+epower 23 Posted May 18 (edited) <<Taps microphone>> "Hey, is this thing on? It's been a minute, eh? Thought it was over did you? Fat chance!" __________________________________________________________________ A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 3 13 September 1915 La Chapelle-sous-Chaux Alsace, France We bivouac in the blissful cool of the Vosges. When the weather is clear we can see Mont Blanc in the distance. I feel at peace here. I haven’t heard the fell voice whispering for many days. Such a beautiful place but we will not be here for long. We are soon to join the Fall offensive, wherever that may land. Capitaine Junod has returned early from his convalescent leave at his home in Switzerland. He is not entirely recovered from the wounds from May 9th but hearing that a big push was afoot he had to participate. Today the entire Moroccan Division, the Legion, the Zouaves and the Algerian tirailleurs, passed in review before President Poincaré, General Catelnau and a large group of general officers I didn’t recognize. As was fitting, it was our own Colonel Cot who presided over the ceremony and when the bugles sounded “Au Drapeau!” 20,000 rifles snapped as one to present arms. New tricolor battle flags were unfurled and presented to the marching regiments of the First and Second Étrangère. They replaced the old motto, ‘Valeur et Discipline,’ with a new one: ‘Honneur et Fidélité.’ The Croix du Guerre, awarded for the Legion’s action in Artois, adorned the new colors. A scene of great pride and emotion. Tears welled in the eyes of every one of us Anciens. I wept without shame. I saw Capitaine Junod completely overcome and crying like a child. 14 September 1915 La Chapelle-sous-Chaux Alsace, France Mail. The first in many weeks. A letter from Jacko! _______________________________________________________ What a cast of characters at the ‘Point. We Four Musketeers, all members of the Class of ’15 ***, and the Fencing Team as well. John Percival Livingston aka Jacko – He was our Athos. Scion of the wealthy Livingston family, his distant grandfather had signed the Declaration of Independence. Two splendid holidays we four spent at his family home up the Hudson River. Never was one for the books. A true sportsman, mad in love with a Curtiss pusher monoplane which he flew in all weathers. There was a second tandem seat but I’d be damned before I went up in that rickety thing no matter his entreaties! In Winter, it was Ice boating on the frozen Hudson. David Owen Morgan – Aramis. Grandson of a Welch coal miner. Gorgeous Tenor voice and sometime tailback for the Westpoint freshman football team. Festus Wheeler – Porthos. The amiable Texan. No surprise indeed that he graduated last in his class. Never one to exert himself beyond the minimum necessary, except when it came to the ladies. What a card! The others: The Garter Snake – Elliot Winthrop Garner. Upper class nemesis and general pain in the arse. Two years ahead of us he used his position as company commander to annoying effect. The Garter Snake: reptilian, but harmless, mostly. His father is the NY State Senator for Manhattan District 28 comprising the middle and upper East side. Elliott took it poorly when he lost his starting position on the fencing team to our group of freshmen. Myself to be accurate. I defeated him in all three of our qualifying bouts. The duel as well but that’s a longer story. Sophie Montgomery – Jacko’s cousin. What a vile piece of work. Oh, how I fell for her and how she did use me, all to secure the Garter Snake’s affection… I hope the bitch is happy with her choice. Many women like scars, or so I hear, and I left him with a dandy. May God damn the Harpy. She is the kind that make men despise all women. _________________________________ A home in the Legion? My ‘home’ such as it is now is so very different from the one which welcomed me in 1912. Before Artois it was a godawful mess with all these green volunteers. I admit I doubted them. Even more so after I spent a week with these Americans of the 2nd Étrangère at Craonelle in January, just after the raid where Corporal Weidemann was killed. Weidemann… he was my Corporal when I arrived in Sidi-bel-Abbes. 15 years in the legion! He was tough, ignorant, the kind of single-minded hard case as only a German can be, but also scrupulously honest and ever watchful as to the welfare his Legionnaires. I recall him patiently teaching a recruit how to wrap his feet to prevent blisters. Wiedemann was the first of my teachers in the Legion and took me with him in 1912, when the 1st Étrangère sent reinforcements to Colonel Cot force relieving Fez. I asked Seeger, the poet, what happened. Shamefaced, he told me how the Huns had slipped in unawares and how Wiedemann, too late, had raised the alarm. “Aux armes! Aux armes!” he cried just before they killed him. When the boys found him, he lay stripped of insignia as was normal, but also with the top of his skull missing, knocked off by German rifle butts. When the marauding Boche returned to their trenches they set up a god-awful, guttural howling in mockery of Wiedemann’s last words. Curse these fools for their incompetence. Weideman was worth two score of them. These new ‘men’, if you could even call them that, were a poor excuse for soldiers. To call them Legionnaires was an abomination. They were Ivy League dilettantes on their best day. We, les Anciens, the veteran African legionnaires, despised them as amateurs. The antipathy was reciprocated, inflamed no doubt by the moronic decision to place all new men of similar nationality together in the same units. What stupidity! The flood of new men was beyond anything the Legion might absorb. Language barrier be damned, they should have been split up and salted among the various companies and so become Legionnaires in the proper way. To see that Harvard ass Morlae, and some of the others made Corporals and even Sergeants after a mere two months of service was galling beyond the limits of fury. I earned my stripes! Two years in the Legion fighting the Arabs, then the 10 weeks of hell that was Le Peloton Caporal – Corporal school. My second-place finish advanced me one rank to Caporal-Chef. Even so my rise was considered meteoric and not all were pleased by my success. Few of les Anciens could remember so rapid an ascent. What they didn’t know was that I damn near came in as an officer. The possibility existed if one might offer proof of a foreign commission. During the final phase of my enlistment, the Commandant looked for a long time at the letter from Monsieur Duval. It seemed clear that he recognized the name but he remained silent. I gave him the picture of we Four Musketeers at West Point. He stared at it briefly, then at me but in the end he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and replied with a distinct Gallic, ‘Non.’ Exit Lieutenant Felix Moore. Enter Legionnaire 13671. As much as it pains me, I must say that after Artois, I have fewer concerns. These rich boy American countrymen of mine may not have served in Africa and I still struggle to consider them true Legionnaires but they are blooded now. I know they will fight. ___________________________________________ *** The West Point Class of 1915, aka "The Class the Stars Fell On." Of the 164 graduates that year, 59 (36%) attained the rank of general, more than any other class in the history of the academy. Among them, Dwight David Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, and Joseph May Swing (who was my father's CO in the 11th Airborne Division during the invasion of the Philippines. FWIW, the 511th PIR was the very first American unit into Japan in September 1945. Miss you Dad. ) Edited May 27 by epower 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
+epower 23 Posted May 20 (edited) A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 4 9 April 1919 American Hospital Mueilly, outside Paris It was not until we reached the intact wire fronting the Horseshoe Wood that I realized I no longer wished to die. But I am getting ahead in my tale, or rather those parts of it that I can remember. My wound knocked my memory about. Some parts I can recall vividly. My journal is of some help in this regard but other bits remain foggy. Was it really six months ago? ____________________________ 26 September 1915 Before Navarin Farm Souian, Champagne. France. We will move forward soon. On the 25th, our brother Regiment, the 2er Étrangère took their place in the second wave of the attack. Reports come down of heavy losses. The Farm of Navarin remains in German hands. We, the Premier Étrangère, sat in reserve and dined on German shells. Not to be outdone by the Boche, a barrage of our own 75s fell short, landing directly on our position. More dead Legionnaires. If we don’t move soon, we will die without seeing the enemy. Merde! Most of the men grumbled at the issue of new steel helmets, those designed by the famous Colonel Adrian, but with the steel splinters falling like rain no one is grumbling now, at least not about the new equipment. I see Capitaine Junod and the other officers joining us in our bayou. “En Avant!” The cry comes down the line. I suddenly feel calm and move amongst the men of my section. We are heading up the line at last. 28 September 1915 Before Navarin Farm Souian, Champagne. France. We’ve been hammered in these forward trenches for 2 days. 146 men and 6 Officers killed. Colonel Cot demanded we be allowed to attack. His request was granted. It will be a sacrifice, to fix the enemy’s attention so that two other regiments can take the Farm of Navarin from behind. An hour ago, all the officers suddenly appeared in the frontline trenches. At last, something will happen. The refrain of ‘Le Boudin’ springs unbidden to my mind: Nos anciens ont su mourir Pour la gloire de la Légion. Nous saurons bien tous périr Suivant la tradition. Our ancestors knew how to die For the glory of the Legion. We will all know how to perish Following tradition. Our ancestors most certainly knew how to die… I remembered the wooden hand of Capitaine Jean Danjou, the most sacred relic of the Legion, sanctified in blood at the hacienda of Camerone. There, on 30 April 1863, 65 Legionnaires under the command of Capitaine Danjou held off over 3000 Mexican regulars for an entire day. Two hours into the fighting, Capt. Danjou was mortally wounded. His place was taken by Lieutenant Napoleon Vilain. At 1400hrs with only 20 effectives, Lt Vilain was killed. Lieutenant Clément Maudet assumed command. At the close of day with their ammunition exhausted, Lt. Maudin and the 5 unwounded Legionnaires, fixed bayonets and charged the enemy. Two fell immediately. Legionnaire Victor Catteau shielded Lt. Maudet with his body and was killed in the fusillade. The remaining men were surrounded. Only when the awestruck Mexican commander, Major Campos, agreed to leave them their weapons and equipment and attend to their wounded did the Legionnaires surrender. ___________________________________ This cursed time of inaction, just before combat, where thoughts can run riot, some men write letters, others pray or sit serenely. For myself, I scribble in this chronicle which I now realize no one will ever read. Strangely, I am at peace. Soon I will be free from the fell voice and hideous memory. Free from the nightmare thing lurking in the shadow. Free from my cafard. All of us will die today. “Baionetts au cannon, Mon Capitaine?” inquired Adjutant Le Roi, surprised at there being no order to fix bayonets. “There is no need.” replied Capitaine Junod. “We will be killed before we can use them.” Oblivious to enemy fire, he stood on the parapet and addressed the company. 'Mes enfants, nous allons a une mort certaine, mais nous allons tacher de mourir en braves.' (' My children, we are going to certain death, but we are going to try to die like brave men.) Here it was. My chance to die well and not be damned to Hell as a suicide. Mort Pour La France. So be it. I felt the fear as other men. One’s instinct for self-preservation is not some electric light to be switched off at will. Yet such emotion felt distant. A calm descended upon me even as duty and desire compelled me forward. Checking his wristwatch a final time, Capitaine Junod put the gendarme’s whistle to his lips and blew. “En avant!” he cried, waving his arm. As one man, the entire company surged out of the trench. Forward. Forward to death. Capitaine Bernard, commanding B company was the first officer cut down, hit just as we left the trench. “Gradés a moi!!” Capitaine Bernard, mortally wounded, called his NCOs to him, and gave them his final orders. He shook hands with many of his men as they moved forward. We charged over the dead bodies of the first and second waves. The enemy machine guns spewed fire into living and dead alike. Men died all around me. The lifeless corpses of our predecessors rolled backwards like logs under the weight of lead. “En avant! Forward boys, forward!” From some detached awareness, I recognized that it was my own voice shouting these words. So many fell before we got near the German wire. Those left alive mixed together irrespective of unit, just as they had in Artois. I saw Capitaine Junod die. As we reached the wire entanglements before the Wood, a machine gun burst tore into him. He fell, shouting, “En avant, mes enfants! A la mort!” ('Forward, my children! To death!') then lay still. Goddamn wire was untouched! We took to it with our rifle buts, beating down a narrow path through to the Wood. We were too few. I called my section to me, or any men about. Time, in defiance of physical law, held almost to a stop. Machine gun fire slashed over my head. Rounds fell all around us. I dreamed of this moment. How many times had I sought this instance through reckless action in the face of the enemy? I had begged God for the opportunity, for the mercy, for an end to the darkness of mind. This was it at last, the hour of my death. I thought of my mother. I heard then, like music, the Djinn’s laughter riding the shell-rent air. What bitter irony that I could finally understand his words at this end of all things. A line of mortar rounds landed in a string, walking inexorably toward me. A blast, a flash behind my eyes, then oblivion I should have died with them. Died with Capitaine Junod and the others. Was it God who spared me for some impenetrable purpose of his own, or was it the Djinn Who Spoke to Me? Spewed from the blast, a jagged hunk of metal tore into my right knee. Another split my helmet, tearing my scalp and cracking my skull. A fortnight before it would have taken half my head away. Thank God for Colonel Adrian. Whether Deity, Elemental, or Colonel Adrian’s invention, it was Dr. David who became the earthly instrument of my salvation. Dr. David Everett Wheeler, a man not content with treating the wounded in hospital, he joined the Legion in late 1914. It was he who dragged me out of the Horseshoe Wood, bandaged my wounds, then carried me on his back toward the clearing station. His right calf was shot away but he bandaged himself and limped us back through the carnage. As we moved to the rear, he treated wounded men and using the medical supplies he always carried. Bandages for those who might survive, morphine to ease the passing of those mortally wounded. It was Dr. David who saved me. A journey not without incident. We ran into a group of Senegalese who believed the good doctor, having discarded his greatcoat and looking decidedly Hunnish, was a German spy carrying a wounded Legionnaire to some grisly end. Speaking little French, Dr. Wheeler was not able to defend himself properly and I fear my brain-addled ravings didn’t help matters. He was about to be shot when an officer of the 170th happened by and put things right. We were both shipped to Chalons-sur-Marne, after which Wheeler arranged for us and many others to travel with him to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where his wife is a nurse. We have quite the Cadre Étrangère here. The disgraced Englishman Elkington, Dr. Wheeler himself, Genet, myself and a host of others. How many others survived I don’t have any way of knowing but of the first two companies to charge forward, 500 men in all, only 31 remained to answer the roll. Seeger wrote me in November. On the 11th of that month, the survivors of the 1st and 2nd Foreign regiments will now be reformed as a single Regiment du Marche. Edited May 27 by epower 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Mfair621 34 Posted May 20 Another epic novel in the making! This is going to be a great on EPower. If he lives. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
jerhear 49 Posted May 22 BRILLIANT! Exciting to read. The Youtube video was a master stroke. Going to have to go back to the previous postings to refresh my memory on the backstory there. Glad you kept going with it. Jerry H. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
