=Eilyaken=, an Egyptian, was attending the Conservatory of Music at Brussels when the war broke out. A natural born actor, he burlesqued the military system of the Legion so accurately that the sous-officers managed to keep him in prison in order to silence his cutting sarcasm. He was shot, square through both cheek bones, in the Champagne attack, in 1915, and carried to shelter on the back of an officer. Mustered out in 1916.
=An East Indian=, name unknown, blew in, like a blaze of glory, between two French military policemen. He was dressed in English khaki—clothes, leggings, spy-glass, map-book, canteen, haversack, spurs, a brand new English rifle, with a pocket full of 100 franc notes.
Such he proved to be, a practicing physician in London, who had equipped himself, and arrived at the little village where the Legion was in repose. A stout man, the officer in command, addressed the East Indian,—
“Why don’t you report yourself at headquarters?”
“How can I report myself, till I can find the place to report?”
“Why don’t you report to your superior officer?”
“I can’t report to him till I can find him, can I?”
“Don’t you know I am your superior officer;—why don’t you salute?”
The Major roared out, in disgust,—“Here, sergeant, take this fool to prison.”
=De Chamer=, Swiss, a major in the Swiss National Army, fought his way up in the Legion from a private to a captaincy. The Swiss residents of Paris showed appreciation of their countrymen in the service of France by inviting them to a banquet held in the Palais d’Orsay, on Independence Day, Aug. 1, 1917.
=Emery=, Swiss, a student of Oxford University, England, outspoken, independent and intelligent—a good comrade, was killed on the Somme, July, 1916.
=Ben Azef=, an Arab, an Oriental priest, always wanted water, when there was none. He would flop onto his knees, face toward the East, and bow his forehead to the ground. Then get up on the trench and rail at the Germans for their swinish propensities and ruthless rapacity.
A shell dropped into his section. His comrades threw themselves on the ground and yelled out:—
“Get down, you, blamed fool, you’ll get killed!”
Ben Azef stood majestically erect, gazed calmly and contemplatively at the shell (fortunately it was a dud—one which fails to explode) and said,—“My friends, death to me is not destruction. It is the consummation of my material life,—the commencement of my Life Divine.”