It was August 21, and after the swearing in of the new Legionnaires, Jo went to congratulate Logan and Revelation. They were still wearing civilian clothes, and both looked quite solemn.
“You know,” Logan said slowly, “now that it’s all over, I think I’m a little bit shaky.”
“It’s all right, Logan,” Revelation nodded quickly, a smile on his face. “We’ve done what we came here to do, and now we’re going to do it right.”
Jo had felt reservations concerning the Foreign Legion. She had heard tales of the horrible and difficult existence the Legionnaires led, but she let none of this show on her face. “Cheer up, Logan,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”
“Sure,” Logan grinned, casting away his cares. He was naturally a cheerful young man, and at this point in his life, he had not been bruised enough to be very fearful of what the future might hold for him. He took Jo’s arm and squeezed it. “Suppose you take us out and buy us one last meal.”
“Hey, that sounds fatal! That’s what men get in the death house, ain’t it?” Rev complained.
“Well, I didn’t mean it like that, but we’ll be leaving for Rouen this afternoon.”
“Rouen? Where’s that?”
“Somewhere east of here. We don’t know much about it, but that’s where we’re going,” Logan said.
“Well, come along then. I’ll buy you the best meal we can find in this whole city.”
They found a café, which was crowded, as all cafés in Paris were at this time, and Jo bought them the best meal they had had yet.
“How are you going to pay for all this?” Revelation inquired after he had put away enough food for three men. “Are you making that much money working for your newspaper?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not making any money from my newspaper. I’m here on faith.”
Logan Smith stared at her. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “We shouldn’t have let you spend your money on this expensive food.”
“It’s all right. I’ve got enough to keep me for a while. I’ve sent some stories back,” Jo said. “I really expect that my editor will buy some of them. In any case, don’t worry about me. I think you’ve got enough to worry about.”
“Why, we don’t have anything to worry about. ‘Cast your burden on the Lord.’ That’s what the Good Book says,” Revelation said. He drained his tiny coffee cup for the fifth time and hailed the waiter over. “Say, fella, do you have any bigger cups than this?”
The waiter, who understood little English, took some time to figure out what he meant. He shook his head. “No. This is the only size we have,” he said.
“Well, bring the pot then.”
The three sat there enjoying one another’s company, but Jo felt sad. When they rose to go to the train station, she said, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. You can write in care of the hotel. If you’re anywhere close to there, I’ll come and see you.”
“That’s good of you, Jo. I don’t know how much time we’ll have for writing or where we’ll be, but let’s keep in touch.”
The three made their way to the Gare St. Lazare that afternoon. Just before they got on the train, Jo suddenly threw her arms around Logan’s neck and kissed him, then did the same for Revelation.
“Take care of yourselves,” she whispered. “God be with you.”
As the train pulled out, she stood there feeling desolate and alone. A deep sadness arose in her as she realized that all over France, as well as all over Europe, men were getting on trains and being separated from their wives and sweethearts and mothers. Many of them, she knew, would not come back. “God keep them safe,” she breathed and then turned and left the station.
****
Logan Smith and Revelation Brown arrived at Rouen, and their dreams of the glory of the Legion were quickly shattered. The place was overrun with a mixture of wounded men from the British armies, stragglers from the Belgium army, refugees, French reservists, and a British army service corp unit—and all seemed to be totally lost and confused. The streets were a teeming mass of men. Some were so drunk they could hardly walk. Others were so angry they were ready for a fight with anyone that would offer it.
“This is your barracks,” Sergeant Mitton said. He was a keg-shaped individual with a broad face and a pair of slitted dark blue eyes that peered out at the world with suspicion. He waved his hand around at the building they had entered.
“Rev, this is pretty sorry,” Logan whispered.
“I’ve been in some jails that were better,” Revelation said, “but the Bible says to be content in whatever state you are.”
The beds consisted of nothing but compressed bales of straw, and the entire floor seemed to be covered with it as well. After the long, rough train ride on which they had been given nothing to eat and only water to drink, most of the men were exhausted. They fell into a deep sleep and were roused at four o’clock by Mitton, who cursed fluently in at least four languages.
“I need two volunteers,” he said. “Men who want to serve France.”
Rev held up his hand at once. “That’s us, Sergeant,” he said cheerfully.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Logan muttered.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s dangerous to volunteer for anything around here.”
Sergeant Mitton came over and said, “Ah, your first opportunity to serve France. Come with me.”
He led the two of them out of the barracks and into a large shed that contained the filthiest toilets that either man had ever seen.
“Clean these latrines,” Mitton commanded. He stood there waiting for them to protest, but both Logan and Rev knew there would be dire consequences for disobeying orders.
“Praise the Lord in all things,” Rev said. “Are you saved, Sergeant?”
“I am a sergeant in the Foreign Legion. That is all the salvation I know. Now, get these latrines clean!”
“Well, we’re winning the war. Our first military action,” Rev said as he began to swab enthusiastically.
Logan was almost gagging over the stench of the latrines. He glared at Rev, saying, “I hope you learned something from this. Never volunteer for anything again.”
The two suffered the indignity of cleaning toilets all day, and the next day Mitton chose two more hapless victims.
The next few days seemed to crawl by, and finally Logan managed to get up enough courage to complain to Sergeant Mitton. “I came here to fight. Not clean latrines and sleep in a barn. When does the fighting start?”
Mitton’s eyes, which were slits anyway, narrowed even more. “I think you will get all the fighting you wish, American. Have you ever killed a man?”
“No.”
“Well, that will be your pleasure very soon now, if they do not kill you first. Let me give you a bit of advice. Never question the orders of generals. It does not pay.”
“Or of sergeants either?”
Unexpectedly Mitton grinned. “That is wise also. I’ve been watching you. You and your friend are tough enough. We have some here so weak they will not make it through the first week.” He studied the American carefully and said, “Are you a typical American?”
“I guess so.”
“I wish we had a million more just like you. We’ll need them to stop the Huns.”
“What’s happening out in the trenches, Sergeant?”
Mitton cocked his head to one side and was thoughtful for a moment. “The French army is getting ready to fight somewhere on the Marne.”
“The Marne? What’s that?”
“It is a river. You’d better learn some French geography if you intend to serve.”
“How long will we be here?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“For where?”
“You’re going to Toulouse.”
“Where’s Toulouse?”
“Three hundred and fifty miles to the south.”
“Do we have to march?”
“No. You will go on railroad cars. It will be a luxury.”
Somehow Logan knew from the small smile on the face of the sergeant that luxury would not quite define their trip.
The next morning he and Rev, along with the rest of the men, were herded aboard a small wooden railway car that reeked of manure. They were still wearing their civilian clothes, and Rev said, “They sure ruined a good suit here.” He fingered his crumpled, filthy coat and shook his head. “I wonder when we get uniforms.”
A corporal came along issuing blankets and small canteens. The cars were designed, they discovered, to accommodate either eight horses or forty men. But Rev took a head count after they were underway and counted fifty-six sweating recruits.
Just before the train pulled out they were served rations. Each man was handed a large can.
“What’s this?” Rev said.
“It’s beef,” the sergeant said. “Each can will keep a man alive for four days.”
And then the door banged shut, and the train began its long journey.
For a time the men talked about the action soon to come. Most of them were excited at getting out of Rouen, but Logan shook his head. “I doubt if Toulouse will be any better. Here, let’s squeeze in so we can back up against the wall of this thing.” It took some doing, but the two finally managed to wedge their backs against the wall. As soon as they did, Logan took the lid off of his can and sniffed the meat.
“What’s it smell like?”
“Well, I don’t guess it matters, since it’s all we’ve got.” Taking out his pocket knife, Logan sliced off a bit and chewed it thoughtfully. “Tastes as much like shoe leather as anything else.”
The train rattled over the tracks, jolting the men inside until their teeth ached. The heat grew worse, and there was little discipline among the recruits. Most of them drank up their water, and by the morning of the second day, the salted meat had aggravated the men’s raging thirst.
“Ain’t there no other water on this train?” Rev asked. “I could drink an ocean dry.”
“I guess we’d better learn to save what we’ve got,” Logan said. His tongue seemed enlarged, and finally, five hours later when the train stopped, the men piled out and a fight broke out at once. There were not enough water spigots, and the men jostled and shoved and pulled to fill their canteens.
Sergeant Mitton fought and cursed and pulled at them, but their thirst was too great. When they got back on the train, Mitton came into the car and cursed them, saying, “You are children—children! You cannot be trusted to do anything right! I’m going against the order of the day and rationing your meat as if you were babies!”
The ride seemed to last interminably, and, in effect, took ninety hours. Knowing the distance from Rouen to Toulouse, Logan figured out in his head as they arrived how long it had taken. “We’ve been traveling almost four miles an hour by my calculations.”
“That’s not as fast as a man could walk,” Rev said.
“That’s right. I hope the rest of this Legion is a little better organized than this.”
Even as he spoke the train pulled to a stop in front of the station, and the men staggered out. As they marched through the streets of Toulouse in full view of the crowds, the sergeant told them to smarten up. “You look like bums!” he shouted.
“I feel like a bum,” Rev said. He looked down at his soiled clothing and felt his whiskers, and said, “If this is the best the Legion can do, I don’t think much of it.”
It was with a sense of relief that they reached the barracks at Toulouse, where Sergeant Mitton informed them that this was the former home of the One Hundred and Eighty-Third Regiment. “You will love it. Only thirty-two of you will share the same room.”
As they entered the room to which they were assigned, Logan saw that each man had a low wooden bed with a shelf above on which to stack clothing. They had no time to pick a bunk, for supper was being served right then. Afterward he threw himself onto the straw-filled pallet and fell into a deep sleep. Despite his weariness, he tossed for most of the night. When the bugle jolted him awake early the next morning, he could hardly open his eyes.
He rose up and began clawing at his stomach. Looking over he saw Rev doing the same thing. “I guess we’ve got visitors.”
“Bedbugs like I never saw,” Rev nodded. The two of them clawed but it did no good.
After breakfast, Sergeant Mitton said, “Burn the straw and paint the beds with kerosene.”
As soon as all the straw had been carried out and burned, each man was issued a uniform, which consisted of a blue greatcoat, coarse white fatigue uniforms, and a white képi, along with laced field shoes apparently made out of iron.
The rest of the equipment included wool shirts, a blue sash nine feet long, two blankets, and a suit of long underwear.
After they had put on their uniforms, Sergeant Mitton handed the new recruits, individually, their rifles.
“What kind of a rifle is this, Sergeant?” Rev asked. “Never seen one quite like it.”
“An eight-shot eight millimeter bolt action,” the sergeant said. “It’s called a Lebel.”
“Kinda heavy, ain’t it?” Rev said, holding it up and taking a sight.
“It weighs nine pounds and is fifty-one inches long. And this,” the sergeant said, “is for skewering Germans.” He held up a long, thin bayonet, which made the Lebel over six feet long from butt plate to bayonet tip.
Rev and Logan cleaned their rifles and the two leather cartridge boxes, then examined their tin-plated bowl with a cover and a knife and fork.
“What about socks, Sarge?” Rev said.
“There are no socks in the Legion. You can buy muslin and wrap it around your feet.”
The two men sat there for some time, but it was understood that they would begin drilling at once. The barracks were noisy enough, and the men seemed happier now that they had donned their uniforms.
“Does this uniform make you feel more like a soldier, Rev?” Logan asked.
“I reckon so. Still, it’s not like the good old U.S.A. uniform, is it?”
“No. But there won’t be any fellows wearing that uniform for a long time. You still feel like God’s put us here, do you?”
“Shore do. What about you?”
Logan Smith looked over the recruits. Most of them looked like villains. None of them had the noble features he had seen on recruiting posters scattered around Paris. “I’ve got to believe it,” he said. “And so do you. It’s all we’ve got to believe in right now.”
****
The house that stood back off the street more than was customary in Paris had an air of respectability about it. It was made of brown sandstone, and two white pillars framed the ornate doorway.
Getting out of the cab, Jo waited for the driver to announce the fare, which was ten francs. She paid it without question, even though she was relatively sure she was being cheated. For the most part, taxicab drivers were brigands in Paris, and she knew she would have to learn to bargain. But now she was nervous and had no stomach for it. As the cab roared off, she mounted the stairs and knocked on the door. It had taken her some time to come to the decision to visit the young woman who had been engaged to marry Lieutenant Paul Devries, but with the departure of her only two friends in the country, she had had plenty of time to think about it. For days after coming back from the front line, she had gone over and over in her mind the death of the youthful lieutenant. Finally it became clear to her that she had no other choice but to visit his fiancée. Now she stood there waiting, wondering what she would say and how she would be received.
The door opened and a young woman with enormous black eyes greeted her in French.
“I don’t speak French very well. Do you speak any English?”
“Yes. A little.”
“I’m looking for Mademoiselle Renée Denys.”
“I am Renée Denys.”
“I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment.”
The young woman hesi
tated and then nodded. “Come in,” she said.
The entryway to the house was dark, for there were no windows in the foyer. However, as Jo followed the young woman down the hallway and then turned right, she found herself in a large, well-lighted room. A large bay window admitted sunlight, and the furniture, she saw, was very fine.
“Will you sit down?”
“I think I might. I hope I’m not taking too much of a liberty.”
Renée Denys’ face was pale, and there was a sadness in it, but she spoke politely. “I cannot imagine your business. You are American, are you not?”
“Yes, I am.” Jo stood there, unable to meet the young woman’s gaze for a moment. Now that she was there, she wished she were anywhere else. I shouldn’t have come, she thought. No matter what I say, it will not help. Nevertheless, she knew she had to try. Suddenly, her eyes fell on a portrait on the mantel over the fireplace, and she recognized the youthful features of Lieutenant Paul Devries.
The young woman opposite her noted the direction of her gaze. Her own eyes went to the picture, and she seemed to stiffen. “If you would state your business . . .”
“Yes, Mademoiselle Denys. I am new in Paris. My name is Josephine Hellinger. I am an American newspaper woman.” She continued to speak, giving her background, knowing all the time that she was putting off the inevitable. Finally she took a deep breath and stopped. Studying the young woman’s face, she said quietly, “I felt I had to come, Mademoiselle Denys. You see, I . . . I was with Lieutenant Devries when he was killed.”
A sharp intake of breath and Renée Denys seemed to turn to stone. “You were there when he died?”
“Yes. I had gone to take pictures and to get a story to send back to America.”
“You saw him? You talked with him?”
“Yes. He was assigned to be our guide.”
“Tell me everything.”
And then Jo knew how hard it must be for this young woman whose dreams had been shattered. She must have known that there was nothing pleasant to tell, for death on the battlefield is cruel. Still her enormous eyes seemed to swallow Josephine as she began to speak. She related how she had met the lieutenant and he had taken them to visit the colonel. She expanded as much as she could on how Devries had guided them through a tour of the trenches.
The Flying Cavalier Page 15