he vanished among the sand-dunes.” 19-24! The scene is now changed

| from Syria to the burning sands of j Morocco. After leaving the British I Army the writer joined the Foreign Legion. “I was one of a company of i2O men,” continues his story. “We were on the march to relieve a small garrison at Beni El Daukel. After three days of forced marches we halted at a small clump of rocks that stood out in the desert, and are known , as Sarka El Droog. | “We were under orders to remain here until another company of the ! Legion reinforced us. About two hours later we were attacked oy a horde of Riff tribesmen. We were j outnumbered by about four to one. | Time and again we repulsed our enemy, but it seemed inevitable that : we should be wiped out. With the , coming of dawn we could see the dead and dying ail around us, with the Riff massed a short distance away for the final charge. Yelling and screaming, they came at us. It was a fight to i the end. A big bearded Riff had got me by the throat, and my eyes felt as if they were popping out of my head. Then the amazing thing happened. X lieard a strangely familiar voice shout, ‘A la baionnette, charge!’ : “Taken by surprise in the rpar the j Riffs were like a lot of sheep. I felt J the grip on my throat become looser. The Riff towering above me rolled I over with his head smashed. Stand-j ing over me, with a clubbed rifle in his hands, was the soldier whom I had helped on the outskirts of Ber Hassin. Dragging me to my feet he propped me again a rock. Our hands met in a grip that can only be exchanged by men who knock about in odd corners of the earth. It turned out that my friend was lieutenant interpreter to the company that was to reinforce us. His O.C. had been picked off by a sniper a few days previously. Our own O.C. had also been killed, so my strange comrade took command. The Rift's were routed. Doing the best i we could for our dead and wounded j we continued our march. Two days j later we reached our goal, and it was | at the fort that I first heard the name I under which my friend went in the Foreign Legion. “The commandant walked up to him and said, ‘Well, “Jamaica Albert,” you have got through. Rather rough go- | ing!’ ‘Jamaica Albert’ just laughed. j Two days later ‘Jamaica Albert’ left I

j to take a batch of Riff prisoners to headquarters. I-Ie talked to me before leaving and wished me good luck. “Twelve months later 1 was in Algiers, and it was there I learned that for some act of bravery ‘Jamaica Albert’ had been awarded the Croix de Guerre, and that shortly afterward, for some unknown reason, he deserted the Legion and made his way back to England.” 1930! The writer, having completed his term of service in the Foreign Legion, is back in London. “I am in Piccadilly Circus,” he relates, “and being hungry I walk into a famous restaurant. Sitting down, my even wandered in search of a waiter. Suddenly my chair was crashed over as I sprang to attention, and by force of habit up-went my hand to the salute. Walking toward me was ‘Jamaica Albert,’ in dress clothes, with a napkin over his arm and a menu in his hand. His lean brown face was just the same, except for a queer glint in his eyes—a glint that betrayed the wan j derlust. Again our hands met. Ai t intervals during the meal I tried to get | him to tell me something about him- j self. I met with little success. He j would just say, ‘Well, I don’t suppose i it will be for long now. We all have our times of rough luck.’ He refused my offer to help him. The tears were in my eyes as 1 said good-bye. to that brave fellow. He was a thoroughbred! This mail whom X had seen fight his way through a bunch of fanatical Riff tribesmen was fighting to come back. A couple of days later I found out ‘Jamaica Albert’s’ real name. In fairness to him ! will net disclose it. Suffice it to say that although he was called ‘Jamaica A 3 bert’ he was born in Calcutta.”