epower

Mike, Check out this SimHQ thread HERE It will explain how to edit your ui.xml in WOFF\OBDWW1 Over Flanders Fields

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.

<<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. )

That's how it was though, we like that :) I must dig up the exact primary source references but IIRC, and I do, verbiage to the effect that Pilot XXXX "made the dud engine signal and flew off," does appear in a number of accounts. But hey, if it's intentional then so be it. War is a dangerous place, and I appreciate a turn for the nefarious.

I would like to have a notification that one of my flieger has left the formation. Perhaps using the same notification system as when I issue commands to the flight (e.g. S, L) I don't even need the man's name, just a heads up that "Alb.D.Va(#8502) has left the formation" similar to the way the review mission debrief works. Most distressing to look back and see only 3 aircraft where there were once 5

Bravo Raine. I was wondering if Bell-Gordon would be in Halifax on 6 December. Brilliantly told. You've been carrying DID IV solo for a long time now. I heard a rumor that your man may have some company before long, not to mention another visit from He who Must not be named... Cigar ash and Tulle. Carry on in the finest, and do fly carefully.

Forgive me if I've missed something obvious but I uploaded a number of duplicate images to my album and, attempting to do some house cleaning, I failed to find any way to delete them. No Trash can Icon or anything of the sort. Any assistance greatly appreciated. Cheers! Edit - Found it! That very well concealed delete option in the lower left lower "Manage Image" tab.

A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 2 26 August 1915 Notre-Dame d'Amiens Amiens, France What in the name of God, the Devil, and the Djinn Who Spoke to Me, impelled me to confession after all this time? Her Birthday. Today is her birthday. Just walking in set my mind whirring. The Cathedral itself. This place, these ancient stones. Frankincense lingered in the air from the recent Mass. The smell conjured memory. I felt a presence. Hair stood up on the back of my neck and on my arms. I feared the nightmare might slip from its shadowy prison and seize me. Some years since that last happened. The line to the confessional was mercifully short. An old woman dressed in black emerged weeping. As I entered the confessional, I smelt a passing hint of rose, then the stronger aroma of old varnish. Suddenly my agitation passed. Kneeling in the darkened cubicle I felt sheltered, as if the filigreed walnut were some sort of dugout immune from blast and terror. The Priest’s voice was at once old and also soothing. “May the spirit of God be in your heart and on your lips that you may humbly confess your sin.” “I have not confessed in nine years, Father. I am 22 years of age.” “Nine years,” he replied. “Best to skip over the venial, then. Speak of those sins which burden your soul.” “I carry contempt and hatred in my heart towards women.” One woman, Felix. Just one. But she became all women. “I have killed, sometimes with pleasure. I have consorted with demons.” “Demons?! How have you done so?!” exclaimed the Priest. “In the desert, a Djinn spoke to me from a whirlwind.” “Incroyable! What did this Djinn say?” “I can’t remember. I was a day without water at the time.” “Perhaps this elemental being was just delirium, or Cafard.” “You know Cafard, Father?” “I was not always a priest. Do continue,” he said in a more authoritative tone. “Many times, I have thought to take my own life.” “That is no sin unless you succeed. You must never give in to despair.” He spoke adamantly. “Suicide is an irredeemable sin.” Fear of damnation is the only reason you didn’t go through with it, Felix… “Go on,” he said. “I have cursed God for what He has allowed to happen.” “The War is terrible, my son, but it is the work of men.” “I speak of greater evils than war, Father, but I did not come here to discuss them.” “Why have you come?” he asked gently. “Today is my Mother’s Birthday. The only gift she ever desired of me on this day was that I make confession and cleanse my soul.” “Confess your sin. God loves you even as you curse him.” “My mother always said such things,” I mused, “but I never saw any sign of it.” He waited and said nothing. He was clever this priest. He knew. “I have done worse than revile the name of God. On this day nine years ago, I cursed my mother.” Cursed her for a whore, Felix. That's what you did. “That is grave, my son. You must ask her forgiveness.” “She is dead these nine years, Father.” “I see.” He rustled behind the screen. I heard him sigh. “Do you repent your sins?” “I am sorry for my sins, Father, with my whole heart.” So many years since I spoke the litany. Words that once brought me such joy and lightness were today, just words. Empty. Powerless. “The Boche will provide the remainder of your penance. For now, go and light a candle for your mother on this her birthday. Pray for her forgiveness. Pray for God’s grace and the strength to return to the path of righteousness. Only then will you have peace. “…det tibi Deus veniam et pacem, et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned solemnly. I rose to go. The Priest spoke again. “One more thing, my son. If you cannot see a sign of God's love then you have not been paying attention. God be with you.” A candle and two prayers. That was the price for nearly half a lifetime of apostasy. He was right about the Boche but why give me such a light penance? Was this Priest an ex-Legionnaire? He knew Cafard***, the peculiar form of nervous torment afflicting the Legionnaire. Wishing to see him and know his face, I sat nearby for half an hour waiting for the Priest to reveal himself but the line to the confessional grew steadily. I moved off to a chapel to begin my assigned penance. ____________________________________ Mother…dear Mother… I dropped to one knee in the side chapel. Dozens of candles burned in front of me, flickering like the dead souls they called to. The candle I lit for Mother shone out among the others like a flare in the dim light. The weight of sorrow, so elusive in confession, settled on me at last. How long I remained so I cannot say. The grinding pain of the stone on my knee returned me to my senses. My eyes burned, not with gas, but with tears. I can’t remember the last time I wept. Going soft or is this my Cafard? A female voice spoke beside me. Lost in reverie I hadn’t seen her approach. Hastily wiping my face, I stood to regard the woman beside me and as I straightened to my full 5’9”, her eye level remained above my own, no matter how much I stretched. Standing a good inch taller than me was a woman of stunning beauty. A half-caste, what the French or Spanish would call Creole. Smooth perfect skin, a shade or two darker than café au lait. Shorter wavy hair down to her neck framed a high forehead and broad cheek boned face. Large eyes that appeared green, (or were they grey?) shone from under distinct arched brows. Hints of blond danced in the stray tiny curls at her temples. A curvaceous body filling out the modest dress, molded onto an extraordinary physique. Arms smooth and powerful with none of the swollen, dangling fat so common to large women. Broad shoulders and a full bosom balanced her proportionately wide hips, but hers were not the overly massive breasts one might expect from a woman of her stature. Her waist tapered only slightly yet her stomach appeared flat to the extent I thought she might be corseted. Even through the fabric of her mauve dress, I could see the lines of her tremendous shapely, and undoubtedly firm, bottom joining heavily muscled legs. Thews. Can one say thews when describing a woman? She radiated the physical without in any way losing the feminine. Of the ample-bodied whores I’d enjoyed in Sidi-bel-Abbes, none were anything like her. A magnificent creature! What violent delights might we share? Such strength. In the throes of her ecstasy, I might be as Job wrestling the Angel. “For your comrades, monsieur?” she inquired again. “There are not enough candles in the entire cathedral for that, mademoiselle.” “You speak as a Gascon,” she said, remarking my accent. “Yet you wear the uniform of the Legion Étrangère.” Taking my Kepi Noir from under my arm, I swept it low in a flourishing bow, as D’Artangnan might have before Monsieur de Treville or Madame de Winter. “Milady,” I said with exaggerated formality. She smiled and then, moving with an unexpected grace for a woman of her size, she responded with a flowing if equally mocking curtsy. At this moment her companion called to her, “Madelaine.” Blast! Just when I was making headway. “Mademoiselle Madelaine, I have forgotten my manners and failed to make introduction. I am Felix Moore.” “Enchanté, Sergent Moore,” she replied. I waited for her to expand but she remained enigmatically silent. Was there more here? “Madelaine,” I ventured impertinently. “The only Madelaine I know is delightful and most delicious dessert…” She looked at me askance, perhaps deciding whether to take offense. “Sergent, have you not heard of the famous Col du Madelaine, a high pass in the Alps known from Roman times? One day it might be part of the Tour de France if ever a road might be built. If you wish reach such a summit and taste the fruits of victory one may find there, I think you will need something more than a Legionnaire’s legendary marching legs.” A savage riposte! En Garde! How remarkable she should mention the Le Tour. At that moment my thoughts flew to my dead comrade. How happy he was when the telegram arrived announcing the birth of his daughter… the same day he died. How it must have galled Faber, a Luxembourger with Belgian roots, to sing Le Boudin, the marching song of the Legion. Pour les Belges il n'y en a plus. (For the Belgians there is no more.) Pour les Belges il n'y en a plus. (For the Belgians there is no more.) Ce sont des tireurs au cul. (They are lazy shirkers.) “You speak of the Le Tour de France, Milady. Then you must know the name of Francois Faber, champion of the 1909 race. He was a legionnaire, killed in May in Artois.” Francois Faber, Champion, 1909 Tour de France “Je suis désolé,” she replied solemnly. Her companion, a shrewish middle-aged woman, now approached. While not quite a crone, she would be there soon enough. Features pinched, as though accosted by an unpleasant smell, she surveyed my person with obvious disapproval. Indeed, my very presence in the Cathedral seemed an affront to her sensibilities. “Madelaine, we will be late. We must go,” she croaked. Damn the ghastly hag for spoiling everything. I had a real chance here. “Au revior, Sergent Felix Moore,” said Madelaine with an expression of wry amusement. The two women turned and moved down the Nave. I almost left it too long. Dashing after the two I called out to them as I closed the distance. “Mademoiselle Madelaine, honor me with the gift of your family name.” The incipient crone scowled as I approached but Milady turned to me smiling. “de Verley,” she said, nearly laughing. Perfect teeth, dazzlingly white, flashed in contrast to her lovely dark skin. Once again, I swept my Kepi Noir in a low bow. She returned my flamboyance with the most infinitesimal curtsy. With her beldame in tow she continued to the Narthex and out the doors. A chance meeting this was. I would never see her again. C’est le guerre. Ah, but to lie with such a magnificent creature as Madelaine de Verley. __________________________________________ *** “Cafard,” wrote David Wooster King in 1916, “comes from the word meaning ‘black beetle.’ In army jargon it means blues or melancholia. The African army troops are subject to this periodically, due probably to the heat and bad wine. In the more acute cases the victims are convinced that their brains are being eaten by black beetles.” According to Legionnaire Edwin Rosen, “Cafard, is a collective name for all the unconceivable stupidities, excesses and crimes which tormented nerves can commit. The English language has no word for this condition. In cafard murder hides, and suicide and mutiny; it means self-mutilation and planless flight out into the desert; it is the height of madness and depth of despair.”

Jerbear - Great to see you taking timeout from your own tale and dropping in for a visit. I remain deeply impressed and greatly envious of your writing flow. Albert - A book may result from the background rabbit hole for Felix. Oy! Not doing that again. He may be Irish by blood, but the bit about a year at West Point may provide an additional clue as to his home turf. All will be revealed... and soon. I gotta get to the flying bits, after all.

And so it begins... A Legionnaire’s Tale – Part 1 19 August 1915 My name is Felix Moore. Felix A. Moore. I added the ‘A’ for Arthur to make it more believable. These are not the names my mother gave me, but together they serve well enough as my nom de guerre. A gift of the Legion. I shall keep it even when my days as a Legionnaire are ended. My real name... that would cause a stir in certain quarters. The myth of the French Foreign Legion as a refuge for jilted lovers, killers, and fugitives of all kinds is exactly that – a myth. It is true that some of my brother Legionnaires joined because they sought adventure, but most signed up because they had no work. What did come as a surprise was the number of Germans. In 1912, over half the French Foreign Legion was composed of Germans. Of the rest, a few sought refuge from the law. Others, like myself, were men in need of a fresh start and a new identity. A year at West Point prepared me better than most. That seems a century ago now. Légion Étrangère. A perfect place at last. I fell into its traditions and the hard, repetitive life became one more beating making me stronger in body and in mind. With each travail, each blistering 60km march, each fight against the Arab, the troubled memories slip away. Sidi-bel-Abbes, the Legion’s Algerian home, (Holy City might be more accurate) , provided an exotic education of a different sort, the taverns and brothels of the Quartier Nègre being among them. Such lessons, and such a life, were not without cost. I would look upon the true Anciens, hardened veterans on their third or fourth enlistment, and they appeared thinned of their identity as though the color of individuality were wrung out of them, like water from a twisted cloth. They were all the same, in thought, appearance, action. Even as I admired them, I scoffed at the idea I might lose myself as they did, but theirs was exactly the path I traveled. This German war came none too soon. I might be a character in some absurd play. Enter Felix, a Moor. I am well suited to the role. The African sun burnt my Irish skin blacker than many of the native Algerians. Who was he, I wonder, my dark ancestor? Perhaps some hapless shipwrecked Spaniard of Phillip’s ruined Armada, cast on Ireland’s fatal shore and taken in by his fellow Catholics. After three years in Africa fighting the Arabs, I thought myself somehow shielded by the hand of God, a God I once thought had abandoned me… or maybe it was the Devil, or the Djinn who spoke to me in the deep desert. Whomever. After 11 months in France, any hope of divine protection seems illusion. Yet despite my calculated attempts to die, I am still alive. It cannot last. Like that romantic Seeger, I too have a rendezvous with death. Not for the glory he seeks, or the old patriotic lie. Just cold death and an ending to this pain, to this Cafard. I write this chronicle so that my life and deeds may be remembered. On my death it goes to Jacko, Porthos, Artemis or one of the others, for it is their story as well. In time, I trust that one of them will bring it to Monsieur Duval. He is the closest thing I have to family. Few of us left now, we les Anciens, the old African Legionaries. Not many of the new volunteers either. Not after we took Les Ouvrages Blancs, the so-called ‘white works.’ Trenches dug out of the chalk at the base Vimy Ridge. They could be seen for miles and were thought to be impregnable. So many assaults by other regiments broke like water against them. Thousands perished. But on May 9th they could not stand against the force of the Legion. We, the 2nd Regiment de Marche of the 1st Étrangere formed the spearhead of the Moroccan Division. Scores fell as we charged. Capitaine Junod leapt from the trench, shouting in powerful voice, “En Avant, mes enfants! Courage!” He made it twenty meters before falling wounded. Etienne, Houska and Corporal Werner died right beside me 30 seconds later. Many of the officers were killed before we cleared the trenches in front of Berthonval. More died before the White Works where our artillery failed to completely flatten the wire, but we could not be stopped. Like a great wave crashing inland, we took Les Ouvrages Blancs, then the Bethune Road, Hill 123 and finally to Hill 140 on the crest of Vimy Ridge itself. It was 11:30. Four kilometers in a mere two hours! A few madmen, bent on decorating themselves with loot, even ventured down into Vimy and Givenchy. Through it all, I was miraculously untouched by bullet or shell. My greatcoat nicked and perforated but nothing hit me. What we failed to do, as we swept onward, was clear the captured trenches of the Boche. In the wreckage we left behind, they emerged like rats from their holes to harry us from behind. A magnificent feat of arms, nonetheless. The 156th on our right were still pinned before La Targette and could not advance to support us. We sat on Hill 140 like a giant pimple waiting to be exploded. The crossfire from La Folie Farm and Neuville on our unprotected right grew worse and the German artillery started finding the range. It was around Noon when our own artillery landed on us. Terrible slaughter. The barrage continued despite desperate waving of flags and recognition panels. As I directed efforts to reverse the German trench and strengthen our position against counterattack, I saw Lt. Feraud calmly issuing a string of orders trying to get control of the chaos. Companies and Battalions were all mixed. There weren’t enough officers present to effectively organize a defense. From my vantage point, I was one of only three NCOs left alive and unwounded. Seeing the situation, Colonel Pien, our commanding officer seized a rifle and charged forward, only to be killed by a sniper. By 3:30pm enemy reinforcements came to play. City buses full of Boche stopped so close to our position that we could read the advert boards painted on their sides. We repelled the first Boche counterattack with the timely assistance of Lieutenant Wetterstrom’s machine gunners, but no additional reinforcements, machine guns, or additional officers came forward to assist us. Lieutenants became company commanders, Sergents acted as officers, and any Legionnaire with initiative found himself in the role of an NCO. Lt. Feraud, imperturbable as ever despite the bullet wound to his jaw, moved down the ruined trench. “Sergent, today you have earned the Medaille Militaire,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “I shall see to it personally.” He continued on his way. Ten seconds later a shell landed nearby. The blast that literally blew Lt Feraud apart before my eyes, riddled me with metal, and knocked me briefly unconscious. My memory of the next hours blurs. Fighting close in with any weapon at hand. The Boche hit us a second time and pushed us off the crest of 140 and back to Hill 123. Hundreds died holding the latter hill. I woke lying in a shell hole with an officer’s sword in my hand. Judging from the blood encrusted tip to hilt, I had done some strong work. Monsieur Duval would be pleased to see his training put into practice against his hated Germanic foe. In time two of our Russian stretcher bearers found me. Carried away at last, my comrades set me down at an impromptu aid station and went to collect others. There, I heard a wounded German officer speaking perfect French inquire of his Russian stretcher bearers what language they were speaking. “Russian,” they answered in French. “Impossible! Are the Russians here?” “One battalion,” they said. “But...what regiment?” “The Legion!” they answered. “Ah...The Legion!...The Legion!...Now I understand everything,” he sighed. The mystery of how his impregnable Ouvrages Blancs had fallen now solved, he lapsed into unconsciousness. A bloody red day, one that would see the 2nd Regiment de March receive its first unit decoration – the Croix de Guerre. But the cost… My God, the cost. We lost our commander, three of four battalion commanders, 41 other officers, scores of NCOs and 1,889 legionnaires, half our effective strength. My chance for a medal died with Lt. Feraud, but I have my life, and my wounds are nearly healed now. I shall rejoin the regiment in a week’s time.

Albert – This Kehr fellow, a man of mystery. I like him already 😊. So it’s out with the Rolands, in with the DFWs. Never knew they were so robust. Might explain the previous challenge shooting them down. Gott Im Himmel! Triplanes! I wonder if it’s those Lime Juicing Krumpets from Naval 8. Edward did well to escape them but I suspect there will be another day. Leutnant Wald seems a good sort and no doubt becoming a father will make him a bit less rigid. I do like your bomb impact screencaps. I’ve yet to get the hang of that as you will soon see. Solid work on the hapless Quirk. Congrats on Edward’s 3rd victory. Raine – I see that Huntington continues playing the gadfly to Bell Gordon. Tedious. Very tedious. Hopefully the hand of fate will deliver an appropriate comeuppance. The Kaisers Flakmensch rang the Bell but good (see what I did there?) I wonder if the AAA changed in Recon Wars. Good thing Douglas landed his kite intact. And speaking of Kites, and Naval intrigue, once again the Senior Service bogart all the good planes. Rum, Perfidy and the Lash is more like it. As for the former expression, it’s the Royal Navy so one expects that sort of thing. Tripes is it. Congrats. This should be fun, although maybe not so much for the Huns. I am HATING the cut and paste formatting results of CombatAce. Maybe I'm missing something. Must continue to experiment... Edit, so the "paste without formatting" via the Right Mouse Click menu seems the way to go. SHIFT+ENTER is of great use limiting the spacing between lines.

Albert, A tough day for the staffel on the 26th, alas poor Jung. Edward continues his abuse of King George's Flying Corps. A hapless if unconfirmed BE, then dropping a Tripe. Nice work. BTW, this Hasse fellow...where do I know him from? I fear I've led you astray regarding the proper technique for inserting images. Looks like something changed regarding image inserts and my post #2 instructions, which you followed to the letter, no longer produce the desired result. I mucked about and the correct method now is as follows: Upload images to Album In the desired location in your post, click "Insert other media" lower right Select "Insert existing attachment" from the dropdown menu. Click "Gallery Images" upper left, then select the appropriate image. Click the green "Insert Selected" lower right and you're home. I'll update post #2 accordingly. Since you're a Junior Member and your editing window has expired, I used my ninja powers to get the images to show up. Cheers, E

Albrecht - The "Re-Enlist option" goes some way toward solving this. Granted you don't get to incarnate as one of the surviving squaddies but it's close.

Raine - So Bell-Gordon has his 5th, despite the best (worst?) efforts of those clown in the Claims Office. Keep it up in the new year and there may be a waft of cigar smoke and the swish of tulle fabric. The Pup reigns supreme right now, at least until those V strutters start showing up. Full steam ahead! This Henderson fellow, otoh... I'm not sure the nasty little blighter can be trusted. Sail carefully. Albert -- Good thing I've just had dinner or I'd be ravenous after reading about Edward's culinary adventures. An uneventful transition into the staffel then two weeks of dud weather. Sounds almost ideal, certainly better than going aloft in snow and sleet like some of the mad Tommies are wont to do. The Roland looks like a warmer bus. Good thing with that frigid breeze off the North Sea. Very cool pics Best of luck on the return to action. H & B! TWK, Welcome to Beau. You've dropped into the first RFC squadron to get Pups. Downside is that 54 were the last to lose them in Fall 1917 but that's as far away as the moon. Looking forward to revisiting 54 Sqn. Do forgive me but when I see Charles and Gray in the same string of names and I unconsciously conjure this legendary chap: