I entered the service of France in the Hotel des Invalides, Paris, that historical structure upon the banks of the Seine, built by Napoleon Bonaparte as a home and refuge for his worn-out veterans. The well-known statue of the Man of Destiny, with three cornered hat and folded arms, gazed broodingly upon us, as with St. Gaudens and Tex Bondt, I marched up the court yard. At depot headquarters, where I gave my name and American address, a soldier, writing at a desk, spoke up,—“Do you know Winona, in Minnesota?” “Yes, of course, it is quite near my home.” “Do you know this gentleman?” He unbuttoned his vest and pulled out the photograph of Dr. O. P. Ludwig, formerly of Winona, now of Frazee, Minnesota. That night I was given a blanket and shown to a room to sleep. I shall never forget what a cosmopolitan crew met my unsophisticated eyes next morning. The man next to me, a burly Swiss, had feet so swollen he could not get his shoes on. Another had no socks. One, wounded in the arm, sat up in bed, staring at the newcomer. It is a habit old soldiers develop, a polite way of expressing pity for the newly arrived boob. An Alsatian corporal pored over an English dictionary, trying to learn words so he could go to the English army as an interpreter. Suspected of being a spy, he had been brought back from the front. These men had slept in their clothes. The air was foul, stifling. A soldier went about and gave each man his breakfast—a cup of black coffee. I stuck around, wondering if I had lost my number. Suddenly a voice, in English, boomed out, “Hello, where’s that new Englishman?” “I am not English,—I am an American.” Quick as a shot came the answer, ”So am I! I am the colonel’s orderly sent to take you over to your company. A few minutes later, I was giving the latest American news to Professor Orlinger, formerly instructor in languages at Columbia University, New York. The training was fierce—almost inhuman. Men were needed badly at that time. The Germans were advancing, and would not wait, so men were sent out to the front as quickly as hardened. A number, possibly five per cent, broke under the strain. It was a survival of the fittest. We stuck it out; and, after eight weeks, went to the front with the Second Regiment of the Foreign Legion. No other nation in the world has a fighting force like the Foreign Legion. Here, in this finest unit in France, the real red blood of all peoples unites. Men from fifty-three countries, every land and clime, all ranks and walks of life, colors, ages, professions, or different religious and political beliefs, speaking all languages, they have come from the four corners of the globe and are fused in the crucible of discipline. The Legion exacts absolute equality. The millionaire with his wealth, or the aristocrat of birth and pedigree, has no more privilege than the poorest Legionnaire, who has not any. [Illustration: OLD TIME LEGIONNAIRES