LE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGS
For Legionnaire Reginald Rupert the days slipped past with incredible
rapidity, and, at the end of six months, this adaptable and exceedingly
keen young man felt himself to be an old and seasoned Legionary, for
whom the Depot held little more in the way of instruction and
experience.
His thoughts began to turn to Foreign Service. When would he be able to
volunteer for a draft going to Tonkin, Madagascar, Senegal, or some
other place of scenes and experiences entirely different from those of
Algeria? When would he see some active service--that which he had come
so far to see, and for which he had undergone these hardships and
privations?
Deeply interested as he was in all things military, and anxious as he
was to learn and become the Compleat Soldier, he found himself beginning
to grow very weary of the trivial round, the common task, of Life in the
Depot. Once he knew his drill as an Infantryman, he began to feel that
the proportion of training and instruction to that of corvee and
fatigues was small. He had not travelled all the way to Algiers to
handle broom and wheelbarrow, and perform non-military labours at a wage
of a halfpenny per day. Of course, one took the rough with the smooth
and shrugged one's shoulders with the inevitable "Que voulez-vous?
C'est la Legion," but, none the less, he had had enough, and more than
enough, of Depot life.
He sometimes thought of going to the _Adjudant-Major_, offering to
provide proofs that he had been a British officer, and claiming to be
placed in the class of _angehende corporale_ (as he called the _eleves
Caporaux_ or probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion and a
wider and different sphere of action.
There were reasons against this course, however. It would, very
probably, only result in his being stuck in the Depot permanently, as a
Corporal-Instructor--the more so as he spoke German. Also, it was
neither quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as he did not
intend to spend more than a year in the Legion and was looking forward
to his attempt at desertion as his first real Great Adventure.
He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of those who go "on
pump," as, for no discoverable reason, the Legionary calls desertion.
In every barrack-room there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the
mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into the hands of the Arabs
and been tortured by their women. He had himself seen wretched
deserters dragged back by Goums,[#] a mass of rags, filth, blood and
bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the end of a rope attached to
an Arab's saddle. Inasmuch as the captor got twenty-five francs for
returning a deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or
starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and galloped with him
to the nearest outpost or barracks. When the Roumi[#] could no longer
run, he was quite welcome to fall and be dragged.
[#] Arab gens d'armes.
[#] White man.
Rupert had also gathered a fairly accurate idea of the conditions of
life--if "life" it can be called--in the Penal Battalions.
Yes, on the whole, desertion from the Legion would be something in the
nature of an adventure, when one considered the difficulties, risks, and
dangers, which militated against success, and the nature of the
punishment which attended upon failure. No wonder that desertion was
regarded by all and sundry as being a feat of courage, skill and
endurance to which attached no slightest stigma of disgrace! One
gathered that most men "made the promenade" at some time or
other--generally under the influence of _le cafard_ in some terrible
Southern desert-station, and were dealt with more or less leniently
(provided they lost no articles of their kit) in view of the fact that
successful desertion from such places was utterly impossible, and only
attempted by them "while of unsound mind." Only once or twice, in the
whole history of the Legion, had a man got clear away, obtained a camel,
and, by some miracle of luck, courage and endurance, escaped death at
the hands of the Arabs, thirst, hunger, and sunstroke, to reach the
Moroccan border and take service with the Moors--who are the natural and
hereditary enemies of the Touaregs and Bedouins.
Yes, he had begun to feel that he had certainly come to the end of a
period of instruction and experience, and was in need of change to fresh
fields and pastures new. Vegetating formed no part of his programme of
life, which was far too short, in any case, for all there was to see and
to do....
Sitting one night on his cot, and talking to the man for whom he now had
a very genuine and warm affection, he remarked--
"Don't you get fed up with Depot life, Bull?"
"I have been fed up with life, Depot and otherwise, for over twenty
years," was the reply.... "Don't forget that life here in Sidi is a
great deal better than life in a desert station in the South. It is
supportable anyhow; there--it simply isn't; and those who don't desert
and die, go mad and die. The exceptions, who do neither, deteriorate
horribly, and come away very different men.... Make the most of Sidi,
my boy, while you are here, and remember that foreign service, when in
Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa, inevitably means fever and
dysentery, and generally broken health for life.... Moreover, Algeria
is the only part of the French colonial possessions in which the climate
lets one enjoy one's pipe."
That very night, shortly after the _caserne_ had fallen silent and
still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary,
an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later,
non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "_Aux
armes! Aux armes! Aux armes!_" at the top of their voices.
Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout,
"_Levez-vous donc. Levez-vous! Faites le sac! Faites le sac! En tenue
de Campagne d'Afrique_."
"'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb. "Oo-bloomin'-ray."
"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull. "We've got to be on the
barrack-square in full 'African field equipment' in ten minutes."
The _chambree_ became the scene of feverish activity, as well as of
delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of
the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song,
without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies
early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double
pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as
themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with
one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of
cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished
his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation
was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether
the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the
torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.
In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on
parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a
beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes
were brought from the magazine and prised open. _What would the
cardboard packets contain_? A few seconds after the first packet had
been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had
spread throughout the Battalion.
_Ball-Cartridge!_
The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost
every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active
service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the
blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge
from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.
There was one exception however. When Caporal Achille Martel "told off"
Legionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch for orderly-duty to the _Adjudant
Vaguemestre_,[#] duty which would keep him behind in barracks, that
Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any disappointment that he may
have felt.
[#] The postmaster.
A few minutes later the Legion's magnificent band struck up the Legion's
march of "_Tiens, voila du boudin_," and the Battalion swung out of the
gate, past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet sleeping
streets into the main road, and so out of the town to which many of them
never returned.
In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company marched the Bucking
Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert, and Herbert Higgins. In the row in
front of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Grass hopper, and
Feodor Kyrilovitch. In the front row old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef
Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte. In front of them marched
the four drummers. At the head of the Company rode Captain
d'Armentieres, beside whom walked Lieutenant Roberte.
Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities and
possibilities of the expedition. All the signs and tokens to be read by
experienced soldier-eyes, were those of a long march and active service.
"It'll be a case of 'best foot foremost' a few hours hence, Rupert, I
fancy," remarked John Bull. "I shouldn't be surprised if we put up
thirty miles on end, with no halt but the 'cigarette spaces.'"
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "I got a hunch we're gwine ter
throw our feet some, to-day. We wouldn't hev' hiked off like this with
sharp ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an hour ef little
Johnnie hadn't wanted the doctor. Well, I'm sorry fer the b'ys as ain't
good mushers... Guess we shan't pound our ears[#] before we wants tew,
this trip."
[#] Sleep.
Marching along the excellent sandy road through the cool of the night,
under a glorious moon, with the blood of youth, and health, and strength
coursing like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert to
realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily dragging one foot
after the other, his rifle weighing a hundredweight, his pack weighing a
ton, his mouth a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache. He had had some
pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first time that the
Battalion had gone out on a night alarm with ball-cartridge, and every
indication of it being the "real thing."
On tramped the Legion.
Anon there was a whistle, a cry of _Halt!_ and there was a few minutes'
rest. Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and
endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them. Malvin made his master lie
down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth
removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be
thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from
the word "_Halt!_" to the word "_Fall in!_" The knapsack of black canvas
is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and
sundries. Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it,
tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot,
drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.
Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel
scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an
entrenching tool, and his "sac." Add his rifle and water-bottle, and
you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world. He does not carry
his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy
overcoat to be correct desert wear. Under his overcoat he has only a
canvas shirt and white linen trousers (when _en tenue de campagne
d'Afrique_), tucked into leather gaiters. Round his waist, his blue
sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and
body-support. The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the
white cover of his kepi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some
extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....
The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "_Le
sac, ma foi, toujours au dos_," and the old favourite marching songs
"_Brigadier_," "_L'Empereur de Danmark_," "_Pere Bugeaud_," and "_Tiens,
voila du boudin_." Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid
voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--
"Trinken wir noch ein Troepfchen
Aus dem kleinen Henkeltoepfchen."
or _Die Wacht am Rhein_ or the pathetic _Morgenlied_.
At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were
few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down. As
the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from
the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbes overtook it. At the head rode a
white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and
shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion
of Honour.
"That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert.
"That settles it: we're out for business this time, and I fancy you'll
see some Arab-fighting before you are much older.... Feet going to be
all right, do you think?"
"Fine," replied Rupert. "My boots are half full of tallow, and I've got
a small bottle of bapedi in my sack...."
On tramped the Legion.
The day grew hot and packs grew heavy. The Battalion undeniably and
unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their
straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks
of coal. Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left. There was
no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths
was an occasional bitter curse. Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder
straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy
weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of
constriction about the heart and lungs. He realised that he quite
understood how people felt when they fainted....
By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or twenty-seven miles lay
behind the Battalion. At the word _Halt!_ every man had thrown himself
at full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious moments of the
inexorably exact five minutes of the rest-period in removing knapsacks.
Hardly a man spoke; none smoked.
On tramped the Legion.
Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care humour--that queer
_macabre_ and bitter humour of the Legion. Men slouched and staggered,
and dragged their feet in utter hopeless weariness. Backs rounded more
and more, heads sank lower, and those who limped almost outnumbered
those who did not. A light push would have sent any man stumbling to
the ground.
As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion sank to the ground
with a groan, as though it would never rise again. As the whistle blew
for the advance the Legion staggered to its feet as one man.... Oh, the
Legion marches! Is not its motto, "_March or Die_"? The latter it may
do, the former it must. The Legion has its orders and its destination,
and it marches. If it did not reach its destination at the appointed
time, it would be because it had died in getting there.
On tramped the Legion.
With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its raw-rubbed backs,
its protesting, aching legs and blistered heels and toes, the Legion
staggered on, a silent pitiable mass of suffering. Up and down the
entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the Marching Pig."
Every few yards he bawled with brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March
or die, my children! March or die!" And the Legion clearly understood
that it must march or it must die. To stagger from the ranks and fall
was to die of thirst and starvation, or beneath the _flissa_ of the
Arab.
Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the Legion" and the hard
training which achieved and maintained the hard condition of the
Legionary. Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could keep
going at least as long as the average, and by the time the average man
had reached the uttermost end of his tether, the end of their march must
be reached. After all, though they were Legionaries whose motto was
"March or Die," they were only human beings--and to all human effort and
endeavour there is a limit. He glanced at his comrades. The Bucking
Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across his shoulder by the
muzzle, and his belt, with all its impedimenta, swinging from his right
hand. He stared straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless iron
body, "threw his feet."
Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn and old. He leant
heavily against the pull of his straps and marched with his chest bare.
On Rupert's left, 'Erb, having unbuttoned and unbuckled everything
unbuttonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a picture of slack
unsoldierliness and of dauntless dogged endurance. Suddenly throwing up
his head he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn'earted?" and, having
painfully swallowed, answered his own strident question with a
long-drawn, contemptuous "Ne--a--ow." Captain d'Armentieres, who knew
England and the English, looked round with a smile.... "Bon garcon," he
nodded.
On the right of the second row of fours marched Luigi Rivoli, in better
case than most, as the bulk of his kit was now impartially distributed
among Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif. (The power of money in
the Legion is utterly incredible.) Feodor Kyrilovitch was carrying the
Grasshopper's rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the end of
a thirty-mile march.
At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared that he could not
get up.... At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.
"Kind God! What _shall_ I do?" he groaned. It was his first failure as
a soldier.
"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply. "Here, pull off his kit," he
added and unfastened the Belgian's belt. Between them they pulled him
to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks. John Bull took
his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor
his rifle. His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground.
"Here," said Rupert to 'Erb. "Get in his place and let him march in
yours beside me. We'll hold him up."
"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left Rupert with hands
free to assist the Grasshopper.
With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he helped him along, while
John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow's right hand on his left
shoulder.
On tramped the Legion.
Before long, almost the whole weight of the Grasshopper's body was on
Rupert's right arm and John Bull's left shoulder.
"Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to time, "we are sure
to stop at the fifty-kilometre stone."
The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did not reply. His feet
began to drag, and occasionally his two comrades bore his full weight
for a few paces. Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round. These
four, in their anxiety for their weaker brother, forgot their own raw
thighs, labouring lungs, inflamed eyes, numbed arms and agonising feet.
Just as the Colonel rode by, the Grasshopper's feet ceased to move, and
dragged lifeless along the ground.
Rupert stumbled and the three fell in a heap, beneath the Colonel's eye.
"Sacre Bapteme!" he swore--the oath he only used when a Legionary fell
out on the march--"March or die, accursed pigs."
Rupert and John Bull staggered to their feet, but the Grasshopper lay
apparently lifeless. The Colonel swore again, and shouted an order.
The Grasshopper was dragged to the side of the road, and a baggage-cart
drove up. A tent-pole was thrust through its sides and tied securely.
To this pole the Belgian was lashed, the pole passing across the upper
part of his back and under his arms, which were pulled over it and tied
together. If he could keep his feet, well and good. If he could not,
he would hang from the pole by his arms (as an athlete hangs from a
parallel-bar in a gymnasium, before revolving round and round it).
On tramped the Legion.
Before long, the Grasshopper's feet dragged in the dust as he drooped
inanimate, and then hung in the rope which lashed him to the pole.
At the fifty-fifth kilometre, thirty-five miles from Sidi-bel-Abbes, the
command to halt was followed by the thrice-blessed God-sent order:
"_Campez!_"
Almost before the words, "_Formez les faisceaux_" were out of the
Company-Commanders' mouths, the men had piled arms. Nor was the order
"_Sac a terre_" obeyed in any grudging spirit. In an incredibly short
space of time the jointed tent-poles and canvas had been removed from
the knapsacks. Corporals of sections had stepped forward, holding the
tent-poles above their heads, marking each Company's tent-line, and a
city of small white tents had come into being on the face of the desert.
A few minutes later, cooking-trenches had been dug, camp-fires lighted
and water, containing meat and macaroni, put on to boil.
A busy and profitable hour followed for Madame la Cantiniere, who, even
as her cart stopped, had set out her folding tables, benches and bar for
the sale of her Algerian wine. Her first customer was the great Luigi,
who, thanks to Carmelita's money, could sit and drink while his
employees did his work. The fly in the worthy man's ointment was the
fact that his Italian dinner and Italian wine were thirty-five miles
behind him at Carmelita's cafe. Like ordinary men, he must, to-night
and for many a night to come, content himself with the monotonous and
meagre fare of common Legionaries. However--better half a sofa than no
bed; and he was easily prime favourite with Madame.... This would be an
excellent chance for consolidating his position with her, winning her
for his bride, and apprising Carmelita, from afar, of the fact that he
was now respectably settled in life. Thus would a disagreeable scene be
avoided and, on the return of the Battalion to Sidi-bel-Abbes, he would
give the Cafe de la Legion a wide berth.... Could he perhaps _sell_ his
rights and goodwill in the _cafe_ and Carmelita to some Legionary of
means? One or two of his own _chambree_ seemed to have money--the
Englishman; the Russians.... Better still, sell out to Malvin, Tou-tou,
Meyer, or some other penniless toady and _make him pay a weekly
percentage_ of what he screwed out of Carmelita. Excellent! And if the
scoundrel did not get him enough, he would supplant him with a more
competent lessee.... Meanwhile, to storm Madame's experienced and
undecided heart. Anyhow, if she wouldn't have Luigi she shouldn't have
anyone else....
There was, that evening, exceeding little noise and movement, and "the
stir and tread of armed camps." As soon as they had fed--and, in many
cases, before they had fed--the soldiers lay on their blankets, their
heads on their knapsacks and their overcoats over their bodies.
Scarcely, as it seemed to Rupert, had they closed their eyes, when it
was time to rise and resume their weary march. At one o'clock in the
morning, the Battalion fell in, and each man got his two litres of water
and strict orders to keep one quarter of it for to-morrow's cooking
purposes. If he contributed no water to the cooking-cauldron he got no
cooked food.
On tramped the Legion.
Day after day, day after day, it marched, and, on the twelfth day from
Sidi-bel-Abbes, had covered nearly three hundred and fifty miles. Well
might the Legion be known in the Nineteenth Division as the _Cavalerie a
pied_.
Sec.2
Life for the Seventh Company of the First Battalion of the Legion in
Ainargoula was, as John Bull had promised Rupert, simply hell. Not even
the relief of desert warfare had broken the cruel monotony of desert
marches and life in desert stations--stations consisting of red-hot
barracks, and the inevitable filthy and sordid _Village Negre_. Men
lived--and sometimes died--in a state of unbearable irritation and
morose savageness. Fights were frequent, suicide not infrequent, and
murders not unknown. _Cafard_ reigned supreme. The punishment-cells
were overcrowded night and day, and abortive desertions occurred with
extraordinary frequency.
The discontent and sense of wasted time, which had begun to oppress
Rupert at Sidi-bel-Abbes, increased tenfold. To him and to the Bucking
Bronco (who daily swore that he would desert that night, and tramp to
Sidi-bel-Abbes to see Carmelita) John Bull proved a friend in need.
Each afternoon, during that terrible time between eleven and three, when
the incredible heat of the barrack-room made it impossible for any work
to be done, and the men, by strict rule, were compelled to lie about on
their cots, it was John Bull who found his friends something else to
think about than their own sufferings and miseries.
A faithful coadjutor was 'Erb, who, with his mouth-organ and Jew's-harp,
probably saved the reason, or the life, of more than one man. 'Erb
seemed to feel the heat less than bigger men, and he would sit
cross-legged upon his mattress, evoking tuneful strains from his beloved
instruments when far stronger men could only lie panting like distressed
dogs. Undoubtedly the three Englishmen and the American exercised a
restraining and beneficial influence, inasmuch as they interfered as one
man (following the lead of John Bull, the oldest soldier in the room)
whenever a quarrel reached the point of blows, in their presence....
Under those conditions of life and temper a blow is commonly but the
prelude to swift homicide.
One terrible afternoon, as the Legionaries lay on their beds, almost
naked, in that stinking oven, the suddenness of these tragedies was
manifested. It was too hot to play _bloquette_ or _foutrou_, too hot to
sing, too hot to smoke, too hot to do anything, and the hot bed
positively burnt one's bare back. The Bucking Bronco lay gasping, his
huge chest rising and falling with painful rapidity. John Bull was
showing Rupert a wonderfully and beautifully Japanese-tattooed serpent
which wound twice round his wrist and ran up the inner side of his white
forearm, its head and expanded hood filling the hollow of his elbow.
Rupert, who would have liked to copy it, was wondering how its brilliant
colours had been achieved and had remained undimmed for over thirty-five
years, as John Bull said was the case, it having been done at Nagasaki
when he was a midshipman on the _Narcissus_. It was too hot even for
'Erb to make music and he lay fanning himself with an ancient copy of
the _Echo d'Oran_. It was too hot to sleep, save in one or two cases,
and these men groaned, moaned and rolled their heads as they snored. It
was too hot to quarrel--almost. But not quite. Suddenly the swift
_zweeep_ of a bayonet being snatched from its steel scabbard hissed
through the room, and all eyes turned to where Legionary Franz Josef
Meyer flashed his bayonet from his sheath and, almost in the same
movement, drove it up through the throat of the Greek, Dimitropoulos,
and into his brain.
"Take that, you scum of the Levant," he said, and then stared, wide-eyed
and open-mouthed, at his handiwork. There had been bad blood between
the men for some time, and for days the Austrian had accused the Greek
of stealing a piece of his wax. Some taunt of the dead man had completed
the work of _le cafard_....
That night Meyer escaped from the cells--and his body, three days later,
was delivered up in return for the twenty-five francs paid for a live or
dead deserter. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that parts of
his body were brought in--sufficient, at any rate, for identification.
He had fallen into the hands of the Arabs.
To give the Arabs their due, however, they saved the situation. Just
when Legionary John Bull had begun to give up hope, and nightly to dread
what the morrow might bring forth for his friends and himself, the Arabs
attacked the post. The strain on the over-stretched cord was released
and men who, in another day, would have been temporarily or permanently
raving madmen, were saved.
The attack was easily beaten off and without loss to the Legionaries,
firing from loopholes and behind stone walls.
On the morrow, a reconnaissance toward the nearest oasis discovered
their camp and, on the next day, a tiny punitive column set forth from
Ainargoula--the Legionaries as happy, to use Rupert's too appropriate
simile, as sand-boys. Like everybody else, he was in the highest
spirits. Gone was the dark shadow of _le cafard_ and the feeling that,
unless something happened, he would become a homicidal maniac and run
amuck.
Here was the "real thing." Here was that for which he had been so long
and so drastically trained--desert warfare. He thrilled from head to
foot with excitement, and wondered whether the day would bring forth one
of the famous and terrible Arab cavalry charges, and whether he would
have his first experience of taking part in the mad and fearful joy of a
bayonet charge. Anyhow, there was a chance of either or both.
The Company marched on at its quickest, alternating five minutes of
swift marching with five minutes of the _pas gymnastique_, the long,
loping stride which is the "double" of the Legion.
Far ahead marched a small advance-guard; behind followed a rear-guard,
and, well out on either side, marched the flankers. Where a sandy ridge
ran parallel with the course of the Company, the flankers advanced along
the crest of it, that they might watch the country which lay beyond.
This did not avail them much, for, invariably, such a ridge was
paralleled by a similar one at no great distance. To have rendered the
little Company absolutely secure against sudden surprise-attack on
either flank, would have necessitated sending out the majority of the
force for miles on either side. Rupert, ever keen and deeply interested
in military matters, talked of this with John Bull, who agreed with him
that, considerable as the danger of such an attack was, it could not be
eliminated.
"Anyhow," concluded he, "we generally get something like at least five
hundred yards' margin and if the Arabs can cut us up while we have
that--they deserve to. Still, it's tricky country I admit, with all
these _wadis_ and folds in the ground, as well as rocks and ridges."
On marched the Company, and reached an area of rolling sand-hills, and
loose heavy sand under foot.
The day grew terribly hot and the going terribly heavy. As usual, all
pretence and semblance of smart marching had been abandoned, and the men
marched in whatever posture, attitude or style seemed to them best....
... It came with the suddenness of a thunderclap on a fine day, at a
moment when practically everything but the miseries of marching through
loose sand in the hottest part of one of the hottest days of the year
had faded from the minds of the straining, labouring men.
A sudden shout, followed by the firing of half a dozen shots, brought
the column automatically to a halt and drew all eyes to the right.
From a wide shallow _wadi_, or a fold in the ground, among the
sand-hills a few hundred yards away, an avalanche of _haik_ and
_djellab_-clad men on swift horses suddenly materialised and swept down
like a whirlwind on the little force. Behind them, followed a far
bigger mass of camel-riders howling "_Ul-Ul-Ullah-Akbar!_" as they came.
Almost before the column had halted, a couple of barks from Lieutenant
Roberte turned the Company to the right in two ranks, the front rank
kneeling, the rear rank standing close up behind it, with bayonets fixed
and magazines charged... Having fired their warning shots, the flankers
were running for their lives to join the main body. The Company watched
and waited in grave silence. It was Lieutenant Roberte's intention
that, when the Arabs broke and fled before the Company's withering blast
of lead, they should leave the maximum number of "souvenirs" behind
them. His was the courage and nerve that is tempered and enhanced by
imperturbable coolness. He would let the charging foe gallop to the
very margin of safety for his Legionaries. To turn them back at fifty
yards would be much more profitable than to do it at five hundred.
Trembling with excitement and the thrilling desire for violent action,
Rupert knelt between John Bull and the Bucking Bronco, scarcely able to
await the orders to fire and charge. Before any order came he saw a
sight that for a moment sickened and shook him, a sight which remained
before his eyes for many days. Corporal Auguste Gilles, who was
commanding the flankers, either too weary or too ill to continue his
sprint for comparative safety, turned and faced the thundering rush of
the oncoming Arab _harka_, close behind him. Kneeling by a prickly pear
or cactus bush he threw up his rifle and emptied his magazine into the
swiftly rushing ranks that were almost upon him. As he fired his last
shot, an Arab, riding ahead of the rest, lowered his lance and, with a
cry of "_Kelb ibn kelb_,"[#] bent over towards him. Springing to his
feet the Corporal gamely charged with his bayonet. There can be only
one end to such a combat when the horseman knows his weapon. The
Corporal was sent flying into the cactus, impaled upon the Arab's lance,
and, as it was withdrawn as the horseman swept by, the horrified Rupert
saw his comrade stagger to his feet and totter forward--tethered to the
cactus by his own entrails. Happily, a second later, the sweep of an
Arab _flissa_ almost severed his head from his shoulders....
[#] Dog--and son of a dog.
The Company stood firm and silent as a rock, the shining bayonets still
and level. Just as it seemed to Rupert that it must be swept away and
every man share the fate of that mangled lump of clay in front (for
there is no more nerve-shaking spectacle than cavalry charging down upon
you like a living avalanche or flood) one word rang out from Lieutenant
Roberte.
When the crashing rattle (like mingled, tearing thunder and the wild
hammer of hail upon a corrugated iron roof), ceased as magazines were
emptied almost simultaneously, the Arabs were in flight at top speed,
leaving two-thirds of their number on the plain; and upon the fleeing
_harka_ the Company made very pretty shooting--for the Legion shoots as
well as it marches.
When the "Cease Fire" whistle had blown, Rupert remarked to John Bull--
"No chance for a bayonet charge, then?" to which the old soldier
replied--
"No, my son, that is a pleasure to which the Arab does not treat us,
unless we surprise his sleeping _douar_ at dawn...."
The Arabs having disappeared beyond the horizon, the Company camped and
bivouacked on the battlefield, resuming its march at midnight. As
Lieutenant Roberte feared and expected, the oasis which was surrounded
and attacked at dawn, was found to be empty.
The Company marched back to Ainargoula and, a few days later, returned
to Sidi-bel-Abbes.