Armored Train--Slavo-British Allied
Legion--French Legion--White Guards--Archangel
Regiments--Chinese--Deliktorsky, Mozalevski, Akutin.

What a kaleidoscopic recollection of uniforms and faces we have when one
asks us about our allies in North Russia. What a mixture of voices, of
gutturals and spluttering and yeekings and chatterings, combined with
pursing of lips, eyebrow-twistings, bugging eyes, whiskers and long
hair, and common hand signs of distress or delight or urgency or
decisiveness: Nitchevo, bonny braw, tres bien, khorashaw, finish, oi
soiy, beaucoup, cheerio, spitzka, mozhnya barishna, c'mon kid,
parlezvous, douse th' glim, yah ocean, dobra czechinski, amia spigetam,
ei geh ha wa yang wa, lubloo, howse th' chow, pardonne, pawrdun, scuse,
eesveneets,--all these and more too, strike the ear of memory as we
tread again the board sidewalks of far off smelly Archangel.

What antics we witnessed, good humored miscues and errors of form in
meeting our friends of different lands all gathered there in the strange
potpourri. Soldiers and "civies" of high and low rank, cultured and
ignorant, and rich and poor, hearty and well, and halting and lame,
mingled in Archangel, the half-shabby, half-neat, half-modern,
half-ancient, summer-time port on the far northern sea. Rags and red
herrings, and broadcloth and books, and O. D. and Khaki, and horizon
blue, crowded the dinky ding-ding tramway and counted out kopecs to the
woman conductor.

And many are the anecdotes that are told of men and occasions in North
Russia where some one of our allies or bunch of them figures
prominently, either in deed of daring, or deviltry, or simply good
humor. Chiefly of our own buddies we recall such stories to be sure, but
in justice to the memory of some of the many fine men of other lands who
served with us we print a page or two of anecdotes about them. And we
hope that some day we may show them Detroit or some other good old
American burg, or honk-honk them cross country through farm lands we now
better appreciate than before we saw Europe, by woods, lake and stream
to camp in the warm summer, or spend winter nights in a land with us as
hosts, a land where life is really worth living.

Those "mah-sheen" gunners in blue on the railroad who stroked their
field pets with pride and poured steady lines of fire into the pine
woods where lay the Reds who were encircling the Americans with rifle
and machine gun fire. How the Yankee soldiers