We left that stricken but undefeated town, dodged a few miles
down the roads beside which the women tended their cows, and
dropped into a place on a hill where a Moroccan regiment of
many experiences was in billets.
They were Mohammedans bafflingly like half a dozen of our
Indian frontier types, though they spoke no accessible tongue.
They had, of course, turned the farm buildings where they lay
into a little bit of Africa in colour and smell. They had
been gassed in the north; shot over and shot down, and set up
to be shelled again; and their officers talked of North
African wars that we had never heard of--sultry days against
long odds in the desert years ago. "Afterward--is it not so
with you also?--we get our best recruits from the tribes we
have fought. These men are children. They make no trouble.
They only want to go where cartridges are burnt. They are of
the few races to whom fighting is a pleasure."
"And how long have you dealt with them?"
"A long time--a long time. I helped to organize the corps. I
am one of those whose heart is in Africa." He spoke slowly,
almost feeling for his French words, and gave some order. I
shall not forget his eyes as he turned to a huge, brown,
Afreedee-like Mussulman hunkering down beside his
accoutrements. He had two sides to his head, that bearded,
burned, slow-spoken officer, met and parted with in an hour.
The day closed--(after an amazing interlude in the chateau of
a dream, which was all glassy ponds, stately trees, and vistas
of white and gold saloons. The proprietor was somebody's
chauffeur at the front, and we drank to his excellent health)
--at a little village in a twilight full of the petrol of many
cars and the wholesome flavour of healthy troops. There is no
better guide to camp than one's own thoughtful nose; and
though I poked mine everywhere, in no place then or later did
it strike that vile betraying taint of underfed, unclean men.
And the same with the horses.