THE MILITARY VALUE OF THE FOREIGN REGIMENTS
A day's work as a recruit : Allez, hurry up : The Legion's etiquette :
A morning's run : The "cercle d'enfer" and the lack of soap : The main
object of the Legion's training : Splendid marchers : Independent
soldiers : Forty kilometres a day : Uniform, accoutrements, baggage,
victualling : The training of the légionnaire in detail : The
légionnaire as a practical man : Specialties of the Legion : Programme
for a week in the Legion : The légionnaire as a labourer
When in the twilight of awakening day the first red-hot rays of African
dawn penetrated through the windows of our quarters, the
"garde-chambre," the man on duty there, arose noiselessly. He took good
care not to make a noise, not from any delicacy of feeling on his part,
but from the knowledge of the dire punishment which awaited him if he
inconsiderately disturbed the sleep of his comrades. For the hours of
sleep are a "Holy of Holies" to the légionnaire. When Herr von Rader
was on duty for the first time, and in getting up made a slight noise,
boots (heavy military boots!) were thrown at his head from all parts of
the room, as a somewhat urgent reminder to be quiet.
In a few minutes the orderly returned from the kitchen dragging with
him a large earthenware jug, lighted the petroleum lamp which hung in
the middle of the room, and his voice then sounded loudly through the
room:
"Au jus." (Sauce.)
The sauce was coffee, strong, black, excellent coffee. Mechanically
each légionnaire sat up in bed, and leaning on his arm mechanically
felt behind him for the "quart," the tin mug, which hung on a hook at
the head of the bed, handing it to the orderly, who went from bed to
bed with his large jug and poured out coffee. The strong mixture soon
dispelled all sleepiness, and when the shrill trumpet-blasts of the
"réveillé" sounded from the barrack-yard, they all jumped out of bed.
Now began a "Tohuwabohu" (pandemonium) of noise and hurrying to and
fro. In half an hour the recruits had to muster in the yard. Corporal
Wassermann, who liked to remain in bed until the last moment, called
out continually:
"Le--e--vez-vous donc.--Get up."
Then he thundered out the famous "Allez, schieb' los!" of the Legion.
The curious term has been introduced by German légionnaires and has
passed into the vocabulary of Algerian French. Not only the soldiers
continually used this funny mixture of German and French, but Arabs and
negro children in the street, when they wanted to hurry each other up,
shrieked out: "Allez, schieb' los!"
"Allez, schieb' los! Pas du temps. No more time!" roared the corporal.
The day began with hurry and scurry. The primitive lavatory was on the
ground floor of the barracks and one was obliged to run up and down
four flights of stairs in order to wash oneself. There was not a minute
to spare. The boots had to be brushed; the blankets and mattresses of
the bed had to be folded neatly and piled up at the foot of the bunk.
Whilst this was being done the orderly shouted excitedly:
"Quoi! Nom de Dieu--balayez au-dessous vos lits!" (Thunder and
lightning! Sweep up under your beds.)
The etiquette of the Legion in these things holds very strictly to old
tradition; every légionnaire had to sweep under his bed, while the
cleaning of the room was the work of the orderly on duty, who could of
course not begin this work until the floor beneath the beds had been
swept. That was the reason of all the "Quois" and "Nom de Dieus!" The
man had every cause to be excited and angry. He had to drill like the
others, and it was no trifle to have to sweep a large room, to dust and
to fetch water; everything within ten minutes. And it had all to be in
tip-top order, for a few minutes before commencing drill the
colour-sergeant inspected quarters and if anything was not in order in
the room the corporal was punished.
And when the corporal was punished, he of course took care that his men
were run in as well.
Punctually at 6 A.M. we recruits mustered in the barrack-yard in drill
uniform: white linen suit, blue sash, knapsack, cartridge-belt and
rifle--uniforms and leather trappings of shining brightness. The almost
pedantic cleanliness of the Legion, the coquetry of each individual
légionnaire to put a certain amount of "chic" into his uniform, was the
first thing Corporal Wassermann's vanity had taught us.
In the quick easy marching pace of the Legion we went out to the
"Plateau," a large open space near the negro quarter, surrounded by
olive-trees and red African oaks. The yellow clayey ground was stamped
hard by the marching of many thousands of légionnaires. On the one side
of the "Plateau" was the "village nègre," the negro town. Close to the
drill-ground the mosque, in proud white splendour, towered above the
miserable, half-ruined huts of the negro quarter, and hour by hour
sounded loudly from its minaret the priest's call to prayer:
"All'il Allah. God is great...."
"Arré, arré--go on, go on," yelled the Arabs, who drove their heavily
laden donkeys across the place with much scolding and beating. By the
side of the donkeys, like the beasts, heavily burdened, walked Arab
women, the legs bare to above the knee, but the face modestly covered
as prescribed by the teachings of the Prophet. Only a small portion of
the forehead was left free by the veil, and this was painted with a
bright red round spot of henna, the sign of the married woman.
The Arabs glanced at us with timid side looks and hastened to pass on.
Half-naked Arab and negro children raced about trying with comical
"grandezza" to imitate the martial steps, and shouted Arab words at us
which very likely were gross insults, until Corporal Wassermann picked
up stones and drove them away.
"Formez les faisceaux. Sac à terre." (Pile arms. Lay down your
knapsacks.)
"Pas gymnastique!" (At the double!) "En avant. Marche!"
With this the daily routine began. It was the famous "Legion's
breakfast," the lung-training of "double time."
In the form of a wide square we went round the drill-ground, five
minutes, ten minutes--un, deux, un, deux--always in sharp time. The
corporal, a splendid runner, ran at the head, teaching us the trick on
which everything depended here, to overcome the critical moment of lung
exhaustion, to get the "second wind." Even if the breath came and went
in short pumping gasps, if the eyes pained, and one commenced to
stumble from exhaustion, one ran on until the lungs had got used to the
extra exertion, until one had the feeling of being a machine, and could
go on running for ever. Then came the command "A volonté"--(as you
please)--and a race finished thirty minutes' exercise.
This is the Legion's breakfast.
It has cost many a man his lungs.
Pause. The tormented lungs worked in short hard gasps. It was
impossible to stand still. One was obliged to walk up and down quickly
in order to gradually quieten the pumping lungs.
The body had to expend all the strength it could in this morning drill.
Swedish gymnastics, "le boxe," formed the alternative to this doubling.
The training progressed very quickly. All the recruits had served in
some of the world's armies, and the first rudiments of military wisdom
had been drilled into them long ago. Three-quarters of my
fellow-recruits were Germans, who did not understand any French, and to
whom the French commands were Greek. Continual repetition was here
necessary.
"A gauche--gauche means left about," explained the corporal, and
repeated it ten times, until "gauche" had been mastered. The most
necessary French expressions were very quickly learnt by this most
natural of all methods.
A hot sun burned down on us. Ten times during a single forenoon every
stitch of clothes on one's body was soaked with perspiration, and ten
times it dried again. In the pauses one stood about, smoking
hand-twisted cigarettes, the inevitable cigarette of the Legion smoked
in every free moment, and by which the pause is measured according to
the old custom of the Legion? The pause was the duration of a
cigarette. When the corporal had finished smoking his cigarette he
slowly walked to a distance of about one or two hundred metres and
lifted his hand:
"A moi."
That meant we were to run up to him and recommence work.
"I've never run so d----d fast in all my life," was Herr von Rader's
continual lament. "I've an idea the suckers here are mistaking me for
an express train!"
At 11 A.M. we marched back to barracks. Knapsack and cartridge-belt
were thrown into the "paquetage," and dead tired we threw ourselves
upon our beds. But after a few short minutes, the soup signal rang out
from the barrack-yard.
"A la soupe, légionnaires, à la soupe, soupe, soupe."
"Soupe ..." every one yelled. Woe if the orderly of the room did not
rush to the kitchen, and woe if he did not reappear with the
soup-kettle in the twinkling of an eye! In everything connected with
food a genuine légionnaire stands no nonsense--he has too often
suffered starvation on marches and campaigns not to appreciate "la
gamelle."
The morning soup, the first of the two daily meals, was the same every
day: Bread soup, boiled together, with potatoes and vegetables, and a
piece of meat. With it the grey-white French military bread was served,
and every other day a quarter of a litre of heavy red wine. The food
was eaten off tin plates at the two long tables in our quarters. There
was, however, not room enough for all at the tables. The question of
seats the Legion's etiquette decided; the privilege of sitting down at
table belonged to the old légionnaires.
After the soup the kitchen corporal rushed from room to room:
"Aux patates--aux pommes de terre!" (To the potatoes!)
The whole company marched down to the kitchen, and standing in a large
circle peeled the day's supply of potatoes. Every one had to peel--he
who had no pocket-knife had to make shift with a sharpened
spoon-handle! The purchase of a pocket-knife was an exorbitant luxury
on a wage of five centimes a day....
In the afternoon the old légionnaires went off on long marches or to
field practice, or were ordered to "corvée," to work with spade and
pick, whilst the recruits had instruction. At 5 o'clock in the
afternoon, after a second "soupe," which was exactly like the first,
the official free time of the légionnaire began.
But in reality the most tiresome work of all now began--cleaning and
washing!
Rifle cleaning, cleaning of uniforms, polishing the leather parts of
the uniform. Leather! Even now I still think with a gentle shudder of
the leather of the Legion, of the cartridge-belt and pouch! There is
such a lot of trouble and work connected with these leather belts! The
vainest "neuvaine" does not spend so much time over the whole of her
toilette as does the légionnaire over the polishing of his
cartridge-belt! The procedure was unutterably ridiculous, in the
highest degree pedantic and unpractical, being irksome beyond all
measure. You melted black wax over a match and put it on the leather.
Then this wax had to be properly rubbed in with a flat piece of wood,
till it was evenly distributed. Then began the real polishing with an
arsenal of different rags. It took two hours to make cartridge-belt and
pouch shine properly, till the légionnaire's vanity was satisfied....
Unpractical and old-fashioned as the "astiquage" is, it belongs to the
etiquette of the Legion and is sacred. I had a special hatred of it and
considered myself infinitely smart when I bought a bottle of leather
dressing and simply painted my belts with it instead of working at them
for two hours. It looked very well and was at all events more durable.
But Corporal Wassermann almost fainted when he saw it. He tore the belt
out of my hand, and in a fit of rage ran round to all the men's rooms,
to show the other corporals what horrible things happen in this sinful
world. A painted cartridge-belt! The old soldiers of the companies came
running up and with many "merdes" and "noms d'un chien" surveyed in
petrified astonishment the greenhorn who had been so audacious as to
attempt to supplant the sacred "astiquage" of the Legion by painting!
"But it is more practical," I said at length to the fuming corporal in
the vain attempt to appease him.
"Mais, ça ne marche pas!" he shrieked. "That will never do. If you were
an old soldier and not a recruit, you would be locked up for ten days!"
The greatest plague, however, was the washing. The white uniform had of
course to be washed every day. In the back barrack-yard was the
"lavabo," a large reservoir built of concrete, with cold running water,
called in légionnaire's wit "cercle d'enfer" (Hell's circle). Every
free hour the légionnaires stood shoulder to shoulder around the
reservoir, in a large circle, shirt-sleeves turned up, with flushed and
perspiring heads. Behind those washing other légionnaires waited
patiently until a place at the reservoir became vacant. There they
washed, rubbed, beat and rinsed until darkness set in. The white linen
uniforms, the underclothing, and the linings of the uniforms had to be
washed in cold water and with little soap. The small piece of soap
which each man received once a month was not nearly enough, and few
things were railed at as much as the lack of soap. Scarcely had one
turned round, when lo and behold! the soap was gone.
Nothing represented the poverty of the Legion so much as this "lavabo."
The man who possessed a brush, an ordinary "washing-brush," and with
this could simplify the work of washing, was as much envied as if he
had been a millionaire--to lend such a brush was looked upon as an act
of the greatest friendship! For drying purposes lines were hung up near
by, and when one had hung up the wet clothes, one waited patiently
until they were dry. A man who was careless or impatient, and who did
not do so but went away, might afterwards survey the place on the line
where his washing had been hanging--the wash itself was gone, had
disappeared, been spirited away.
With the half-dry wash one returned to the room, laid one's blanket on
the table and "ironed" trousers and tunics by smoothing them with the
sharp edge of the drinking-mug until they were free of creases. The
poor devil of a légionnaire thus needed an hour for a piece of work
which could have been done in a few minutes with the help of a
flat-iron. But the foreign légionnaire is far too poor to possess such
a treasure as a flat-iron....
* * * * *
The object of our training was twofold: the training for prodigious
marching performances, and the education of the individual to complete
military independence. The working programme of the Foreign Legion, the
whole of its military value, is embodied in these two ideas:
Brilliant marchers--independent soldiers.
In addition to these two advantages we have the financial
consideration, on which the Foreign Legion's existence depends--the
advantage of cheap, splendidly trained mercenaries, with whom the most
daring military operations can be undertaken without consideration of
the sacrifice of life involved. No nation, no parliament asks for an
account of the dead. The Legion marches and acts independently, dies
without attracting attention.
The légionnaire can march. Forty kilometres a day is the fixed minimum
performance. He must be able to do that, day by day, without
interruption, without a day of rest, for weeks on end. That is the
object of his training from the very beginning--the daily "pas
gymnastique," the "double timing" in the long springy running stride of
the Legion, the initiatory practice for marching. Several times every
week the men must make practice marches over a distance of at least
twenty-four kilometres, with full equipment, at the Legion's pace of
five kilometres per hour, which has always remained the same. The only
object of the practice marches is to teach the recruits steady quick
marching. They neither end with a small manoeuvre, nor have they
exercises such as scouting, or exploring the country by means of
patrols. It is nothing but simple marching at a prescribed pace, a
tramping onwards to fulfil a given task. The "marches militaires," as
the practice marches are called, usually commence at midday, when the
sun is at its hottest, after a hard morning's drill, so as to represent
a practical exercise. On one of the military roads which branch off
from Sidi-bel-Abbès in all directions, the march goes on until the
twelfth kilometre is reached, and then the men are marched back again.
On the march a légionnaire may carry his rifle as he pleases, either
shouldered or by the strap, just as is most comfortable to him; he may
take off his knapsack if it hurts him, and carry it in his hand; he is
not ordered when to open his coat or when to shut it. The officers do
not worry the marching légionnaires with paltry orders, and they are
allowed to sing or to smoke as they please. When there is a large
puddle on the road, or when one side of the road is stony, the column
turns off of its own accord and marches where the road is best. In the
course of many a whole-day march I have not heard a single word from
the officers, no orders except the short whistle signals, which mean:
"Column, halt!" and "Column, forward march!" As soon as the signal
sounds for a halt, the front rows form front without orders, and every
man sits or lies down during the halt as suits him best. The marches
are regulated by the one principle: March as you like, with crooked
back or toes turned in, if you think that nice or better, but--march!
It is always being drummed into the légionnaire that he is intended for
nothing else in this world except for marching. If the pangs of hunger
are gnawing at his stomach or thirst parches his tongue, that is so
much the worse for him, but is no sort of a reason for his not marching
on! He may be tired, dead tired, completely exhausted--but he must not
stop marching. If his feet are bleeding and the soles burn like fire,
that is very sad--but the marching pace must not be slackened. The sun
may burn till his senses are all awhirl, he must go on. His task in
life is to march. The greatest crime that he can commit is to fail on
the march. There is no such thing as an impossible marching performance
for the regiment of foreigners. Each individual is inoculated with the
one idea, it is hammered into him, that he has to march as long as he
can control his legs. And when he can no longer control them, then he
must at least try to crawl.
It is a merciless system, which, however, produces wonderful soldiers.
Inseparable from the march of the Legion is the baggage of the
légionnaire.
The French foreign soldier marches with an equipment called the "tenue
de campagne d'Afrique." He wears splendidly made laced boots, white
duck trousers held together at the ankles by means of leather gaiters,
and the "capote," the heavy blue military cloak. The cloak is put on
over the shirt, without any coat underneath, and its tails are buttoned
back behind, so that thighs and knees are left free, and an
untrammelled gait rendered possible, just as with the French soldiers.
The only difference is that the légionnaire wears the "ceinture" round
the body, the blue sash, about four metres long, of fine woollen cloth,
which not only gives the body a firm support, but also does service as
a tropical belt, indispensable in the sudden changes of temperature in
Africa, where the glowing hot day is followed by an icy cold night. The
red "képi" has a white cover, and, as further protection against the
sun, a thin linen cloth-the "couvre-nuque," neck-cloth--is buttoned on
to the "képi," covering the neck, ears and cheeks. There are
consequently in the Legion comparatively few cases of sunstroke, which
may sound rather surprising.
He carries a rifle and a bayonet, two hundred to four hundred
cartridges, cartridge pouch and knapsack, and the "sac." This knapsack
is made of black varnished canvas with a unique system of straps, and
has hardly any weight of its own. On the march it contains two complete
uniforms, the légionnaire's linen and polishing cloths, partly in the
inside and partly in "ballots," in carefully prescribed bundles. Tent
canvas and blanket encircle the knapsack in a long roll. The
collapsible tent-sticks are stuck in at the side. On the top is
fastened the "gamelle" and fuel for the bivouac fire. In addition each
man also carries one of the saucepans of the company or pioneer's
implements. Knapsack, rifle and equipment altogether weigh almost fifty
kilogrammes; no soldier of any other army carries such a load.
With this kit he marches over sand under a burning sun, on very scanty
rations. In barracks he gets a cup of black coffee on rising in the
morning. At ten o'clock he gets his forenoon soup, at about 5 P.M. his
afternoon soup. Two meals a day, both consisting of soup, in which are
boiled all sorts of vegetables, a small piece of meat, and now and then
a special vegetable as an extra, spinach, carrots or such-like. With
this he eats the French military bread, a grey kind of bread which is
very easily digested, undoubtedly nutritious, sufficient and palatable.
When marching, however, the meat rations are dropped, and food consists
almost exclusively of rice and macaroni. As a substitute for the bread
he is served with a kind of hard ship's biscuit.
Marching always commences in the early hours after midnight. It then
goes on uninterruptedly, with the hourly halts for rest of five
minutes, until the task has been completed. This is a peculiarity of
the Legion from which there is no deviation, even when in the field. Be
the distance ever so great, it is covered in _one_ march.
The Légionnaire marches....
* * * * *
The Foreign Legion, as an old troop of mercenaries, works like a
machine. The newly recruited human material is quickly adapted to the
old, faultlessly working parts. In barrack life and on the drill-ground
the officers stand in the background. For these stages they are
superfluous, and their work is confined to paper reports or to an
occasional visit to the drill-ground. While I was serving in the
Foreign Legion I only came into close touch with the officers of my
company on the march. We scarcely knew them; the captain came into the
company's office in the forenoon, and was not seen again for the rest
of the day. The education of the men and their whole training is left
to the non-commissioned officers, above all to the corporals. They were
themselves once trained in the same service and possess, with rare
exceptions, great talent in training their men to be independent.
The system of the marches is brutal; the légionnaire must expend what
there is in him of vital energy and human strength, but in the military
service he is treated as a soldier, as a valuable soldier, whom one
does not worry with pedantic demands and paltry red-tape affairs, but
treats him in a sensible, I might say loving, manner, in order to draw
from him the utmost he is capable of. From the military point of view
he is really well treated.
During my training I did not once hear a word of bad language, and if a
strong expression was used, it was done in fun. Every morning and every
afternoon nine recruits of the eleventh were taken to a secluded spot,
a shady avenue near the Plateau, and were taken in hand by a corporal
and a légionnaire, première classe.
Every movement was explained to us, the purpose of every manoeuvre
illustrated precisely, so that we knew why we had to make this or that
exercise. The smallest details were all explained. It was not
considered a crime if in lining-up one man was a trifle farther forward
than the other; but if any man was awkward at boxing, that was
considered a very serious thing, and he was drilled by himself until he
grasped the fact that boxing was a most important matter, which
sharpened wits and nerves. In the pauses the instructors spoke to us
and explained a hundred little things. The gun had to be carried across
the shoulder in a certain place, because that was the easiest way of
carrying and balancing it. We were obliged to work hard, but never had
the feeling of being bothered with anything unnecessary. It was
practical work, the reason for which every one understood.
This was repeated on a larger scale when drilling in companies.
Everything was directed towards the practical and useful; one was not
drilled mechanically, but by practical methods. The company drill was
hardly ever conducted by the officers, but by the colour-sergeant of
the company.
Here the training of the individual to independence stepped in. In the
course of the day every man was given a problem which he had to solve:
the estimating of distances, the search for cover or ambush.... For
instance, ten men were told off as a scout-patrol, and had to reach a
certain spot without being seen. At the goal the whole company
assembled, and every légionnaire could watch for himself how the
scout-patrol carried out their task. Their movements were criticised by
the watching légionnaires; in great excitement they debated if another
way did not offer better cover, or if the patrol should not have
remained longer at one point to get a wider range of view for their
observations. This military criticism was looked upon with favour, and
sergeants and corporals regularly took part in the discussion. This
introduced into the hard service a suggestion of sport and individual
interest, stirring the ambition and giving interest to the work. For
all that the general work of the troop was not neglected and drill was
not despised when necessary. To my mind the firing discipline, for
instance, was perfect.
"Being practical" was the leading principle of the whole training. Each
man knew the length of his steps and knew that he required 117 or 120
or 125 steps to walk 100 metres. In interesting instructive lessons in
the field the légionnaire learnt not only the rudiments of map-reading,
but was taught to illustrate a report by a sketch, if it was only a
rough one. The corporals took special pains with the talented and
educated légionnaires, stirring their pride and ambition to achieve
something out of the common. One had the feeling of working for a
sporting competition. On clear, starry nights the company was often
alarmed and marched into the surrounding country of Sidi-bel-Abbès. Far
out in the open field we stopped. These exercises were conducted by our
first lieutenant. He gathered the légionnaires round him in a circle
and explained to them the constellations, their movements and their
relation to each other. This was repeated so often till even the
greatest dunce could find his bearings by means of the Pole-star and
the Great Bear.
Personal interest was brought into the soldier's work. One became
independent, one knew the Why and the Wherefore. Again and again
rifle-pits were dug, and sporting ambition urged us to work quicker
than the next section.
There was equal competition at the frequent drills in throwing up
earthworks, and with wonderful rapidity entrenchments were built up of
haversacks filled with sand. It was like watching a match to see the
"escouades," the different sections of the company, endeavouring to be
the first to have their tent up. With one pull they had the tent-cloth
out of the knapsack, and fitted the sticks together; every one had his
own piece of work--the one buttoned the tent canvas together, the other
stretched the sides down tight, and the next one drove in the pegs. And
like a miracle the little tent grew out of the ground. My squad held
the record in tent-building with seventy seconds. It was looked upon as
a matter of honour to turn out with the greatest speed and exactness,
one was proud of being able to form square on the march in a few
seconds. One ran like mad at the command "A genoux!"--an interesting
manoeuvre, the purpose of which was to save oneself from bursting
shells and volley fire. When the command "A genoux!" (Down on the
knees!) sounded the whole line in long strides moved closely together,
every single man fell on his knees and put his head as far under the
knapsack of the man in front of him as possible, each one crowding
close to his neighbour. No head, no back was visible, nothing but a
compact mass of knapsacks. The head of each man was protected by the
knapsack of the man in front, this and his own knapsack protecting him
from shells and shrapnel. The "sac," with its contents of soft uniforms
and underlinen, was proof even against a rifle-bullet.
Everything was practical. All the bother with the "paquetage," the
paltry and exact folding up of equipment according to a prescribed
plan, meant in reality prompt readiness at shortest notice. The
légionnaire has no wardrobe and is obliged to put a host of things into
a ridiculously small space with methodical neatness. But the result of
all this is that he can find every piece in the dark and stands with
his kit packed according to marching regulations ten minutes after the
alarm.
The Legion understands its soldiering business. One must admit that. It
shoots brilliantly. The general regulations for the computation of the
shooting range are absolutely ignored by the Legion. But every man
tests his gun over every range until he knows exactly, when given a
distance, how his own gun shoots over it: at four hundred yards, a
hand's-breadth up, and a hand's-breadth to the left ... and so on. The
shooting-range at Sidi-bel-Abbès is never unoccupied, cartridges are
not stinted, and a company would feel very unhappy if at least half of
its men were not first-class shots. Money prizes are even given. I once
got a prize of ten francs....
On the other hand, it is on the rifle-ground that one can see how the
légionnaire is treated as a man. He is supposed to be a badly treated
man, a desperate man, one not to be trusted. As a soldier the
légionnaire must shoot, shoot much. As a desperate man he ought not to
have arms in his possession. But the Legion has found a compromise. A
corporal stands behind every légionnaire who shoots on the range,
watching the shooter's every movement. From the same reason even the
sentinels do not get any cartridges. The non-commissioned officer in
command of the guard receives a small box with ammunition, locked and
sealed and only to be opened in case of necessity. Is a sentinel
attacked, then he must defend himself with his bayonet until he can
alarm the guard and bring the officer on duty to the rescue with
cartridges. Such things are significant. But they do not prevent the
légionnaire from being a splendid soldier.
Individual training--Boer tactics--practical instruction ... that is
the Legion. And it marches. Now and then its marching powers are
increased artificially. The "compagnies montées" one with each
regiment, companies mounted on mules, have even done seventy kilometres
a day. Every two men have a mule. The one rides and takes the baggage
of his comrade marching alongside with him on the mule. Then they
change about. The mounted companies lie far in the south and follow up
the hostile Arabs with colossal forced marches.
But on the whole "la Légion" depends on its legs. These brilliant
professional soldiers march....
* * * * *
I will give you, naturally translated, my company's weekly programme as
it was hung up on the blackboard every Saturday:
Monday 6-7 Boxing.
7.30-10 Company drill.
12 Military march.
Tuesday 6-7 Gymnastics.
7.30-10 Skirmishing.
11-12 Instruction in hygienic rules in the field.
1 Work under the quartermaster's direction.
Wednesday 5.30-6.30 Boxing.
7 Company musters for bathing.
8-11 Mending uniforms, preparation for inspection
by the colonel.
Thursday 5.30 March to the shooting-range.
12-1 Instruction in first-aid to wounded.
1.15 Work under the quartermaster's orders.
Friday 5 Military march.
1-2 Instruction in taking cover in flat ground.
2.30 Work under the quartermaster's orders.
Saturday 5.30 Run over six kilometres.
8-11 Company drill.
12 Cleaning of barracks and quarters.
4 Inspection of the barracks by the colonel.
The men stand beside their beds in duck suit.
N.B.--At the 11 o'clock muster each morning a part of the uniform, to
be named each day by the adjutant, has to be presented for inspection.
* * * * *
Inseparable from the Legion's military value is the Legion's work.
Not so very long ago Sidi-bel-Abbès was a sand-heap, on which only a
"marabout" stood, the tomb of a pious saint, to which the Arab hordes
of the Beni Amer made pilgrimages. At that time strange men came,
gathered round the brand new flag of the Legion and convinced the sons
of Amer in bloody battles that it would be good for their health to
move farther south. These strange men built roads and burned bricks.
They built solid fortification walls, drained that horrid little
rivulet Mekerra, which flowed so sluggishly through the sand, and which
smelt so badly; they laid out gardens and planted olive-trees. The
barracks, the public buildings, most of the dwelling-houses arose under
the hands of these industrious mercenaries.
The légionnaire was always and is always still a workman. The heaviest
work of the Foreign Legion is done on the smallest military stations in
Algeria, down in the south, on the borders of the Sahara, where every
day's bodily work means loss of health to a European. There the working
column turns out day by day with pick and spade to build roads, whilst
perhaps in an Arab village a few hours distant the civil authorities
are distributing "relief" in the form of natural products to loafing
Arabs. Eighty per cent. of Algeria's brilliant roads have been built by
the Legion.
The trowel is thrust into the légionnaire's hand. There, now you are a
mason. He builds barracks for the troops and offices for the civil
administration. He breaks the stones with which the roads are repaired.
He performs the pioneer work of Northern Africa at a wage which a
coolie would scoff at.
His strength is made full use of. A grotesque example of this is the
custom prevailing in the 2nd Regiment, stationed in Saida, to allow
légionnaires to work for private people in the town. They, of course,
get less wage for this than a common workman would ask for, but that in
itself would not be so bad, because even the few francs a day mean
wealth to a légionnaire. The peculiarity, however, the typical side of
the whole affair, is that these workers have to hand over a part of
their day's earnings to the funds of their company. The company
enriches itself through their work.
In the garrison life of Sidi-bel-Abbès the work of the Legion took
grotesque forms. In my life I have spent several weeks on end in the
saddle; while still very young I struggled for existence in the United
States; I have suffered from hunger and cold, and for months I have had
shivering fits of malaria--but I never experienced to such a degree the
feeling that my physical strength was being pumped out of me to the
last drop as during the time I spent in Sidi-bel-Abbès. I was always
tired and every free moment found me stretched out at full length on my
camp bed. During work I had the ambition (which to-day appears to me
ridiculous) to be second to none in strength and endurance. Scarcely,
however, was the work ended, when the bodily and mental depression set
in.
My captain was quite right when one day at inspection he stood still in
front of me and said disapprovingly to the sergeant: "Il a maigri
beaucoup!" (He has got very thin!)
"Mais il fait son service," replied the sergeant. (He does his work.)
That was of course the principal thing.
The getting thin and feeling tired had their own good reasons. Like all
légionnaires I was a working animal. Early in the morning the hard
military service began. The afternoon brought the "corvée" work, and
the evening the ridiculous small jobs of the barrack routine. The word
"corvée," which literally means drudgery and in the military sense
"work," I will not forget as long as I live, and will never read it
again without shuddering. "Corvée" was a component part of almost every
day in the Legion. The work was often so hard that every bone and every
muscle in my body ached, often it was simply ridiculous and depressing.
The greater part of the company mustered generally at 1 P.M. in the
barrack-yard, and the sergeant "du jour" chose working parties, each of
which was in charge of a corporal. That was something quite different
to the military service. Indifferent as I must have been at that time,
I nevertheless always noticed the sulky and disgusted faces the men
made when they went to this work. In small groups we marched out of the
barracks, armed with broom, pick and shovel.
The Legion was there to work, and from the légionnaire one could ask
things impossible in other French troops. If one saw a soldier working
in Sidi-bel-Abbès, then he was sure to be a légionnaire. Arab Spahis or
French soldiers of the line, who were also stationed in Sidi-bel-Abbès,
had never such work to do as we did, and which should have been done by
scavengers and navvies. That was the privilege of the Foreign Legion.
From the Arab Spahis, that is to say from the natives, such work was
not demanded. On the other hand, the Legion had often to supply men to
put the forage of the "Spahis" under cover. That may sound paltry, but
it is just these small things that characterise the way the légionnaire
is taken advantage of. He is just good enough for any kind of work.
We swept the public park of the town for the citizens of
Sidi-bel-Abbès, whilst the gardeners stood idly by, watching us and
ordering us about; we rooted out the undergrowth, and cleansed the
brook which ran through the botanical gardens from mud and refuse. We
emptied the drains in the officers' houses; we did scavengers' work in
the filthy slums of the town.
Once I was a member of a detachment that had to clean the sewers in the
Arab prison. The work was loathsome beyond measure. We had taken with
us a large barrow with casks, and had to haul from underneath the
floors of the cells and prison rooms the large tin pans, and carry them
to the barrow. We performed this disgusting work, whilst in the prison
yard the loafing Arab rabble prowled around and made jokes at our
expense.
Sunday only was free from work, free from all kinds of service. We were
not even mustered. And the légionnaire lies the whole blessed Sunday in
bed. Towards evening he goes to the Jardin Public to listen to the
concert given by the regimental band. He goes there because it is the
Legion's custom--but he would much rather sleep on....