“This would not keep a chipping sparrow alive—let alone a man.”
“You received a half loaf of bread yesterday.”
“Yes, but we ate that yesterday.”
“Well, I am sorry. That is the regular rations of the French Army. I cannot change it.”
Walking away, disgruntled, a cockney muttered to his comrade,—“’E thinks we are blooming canaries!”
The bull-dog tactics of the persistent English did not appeal to the officers of the Legion. Probably the last to go were Poole and Darcy, two powerful silent fellows, who were in hospital, delayed by unhealed wounds.
Originally, there were two Darcy brothers. While making a machine gun emplacement, they heard a noise in front. One of the brothers with half the detachment went out to investigate. The other stayed at work. A German shell dropped into the emplacement and killed, or knocked senseless, every man. Red Cross workers, who gathered together the mutilated and the shell-shocked Darcy, were startled to hear some one in front. Looking around, they saw the other Darcy drag his shattered limbs over the edge of a shell hole. He expired, saying, “The damned cowards ran away and left me.” The others were all killed.
In June, 1915, after six months of constant warfare, poor food, no furloughs, cold winter weather and scanty clothing had so brought down the morale of the men that they didn’t care whether they lived or not. They were absolutely fed up to the limit on misery.
Many Russian Jews volunteered, as had the English, to help France. Russia later called her subjects to the colors. Negotiations were under way in Paris to facilitate the exchange of Russians from the Foreign Legion to the Russian Army. They were informed that the Colonel had received orders to permit their return to their native land.
Possibly, the negotiations had been completed, perhaps not. Perhaps the Colonel was not officially instructed. However, the Russian volunteers, relying on their information, when ordered to dig trenches, refused to do so. They demanded to be sent home. Officers argued with them and pointed out the penalty of refusing to obey when in front of the enemy. They didn’t care, would not work, and could not be forced. So ten of the ringleaders were court-martialed, sentenced to death, taken out into the woods near the little village of Merfy, blindfolded—shot. Tearing the bandage from his eyes and baring his chest to the bullet, one cried out, “Long live France; long live the Allies, but God damn the Foreign Legion!”