All men who've been through trench work, air work, life-and-death work on various fronts.
Men of independent means.

Men to whom office work and club life and all this petty stuff, here, is like dish-water after champagne! Dare-devils, all of them, that wouldn't stop at the gates of Hell!" "The gates of Hell ?" demanded Bohannan, his brow wrinkling with glad astonishment.

"What d'you mean by that, now ?" "Just what I say! It's possible to gather together a kind of unofficial, _sub rosa_, private little Foreign Legion of our own, Bohannan--all battle-scarred men, all men with at least one decoration and some with half a dozen.

With that Legion, nothing would be impossible!" He warmed to his subject, leaned forward, fixed eager eyes on his friend, laid a hand on Bohannan's knee.

"We've all done the conventional thing, long enough.