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I entered the service of France in the Hotel des Invalides, Paris, that historical structure upon the banks of the Seine, built by Napoleon Bonaparte as a home and refuge for his worn-out veterans. The well-known statue of the Man of Destiny, with three cornered hat and folded arms, gazed broodingly upon us, as with St. Gaudens and Tex Bondt, I marched up the court yard.

At depot headquarters, where I gave my name and American address, a soldier, writing at a desk, spoke up,—“Do you know Winona, in Minnesota?” “Yes, of course, it is quite near my home.” “Do you know this gentleman?” He unbuttoned his vest and pulled out the photograph of Dr. O. P. Ludwig, formerly of Winona, now of Frazee, Minnesota.

That night I was given a blanket and shown to a room to sleep. I shall never forget what a cosmopolitan crew met my unsophisticated eyes next morning. The man next to me, a burly Swiss, had feet so swollen he could not get his shoes on. Another had no socks. One, wounded in the arm, sat up in bed, staring at the newcomer. It is a habit old soldiers develop, a polite way of expressing pity for the newly arrived boob. An Alsatian corporal pored over an English dictionary, trying to learn words so he could go to the English army as an interpreter. Suspected of being a spy, he had been brought back from the front. These men had slept in their clothes. The air was foul, stifling. A soldier went about and gave each man his breakfast—a cup of black coffee.

I stuck around, wondering if I had lost my number. Suddenly a voice, in English, boomed out, “Hello, where’s that new Englishman?” “I am not English,—I am an American.” Quick as a shot came the answer, ”So am I! I am the colonel’s orderly sent to take you over to your company. A few minutes later, I was giving the latest American news to Professor Orlinger, formerly instructor in languages at Columbia University, New York.

The training was fierce—almost inhuman. Men were needed badly at that time. The Germans were advancing, and would not wait, so men were sent out to the front as quickly as hardened. A number, possibly five per cent, broke under the strain. It was a survival of the fittest. We stuck it out; and, after eight weeks, went to the front with the Second Regiment of the Foreign Legion.

No other nation in the world has a fighting force like the Foreign Legion. Here, in this finest unit in France, the real red blood of all peoples unites. Men from fifty-three countries, every land and clime, all ranks and walks of life, colors, ages, professions, or different religious and political beliefs, speaking all languages, they have come from the four corners of the globe and are fused in the crucible of discipline. The Legion exacts absolute equality. The millionaire with his wealth, or the aristocrat of birth and pedigree, has no more privilege than the poorest Legionnaire, who has not any.

OLD TIME LEGIONNAIRES

ALEXANDRE FRANCOIS CHAS. BLOMME

Switzerland Belgium

Comrades in 27 campaigns. Photograph taken in hospital. One left a leg, the other an arm, to fertilize the soil of France. Francois has four decorations, Blomme has six. He carries the gold medal presented by Queen Anne of Russia in his pocket and fought for France and Liberty for one cent. per day.

An outstanding type is the volunteer, well dressed, athletic, frequently rich, who burns with enthusiasm, and brings dash, energy and vim, to be conserved, directed into proper channels by the tested old timers, who are the real nucleus of that dependability for which this Regiment is noted. During this war, 46,672 men had enlisted in the Legion, of which 2,800 were on the front, autumn of 1917, when I left for America.

VOLUNTEER

JAN DER TEX BONDT

From Holland. Man of birth, wealth and title in his own country. In the Legion a private soldier. Photograph taken the day he enlisted. Seriously wounded, was cared for in the American Hospital at Neuilly. Reported dead on the field. On his return to headquarters had to prove his own identity—and he had no papers. Someone stole them as he lay wounded, unable to move.

The Legion is a shifting panorama, international debating ground, continuous entertainment, inspiriting school of practical human nature. The Legionnaire lives in realms of romance, experiences, fantastic as are dreams, horrible as the nightmare. He comes out, glad to have been there, to have lived it all.

In the village of repose, one will sit in a sheltered corner by a flickering camp fire, in the gathering darkness, not hearing the ever present cannon’s roar, nor watching the illumination of the distant star-shells, while Legionnaires and volunteers tell of the Boer, Philippine, Mexican, Spanish wars, the South American revolutions, or describe conditions on the Belgian Congo and in Morocco. Comrades in the flesh recount deeds with the thrill of rollicking adventure. The listener gets a grasp on himself, and learns world problems. He becomes a divided person, one half living an unnatural present, the other absorbed in the excitement of yesteryear.

Social life is that of the ancient buccaneer of the Spanish Main. Here the Legionnaire finds a kindred spirit, who shares his joys and dangers when alive, and inherits his wealth (?) when dead. Each shields the other in the small incidents of life. In larger affairs all are secure in the sheltering, comfortable traditions of the Legion, which, insisting on strictest obedience, provide, in return, unflinching common protection. Never is a comrade deserted, left to the mercies of an enemy. Death,—rather than capture!

As in the early days of the American West, a man does not have to bring recommendation from his priest, a bank’s letter of credit, or a certificate of respectability, to prove his eligibility. He is taken at his face value—“No questions asked.” He does not impair his citizenship. He does not swear French allegiance. He retains his own individuality. No one pries into his private affairs. His troubles are his. He carries them, also his fame, without advertising. If bad, he conceals his vices. If good, he bears his virtues in silence. Whatever his status in civil life, in the Legion, he is simply a Legionnaire. This is not the place for weaklings. Invariably they are used up in the training. Here are only strong, independent men, who do things, who make their mark, who scorn the little frivolities of life, who neither give nor ask favors.

There are no roundheads in the Legion. The most noticeable thing is squareness—square jaws, square shoulders, square dealing of man to man. There is a feeling of pride, of emulation, between officers and men—a mutual respect, that is hard to define. Officers do not spare themselves. They do not spare their men, nor do they neglect them. While the men are untiring in admiration of their leaders, French officers are equally complimentary in their appreciation, which the following citation from General Degoutte, Commander of the Moroccan Division, shows,—“The folds of your banner are not large enough to write your titles of glory, for our foreign volunteers live and die in the marvelous. It is to the imperishable honor of France to have been the object of such worship, of all the countries, and to have grouped under her skies all the heroes of the world.”

Scores of books, in many languages, have been written about this famous corps, some in anger, others in sorrow, many blaming—few praising, the hardness of the discipline, the shortness of the food, the length of the marches, or the meager wages of one cent per day. After two years the pay was raised to five cents, subsequently, and again increased to one franc (20 cents) per day, while at the front.

There are many reasons why men become Legionnaires. Some join for glory, others for adventure. Some just want to be in the midst of things,—they yearn to see the wheels go round! Others were brought by curiosity, rather than intelligence. Some came because they wanted to—others, because they had to. Some crave the satisfaction of helping underdogs, who are sweating their brass collars. Some fight for hatred of Germany and of the German character. Others strive for love of France and what she stands for. Different feelings, mingled with heroic ideals, recruit the ranks.

American members know that the present fight of France is ours. She, also, contends for democracy. She aided us in our direst need. In the darkest hour of the Revolution, it was the French fleet that defied the English, landed French soldiers to help us, and enabled Washington to dispatch 5,000 red-breeched Frenchmen, who marched from Newport News to join 1,500 American infantry under Alexander Hamilton. They captured Yorktown and compelled the surrender of Cornwallis and gained the victory that resulted in the independence of America.

So, today, 142 years later, American soldiers in khaki cross leagues of ocean, fight, suffer and die to save France from invasion even as France saved us.