Fancy the magic of those words in that vast sun-baked barrack of the
Legion, those words that cut through the routine of life like a
sword. Drills, Swedish exercises, road-mending, the awful blaze of
the Algerian mid-summer, all collapsed, broke away, vanished like the
memory of a nightmare before the vision of war.
Not a rough and tumble Arab war, either, but a great German war, made
in Berlin, polished and complete in all its parts, an affair "worth
something."
There were men in the Legion well versed in the intricacies of
European diplomacy; there were men in the Legion better fitted to
write the history of what we call Armageddon than many a European
scribe renowned in his trade. But from the lowliest to the
likeliest, there was not a man who thought or cared for anything but
the fight ahead.
For the Legion does not care what it fights so long as it fights,
where it goes so long as it goes, or how far it goes so long as it
gets clear of barracks.
The Germans in the Legion were quite ready to fight Germany, the
Spaniards to fight Spain, the Austrians to fight Austria; but, and
this is the mysterious thing, they were all eager to fight for France.
For France who paid them a halfpenny a day and worked them like
horses, yet who had, by some alchemy, made them her loyal soldiers
second to none in the field.
Some days later at Oran, whilst they were waiting to embark, Jacques
and a companion, having obtained leave of absence from barracks, were
taking a stroll through the town.
Jacques had only been here once since that day, years ago, when,
having parted with Casmir and Choc, he had been arrested and taken
back to Sidi-bel-Abbès. The place was just the same, the same
sun-splashed streets, Arabs, Jews, Levantines, Greeks, the same salt
sea wind blowing round corners and wiping out the same Oriental
smells, the same children playing in the gutter, the same beggars and
plum-coloured porters topped with red fezes, the same Spahis smoking
the same cigarettes.
Then, turning a corner they came on a crowd and a dog fight.
An awful Arab brute was engaged in a battle to the death with a
dust-coloured mongrel, and the mongrel was Choc.
No, it could not be Choc, for it had a white patch on its rump, but
save for that patch it was Choc, and Jacques seized his companion by
the arm as he stood watching, breathless, without a word.
Now the dust-coloured one was down, now up, and now, marked by a
shout from Jacques, it had got the old hold. Clinging to the Arab's
foreleg just where it joined the body, it clung luxuriously, whilst
the Mohammedan yelled and circled, demoralized, beaten and craving to
run.
"Watch!" cried Jacques.
The word had scarcely left his lips, when releasing the leg hold, the
dusty devil had the other by the throat.
That was Choc's old trick; a fatal one for next minute the Arab was
dead.
Then the dusty one sat down by the corpse and laughed, with tongue
hanging out and head wagging to the panting of the body.
Blood was flowing from him in three places, but he did not even
bother to lick the wounds. He was "celebrating."
Then as the crowd dispersed he got up stiffly, snuffed the corpse,
shook himself, snuffed his wounds, and went off to a shady corner to
apply first dressings and laze on his side, and think the battle over.
Jacques approached him, only to be received by a growl. The same old
attitude of mind towards strangers after battle that Jacques knew so
well.
Jacques nodded at the dog, then, taking his companion by the arm, he
walked off. He was elated. He had seen Choc's offspring, and as he
walked he poured out his mind. Told all the old story we know and
then finished up: "Well it's good to know the dog came through it,
and had heart enough to have a son, maybe that's a grandson, I don't
know, but it's Choc's right enough, son or grandson. Oh, if I know
anything of Choc, he'll have filled Oran with his pups--but it's good
to know he had a bit of pleasure in life and heart to take it. Let
us have a drink on it."
They went into a café. "Yes, I feel just, as you may say, 'sif I'd
found a child I'd lost, and it's a good omen. You mark me, we'll
beat the Boches just like that, we'll get the leg hold and then the
throat. I know. The old dog has come to tell me."
And maybe he had.