The world’s one organization which, for a century, has offered refuge to any man, no matter what nor whence, who wished to drop out of human sight and ken, does not, for obvious reasons, maintain a regular hotel register and publish arrivals.
Records of the Foreign Legion are open to no one. This picturesque aggregation of dare-devil warriors neither supports nor invites staff correspondents. Even the names used by the gentlemen present do not, necessarily, have any particular significance.
The American was a new element in this polyglot assembly. If there is anything he excelled in, it was disobedience. Independence and servility do not go hand-in-hand. He considered himself just as good as anyone placed in authority over him. He knew that he must obey orders to obtain results, that obedience was the essence of good team work; but he wanted no more orders than were necessary. He was willing they should be neutral,—who had not the courage to stand up for their convictions. His conscience had demanded that he put himself on the side of Right. Always courteous to strangers, Americans would dispute and wrangle among themselves. They had a never-failing appetite, also a peculiar habit of cooking chocolate in odd corners,—contrary to orders. They never would patch their clothes. They did no fatigue duty they could dodge. They carried grenades in one pocket and books in another, and only saluted officers when the sweet notion moved them.
A corporal, who, for obvious reasons, changed from Battalion C to Battalion G, speaking of early days said: “The Americans were the dirtiest, lousiest, meanest soldiers we had. They would crawl into their dugout, roll into their blanket; and, when I went to call them for duty, the language they used would burn a man up, if it came true. Yes,” he continued, “one night I heard an awful noise down the trench;—it was bitter cold and sound traveled far, so I hurried on to see what was wrong. A little snot from New York was making all the racket. He jumped up and down, trying to keep warm, his feet keeping time to his chattering teeth, till he wore a hole through the snow to solid footing. Every time he jumped, his loaded rifle hit the ground.
“You fool, don’t you know that thing will go off?”
“Don’t I know. Of course I know. What do I care? Do you know what happened in Section 2 last week, when a gun went off?”
“No.”
“It accidentally killed a corporal!”
The officers, however, noticed, after the first shock of misery and suffering, that they pulled themselves together, tightened their belts and made no complaint. On the rifle range, they held the record. On route march, they were never known to fall out. In patrol work, between the lines, others would get all shot up and never come back. The Americans always got there; always returned; if shot up, they brought back their comrades. They were soon looked upon with respect and pride. They learned faith in their officers. The officers, in turn, found them dependable.
It was customary for visiting officers to ask to see the Americans. When so ordered, this aggregation of automobile racers, elephant hunters, college students, gentlemen of leisure, professional boxers, baseball players, lawyers, authors, artists, poets and philosophers, were trotted out, and stood silently in line, while Sergeant Morlae, his head on one side, extending his finger with the diamond on would say,—“These are the Americans, mon General.”