THE FOREIGN LEGION'S BARRACKS
In the company's storeroom : Mr. Smith--American, légionnaire,
philosopher : The Legion's neatness : The favourite substantive of
the Foreign Legion : What the commander of the Old Guard said at
Waterloo : Old and young légionnaires : The canteen : Madame la
Cantinière : The regimental feast : Strange men and strange things :
The skull : The prisoners' march : The wealth of Monsieur Rassedin,
légionnaire : "Rehabilitation" : The Koran chapter of the Stallions
The eleventh company's storeroom was in a state of siege. We besieged
the place, pushing and being pushed, hunting for standing room, but
everywhere standing in somebody's way. The "non-coms" had very soon
exhausted their vocabulary of strong language and could only express
their feelings in fervent prayers that fifteen thousand devils might
fly away with those thrice confounded recruits--ces malheureux bleus. A
corporal, two sergeants, a sergeant-major and half a dozen légionnaires
detached for storeroom work continually fell over each other in their
haste to get done at last with the trying on of uniforms and with the
issue of the kit. Countless jackets and pants were tried on; they put
numerous "képis" upon our sinful heads, and again and again they
anathematised our awkwardness in priceless adjectives. In big heaps the
property of our future Legion life was dealt out to us; red pants and
fatigue uniforms, blue jackets and overcoats, sashes, knapsacks,
field-flasks, leather straps and belts, a soldier's kit in a
bewildering jumble.
"Ready!" said the sergeant-major at last with a grin of relief. "And
that's something to be thankful for. Here, Corporal Wassermann, take
them away. Voilà! Off with your mess of recruits. Try and make
légionnaires out of the beggars. Yes, you'll find it a big contract. I
wish you joy, Corporal Wassermann."
"En avant, marche!" commanded the corporal. Once more the
non-commissioned officers of the storeroom told us exactly what they
thought of us and where they wished us to go. Their remarks were
extremely pointed and expressive of their disgust.
We mounted three flights of stairs and the passing légionnaires of the
company stared at us in curiosity.
Through a long corridor we marched, until the corporal kicked a door
open and led us into a big room, our future quarters. We looked about
our new home. Twenty beds were in the room, ten on one side, ten on the
other, perfectly aligned. In the middle of the room stood two big
wooden tables and long benches, scoured gleaming white. Everything in
the place was scrupulously neat and clean. A rack in the corner held
our rifles. Suspended from the ceiling, over the tables, there was a
cupboard--the "pantry" of our quarters. It struck me as very practical.
Knives and forks, the men's tin plates and tin cups, our bread rations
were kept there. Half a dozen légionnaires were sitting on bunks and
benches, cleaning their rifles and polishing their leather belts--our
comrades.
Corporal Wassermann, lying in his bunk puffing a cigarette, took a good
long look at us. He was little more than a boy.
"Eh bien," he said, "I am your corporal. You will have to learn French
as quickly as possible. That's very important. Keep your ears open and
listen to everything that's said. That is the right way to go about it.
We shall begin drilling to-morrow. To-day you will have to arrange your
bunks and things. I shall arrange your bunks in such a fashion that
each of you shall be placed between two old légionnaires. You've only
got to watch how they fix their things and do the same. It is all very
simple. When you have finished arranging your stuff, you can do what
you please."
Then he assigned a bunk to each of us and went off whistling. To the
canteen, of course.
* * * * *
"Hallo!" said Smith. He had just come in. "That's all right. So you've
not only been sent to the eleventh, but to my room as well. And that's
all right. That's my bunk over there at the window. Take the one next.
It's been given to a recruit already, you say? Oh, kick him out, kick
him out. What do you suppose the corporal cares where you bunk. I'll
fix it with him. And that's all right. I'm going to call you Dutchy.
Now don't object, because I'm going to call you Dutchy anyhow, see?"
He was evidently pleased. So was I. From the start I had taken a liking
to this man with the sharply cut features and the curious air of
infinite knowledge. The pasteboard card on his bed said:
"Jonathan Smith, No 10247, soldat 1ère[1] classe."
[1] The Foreign Legion and the French army in general make a
distinction between first-class privates and second-class
privates. The first-class private has the grade of a
lance-corporal.
He was the company's bugler, and had nine years' service in the Foreign
Legion to his credit. Fever and privation and vice had engraved hard
lines in his face, and when he rolled his cigarettes in French fashion,
his hands trembled just a little. His hair was quite grey. He had
fought against Chinese pirates in French Indo-China, he had campaigned
in Madagascar and won the French medal for bravery on colonial service.
During this campaign he had been shot in the shoulder and had had a
severe attack of jungle fever. There was no garrison in Algeria, be it
on the Morocco frontier, be it on the Sahara line, where he had not
been stationed once at least. He was a perfect encyclopædia of all
things connected with the Legion. He could swear fluently in English,
German, French, and Arabian, and had even acquired a pretty fair
knowledge of Chinese expressions of disgust. He was friend and brother
to several Arabs with doubtful characters, he could recite whole
chapters of the Koran by heart, and knew a great deal about Morocco.
Which will be seen later on.
He was in fact a man well worth knowing.
From the very beginning there was a perfect understanding between us.
He volunteered the information that he was a native of California and
had "seen a few things in his life." I answered with the bare statement
that I was a German, and had lived in the United States for some years.
Both remarks were the basis for a tacit agreement to keep within the
limits of strict impersonality.
He lay on his bunk, and I tried to get some order in my newly issued
belongings.
"Your shoulders have been drilled into shape somewhere?" said Smith.
"They were."
"States?"
"No, Germany."
"Oh, I see. Thought you might have been in the U.S. army. Wish I had
stuck to it."
"Have you tried the Legion's tobacco yet?" he continued.
We rolled ourselves cigarettes from strong, black Algerian tobacco, and
Smith stretched himself comfortably on his bunk with his knees drawn
up, his cap pulled down over his eyes. Smoking contentedly, the old
soldier preached me the Legion's wisdom:
"There's no money here--the pay is not worth speaking of, I mean.
There's a lot of work. It's a hard life all round. That's the Foreign
Legion. There's no earthly reason why any man should be fool enough to
serve in this outfit, unless he's specially fond of being underfed and
overworked. When I come to think of it--I don't know what the dickens
made me stay nine years! Because there's something doing once in a
while, I suppose. Well, I'll stick it out for the pension now. Anyway,
you've joined the Legion--more fool you--you're here and you can make
up your mind that you are here to stay. And you must look at things in
the right way. Legion life can be stood right enough, if you don't let
yourself be worried by anything at all, if you're as ice-cold as
Chicago in January, and if you're lucky enough to see something doing.
Whether we march against the Arabs or Chinese (there's a battalion of
us in Indo-China, you know) or to 'Maroc' at last, that's all the same,
but it's good to be on the move in the Legion. Then a légionnaire's
life ain't half bad. Don't ever forget, though, to have your feelings
frozen into an iceblock. Don't let anything bother you. No use getting
mad about things here. Just say to yourself: 'C'est la Légion.' When
you're dead played out, and you think you can't stand it any longer;
when the fever's got you by the neck; when you're sitting and fuming in
the 'cellule' (that's the prison, Dutchy), or when some sergeant's
giving you hell--grin, sonny, and say to yourself: 'C'est la Légion!'
That's the Legion. Do your work and don't worry. If any of the fellows
get fresh, hit quick and hit hard--c'est la Légion. And don't forget
that the main thing in this Foreign Legion business is neatness and
cleanliness. You want to have your things in order, you want to be
neat. So!"
He rummaged in the bundle of uniform things on my bed, pulling out one
by one jackets, pants, shirts, &c., and folding them with astonishing
quickness. I watched him in wonder. This old soldier with his big rough
hands had fingers as clever as any chambermaid's. Piece after piece he
folded rapidly, smoothing every crease with almost ridiculous care.
Each of the folded pieces he measured, giving each the same length,
from the tips of his fingers to his elbow. Finally he erected with
these bundles, upon the shelf at the wall over my bed, an ingenious
structure of uniforms, the "paquetage" of the Legion. The légionnaire
has no clothes-chest like the American regular. To get over this
difficulty he invented his "paquetage," which is a work of art, solving
the military problem of how to stow away several uniforms in a compact
space without crumpling them.
With half-shut eyes the bugler stood in front of my bunk and regarded
his handiwork.
"And that's all right," he said. "That's a 'paquetage,' how it should
be. It's 'fantasie,' pure 'fantasie,' Dutchy dear. Making 'fantasie'[2]
it is called in the Legion, if one tries to be always 'très chic' and
'parfaitement propre,' to be a swell. Yes, that's the Legion. We are
lazy by preference, but we're always neat. Always!"
[2] This curious expression of the Foreign Legion is, of
course, an imitation of the Moorish "fantasia."
The "paquetage" was not the only miracle. I was very much impressed by
the way every bit of available space was put to the utmost use. A
légionnaire keeps his linen in his haversack. For his letters, his
books, for the few other articles of private property he possesses, he
finds room in his knapsack; his brushes and his polishing-rags are
carefully stored away in a little sack which hangs on the wall. Even
the most trivial of his belongings has its appointed place. A
légionnaire keeps his kit in such perfect order that he can find
everything in the dark.
While I was making my bed, the bugler looked on for a while, grinning
all the time. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. He pulled the
blankets and the sheets I had spread out away again and started showing
me how to make a bed "à la Légion." Bed-making was another of the
Legion's tricks. In a few seconds Smith had arranged the bed-clothes in
wonderful accuracy, blankets drawn tight as a drum, pillows placed in
mathematical exactness.
"Merde!" he said, "that's how we légionnaires fix our bunks. It's easy
enough."
"Merde?" I asked, "what does 'merde' mean, anyway?"
It was a French word unknown to me. Smith used it continually,
underlining his remarks with it, so to speak. He seemed to like it. He
pronounced it with much care, lovingly. Naturally I thought that it
must be some especially forceful invective, the more so as the
sergeant-major in the storeroom (who certainly had not been in good
humour) had said "merde" about five hundred times in ten minutes. And
the other légionnaires in the room liked it apparently no less. The
"merdes" were always flying about....
"Well, what is this 'merde'?"
Smith nearly had a fit.
"Merde?" he yelled, laughing as if he had suddenly gone crazy, "what
'merde' means? Why, you owl, 'merde' is ----."
He used a word which certainly does not exist in the vocabulary of
polite society, an old Anglo-Saxon substantive, describing a most
natural function and expressing huge disgust when used as an invective.
This little word is the favourite substantive of the Foreign Legion. It
is _the_ substantive of the Legion! The English Tommy rejoices in his
time-honoured adjective "bloody," the American revels in his precious
"damned," the Mexican cavalryman enjoys his malignant hissing
"caracho," and the légionnaire is distinctly unhappy without his
well-beloved "merde." It's the most used word in the Foreign Legion. It
has suffered curious derivations: Merdant, merdable.... It has a happy
home in all French regiments--it is part and parcel of the French
army's soldier-talk. The Legion worships it. Out of it the légionnaire
has even fabricated a verb. When an officer gives him a "dressing
down," the légionnaire says simply and devoutly:
"Il m'enmerde!"
The French army's primitive substantive of disgust is very ancient. It
is time-honoured, it is classical.
At Waterloo the commander of Napoleon's Old Guard is said to have
replied to the challenge to surrender, pompously: "The Old Guard dies,
but it does not surrender!" In the French army, however, it is an old
tradition that he simply yelled:
"Merde!"
* * * * *
Invectives of all descriptions were used with much vigour in our
quarters just now. The old légionnaires took a delight in kicking the
clumsy recruits about. In drastic terms they told them exactly what
they thought of them, of their past, of their families, of their
future. They felt very sorry (so they said) for the poor old eleventh
company having been buncoed into taking such an awful pack of useless
recruits. Many were the fools they had seen in the Legion, but never
such idiots as we were. Pretty fellows, those recruits! A nice
assortment of pigs! Fine times they (the poor old légionnaires) would
have, living in the same quarters with these "bleus."
"Why--there's one of 'em sitting on my bed. What's this bow-legged
monkey doing on my bunk? Get off! Get off quick, son of a jackal! Do
you suppose that my bunk's a manoeuvring-ground for dirty recruits?"
The old légionnaires knew their business, however. Abuse alone was not
good enough. They wanted to see practical results. So they explained to
the "bleus" that recruits, and especially such recruits as now present,
could never manage to build a "paquetage" without help. That was a
foregone conclusion. Said one of them:
"Can't you see that? If such a thing as intelligence had a place in
your empty heads, you would have seen long ago that you needed help.
Who's going to help you? We are. We old légionnaires will help you--we
who know everything and can fix anything. But we're thirsty, you see.
Tant de soif! Such a thirst. I put it to you: Is it right that
recruits, recruits, mind you, who have just sold their clothes and got
a lot of money in their pockets, should look on and say nothing, while
their betters are dying of thirst. Is it right, eh?"
There the others joined in: "Allons donc pour un litre--let's drink a
litre in the canteen."
The arguments of the old fellows met with enormous success. At frequent
intervals old and young légionnaires left the quarters to pay a visit
to the canteen and render homage to the immortal "litre" of the Foreign
Legion. The whole performance was an old custom. Old légionnaires
always rejoice when new recruits arrive--anticipating many pleasant
walks to the canteen....
One of the recruits, a Swiss, on returning from the canteen found that
the greater part of the kit on his bed had disappeared. Almost
everything was gone. A complete uniform, a fatigue suit, an overcoat
and several other things were missing. The Swiss, scared to death,
asked every man in the room if he had seen his things. But his kit had
vanished.
The old légionnaires gathered about his bunk. Very likely he had lost
part of his outfit while coming up the stairs, they said. They told him
that one must look after one's kit in the Legion. If he could not find
the missing uniforms, he would be certain to be sent to prison at the
very least. He might even be punished with deportation into the penal
battalion. Losing part of the uniform was the very worst crime known in
the Legion.
The Swiss ran up and down the stairs hunting for his lost uniforms, but
naturally found nothing.
Again the old légionnaires talked to him. They played their part very
well.
"You're a poor devil," they said. "We're sorry for you. We'll try and
help you. It's a very difficult case, but we might be able to do
something. The non-commissioned officer of the third company's
storeroom is a pretty decent fellow. He'll do something for an old
légionnaire. We'll try him. There's just the chance that he will give
us the stuff you have lost from his stock of uniforms--for a little
money. He's fond of making something on the quiet. Five francs would
do, and what are measly five francs anyway, if they are the means of
saving you from prison?"
The poor devil was glad enough to get off with paying five francs. It
was just what he had got for his clothes.
... Very soon the old soldiers came back. That good fellow of a
sergeant had given them everything needed! Faultless new uniforms! And
the Swiss recruit thanked the old thieves profusely.
Personally I was angry at the shabby trick played on the poor devil. I
had known from the very outset that it was only a trick. The rascals
had stolen the recruit's uniforms, and had then sold him back his own
things! It certainly was no business of mine, and I did not interfere.
In a way the comic side of the thing appealed to my sense of humour,
but it was a nasty trick all the same. While I was wondering whether I
should tell that fool of a Swiss how he had been done, one of the old
légionnaires happened to sit down on my bunk.
"Get off my bed!" I said.
Blank astonishment was written on the man's face.
"What d----d cheek for a raw recruit. You impertinent ..."
"My bed's my bed. Get off. Sit on your own bed. Just now you raised a
row because one of us was sitting on yours. Get away from here and be
quick about it."
The old légionnaire rose slowly.
"Viens là bas!" he yelled. "Come down below to the yard with me. I'll
teach you that a good-for-nothing recruit should respect an old
soldier. Come down!"
Together we descended the stairs, a few other légionnaires following.
The bugler was amongst them.
"Give him hell," he said. "Look out for his feet!"
I was very pleased with myself. It was bad enough to be in the Legion,
but one could at least play the man....
At the back entrance of the company's quarters, in a small alley-way,
we found a quiet spot to settle our little difference. He kicked
furiously in French fashion, and I barely managed to escape. Then we
closed in and in a second were rolling over and over on the
gravel-covered ground. Now one had the upper hand, now the other. My
antagonist's strength surpassed mine by far. I could do but very little
in his iron grip. I began to wonder how many of my ribs would survive
the fray. But all at once I got the upper hand. Again and again he
tried to get a grip of my throat, but I caught his hand every time. We
rolled over and over. My strength was fast sinking. At the last moment
almost, I noticed a big stone on the ground quite near his head. I
wrested my hand free. Seizing my antagonist by the hair, I pounded his
head against the stone as hard as I could. Once--twice--four times....
His grip relaxed....
"Assez!" he yelled, "enough."
"Très bien," the onlooking old légionnaires said, "very good."
The bugler was disgusted. (So was I.) "Now that's the Legion all over.
I wonder why the people here can't box like Christians instead of
rolling about like pigs. You've licked him, though. And that's all
right."
The man I had "fought" with rose with some difficulty and walked up to
me. We shook hands....
"You were in the right when you ordered me off your bed," he said.
"Parbleu, that was a good idea with the stone. Eh, you'll be a good
légionnaire very soon. We men of the Legion quarrel often, but at heart
we're always comrades. C'est la Légion! I propose we return to our
quarters again...."
And in the room we brushed the dust from each other's uniforms, like
old friends....
* * * * *
"You're tired, I guess," said the bugler with a grin. "Let's go and
have a litre."
I had no objection.
"I am paying for this," he declared, as we crossed the drill-ground.
The regimental canteen was in a small building in a corner of the
barrack square. We opened the door and--I at least must have looked
very much surprised. There was an awful noise in the little room. A
great many soldiers were talking and laughing and singing and yelling
in many languages; in German, French, English, Italian and
Spanish--there was the jingle of many bottles and glasses. As we
entered a German was singing:
Trinken wir noch ein Tröpfchen
Aus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen,
Oh, Suss ... a ... na!
In sharp marching rhythm a Frenchman sang the refrain of one of the
Legion's songs:
Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos ...
The canteen was crowded. Hundreds of légionnaires in white fatigue
uniforms or in blue jackets sat on the long benches, drinking,
laughing. On the wooden tables bottles stood in long rows and deep red
wine sparkled in the glasses.
"There's no room here," I said.
Smith grinned in answer: "Room? Nom d'un pétard, what do we want room
for? The litre is the main thing, sonny!"
Pushing through the crowd he reached the bar and held up a forefinger
with a serious face. This seemed to be a well-known signal to the young
woman behind the bar. Without saying a word she took three copper
pieces from the bugler, giving him in exchange a full bottle of wine
and two glasses. "Madame la Cantinière" could not be over twenty years
old. Like a queen seated on her throne she held sway behind her bar and
ruled the crowd of noisy, yelling légionnaires in quiet authority,
imposing and comical at the same time.
Madame la Cantinière was the sutler of the Foreign Legion. Old
tradition demands that a woman should keep the Legion's canteen.
"Madame la Cantinière de la Légion" usually is married, but she is the
official head of the canteen and not her husband. The business belongs
to her. On the march and in the field she wears the blue sutler's
uniform and follows the regiment with her little sutler's waggon.
On a bench in the corner Smith found seats for us, and had two big
glasses filled (the Legion does not waste time drinking out of small
wineglasses!)--had the glasses filled before we sat down.
"Here's luck," he said. "There's no such thing as luck in this place,
but one keeps on wishing for it just the same. Here's luck, Dutchy!"
He emptied his glass at a gulp, wiping his soft fair moustache in great
satisfaction. _And_ he refilled his glass at once.
"The wine's good. And that's all right. Sonny, there are miles and
miles of vineyards round this here Sidi-bel-Abbès. The hilly ground
near the Thessala mountains is a single large vineyard. There are times
in Algeria when they let the wine run on the street. It's so plentiful
and cheap that it isn't worth the casks. There would be no Legion, I
tell you, if it wasn't for the cheap wine!"
With wondering eyes I surveyed the men in the canteen and the canteen
itself. The smoke of many hundreds of cigarettes filled the place with
a heavy bluish vapour. The noise was indescribable. One had to yell to
be understood by one's neighbour, a quietly spoken word would have been
lost in the turmoil. Everybody was yelling and everybody seemed to be
in high glee. The légionnaires were having what they considered a good
time. They jumped on the tables, kicking and dancing, jingled their
glasses, threw empty bottles about and made fun of everybody and
everything. Every minute the uproar increased. These hard-faced,
hard-eyed men were like children at some forbidden game, trying to get
as much fun as possible while the teacher was away.
Suddenly a man with a wonderfully clear and strong voice began singing
a love-song. Noise and tumult ceased at once. I listened in amazement.
A légionnaire sang for his comrades, in a beautiful tenor voice, in a
voice reminding me of great singers I had heard long ago. A poor devil
of a légionnaire possessed a voice many a singer would have envied. He
sang a French song, every verse closing pitifully:
L'amour m'a rendu fou....
The song of a lover who had loved and lost, a song of love and ladies,
of love's delights and love's misery, sung in the canteen of the
Foreign Legion.
With burning eyes I looked at the listening throng of men in red and
blue until I saw nothing but their shadowy outlines like a far-away
_fata Morgana_--I was lost in a dream of memories.
Absolute quiet reigned. The song held these men of rough life and
rougher manners spellbound; the glorious mellow voice, now clear as a
trumpet, now low and sweet as a woman's caress, must have appealed to
every heart. The song was at an end:
L'amour m'a rendu fou....
For a moment, for a few seconds, all remained hushed. And then one
would think that these men were ashamed of having been so soft-hearted.
A légionnaire jumped on a table and yelled:
"Silence.... No more fool songs for us! Vive le litre!"
"Le litre!" ... a hundred men roared. The shouting and the uproar and
the noise commenced anew. Blacky, the negro, had come in and was soon
dancing the dance of his race. He was a master of the turnings and
twistings of the cake-walk. There were universal yells of appreciation
as he bent backwards, high-stepping grotesquely. Blacky was much
applauded and seemed to be a very happy nigger. Madame la Cantinière
did a roaring trade. The copper pieces were continually jingling on the
tin-covered surface of the bar. La Cantinière was a very busy woman
this evening, passing many hundreds of wine bottles to her thirsty
clientèle of légionnaires. Glasses were broken, pieces of glass lay
everywhere on the tables and on the floor, and here and there little
red pools of wine had formed. The fun grew fast and furious and the
noise almost unbearable.
My friend the bugler had emptied glass after glass and was in high good
humour.
"Why, it is the regiment's holiday!" he laughed.
The "fifth day" it was--pay-day. The Legion's humour called pay-day the
regimental holiday. This humour was somewhat grim in view of the fact
that pay in the Legion meant but five centimes a day, twenty-five
centimes for the pay-roll period of five days. Twenty-five centimes are
almost exactly five cents in American, or twopence-halfpenny in English
money.
So the Legion's "holiday" was at the bottom of all the noise and fun in
the canteen! These men in the Legion measured the passing of time by
their miserable pay-days only. Such a fifth day marked the glorious
epoch when two comrades could buy exactly five "litres" of wine for
their joint pay. Certainly such frivolity punished itself: there was no
money left for the next five days' tobacco. So wise men in the Legion
buy the customary package of tobacco for three sous, and drink but one
bottle of wine every five days. This is what the soldier of the Foreign
Legion works for: One bottle of wine and one package of tobacco every
five days!
Shrilly a signal sounded through the noise--lights out! Madame la
Cantinière held up her hand, made a funny little bow, and said with a
smile:
"Bonsoir, messieurs.--Good night, gentlemen."
The Legion teaches obedience.... In a very few seconds the canteen was
empty and everybody was hurrying across the drill-ground to quarters.
* * * * *
When roll-call had been finished in our quarters and everybody had gone
to bed, I quietly left the room. Sleep did not appeal to me that night.
The still of night lay over the barrack-yard. The white moonlight shone
on the bare walls of the barracks. The stars of far south glittered in
their trembling beauty. I stared up into the splendour of the heavens
and brooded over happiness far away--passed--dead....
I heard footsteps and saw a shadow moving somewhere on the other side.
And over there a trembling awkward voice sang softly:
L'amour m'a rendu fou....
Far into the night I crouched in a corner of the Legion's barrack-yard.
* * * * *
The first days, the first weeks of life in the Legion were quite
sufficient to render me immune against strange things and strange
sights. Sometimes it seemed to me as if my nerves were quite dulled.
Every day brought monstrous sights and hideous impressions. I shuddered
at unheard-of things and wondered at these strange specimens of
humanity. But the next moment some new horror made me forget what I had
just seen.
In a few minutes' walk with the bugler round the barrack-yard one could
meet with a variety of sights like the following:
A légionnaire ran past us, shrieking in extreme pain, splashed with
blood. He had cut off the forefinger and middle finger of his right
hand so as to be unfit for active service.
A poor crippled Arab, bent with age, stopped when he saw us. He was
evidently on his way to the kitchen buildings to beg for food. In his
hands he carried a Standard oil-can. A Standard oil-tin as receptacle
for food in connection with an Arab, Algeria and the Foreign Legion
struck me as something distinctly new. But there was more to follow. In
very broken German the Arab addressed us:
"Gut' Tag, légionnaires. Cigarette! Ick sein deutsch--Magdeburg
gewesen--1870."
The man had fought in the great Franco-German war and had been in
Magdeburg as a prisoner of war!
Hardly had I recovered from my surprise when a passing légionnaire made
me stare in horror. The man had the grinning image of a skull tattooed
on his forehead! He smiled at my frightened face and was evidently very
pleased at the impression he had made. I remember saying to the bugler
how horrible it was that a man should disfigure his face for life in
such a manner, and I remember that Smith only shrugged his shoulders in
reply.
"Why, that's nothing," he said. "Tattooing of that kind is quite
customary in the Battalion of the Disciplined."
I could not agree with the bugler, I could not see a mere freak in this
horrible tattoo-mark. To me it spoke of hope lost for ever, of a life
so dreadful that a man no longer cared whether he was disfigured or
not.
Pleased with the notice he attracted, the légionnaire with the skull on
his forehead walked up to us and spoke to me:
"Eh, recruit, do you want to see something that very old légionnaires
only have got?"
He showed me a tobacco-pouch, apparently made of fine soft leather:
"This is made of the breast of an Arab woman," said the man of the
skull. "It is a very good tobacco-pouch. Made it myself. There are only
seven in the whole regiment now. Chose--n'est-ce pas? That is something
worth seeing!"
With a grin of vanity he walked away.
"Tobacco-pouch--an Arab woman's breast--my God, what is the meaning of
this?" I asked of the bugler.
Smith told me all about those horrible pouches. The man of the skull
had not lied. During the last insurrection of Arabs in Algeria, in grim
warfare far in the South, Arabian women had horribly mutilated the
bodies of légionnaires and inflicted horrible tortures on the wounded.
The soldiers of the Legion, maddened, thirsting for revenge, gave
quarter to no Arab woman during those times. They retaliated in
kind.... Of the horrible deeds they committed the dreadful
tobacco-pouches gave evidence.
On the same day I witnessed for the first time the prisoners' march of
punishment. I stood aghast.
Behind the quarters of the fourth company, in a small square between
barrack building and wall, about thirty men were marching in a
continuous circle, to the sharp commands of a corporal:
"À droit--droit; à droit--droit; right about, march; right about,
march."
The prisoners marched round their narrow circle in fast quick-step,
almost at a run, with backs deeply bent. Their knapsacks were filled
with sand and stones, every man carrying a burden of from seventy to
eighty pounds. All the prisoners had a hard strained look on their
faces. Their fatigue uniforms were torn and soiled. Guards with fixed
bayonets stood at the corners of the square, guarding the marching
prisoners.
The term prisoner must not be misunderstood. These men were not
criminals. The légionnaires marching in the "peloton des hommes punis"
had been punished with a term of imprisonment for small offences in the
matters of discipline. They were not only put into prison, but also had
to march on their ridiculous march of punishment for three hours every
day, the stones in their knapsacks causing bad sores on their backs.
These men, punished for some paltry military offence, were certainly
treated as if they were criminals of the worst description.
I tried to imagine what I should feel and what I should do if a
sandsack were put on my back and I were driven round in this maddening
march.... It was dangerous to think of these things.
"Allez, let's go," said the bugler. "We all go to prison some time or
another and it's not right to stare at the prisoners. They feel bad
enough as it is."
Stranger than the strange surroundings were many of the men of the
Legion themselves.
On the bunk opposite mine, the little pasteboard card customary in the
Legion described the owner as follows:
JEAN RASSEDIN
12429
SOLDAT PREMIERE CLASSE.
Rassedin was a Belgian. He worked as clerk in the regimental offices.
Shortly before "soup-time" in the afternoon his day's work was
finished. Then he would come running into quarters, tearing off his old
white barrack uniform as fast as he possibly could, throwing his things
pell-mell on the bed. In a very few moments he had put on the uniform
prescribed for town. For the "soup" he didn't care. He never had his
meals in quarters. He went away at once after he had changed his
uniform and never returned before two o'clock in the morning, having a
"certificate of permanent permission" to leave the barracks. His manner
was haughty. If one of his comrades tried to speak to him about
something or other, he usually turned away without answering. Or he
said:
"M'en fou--I don't care for anything. Leave me alone."
Monsieur Rassedin, légionnaire, took his meals in the best hotel of the
town and spent more money than any other man in Sidi-bel-Abbès.
Rassedin was a rich man. From the standpoint of the Foreign Legion, his
wealth was the wealth of Croesus. He had been a non-commissioned
officer in a Belgian cavalry regiment, had deserted for reasons unknown
and joined the Legion. After being a légionnaire for a time, he got the
news of the death of a rich relative, who had left him all his
wealth.... So Monsieur Rassedin, légionnaire, had become rich. He
always carried a few thousands francs about him. Three men of the
company were employed by him to keep his things in order and to do all
the cleaning and polishing for him. In the regimental office he paid
the other clerks to do his work. He naturally preferred reading novels
to copying lengthy reports. As he could afford to pay substitutes, the
thing could easily be done. His family had succeeded in getting him a
pardon granted for deserting. Monsieur Rassedin could have gone back to
Belgium long ago, but he did not care to return to his native country.
As soon as he had finished his term of five years' Legion service, he
signed on again for another five years.
The reason?
"Disease," Smith said, when I asked him. There certainly was no
question concerning men or things of the Legion that the man from
California could not answer. "The poor devil's suffering from syphilis.
Got it in Madagascar. I asked him once why in thunder he did not get
out of this confounded Legion.
"'Bugler,' he said in answer. 'You are an old légionnaire and I don't
want to have trouble with you. But remember: You go your own way, and
I'll go mine. Don't trouble me with your fool's remarks. There is
poison in my body and in a few years I shall be very sick. No, I prefer
putting a bullet through my brains in the Legion to returning to my
country and then having to peg out. You'll die somewhere in the sand,
my friend--I shall die strictly in my own fashion. What is the
difference? Now come on, bugler. Want a bottle of champagne?'"
Everybody in Sidi-bel-Abbès knew Rassedin, even the little black
children in the streets. Many a time he used to throw franc pieces
amongst them.
In quarters Rassedin hardly spoke to anybody. His comrades were afraid
of him. He was a man of enormous strength and had the reputation of
fighting on the least provocation. But he could be very good-natured.
Hardly a day passed without some old soldiers of the company coming to
our quarters in search of Rassedin. They would simply rub their throats
in pantomime:
"Rassedin, tant d' soif.--Heap big thirst."
Then Rassedin grinned and searched his pockets for copper pieces....
Then there was Latour, a Frenchman, serving his second year. Daily
he received letters, a very unusual thing in the Foreign Legion;
love-letters from a woman who was waiting for him five long years.
Latour, who had committed a crime in France, expiated his deed in the
Foreign Legion. He served solely for the purpose of "rehabilitation."
Sentences of the Civil Court are in France entered in the personal
papers of the criminal. Without his papers he cannot get work.
Naturally employers are shy of taking men who have been in conflict
with the law and such a man very seldom succeeds in finding work. It is
a barbarous system. Ten years must elapse before such a man is
considered rehabilitated and "clean papers" are issued to him. If a man
is willing to serve in the Foreign Legion, however, the term of
rehabilitation is shortened to five years, and after five years'
service new papers are given to him. He has then a new start in civil
life after five years instead of ten.
Like many other French légionnaires, Latour was serving for
rehabilitation.
The strangest man of all, however, seemed to me this man Smith,
American, légionnaire, philosopher. I have always believed, and believe
yet, that he actually loved the Legion, that he could not part from the
strange life there. He could speak Arabic like a native. Many a time
when we were lying in our bunks, he would mumble to himself in Arabic
for hours. If I, in curiosity, asked him what he was about, he would
say:
"Oh nothing, Dutchy. I'm a bit off my base. I very often am, you know."
But occasionally he would straighten up and sit down beside me, talking
of strange things, reciting whole chapters of the Koran. Like this:
"Well, sonny, know anything about the Chapter of the Prophet's
Stallions?"
"You don't? Listen."
"When of an evening the stallions, standing on three feet and placing
the tip of their fourth foot upon the ground, were brought before the
Prophet, he said: 'I have loved the love of things of this earth more
than I have loved all thoughts of the things of heaven, and I have
wasted the time in feasting my eyes on these horses. Bring them to me.'
And when the horses were brought to him, he began cutting off their
legs, one by one, saying: 'All' il Allah....'"
"Yes, Dutchy, the Koran's something interesting." Many chapters of the
Koran I have learned from Smith.
Such things happened every day. But soon the enormities lost their
power of fascination. A host of new impressions were forced upon me,
until the senses were dulled and one soon got wonderfully
indifferent--absolutely indifferent....