V
REMOVED TO THE ARRAS SECTEUR
(Place Unknown),
May 6, 1915.
For many days we knew something was in the wind, but what or when it would happen was a puzzle to all. Some said we were going back to Lyon for a repose, while others maintained we were hound for the Dardanelles.
Finally we got orders to pack all our stuff and be ready to move during the night. About midnight, April 24th, a French regiment relieved us and we marched out of Verzenay. It was a very disagreeable night, and coupled with a chilly, penetrating fog and the rather forced march, we were more or less fatigued when we reached a small town at about five o’clock the next morning: our escouade (squad), the 15th, was assigned to a sort of cow shed. The ground was as hard as a rock and as cold. We turned in, but tired as we were, it was impossible to get much sleep, although we tried to sleep during the day. At five in the afternoon we went up town to see what the place was like; it was a small place with about six stores and overcrowded with soldiers.
When we got back I started to read periodicals received from New York. Outside there was a small yard with a squad kitchen on one side and our quarters on the other. I’ll stop here a second to say a word about the men in our squad.
The corporal could be most anything but I think he is Arab-French; he is a quiet fellow and O. K. There are four Légionnaires with us; one of them has served fifteen years with the Legion and another about ten. These two are naturalized Frenchmen and fast friends. The old-timer has a huge beard and is a very quaint character. I enjoy watching him; he reminds me so much of those gnomes who used to interest me when I was small. The other fellow is short and very brown. The way they confide in each other is really ludicrous. When one has an imaginary illness he takes the other aside and they get their heads together and sympathize with each other; it is laughable. As they share their sorrows they also share their joys. You buy their kind of joy by the canteen full, and believe me they are a joyous pair. The old fellow has been joyous for about fifteen years.
The other two Légionnaires are Belgians and unimportant. Then we have two Italians who remind me of brigands. One is a big husky fellow and the other is a typical dramatic villain; good looking, dashing and all that stuff. We have an Italian kid with us, but he is only a nuisance. The two brigands take an interest in him to the extent of continually kicking and cuffing him around. Well, as I was reading the magazine I heard a noise in the yard and upon going out found the six-foot corporal slugging the five-foot five Légionnaire. I was glad to see it because the little fellow needs a beating. He talks too much. Weeks was out there and did not like the unevenness of the fight so he interfered. The big brigand then came up and hit the little Légionnaire a “beaut,” knocking him across the yard. The little fellow got up just in time to be knocked back across the yard, and the big fellow was going to repeat the performance when Weeks interfered again.
By this time we were all out in the yard enjoying the fun. The argument got pretty hot and finally, as usual, the peacemaker got a wallop in the jaw. The American section acted as if they were all hit, and in fact they were when one of them was hit. In a fraction of a second it was the biggest free-for-all I was ever in or hope to be in. We battled around the yard to a fare-you-well and in no time the guard was on the scene with fixed bayonets, but we still kept on.