LÉGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889
French and American bugle-calls : Southward to the city of the Foreign
Legion : Sidi-bel-Abbès : The sergeant is not pleased : A final fight
with pride : The jokes of the Legion : The wise negro : Bugler Smith :
I help a légionnaire to desert : The Eleventh Company : How clothes are
sold in the Legion : Number 17889
A bugle sounded. I was lying on the bare ground in a corner of the
courtyard, dozing in that strange borderland between sleeping and
waking. The bugle bothered me. The sounds were familiar, but my sleepy
brain could not place them. Again and again the calls sounded and half
dreaming I searched my memory.
Now I remembered. It was the réveillé, the morning call of the American
army. No, there could be no mistake--one never forgets the quick
nervous air of the American regular's morning call, nor its impressive
text:
I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up in the morning!
I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up,
I can't get 'em up at all!
The old familiar sounds very naturally suggested old remembrances. I
dreamt of a misty morning and a hammock slung between two mango-trees,
somewhere in the valley of Santiago de Cuba, and a very tired war
correspondent listening sleepily to the morning call floating over from
the tents of the Sixth Cavalry hard by. A hazy recollection of
fantastical foreign legions and broken fortunes crept into the dream.
But surely there were no such things. Little Smiley, trumpeter of "B"
troop of the Sixth, was sounding the morning call in his funny,
drawn-out fashion--of course it was Smiley:
I can't get 'em up at all....
It was but a dream. Awakening, I sat up and stared about me. Where was
I, anyway? No mango-trees here, no tents, no Sixth Cavalry. And very
slowly I realised that Cuba and war corresponding were things of the
past, that the pebble-stones of the courtyard were part and parcel of a
French barrack and the soldiers in flaming red trousers running about
in the courtyard had a perfect right to call me their comrade. There
had been no mistake however about the morning call. There it sounded
for the third time: "I can't get 'em up"--the réveillé of the U.S.
regulars!
The riddle's solution was rather simple: The "get 'em up" signals of
the French and the American army are exactly the same.
For three days we stayed at the old barracks high up on the cliffs near
Oran. On the third day the packet brought a new batch of recruits for
the Foreign Legion, twenty men, most of them Germans. We were all
bundled into a rickety little railway train and, at an average speed of
about fifteen miles an hour, we raced towards the South, to
Sidi-bel-Abbès, the recruiting depot of the Foreign Legion, and
headquarters of the Legion's first regiment, the "Premier Etranger."
It took us six hours to reach Sidi-bel-Abbès. As the distance was about
eighty miles, I considered this a very poor performance and felt
personally aggrieved by the train's slowness. I had yet to learn that
from now on time would be no object to me. After leaving Oran our train
crawled through beautiful gardens and pretty little villas. The gardens
were followed by long stretches of fields and farmhouses, and then at
last civilisation vanished. The desert sands of Africa claimed their
right. The burning sun shone upon wavy lines of endless sandhills, upon
naked sand.
After six hours' ride we arrived in Sidi-bel-Abbès. The little station
was swarming with men in the uniform of the Foreign Legion. At the
primitive little platform gate stood a guard of non-commissioned
officers, carefully watching for would-be deserters.
A corporal took charge of us and we fell in line to march to the
Legion's barracks.
This first march through the streets and byways of Sidi-bel-Abbès was a
strange experience. The city of the Foreign Legion seemed to be
composed of peculiar odours and yellow colours in many varieties. I
tried to classify the Sidi-bel-Abbès smell, but the attempt was a
miserable failure. The strangely sweet scents coming from everywhere
and nowhere, which apparently had a very composite composition, defied
a white man's nose. They were heavy, dull, oppressive; now reminding
one of jasmine blossoms, now of mould and decay. In an atmosphere of
yellow floated these scents. The atmosphere was yellow; yellow were the
old-fashioned ramparts of Sidi-bel-Abbès, built by soldiers of the
Legion many years ago; yellow was the fine sandy dust on the streets;
glaring yellow everywhere. The green gardens on the town's outskirts
seemed but animated little spots in a great compact mass of yellow. Far
away in the background the colossal ridges of the Thessala mountains
towered in gigantic shadows of pale yellow. Even the town's buildings
flared up in bright yellow. The people of Sidi-bel-Abbès, adapting
themselves to nature in mimicry, must needs paint their houses yellow!
There were a few other colours, but the universal yellow swallowed them
up without mercy.
Between long rows of stately palms and through shady olive groves we
marched. An omnibus rattled past. All the seats were occupied by Arabs.
The white splendour of a mosque shone from afar. On the balcony of its
high minaret a Mohammedan priest in flowing white robes slowly walked
to and fro, sharply outlined against the sky. The mosque was far away,
but I could hear the priest's sonorous voice calling to prayer:
"All' il Allah.... God is God."
We passed through the ancient gates of the city, which was surrounded
with thick, clumsy walls, encircling all Sidi-bel-Abbès. The old walls
had seen plenty of fighting. In their time they had been very useful to
the small garrison in the continuous struggle with the Beni Amer, who
had again and again tried to retake the place. Along the large
well-kept road we marched. Suddenly, at a turning, the barrack
buildings loomed up on both sides of the road--the Spahis' cavalry
barracks and the quarters of the Foreign Legion.
* * * * *
In single file we marched through a small side entrance alongside of
the cumbrous barrack gate. On a long bench near the gate the guard was
sitting. They stared at us, grinning stupidly. Their sergeant, with his
hands in pockets and a cigarette between the teeth, sized us up,
apparently inspecting our physique as if he were taxing a herd of
cattle. Then he passed judgment.
"Pas bon!" he remarked laconically to the corporal who escorted us. "No
good!" An ugly welcome it was. I stared at the immense gravel-covered
barrack yard and its scrupulous cleanness, at the immense buildings and
their naked fronts, at the bare windows. Why, this must be a madhouse
and I--surely I must be a madman, who had to live for five years (five
years said the contract) in a place like this. A weird feeling crept
over me. I must have lost my way. The moor had caught me. I was lost in
the jungle. Shut in by these walls I must spend my life. Must I live
among these uniformed human machines, amongst unthinking, unfeeling
automatons? My head swam. A feeling of despair came over me....
Everywhere in the barrack buildings windows were thrown open, and
légionnaires put their heads out, yelling:
"Eh--les bleus! Bonjour, les bleus!"
From all sides they came at a run, calling out to each other joyously,
"Les bleus." Our arrival appeared to be an amusement that should not be
missed. Hundreds of légionnaires gathered around us, while we were
waiting for orders in front of the regimental offices. The contrast
between the snowy neatness of their white fatigue uniforms and our
shabby attire was very much in their favour. We stood a crossfire of
questions, answers and jokes.
"Hello! Hadn't enough to eat, eh?" somebody yelled in German.
"That's as may be," replied Herr von Rader in cutting sarcasm. "You
didn't come to the Legion because you had too much money, did you?"
Applause and laughter greeted this answer.
"Any one from Frankfort amongst you?" another asked. "Merde!" said he,
as nobody replied and turned and walked off.
Then came a surprise. A negro in the uniform of the Legion stalked up
to me, regarding me dubiously, shaking his head as if he was not quite
sure what to make of me.
"Talk U.S.?" he asked finally.
"Guess I do," I said.
"Golly," yelled the nigger, "here's another! You'se a h---- of a d----
fool! Doucement, doucement, white man--now, don't get mad. You'se
surely is a fool! What in h---- you want to come here for?"
The humour of the situation struck me. Besides, I always rather liked
darkies.
"What did _you_ come here for?" I asked him.
"Me?" said the nigger disgusted, "me? This child's been fooled, see?
I'se in Paris (this here nigger's been 'bout pretty much) and a great
big doggone Paris cop nabbed me, see? Oh, 'bout nuffing particular.
I'se been having a swell time in one ob dem little Paris
restorangs--sweet times, honey! I'se kissed all the girls and I'se
kicked eberyding else. Say--it was a mess. But this here cop got in and
he got me all right--no flies on the Paris cops, honey! In the station
house they done a lot of talking to this here nigger, 'bout French
penitentiaries, mostly. They did done tell me, it was penitentiary or
Legion. This child stuck to the American Consul, o' course. Say, he was
no good either. Says he, he done got no time to go fooling wid fresh
niggers. Take yer medicine, says he. Which I did--taking the Legion.
Nix penitentiary for me. That's what this child come here for, sonny!
Bet yer a cigarette you'se be as sick of them Legion people in 'bout
four weeks as this nigger is, sure. No good. Nix good. D---- bad!"
"I knew that before," said I.
"Then you'se sure done gone crazy, to come he-ar, sonny. Wait a bit,
white man. I'se going to tell Smith. He's an American. He's all right.
So long!"
And in the shambling gait of his race he walked hurriedly away. One of
the recruits hailed from Munich. He was in high debate with another
Bavarian légionnaire....
"You're from Munich, you fool? There's no beer here!" the old
légionnaire yelled. "Why didn't you stay in Munich and stick to the
beer, eh? Isn't it bad enough if one Munich fool drinks their sticky
old wine? Why, I've almost forgotten how a 'Masskrug' looks, and what
the 'Hofbraühaus' is like. It's a sinful shame, it is. Yes, there's no
beer here. You'll be surprised, you will!"
I was still laughing at the two légionnaires from the city of beer and
"Steins" when an old soldier started talking to me very softly.
"Won't you give me your suit of clothes? You must sell it, you know,
and you will not get more than a few sous for it."
I looked at the man. "Why do you want my clothes?" I asked him.
"To get away! I must get out of this! My God, if I had civilian
clothes, I might get through. I'd run away at once and I am pretty sure
I could manage to sneak out of Algeria. You'll give me your suit, won't
you? This is about my only chance. I'll never have enough money to buy
a suit. Is it all right? As soon as you are uniformed, I'll come for
the suit. I can easily find out in what company they are going to put
you."
Again the man looked at me with scared, pleading eyes, anxiously
waiting. He was evidently in deadly earnest. I was deeply impressed. He
meant to desert, of course. I had read enough about the Foreign Legion
to know that desertion from that corps was a desperate and perilous
undertaking. This poor devil was determined to risk it and--I could
help him. It occurred to me that, in a very short time, I might feel
very much as he felt now. Certainly he should have my clothes....
"You can have them and welcome."
"That's the best piece of luck I've had since I came to this
'verdammte' Legion," said the man. He was a German, a Pomeranian, I
should say, judging from the dialect he spoke.
Meanwhile Black (John William Black was the negro's very appropriate
name) had come back, with a bugler who looked as much like a "Yank" as
anybody could look.
"So you're American?" the bugler asked.
"About half of me is," I said.
"Oh, German-American! I see. That's all right. It's pretty tough work
here in the Legion; well, you'll see for yourself. I'm mighty glad to
talk U.S. to a white man. The nigger's no good--you know you're not,
Blacky!--and me and him are the only two Americans in this damfool
outfit. Blacky's always kicking up a row about something, and he spends
most of his time in prison, and when he's not there he generally
manages to get drunk. Beat's me, on what! He's a pretty hard case,
ain't you, Blacky?"
"Shoore--I--am, you son-of-an-old-trumpet!" grinned the negro.
"I wonder what company you'll be assigned to," continued the
"son-of-an-old-trumpet." "If the sergeant should ask you whether you
had any preference, tell him you would like to be assigned to the
eleventh. That's my company. We could play poker. I could show you the
ropes, too. Life's no snap in this outfit, you know!"
"Aren't there any other Americans in the Legion?"
"Oh yes, about twenty. There are seven with the fourth battalion of the
first, somewhere in Indo-China. The second regiment of the Legion in
Saida has thirteen or fourteen American légionnaires. Two of them are
sergeants, and one is colour-sergeant; McAllister is his name. He's a
good man. Yes, about twenty boys from the States have a hand in this
Legion business!"
"Garde à vous!" commanded the sergeant, coming out of the regimental
offices. "Attention!"
The roll was called and we were divided up amongst two companies, the
third and the eleventh. I was assigned to the eleventh--"la onzième."
We marched across the drill-ground to one of the barrack buildings. In
the storeroom of the eleventh company underwear and white fatigue
uniforms, woven from African "Alfa" fibres, were issued to us. Then
each man got a nightcap. These rather unsoldierly caps were worn by all
of the légionnaires in the cold African nights. Soap and towels the
sergeant-major also distributed, remarking that we seemed to be badly
in need of soap, which certainly was true. We were then marched off to
a small house at the back of the drill-ground. Its one room contained a
number of primitive shower-baths. While we were bathing, a sergeant
watched at the door, critically inspecting and exhorting us again and
again:
"Bon Dieu, get a good wash! Be sure you get a thorough wash!"
After we had dressed in the fatigue uniforms he commanded: "Take your
civilian clothes under your arms," and led us to a little side entrance
of the barracks. A sentinel opened the door--and hell broke lose.
Arabs, Levantines, Spanish Jews, niggers beleaguered the door, and the
sentinel had to use the butt of his rifle--he seemed to like the job
though--to keep them from getting in. In many languages they yelled,
gesticulating with hands and feet, jumping about, making a horrible
noise. At first I had no idea what it all meant. Then I understood.
They wanted to buy our clothes ... that was all. They got very excited
over the business and seemed to think they could buy our things for a
copper piece or two. Finally the sergeant acted himself as our agent
and arranged prices.
Even then it was a good thing for them. Any second-hand clothes dealer
in any of the world's large cities would have looked at the scene with
the blackest envy. A good suit of clothes fetched two francs, boots
eighty centimes, white shirts and cravats were thrown into the bargain.
Every one of the native "men of business" knew well, of course, that
the recruits were forced to sell at once. Civilian clothes are not
allowed to be kept in the Legion. None of the recruits got more than
three or four francs for his things. It was a great piece of swindling.
I was saved the trouble of bartering with the native riff-raff. The
légionnaire who took an interest in my clothes turned up, while the
sergeant was busy at the door, pulled my clothes-bundle softly from
under my arm, stuffed it under his jacket and walked away in a hurry.
Next day he was missed, Smith told me....
Our next visit was to the eleventh company's office, where our names
and professions were entered on the company's lists. It was nothing but
a matter of form. Herr von Rader declared that his father was the
Chancellor of the German Supreme Court and that he himself was by
profession a juggler and lance-corporal of marine reserves. And the
colour-sergeant put it all down in the big book without the ghost of a
smile.
Each of us was given a number, the "matricule" number of the Foreign
Legion. Our names mattered nothing. We were called by numbers: My
number was 17889.
From now on I was merely a number, a strict impersonal number.... They
number men in penitentiaries. It was just the same in the Legion. I had
got what I wanted. The great Legion's impersonality had swallowed me
up. What was my name now?... Number 17889....