It was interesting at the Paris recruiting office. I stood in line with dozens of other recruits for the Foreign Legion—all of us naked as so many fish, in the dirty corridor, waiting our turns. Each man had a number: mine was seven—lucky, I think! Finally the orderly shouted, "Numéro sept," and I separated myself from my jolly polyglot neighbors, marched to the door, did a demi-tour à gauche, and came to attention before a colonel, two captains, and a sergeant.
"Name, Nordhoff, Charles Bernard—born at London, 1887—American citizen—unmarried—no children—desires to enlist in Foreign Legion for duration of war—to be detached to the navigating personnel of the Aviation," read the sergeant, monotonously. In two minutes I had been weighed, measured, stethoscoped, ears and eyes tested, and passed.
The colonel looked at me coldly and turned to the captain.
"Not so bad, this one, hein? He has not the head of a beast."
I bowed with all the dignity a naked man can muster, and said respectfully, "Merci, mon colonel."
"Ah, you speak French," he rejoined with a smile; "good luck, then, my American."
II THE FLEDGLING
Here at Avord there are about seventy-five Americans of every imaginable sort—sailors, prize-fighters, men of the Foreign Legion, and a good scattering of University men. As good a fellow as any is H——, formerly a chauffeur in San Francisco. He is pleasant, jolly, and hard-working, with an absurdly amiable weakness for "crap-shooting," in which he indulges at all times, seconded by an American darky who is a pilot here—and a good one.