“I saw young girls who tried to protect themselves with faces streaked with knife wounds—some had their noses cut off.”
“What else did you see?”
“I saw old women laying in corners dying of hunger—I saw others out in the fields eating grass.”
Milton Wright, an American citizen, born of American parents, went from Philadelphia to France on a four-masted ship. On shore, without a passport, was arrested by the gendarmes, who communicated with his captain, who replied: “We don’t want him. He is a German spy.” So he was in prison four or five months. He was then told he could go into the Foreign Legion for the period of the war. He did not understand, as he could not speak French. The French officials did not speak English. He was signed up for five years.
The skipper owed him for several weeks’ wages. His going left an opening to take back Frenchmen who would give thousands of dollars to get away and escape military service. Wright was an innocent, honest fellow, a victim of circumstances. But he felt he was wronged and would not drill. Finally, after being worried almost crazy, he was given a railroad ticket to Boulogne, and mustered out.
James Ralph Doolittle, of New York, started in the ambulance. He found it too slow for a live man, so he joined the Foreign Legion. He was decorated with the Croix de Guerre, with palm. He was a splendid fellow, good soldier and a gentleman. He was three times wounded. The last time he dropped 600 feet, breaking an ankle and seriously disfiguring his face. He passed his convalescence in America, November, 1917.
Dr. Julian A. Gehrung, of the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary, offered his services to the then personally conducted American Ambulance. He did not know they wanted chauffeurs and drivers, who could be ordered about, rather than doctors and men of established reputation who could run their own affairs. So, he, known in America from coast to coast, was snubbed. March 24, 1917, he was offered by the French Government, the supervision of a large hospital. Accidentally meeting an American soldier of the Legion, a French officer came along, patted him on the back and said, “Ha, ha, you have got a fine appointment. You have found a compatriot. You are now satisfied.” Quick as a shot, the answer came back, “No, I am not satisfied, I want to be sent to the front.”
James Paul, St. Louis, Mo., twenty years old, the first American killed in the Legion after the United States went into the war, was an enthusiastic grenadier. He was decorated with the Croix de Guerre for having alone, with grenades, stopped a night attack at Bellay-en-Santerre, in July, 1916. He was killed by a treacherous prisoner, whose life he had spared. Having killed the Germans in that dugout, excepting this prisoner, who threw up his hands and cried “Kamrad,” Paul started to run to the next dugout, when the German grabbed a rifle and shot him in the back through the heart. Barry and other Americans paid special attention to that prisoner. He did not die then, but, some hours, later, when the Legion was being relieved, he breathed his last.
George Delpesche, of New York City, an energetic member of the Legion, and an excellent scout, a volunteer for dangerous missions, lived through places where others were killed; but he was wounded in 1916 and transferred to the 35th Regiment of the Line with headquarters at Fort Brezille, Besancon. Decorated with the Croix de Guerre for taking, alone and unaided, five prisoners.
Emile Van de Kerkove, Pawtucket, Rhode Island, of Belgian descent, three times wounded, was decorated while in the 246th Regiment with the Medaille Militaire for having alone, with a machine gun, repelled a Boche attack. He is now in the 10th Regiment of the Line.