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Transcriber’s Note:
Photographs have been moved to fall on paragraph breaks.
The few footnotes have been moved to follow the paragraphs in which they
are referenced.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding
the handling of issues encountered during its preparation.
[Illustration:
LEGIONNAIRE BOWE
This matricule (aluminum wrist-tag) is No. 11,436—Foreign Legion.
Chevron and device on left sleeve denote a grenade-thrower of two
years’ trench service—one bar for first year and one for each added
six months. Note bullet scar on left eyebrow.
]
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SOLDIERS
OF THE LEGION
TRENCH-ETCHED
BY
LEGIONNAIRE BOWE
[Illustration]
PRESS OF
PETERSON LINOTYPING CO.
CHICAGO, 1918
COPYRIGHTED, 1918, BY
JOHN BOWE
THIS AMERICAN CITIZEN’S BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO HIS COMRADE IN ARMS,
THE FRENCH POILU
INTRODUCTORY
“Good luck, my soldier! You Americans are an extraordinary people. You
are complex. We have thought we understood you—but, we do not. We never
know what you will do next.”
I asked my French landlady, who thus responded to the news that I had
joined the Foreign Legion, for an explanation. She said:
“In the early days of the war, when the Germans advanced upon Paris at
the rate of thirty kilometers a day, driving our French people before
them, pillaging the country, dealing death and destruction, when our
hearts were torn with grief, Americans who were in Paris ran about like
chickens with their heads cut off. They could not get their checks
cashed; they had lost their trunks; they thought only of their own
temporary discomfort, and had no sympathy for our misfortunes.”
“But,” she continued, “the same ship that took these people away brought
us other Americans. Strong and vigorous, they did not remain in Paris.
Directly to the training camps they went: and, today, they are lying in
mud, in the trenches with our poilus.”
“Now, we should like to know, if you please, which are the real
Americans—those who ran away, and left us when in trouble, or those who
came to help us in time of need. Are you goers or comers?”
Self-proclaimed “good Americans,” who pray that when they die they may
go to Paris, are no more the real Americans than is their cafed,
boulevarded, liqueured-up artificial, gay night-life Paris—the only
Paris they know (specially arranged and operated, by other foreigners,
for their particular delectation and benefit!)—the real Paris.
Such Americans, whose self-centered world stands still when their checks
are but unhonored scraps of paper, the light of whose eyes fades if
their personal baggage is gone, with just one idea of “service”—that
fussy, obsequious attendance, which they buy, are they whose screaming
Eagles spread their powerful wings on silver and gold coin only. Their
“U. S.” forms the dollar-sign. They are the globe-trotting, superficial,
frivolous “goers.”
Boys in brown and blue, girls in merciful angels’ white, men and women
of scant impedimenta, are the “comers,” to whom—and to whose distant
home-fire tenders—“U. S.” means neither Cash nor Country alone, but a
suffering humanity’s urgent—US. Bonds of liberty mean, to them, LIBERTY
BONDS. Yes “La Fayette, we are here!” Real Americans think, shoot and
shout, Pershing for the perishing, “the Yanks are coming over till it’s
over, over there!”
FOREWORD
Let the fastidious beware!
Here is no inviting account of a holiday in France.
The fighting author does not apologize for this terrible tale.
He has written literally, unglossed—no glamour, to
Help you understand the horrors of War and Prussian dreadfulness.
This gripping catalogue of catastrophe is by an American.
It contains romance, history—but absolutely no fiction.
It is a Love story. “Greater love hath no man than this....”
The National Society of Real Americans, in the shadow of
Independence Hall, Philadelphia, reminds Us that we have two Countries—
United States and France.
“Jack Bowe,” in this, his second volume on War, presents a French
viewpoint, rather than the British.
Cosmopolitan, born on the Scotch-English border, he
Knows no boundaries in
Freedom’s cause.
He has served in five regiments in France.
Wounded and spent, he has been restored in five different hospitals.
Evacuated from the front, twice, he has recuperated in
England and returned, on furlough, to America.
When he received “Certificate of Honor” for promoting the sale of
Liberty Bonds.
Thrice decorated for distinguished conduct and valor in Europe,
He wears, also, three medals from service in the Spanish-American War
and in the
Philippine Insurrection.
He has been marched through countless villages of France whose
Names he did not know—nor could he have pronounced them if he did.
Indian file, in black night, he has tramped hundreds of miles of
Trenches, which he could not have recognized in the morning.
He has endured twenty days and nights of continuous cannonade.
Experiencing every sort of military warfare on land, he has also
survived a
Collision at sea.
He has been Mayor of his own town, Canby, Minnesota.
In Minnesota’s Thirteenth, he fought for the Stars and Stripes, being
Present at the capture of Manila, P. I., August 13, 1898.
Having represented, with honors, earth’s two greatest
Republics, he is still enrolled under the Tri-color of France, in that
wonderful, international composite of
Individual fearlessness, the Foreign Legion.
“Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true.”
CHARLES L. MacGREGOR,
Collaborator.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Dedication 5
Introductory 7
Foreword 11
CHAPTER
I Joining the Legion 17
II History of the Legion 27
III Americans in the Legion 38
IV First American Flag in France 92
V Foreigners in the Legion 97
VI Englishmen and Russians Leave 109
VII Trenches 114
VIII July 4th, 1915 121
IX Outpost Life 130
X Champagne Attack 146
XI Life in Death 159
XII The 170th French Regiment 162
XIII The 163rd and 92nd Regiments 166
XIV Hospital Life 169
XV An Incident 177
XVI Nature’s First Law 186
XVII The Invaded Country 199
XVIII Love and War 208
XIX Democracy 225
XX Autocracy 233
XXI Their Crimes 245
L’Envoi 259
=Alone=
=They Went Before=
-------
To those gallant fellows who left the peace and comfort of happy
American homes, when their country was yet neutral; in order to carry
out their ideals of Right and Justice;—this book is a reminder they have
not suffered in vain—and are not forgotten.
Soldiers of the Legion
CHAPTER I
JOINING THE LEGION
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.
[Illustration:
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.
[Illustration:
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.