THE MADNESS OF THE FOREIGN LEGION
An unpleasant occurrence : The last three coppers : The Roumanian Jew
from Berlin : Monsieur Viaïsse : The Legion's atmosphere : The Cafard
demoniacs : Bismarck's double : Krügerle's whim : The madness of
Légionnaire Bauer : Brutal humour : A tragedy
In the interval between the terrible exertions of the great manoeuvre
march and a period of hard work in the sewers of the Arab prison of
Sidi-bel-Abbès, something I had long been dreading occurred. Even by
changing my few gold pieces into the smallest of coppers, I could not
spin them out eternally. One fine day the sum of my riches consisted of
three thick, round copper pieces. Although big and heavy, they were not
worth more than a few cents.
I lay stretched out on my bed, tired and vexed. Smith, who, being a
bugler, was not obliged to waste his strength in cleaning Arab sewers,
was chaffing me. He thought it a great joke to inquire with friendly
solicitude about the unpleasant details of my work.
I did not like his raillery. Wishing for revenge, I remembered with
grim humour that the state of my finances would be of a certain
interest to my friend Smith.
"Hallo, bugler," said I.
Smith, lounging on his bed, muttered something about privileged sons of
the Prophet--and inquired if the Arab convicts had been satisfied with
my work?
"Bugler, I've no more money!" I said.
He jumped up from his bed, looking at me aghast.
"What d'you say?"
"My money is finished."
Smith's face grew long.
He was evidently thinking of the countless casks of wine lying stored
in Sidi-bel-Abbès.... All at once his face cleared. He had found a way
out of the difficulty.
"Send for some more!" he advised.
I shook my head.
"Nonsense," said the bugler, with the happy confidence of the Legion.
"They'll send you some, a légionnaire always gets something sent him.
Shall I help you to write a real, nice, touching letter, Dutchy?"
Again I shook my head. But the bugler would not let me off so easily.
Going through the different grades of relationship, he inquired as to
my connections. When I declared with intentional spitefulness that they
were all as poor as church mice, he swore a little in Arabic and
thoughtfully repeated a chapter of the Koran, treating of the duties of
friendship. A little inspired by this, he asked for a whole hour about
my former friends. I told him that they were either dead or on the
point of starvation. The bugler thought this ridiculous, but with much
tact did not continue the subject, coming, no doubt, to the conclusion
that I had either killed somebody or robbed a bank in good old Germany.
Nothing but that could keep a légionnaire from writing begging letters!
I let the philosopher keep his opinion.
After thinking deeply for a time, he muttered nothing but a resigned,
"C'est la Légion."
After a while he asked: "And is there really nothing left?"
Without saying a word, I pulled out my three copper pieces.
Then a slight smile spread over his face. "Do you know, we'll buy drink
with that," he said softly. As we went down the stairs to the canteen,
he wisely proposed buying two half-bottles instead of a whole one, for
the half-bottles were always filled three-quarters full by Madame la
Cantinière. In this way we got the fullest measure possible for the
three coppers.
My friend the bugler emptied the bottle with great respect, till not a
drop was left. Then he became sad again, but said in a comforting way:
"Inschallah--and if we haven't any money, sonny, then we've got none.
But if I were you, I should after all write to somebody for a little
brass----"
Only now, in my utter destitution, did I really recognise my position.
The few pieces of silver I had still had in my possession, which in
former times would just have been sufficient for a few theatre tickets
or a few hundred cigarettes, had, in the land of Sidi-bel-Abbès, been a
fortune, and had saved me from much wearisome, petty work. Thanks to
them, I had been able, after long marches or heavy fatigue duty, to go
straight into town without having to bother about polishing and
washing. The smallest coin could purchase release from these
burdens--now all this was at an end. For hours after I came off duty,
I, like the others, stood at the wash-tub, or tediously polished my
leather-work.
My horizon had narrowed; now it only encircled the drill-ground,
barrack-yard, and my bunk in the Legion's quarters. I spent hours lying
on my bed and staring at the whitewashed wall opposite, with the long
shelf on which the knapsacks were packed. My interests were now quite
taken up by all the petty, trifling considerations of the Legion. I
quarrelled with the others whether it were really my turn to fetch
fresh water in the big earthenware jug; I disputed the highly important
matter of sweeping underneath my bed, and it was a question of vital
interest to me whether I was ordered to scrub the bench or the large
table at the great Saturday cleaning.... The bench was so much easier
to do.
The days all passed in the same monotonous manner. The grey sameness
tired the brain and made one indifferent to the little considerations
and small services that people should render to each other when living
such a hard life, crowded into so small a space. Everywhere the worst
side of human nature showed itself, and even the greatest fool was soon
clever enough to find out the bad points of the man who worked beside
him by day and slept next to him at night. Petty malice, ill-natured
gossip, ridiculous intrigues formed the atmosphere of the Legion.
I learnt to know a great deal about human nature, and what I learnt was
not inspiriting. With the exception of jolly Herr von Rader, Abramovici
was the only man I knew who had a spark of humour left in him. He was
the queerest character in the room. He declared he was a Roumanian, but
only spoke German, and that with a terrible Berlin accent, which was,
to say the least, very strange in a Roumanian. When questioned as to
his religion, he told the corporal that he was a "pork-eating" Jew. I
suppose he meant that he had no delicate convictions.
The man was tall and very thin and appeared to be made of india-rubber.
His long neck was surmounted by a head like that of a bird of prey,
continually turning from side to side so as not to miss an opportunity
of stealing something from his comrades. He had a vile mouth under his
enormous nose. In a whining tone he swore all day long at providence in
general and the Legion in particular. Nobody could resist his
volubility and he was the first, the last, and the only légionnaire who
ever succeeded in never doing any work.
The explanation of his French nickname, "Viaïsse," was that the
india-rubber man repeated the Yiddish phrase of lament, "Wie haisst!"
about ten times in one sentence. Once when he made a complaint about
something or other to the captain, the latter had thrown up his hands
in despair and called out, "Viaïsse, viaïsse, sacré nom de Dieu!
toujours viaïsse--what does the fellow want?" The whole regiment
laughed at "Monsieur Viaïsse"; he was never called by his real name,
Abramovici, but officers and corporals called to him: "Eh, Viaïsse,
come here!" He never worked. He was only saved from punishment by his
inherent gift of humour. He was very tall, his arms nearly reaching to
the ground. If one of his superiors ever ventured to give him any work
to do, the scraggy "india-rubber man" appeared to personify a whole
Ghetto. His eyes grew large and staring, the nose purple, and the head
moved backwards and forwards like a pendulum.
Then Viaïsse took a deep breath, and a mad flow of words poured from
his vile mouth, while the long arms, with the outspread claw-like
fingers, waved frantically in the air.
"... Wie haisst! nom de Dieu, de bon Dieu de la Légion--damn me, why
should I work myself to death? I've had to drill the whole forenoon and
have got nix to eat but a poor soup. I'm a stricken man and will have
to get some extra food if I am not to fall down dead like a dog, you
jewel of a sergeant. Wie haisst! I am a ruined man if I don't get some
food at once. Well?"
It is impossible to repeat it all. Words fail me when I try to
reproduce my friend Abramovici's grand flow of language. In one respect
he was indeed a friend to me; no one ever made me laugh as much as he
did. On the day of his arrival with the depot-train from Oran, I
happened to hear when the sergeant of the company for the first time
ordered him to do some work. Abramovici nearly got a fit at this
unheard-of demand. His arms waved frantically in the air like a
windmill, and wild words flowed from his mouth.
The poor sergeant wished to put in a word sideways. He wished to give a
quiet command, he wanted to get furious. But he could not. He could
only see with numb astonishment the lurid red nose, he turned away to
get out of the reach of the "windmill arms," and at last fell down on
the nearest bed with a horrible Arab oath, and laughed as he had never
laughed before in his life. When he at last recovered his breath again,
he said in broken German: "Oh, Gott in Himmel, cet homme là, zu viel
sprechen.--Talks too much."
But Abramovici went on jabbering, until at last his harangue ended in
laments to the God of his Fathers.
This was the way he always got off--one so seldom hears a laugh down
there that Monsieur Viaïsse was highly appreciated by officers and men.
He called me his friend. He began our friendship with the conventional
question:
"Wie haisst! will you give me a cigarette?"
Many a cigarette the Roumanian Jew from Berlin got from me, as long as
there was silver in my pocket. In return he assured me of his high
esteem, and when longing for a smoke called me "Herr Baron." When with
the silver pieces the cigarettes came to an end, our friendship
suffered a little in consequence.
I myself lived in a state of continual irritation. The least trifle put
me into such a rage that I can hardly credit it to-day. Often enough I
would tear down my "paquetage" from the shelf, destroying what had been
wearisome work, just because some trousers or jacket did not seem to be
folded correctly. It had been nothing else but "cafard" when I had
roared at the captain because the doctor refused to give me an opiate
on the march--it was exactly the same "cafard" in a milder form when I
roared at this or that comrade just because he was in my way when I was
busy polishing. My vexation, my irritability, my brooding was the
madness of the Foreign Legion.
No légionnaire escapes from it.
The rest of my comrades in the room all had at different times the
"cafard" more or less seriously.... Crowded together like horses in a
bad stable the men became dangerous. They fought over the quarter of a
litre of the Legion wine that was apportioned to us every second day,
and watched with ridiculous suspicion that the next man did not get
more than he did; one quarrelled over a piece of bread; one took one's
neighbour for a thief who wanted to steal a bit of black wax for
leather polishing. If one man got more work to do than his neighbour,
he cried murder and roared out about protection, and favouritism, and
vicious preference.
This was the atmosphere in which the Legion whims were developed. It
was really strange how many of the légionnaires had a screw loose,
often only harmless peculiarities, but which could increase to madness.
All idiocy in the Legion is called "cafard." A légionnaire is gloomy,
sitting sullenly on his bed for hours, speaking to no one. If you ask
him what is the matter, he will answer with a gross insult. He sits
thinking all the time and does the queerest things. He has the
"cafard."...
His madness may turn into a senseless explosion or fit of fury; men
suffering from "cafard" will run a bayonet through their comrade's
body, without any reason, without any outward cause. Sometimes they
rush out into the desert, sometimes they tear every piece of their
outfit into rags, just to vex themselves and others thoroughly.
The "cafard" is at its worst in the hot season when the sun burns down
relentlessly from the cloudless, deep blue sky, with the strange
greenish colouring of the horizon peculiar to Algeria. Then the
barrack-yard of the Foreign Legion lies deserted. It is so hot that the
stones on the yellow clayey ground seem to move in the glimmering
overheated air. The légionnaire sentries wear the flowing white
neck-protector, and have stuffed wet cloths into their képis.
In the soldiers' quarters the légionnaires lie on their mattresses and
take their siesta, the strictly prescribed rest from 11 A.M. until 3
P.M. The white man is a useless object in the sun-blaze of the hot
season. In the infernal heat of the soldiers' rooms the "cafard" has
often been the cause of great disaster. It has often happened that
during the siesta légionnaires have suddenly jumped out of the window,
three stories high, without any outward cause whatever.
Once (very likely when affected with "cafard") I wrote down during the
siesta a description of what our men's room looked like. These few
lines are the only thing I ever wrote in the Legion:
"I lay on my bed half naked. The room was as hot as a stove, filled
with the stench of perspiration. A brilliant strip of sunlight played
through the long room from window to window. Oh, the heat, the heat.
Even the walls felt hot. In the bare, whitewashed room the men lay
groaning on their beds in all kinds of possible and impossible
positions. Some were swearing, others quarrelling--nothing brings on
the "cafard" so quickly as physical suffering. Two Spaniards were
quarrelling in the loud gesticulating manner of their race; a German in
the next bed had fallen asleep, and was muttering words of German in
his dream. He was dreaming of his mother. In the other corner of the
room a Frenchman was shouting frantically to some one to give him a
brush--his own brush was lost. His bed neighbour hummed a marching
song, half in Arabic, half in French, always with the same refrain:
"'Si le caporal savait ça, il dirait: Nom de Dieu.'
"Another man slowly and automatically rubbed his leather straps, a
third one informed everybody that the sergeant was a rogue and was
working him to death. Here the German awoke. Disturbed in his sleep he
yelled out: 'Shut up you beggars.' And the Frenchmen and Spaniards
began to curse on hearing German words.
"'Monsieur le Caporal'[4] sat up slowly and tiredly and, leaning on his
elbow, said in a low tone of voice:
[4] "Monsieur le Caporal" was Corporal Wassermann's nickname,
because in the eyes of the légionnaires he was far too
particular in his manners and language when giving orders.
"'A little silence, please.'
"The Spaniards laughed and a Frenchman said under his breath, the
damned 'casque à pique,' meaning the Prussian helmet, might leave
honest légionnaires in peace during siesta.
"The corporal did not move. In his quiet even tone he went on speaking:
'Silence. You all know that during siesta all noise is forbidden.
Legrand, for using the epithet "casque à pique," I punish you with two
days' barrack arrest. You are not serving in a French line regiment,
but in the Foreign Legion. You understand, do you not, that in the
Foreign Legion no man is taxed with his nationality. And in every
respect it is very unwise to vex your corporal. Ça y est.'
"At that the légionnaire laughed and quiet reigned once more.
"My God, the heat was terrible. Then all at once a slashing, metallic
sound. One of the Spaniards had pulled down the long bayonet that
always hangs over a légionnaire's bed, and was in the act of assaulting
his countryman and comrade. The corporal sprang between the two and
sent one flying to the right, the other to the left. In a second the
whole place was in an uproar. The two Spaniards threw themselves upon
each other, anxious to kill each other. The other légionnaires laughed
and howled out through it all....
"At last the signal, 'Debout, légionnaires, debout!' 'Up, up!' sounded
down in the yard. The siesta was at an end."
This is what I wrote while lying half naked in my bed, groaning at the
heat. The description has the advantage of the impressions of the
moment. This was what happened when the "cafard" was at its "best."
Then again whole numbers of soldiers are affected by it in the same
way. The légionnaires of half a company would put their heads together,
planning some act of desperation. One time it would be mutiny en masse,
at another time desertion in a body. This madness is well known
wherever a company of légionnaires is stationed. In some kind of form
it is always present. It is the cause of the horrible tattooing, of
drinking and brawling; it is the reason for that peculiar longing for
continual change, that restlessness typical of the Foreign Legion.
The légionnaires are themselves not aware what influence the "cafard"
has on them. When an old légionnaire says grumpily, "J'ai le cafard,"
he is just telling his neighbours to keep clear of him, that he has a
bad fit of the blues, that it is advisable for his comrades to leave
him alone. He has no idea that a hidden power, like unto madness, is
making him act in such a manner, he only believes himself to be in a
bad humour. But the bad humour rises and increases, often driving him
to murder, more often to suicide. The légionnaire cannot foresee the
effects of the "cafard." The typical "cafard demoniacs," the old grumpy
fellows who do their duty like machines and at other times hardly speak
at all, are instinctively feared, as if their comrades knew that at any
moment the least trifle could lead to an outbreak of the dormant
madness.
I have witnessed such an explosion (that is the proper term for it). We
had a man in our company who had served for many years in the Legion.
He was a Frenchman and had worn the Legion's uniform for more than ten
years. He got out of our way whenever he could, and when his duties
were over, slunk away into lonely corners of the barrack-yard. Every
fifth day he left the barracks, on pay-day, to return reeling,
evidently drunk, just before evening muster. He never was rowdy, but
silent as usual, he threw himself upon his bed. Where he went to, where
he bought his wine, with whom he drank it, nobody knew.
One pay-day, when the half of our company was on guard-duty, he for
once came back too late. The barrack-gates had long been closed; Smith
and I were still sitting on the bench in front of the guard-room, the
sergeant and the other légionnaires were lying inside on their bunks.
All at once the sentry at the gate called the officer on duty with the
laconic report:
"Sergeant--la porte!"
The gate! Swearing, the man came with his keys. Outside stood the
grumpy old légionnaire, swaying from side to side and his képi at the
back of his head.
"Bertillon?" the sergeant said, unlocking the gate. "You ---- old pig,
you ought to know by this time when to come home."
Bertillon staggered in and remained standing in front of the sergeant.
"Be off with you and get into your quarters!" he commanded. "You can be
jolly glad that your own company is on guard duty, else you would have
been locked up at once. Allez--schieb' los!"
The old légionnaire stared at the sergeant. Suddenly, without saying a
word, he hit him right in the face with his fist.
"Aux armes!" the reeling sergeant yelled. Bertillon had pulled out his
bayonet and was slashing and hitting at every one, roaring like a wild
beast. A terrible tussle ensued. We were twelve to one, but it took us
more than a quarter of an hour to get the upper hand of the "cafard"
madman, and every one had been more or less wounded by his bayonet. At
length we contrived to throw blankets over his head, and strapping him
up like a parcel, we threw him into the prison.
On opening the cell the next morning he was found dead. At the
post-mortem examination the army surgeon stated that the bursting of an
artery in the brain had been the cause of death.
These are the worst cases of "cafard."
Generally the peculiar malady of the Foreign Legion shows itself in all
kinds of peculiar whims. Smith's comical reciting of the Koran chapters
was such a whim. Many developed some kind of fixed idea.
The cook of my company was an old légionnaire who had served in the
Legion for fifteen years and was soon to be pensioned off; his fixed
idea was that he was Bismarck's double. His name was Schlesinger. Like
the German Prime Minister, he had the stature of a giant, and in his
heavy face with the bald head, in the sharp eyes, there certainly was a
slight resemblance to the features of the "man of iron." The Legion,
being good-natured and having a great sense of humour, did old
Schlesinger the favour of never calling him anything else but
"Bismarck."
Herr von Rader was the first one to draw my attention to him. He had
heard of the cook's peculiarity and ... forthwith rushed to the
kitchen. He lounged about the door till the cook, getting suspicious,
came to see if the intruder intended stealing. Hardly had von Rader
seen him, when he called out in astonishment: "Good gracious! that
surely must be Bismarck!"
The cook drew himself up majestically and smiled condescendingly.
"Such a likeness!" in a surprised voice from von Rader.
"Very like--n'est-ce pas?" said Schlesinger, highly flattered.
"Really wonderful! You surely must be a relation of the Bismarck
family?"
"That may be," nodded the cook, very much pleased. This was quite a new
idea. It had never entered his head that he might be related to
Bismarck.
"You're certainly a relation," said von Rader in a tone of conviction,
"an illegitimate."
"Très possible--très possible," the cook murmured, proud and happy.
"Are you a young soldier?" he asked the man who had put the wonderful
idea into his poor old légionnaire's head.
"That's so," groaned von Rader. "I am like you, and have once been
something better. My father" (von Rader lowered his voice to a whisper
as if he were disclosing the greatest secret), "my father was a count!"
Bismarck was much impressed by his announcement.
"And now I must starve in the Legion," added von Rader sadly.
"Pas ça," said Schlesinger, and, disappearing into the kitchen, he
returned with a large piece of roast pork. "Tiens, camarade. To-morrow
we will talk again about--about our ancestors. Mais--say nothing."
"Nothing," assured von Rader, putting his finger to his lips.
From that day the pseudo-Bismarck and the pseudo-count were seen
together almost daily, and von Rader always had a piece of meat in his
knapsack, when we had to eat dry bread in the drill pause.
If any one called the cook "Schlesinger" he was deeply offended and did
not answer; even the officers called him Bismarck.
There was another légionnaire I cannot forget--Little Krügerle. His
whim was--to steal grapes. A very funny idea, for Krügerle never ate
grapes himself; he did not like them. With great trouble he got them
into the barracks and then gave them away.
His one idea was to steal the grapes.
This was his cafard, his special rage against the possessors of
vineyards. But his cafard had its own tale....
Grapes were worth very little in Algeria, but when every year at the
grape harvest three thousand légionnaires strolled in the evenings
along the paths beside the vineyards, when each légionnaire ate about
five pounds of grapes, taking another ten pounds under his cloak--then
the Spanish grape-farmers grew angry. They sent a deputation to the
colonel, declaring that his légionnaires were worse than a
locust-plague. The colonel abused them all and sent out a command that
all who transgressed again would be punished. The légionnaires
laughed--were a little more careful, but stole quite as many grapes as
formerly. Seeing that it would not do like this, the Spaniards engaged
Arabs, gave them small-shot guns and told them not to spare the
offenders. The following morning the army surgeon was much astonished,
on going his daily round, to find sixty-five légionnaires wounded by
small shot.
The extraction of all the small shot took so much time that he got
furious and went to the colonel and complained. The latter, having an
idea what was the matter, examined the "invalids," who promptly told a
great story of having been suddenly attacked by Arabs. The colonel
laughed and ordered them all to be locked up for four weeks on bread
and water.
Now the Spaniards were left in peace, because the grapes were not worth
while being shot and locked up for, the légionnaires said sadly.
But from this time dated little Krügerle's cafard. Every day he went
out to steal grapes. With the greatest patience and cunning he crawled
about in the vineyards and stole grapes. Once he was shot and ran right
back to the barracks and into the soldiers' room. Five minutes later,
all the fifteen men there were busily occupied in digging the countless
shot out of their comrade's back--with pocket-knives!
Krügerle underwent the operation with more or less tranquillity--but it
was worth suffering a little; if he had gone to the surgeon, four weeks
of cellule arrest would have been his lot.
He swore great oaths--but went stealing grapes again the following day.
* * * * *
The germ of madness, of tragedy, always lies hidden in the cafard. I
was a witness of the following tragedy.
In our room in the corner by the window an Austrian had his bed. His
name was Bauer. He had joined the company with a new batch of recruits,
shortly after I did, in good health, fresh and curious like all the
other recruits: an average man, who did not easily learn the French
words of command, but did his work conscientiously. Week by week he got
quieter. Stupidly he did his work and spoke to nobody. In his free time
he sat on his bed moodily staring in front of him. Now and then he
would be punished for neglecting his uniform, but this did not seem to
make any impression on him at all. He returned from prison as moody as
before. Nobody took any notice of him. All at once the poor quiet
creature became the centre of attraction, an object of ridicule and
enmity, and for weeks the gossip of the Legion's quarters.
Suddenly Bauer was attacked by a most ravenous appetite. If possible he
was quieter than formerly; but when the midday soup appeared, he fell
over it like a wild animal, devouring it greedily, and greedily he
watched us while we were eating. When we had finished, he crept up to
the table, examining the empty dishes in the hope of finding a few
drops left. After this he would rush down to the kitchen to the old
cook to beg some leavings from him. The other men in the room were so
brutalised by their own misfortunes in life that they only looked upon
this poor devil as a clown to serve for their amusement.
They threw pieces of bread into corners, and yelled with pleasure when
Bauer crawled about on all-fours under the beds to look for the coveted
morsel. They poured petroleum into his soup, and were wild with delight
when the poor fellow nevertheless emptied the dish greedily.
Day by day Bauer grew worse. From the other soldiers' quarters, even
from the other companies, the légionnaires came at soup-time to our
room to inspect the prodigy. All the time he sat crouching on his bed,
smiling vacantly and gobbling down whatever he could get. He would gnaw
at the dry bone held out to him by a légionnaire with the same grin as
he would chew a piece of hard leather given to him by another man. It
was the beginning of insanity....
Soon the whole regiment was talking about the man with the unappeasable
appetite. If any one wished to have a joke, they brought the glutton a
dry crust or a piece of hard Legion biscuit, just to watch him devour
it. For weeks these scenes occurred, without the authorities thinking
it necessary to interfere.
The end came suddenly. One day we only found half-chewed crusts on our
table instead of the usual daily portion of bread. Bauer had stolen
away from his work and eaten our rations!
The légionnaires threw themselves upon him--where their own comforts
were concerned it was no joking matter. One of them struck the poor
devil, who, biting and scratching and hitting at every one, shrieked
like a madman. The watch was roused, and the poor fellow, chained hand
and foot, was carried across to the infirmary.
Three days after, the eleventh company conducted a small black cart to
the grave-yard of Sidi-bel-Abbès. In the rudely made coffin on the cart
lay the remains of Légionnaire Bauer. In the infirmary he had smashed
his head against the wall.... At the grave the captain said briefly, in
a cold voice: "Recevez les derniers adieux de votre chef et de vos
camarades."
This was his funeral sermon.