=E. Seriadis=, a Greek, was a Lieutenant in the Army of Greece. He had three medals from the Balkan wars. These he refused to wear because King Constantine’s face disgraced them. He was serious|y wounded in the body in 1915, and, during the winter of 1916, all the toes of both feet were frozen off. At the age of twenty-three, he was mustered out—used up. =Tex Bondt=, a Hollander, a wonderful character, a splendid specimen of manhood, brave as a lion, quick as a steel trap, the only son of a Count, with an unbroken lineage, extending back for 800 years, his record in the Legion would fill a book. He went out and captured two Germans single handed. He tried to capture a third but was discovered. He threw a grenade, and, both sides taking alarm, started an engagement. He was between the lines and was reported missing. Four hours later, he reported himself alive. In Alsace he worked and slaved to chop up a poor peasant woman’s wood-pile—just to show her a Hollander could keep his word. He was shot through the lungs and taken to the hospital. Months later, reporting at the depot, he was informed that he was dead. When on convalescence in Paris, living on one meal per day, he met one of France’s most accomplished and wealthy daughters. He is now her acknowledged suitor. Seeing him in prison one day, I asked,— “What are you in for?” “Nothing.” “How’s that?” “Well, a friend in London asked me why I did not write about Legion life, and I responded,—‘My dear fellow, if I wrote you all I know about the Legion, it would make your hair stand on end!’” =Sorenson=, a Dane, from Schleswig-Holstein, formerly a policeman at St. Thomas, Danish West Indies. He came to me holding a letter in his hand and said,— “Just see here what those swine have done—they have fined my mother a hundred marks because she gave a crust of bread to a French prisoner.” Poor fellow, the last I saw of him was on Sept. 25, 1915, during the attack. He had been buried by a shell—other soldiers had run over him in the rush. After he worked through the loose earth and freed himself, I listened to him as in broken French, English and Danish he apologized to the captain for the broken straps of his knapsack and a lost gun. His round chest was flattened out, his face dirty and bloody, grazed by hob-nailed boots, and blood was trickling from a round hole in his forehead. The captain, a good sort, patted him on the back and told him to go to the Red Cross Station. The poor fellow staggered away and was never heard from again. =Guimeau=, Mauritius Islands, a plantation owner, of French descent, under British rule, spoke French but no English. He was an energetic character and a valuable member of the machine gun section. In 1915, after taking several lessons in tactics, he went to the lieutenant,— “What are we waiting here for? Why don’t we go to the front?” “We are waiting for the guns.” “How many are needed for our section and how much do they cost?”