About 350 Englishmen were with the Americans in the same Battalion of the 2nd Legion. They had enlisted when the Huns were advancing on Paris. Common peril drew the bravest of all countries to the front. Possibly, they were promised later transfer to the English Army; but, once in the Legion, they were as nuns in a convent, to do as told, dead to the outside world.

An American writer has said, “England’s greatest assets are patriotism and money.” He overlooked the foundation of both—MEN, the Englishman who dares to do and does it. He knows his rights, and insists on them.

After the Germans were driven back at the Marne and trench conditions established, these men demanded to be sent home to fight for their native land. They went to the Captain, who could not help. They went to the Colonel, who would not. They had the British Ambassador request their release from the French War Department, with no better results. Ere they were transferred, the subject was brought up in the Chamber of Deputies.

Just before they left, a number went to the company captain with their breakfasts, cups of black coffee, in their hands.

“What is this, mon capitaine?”

“Your little breakfasts, mes enfants.”

“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!”

Next morning the others refused to work again,—“You have killed our brothers. Kill us also—we are not afraid to die.” They were not killed but were court-martialed and sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude.

The third morning, no one would work. These cheerful fatalists said, “We are Russians—our country calls us—we demand to go, and you tell us go to work. We will not work. You killed our brothers, kill us also. You may mutilate our bodies, but you cannot crush our souls.” These also court-martialed, were sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude.

There were many Russians. They showed no disposition to yield. The load was getting too heavy,—even for the broad shoulders of officers of the Legion. The underground wireless had been working. A sigh of relief went up when a high Russian official, breast covered with decorations, arrived from Paris. About the same time, orders came from the French headquarters to stop proceedings. The penal servitude sentences were not carried out; but they could not bring back the dead to life.

Inside of one month, Battalion F of the 2nd Legion, to which the unhappy men belonged, was merged into others. In two months, the Russians were transferred to the Russian Army. Four months later, the Regiment had ceased to exist.