IN THE FOREIGN LEGION IN THE FOREIGN LEGION BY ERWIN ROSEN LONDON DUCKWORTH & CO. HENRIETTA ST. COVENT GARDEN 1910 All rights reserved Printed by BALLANTVNE & Co. LIMITED Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London PROLOGUE ONCE upon a time there was a young student at a German University who found life too fresh, too joyous, to care very much for professors and col- lege halls. Parental objections he disregarded. Things came to a climax. And the very next " Schnelldampfer " had amongst its passengers a boy in disgrace, bound for the country of unlimited possibilities in search of a fortune. . . . The boy did not see very much of fortune, but met with a great deal of hard work. His father did not consider New York a suitable place for bad boys, and booked him a through passage to Galveston. There the ex-student contracted hotel- bills, feeling very much out of place, until a man who took a fancy to him gave him a job on a farm in Texas. There the boy learnt a good deal about riding and shooting, but rather less about cotton- raising. This was the beginning. In the course of time he became translator of Associated Press Despatches for a big German paper in St. Louis and started in newspaper life. From vast New York to the Golden Gate his new profession carried him : he was sent as a war correspondent to Cuba, he learned wisdom from V 273256 vi PROLOGUE the kings of journalism, he paid flying visits to small Central American republics whenever a new little revolution was in sight. Incidentally he acquired a taste for adventure. Then the boy, a man now, was called back to the Fatherland, to be a journalist, editor and novelist. He was fairly successful. And a woman's love came into his life. . . . But he lost the jewel happiness. The continual fight for existence and battling for daily bread of his American career, so full of ups and downs, was hardly a good preparation for quiet respectability. Wise men called him a fool, a fool unspeakable, who squandered his talents in light-heartedness. And finally a time came when even his wife to be could no more believe in him. The jewel happi- ness was lost. ... The man at any rate recognised his loss ; he re- cognised that life was no longer worth living. A dull feeling of hopelessness came over him. Arid in his hour of despair he remembered the blood of adventure in his veins. A wild life he would have : he would forget. He enlisted as a soldier in the French Foreign Legion. That man was I. I had burned my boats behind me. Not a soul knew where I was. Those who loved me should think that I was dead. I lived the hard life of a legionnaire ; I had no hopes, no aspirations, no thought for the future ; I worked PROLOGUE vii and marched, slept, ate, and did what I was ordered ; suffered the most awful hardships and bore all kinds of shameful treatment. And during sleepless nights I dreamed of love love lost for ever. . . . Some five hundred years I wore the uniform of the Legion. So at least it seemed to me. Then the great change came. One day there was a letter for me. Love had found me out across a continent. I read and read and read again. That was the turning-point of my life. I broke my fetters, and I fought a hard fight for a new career. . . . Now the jewel happiness is mine. ERWIN ROSEN HAMBURG, 1909 CONTENTS CHAPTER I LEGIONNAIRE ! PACK In Belfort : Sunrays and fear : Madame and the waiter : The French lieutenant : The enlistment office of the Foreign Legion : Naked humanity : A surgeon with a lost sense of ^ell : " Officier Allemand " : My new comrade? ant-colonel : A night of tears 1 .PTER II , AFRIQUE Transport of recruits on the railway : What our ticket did for us and France : The patriotic conductor : Marseilles : The gate of the French Colonies : The Colonial hotel : A study in blue and yellow : On the Mediterranean : The ship's cook : The story of the Royal Prince of Prussia at Saida : Oran : Wine and legionnaires : How the deserter reached Spain and why he returned 16 CHAPTER III LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 French and American bugle-calls : Southward to the city of the Foreign Legion : Sidi-bel-Abbes : The x CONTENTS PAGE sergeant is not pleased : A final fight with pride : The jokes of the Legion : The wise negro : Bugler Smith : I help a legionnaire to desert : The Eleventh Company : How clothes are sold in the Legion : Number 17889 35 CHAPTER IV THE FOREIGN LEGION'S BARRACKS In the company's storeroom : Mr. Smith American, legionnaire, 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 legionnaires : The canteen : Madame la Cantiniere : The regimental feast : Strange men and strange things : The skull : The prisoners' march : The wealth of Monsieur Rassedin, legion- naire : " R habilitation " : The Koran chapter of the Stallions 48 CHAPTER V 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, accoutre- ments, baggage, victualling : The training of the legionnaire in detail : The legionnaire as a practical man : Specialties of the Legion : Programme for a week in the Legion : The legionnaire as a labourer 77 CONTENTS xi CHAPTER VI "THE LEGION GETS NO PAY" PAGE The money troubles of the Legion : Five centimes wages : The cheapest soldiers of the world : Letters from the Legion : The science of " decorating " : The industries of the legionnaires : What the bugler did for a living : The man with the biscuits : A thief in the night : Summary lynch law : Herr von Rader and la Cantiniere : "The Legion works the Legion gets no pay!" 105 CHAPTER VII THE CITY OF THE FOREIGN LEGION The daily exodus to town : Ben Mansur's coffee : The Ghetto : The citizens of Sidi-bel- Abbes and the legion- naires : How the Legion squared accounts with the civilians : A forbidden part of the town : Primitive vice : A dance of a night : The gardens : The last resting-place of the Legion's dead 117 CHAPTER VIII A HUNDRED THOUSAND HEROES A HUNDRED THOUSAND VICTIMS The hall of honour : A collection of ruined talents : The battle of Camaron : A skeleton outline of the Legion's history : A hundred thousand victims : A psychological puzzle : True heroes : How they are rewarded : The chances of promotion : The pension system of the Foreign Legion 1 35 xii CONTENTS CHAPTER IX " MARCH OR DIE ! " PAGE The Legion's war-cry : A night alarm : On the march : The counting of the milestones : Under canvas : The brutality of the marches : The legionnaire and the staff doctor : My fight for an opiate : The " marching pig" : The psychology of the marches : Excited nerves : The song of imprecations 155 CHAPTER X THE MADNESS OF THE FOREIGN LEGION An unpleasant occurrence : The last three coppers : The Roumanian Jew from Berlin : Monsieur Via'isse : The Legion's atmosphere : The Cafard demoniacs : Bismarck's double : Kriigerle's whim : The madness of Legionnaire Bauer : Brutal humour : A tragedy CHAPTER XI THE DESERTERS The Odyssey of going on pump : Death in the desert : The Legion's deserters : A disastrous flight in a motor- car : The tragic fate of an Austrian engineer : In the Ghetto of Sidi-bel-Abbes : The business part of desertion : Oran and Algiers : The Consulate as a trap : The financial side of desertion : One hundred kilometres of suffering : Hamburg steamers : Self- mutilation : Shamming : In the Suez Canal : Morocco, the wonder-land. 197 CONTENTS xiii CHAPTER XII A CHAPTER ON PUNISHMENTS PAGE The return of the poumpistes : The scale of punish- ments in the Legion : Of spiteful non-commissioned officers : The Legion's axiom : Sad history of Little Jean : The punishment machine : Lost years : A legionnaire's earnings in five years francs, 127.75 : The prisons in the Foreign Legion : Pestilential atmosphere : Human sardines : The general cells : Life in the prison : On sentry duty among the prisoners 226 CHAPTER XIII SOME TYPES OF VICE A variety of human' vices : The red wine of Algeria : Shum-Shura : If there were no wine 248 CHAPTER XIV MY ESCAPE In the Arab prison : The letter : Days of suffering : Flight ! : The greedy Credit Lyonnais " : Haggling in the Ghetto : The palm grove as a dressing-room : On the railway track : Arab policemen : Horrible minutes : Travelling to Oran : Small preparations : On the steamer St. Augustine : Marseilles : Ventimiglia : Free 255 xiv CONTENTS CHAPTER XV J'ACCUSE PAGE Two years after : Shadows of the past : My vision : Public opinion and the Foreign Legion : The political aspect of the Foreign Legion : The moralist's point of view : The " Legion question " in a nutshell : A question the civilised world should have answered long ago : Quousque tandem . . . ? 274 CHAPTER I LEGIONNAIRE ! In Belfort : Sunrays and fear : Madame and the waiter : The French lieutenant : The enlistment office of the Foreign Legion : Naked humanity : A surgeon with a lost sense of smell : " Officier Allemand " : My new comrades : The lieutenant-colonel : A night of tears ANOTHER man, feeling as I felt, would have pre- ferred a pistol-bullet as a last resource. I went into the Foreign Legion. . . . It was evening when I arrived in the old fortress of Belfort, with the intention of enlisting for the Legion. Something very like self-derision made me spend the night in the best hotel. Awakening was not pleasant. The sunrays played hide-and-seek upon the lace of the cover, clambered to the ceiling, threw fantastic colours on the white little faces of the stucco angels, climbed down again, crowded together in a shining little heap, and gave the icy elegance of the room a warm tone. Sleepily I stared at their play ; sleepily I blinked at the enormous bed with its splendid covering of lace, the curious furniture, the wonderful Persian rug. Then I woke up with a start and tried to think. A thousand thoughts, a thousand memories crowded in upon me. Voices 2 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION spoke to me ; a woman's tears, the whispering of love, a mother's sorrow. And some devil was per- petually drumming in even measure: lost, lost, lost for ever. . . . For the second time in my life I felt the Great Fear. An indescribable feeling, as if one had a great lump in one's throat, barring the air from the lungs ; as if one never could draw breath again. I had once experienced this fear in the valley of Santiago de Cuba, when one of the first Spanish shells from the blockhouse on San Juan Hill burst a few feet from me. This time it was much worse. Ah well, one must try to forget ! I dressed with ridiculous care, paid my bill in the " bureau," and earned a lovely smile from madame for my gold piece. Ah, madame, you would hardly flash your pretty eyes if you knew ! The head waiter stood expectant at the door, bending him- self almost double in French fashion. He reminded me of a cat in bad humour. I gave him a rather large silver piece. " Well, my son, you're the last man in this worl< who gets a tip from me. Too bad, isn't it ? " " Je ne parle pas. . . ." " That's all right," said I. I walked slowly through the quaint narrow streets and alleys of Belfort. Shop after shop, store after store, and before each and every one oi them stood flat tables packed with things for sale, taking up most of the pavement. Here was a chance for a thief, I thought, and laughed, marvel- LEGIONNAIRE 3 ling that in my despair the affairs of the Belfort storekeepers could interest me. Mechanically I looked about and saw a house of wonderful blue ; the city fathers of Belfort had built their new market-hall almost wholly of sapphire-blue glass, which scintillated in the rays of the sun, giving an effect such as no painter has as yet been able to reproduce. I felt sorry that a building of such beauty should be condemned to hold prosaic potatoes and greenstuff. Vivacious Frenchmen and Frenchwomen hurried by hustling and jostling each other in the crowded streets. . . . Don't hurry about so. Life is certainly not worth the trouble ! Ironical thoughts could not alter matters, nor could even the most wonderful blue help me to forget. I must get it over. A very young-looking lieutenant came up the street. I spoke to him in my rusty college French : " Would you please to direct me to the recruiting office of the Foreign Legion ? " The officer touched his " kepi " politely and seemed rather astonished. " You can come with me, monsieur. I am on the way to the offices of the fortress." We went together. " You seem to be German ? " he said. " I may be able to assist you. I am adjutant to the general commanding the fortress." " Yes, I am German, and intend to enlist in the Foreign Legion," I said, very, very softly. How 4 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION terribly hard this first step was! I thought the few words must choke me. "Oh, la la ..." said the officer, quite con- founded. He took a good look at me. I seemed to puzzle him. Then he chatted (the boy was a splendid specimen of French courtesy) amiably about this and that. Awfully interesting corps, this Foreign Legion. He hoped to be transferred himself to the " Strangers " for a year or two. Ah, that would be magnificent. " The Cross of the Legion of Honour can be earned very easily in Southern Algeria. Brilliant careers down there ! Oh, la la ! Eh bien, monsieur you shall wear the French uniform very soon. Have you anything particular to tell me ? " Again that curious glance. I answered in the negative. "Really not?" the lieutenant asked in a very serious tone of voice. " No, monsieur, absolutely nothing. I have been told that for the Foreign Legion physical fitness is the only thing required, and that the recruiting officers cared less than nothing about the past lives of their recruits." "You're quite right," said the lieutenant; "I asked in your own interest only. If you had special military knowledge, for instance, your way in the Legion could be made very easy for you." Some time later I understood what he meant. Now I answered that I had served in the army like all Germans. LEGIONNAIRE 5 Meanwhile we had reached a row of small build- ings. Into one of them the lieutenant went with me, up a flight of steep, rather dirty stairs, into a dingy little office. At our entrance a corporal jumped up from his seat and saluted, and the officer spoke to him in a low tone. Then my little lieutenant left and the corporal turned to me. " Eh, enter la Legion ? " he said. " Mais, mon- sieur, you are not dressed like a man desiring to gain bread by becoming legionnaire ! Votre nom?" I reflected for an instant whether I should give my right name or not. I gave it, however. It did not matter much. " Eh, venez avec moi to the others. The medecin major will be here in a minute." So saying the corporal opened a door and gave me a friendly push. I drew back almost frightened. The atmosphere of the close little room was unspeakable. It was foul with the smell of unwashed humanity, sweat, dirt and old clothes. Long benches stood against the wall and men sat there, candidates for the Foreign Legion, waiting for the medical examina- tion, waiting to know whether their bodies were still worth five centimes daily pay. That is what a legionnaire gets five centimes a day. One of the men sat there naked, shivering in the chill October air. It needed no doctor's eye to see that he was half starved. His emaciated body told the story clearly enough. Another folded his pants with almost touching care, although they had been patched so often that they were now tired of 6 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION service and in a state of continuous strike. An enormous tear in an important part had ruined them hopelessly. These pants and that tear had probably settled the question of the wearer's enlist- ing in the Foreign Legion. A third man, a strong boy, seemed very much ashamed of having to undress. These poor men considered nudity a vile and ugly thing, because, in their life of poverty and hunger, they had for- gotten the laws of cleanliness. They were ashamed, and every move of theirs told it. There, in the corner, one of the men was shoving his shoes furtively as far as possible under the bench, that the holes in them might not be seen, and another made a small bundle of his tattered belongings, thus defying inspection. A dozen men were there. Some of them were mere boys, with only a shadow of beard on their faces ; youths with deep-set hungry eyes and deep lines round their mouths ; men with hard, wrinkled features telling the old story of drink very plainly. Nobody dared to talk aloud. Occasional words were spoken in a hushed undertone. The man beside me said softly, the fear of refusal in his eyes: " I've got varicose veins. D'you think they'll take me . . . ? " My God, the Foreign Legion meant hope for this man the hope of regular food! The daily five centimes were for him wages well worth having ! The atmosphere was loathsome. I stared at this miserable crowd of hopeless men, at their filthy LEGIONNAIRE 7 things, at their hungry faces ; I felt like a criminal in the dock. My clothes seemed a mockery. . . . After what seemed an eternity of waiting the officers came in. A fat surgeon, an assistant and my lieutenant. I would have given something to have asked this doctor why in all the world these men could not be given a bath before examination. . . . First the doctor pointed at me. " Undress ! " While I was undressing, the officers kept whisper- ing together, very softly, but I could hear that they were talking about me, and that the lieutenant said something about " Officier Allemand." I smiled as I listened. It was very funny to be taken for a quondam German officer. I suppose they took me for a deserter ; it certainly must have been rather an unusual event to find a well-dressed man enlisting in the Legion. The well-dressed man felt annoyed at this curiosity, this openly shown pity. It was absolute torture to me. How very ridiculous it all was I fumbled at my watch-chain, trying to take off the little gold sovereign-case in order to open my waistcoat I fumed at the stares of the officers who should have been gentlemen. . . . The looks of the doctor said plainly : " Humph, the fellow actually wears fine under- clothes ! " Why should they stare at me ? Had I not the same right as these other poor devils to go to per- dition in my own way ? Why should they make it so hard for me in particular ? Then I under- 8 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION stood how human their curiosity was, and how ridiculous my irritability. The first step was made. I began slowly to understand what it meant to enlist in the Foreign Legion as a last refuge. I stood there naked before the medecin major, who adjusted his eye-glass as if he had a good deal of time to spare, and who took a long look at me. I stared quietly back at him. You may look as long as you wish, I thought, you fat, funny old fellow with a snub nose. You surely aren't going to complain of my physical condition. " Bon," said the doctor. A clerk wrote something in a book. This finished the ceremony. The doctor did not bother about such trifles as examining the lungs, heart or eyes. He was for simplifying things. Monsieur le major decided with a short look in each case, as the other men took their turn. Three men were refused. An old woman could have diagnosed their condition at a glance they were cases for a hospital, and their doing military service was absolutely out of the question. The man with the varicose veins, however, was at once accepted. Bon ! I could see how happy he was over his good fortune, and I envied him. The man had hope. . . . * * * * Before a small window in the wall we new recruits waited, half an hour, an hour. At last the window was opened and the corporal put out his head. Snedr ! " he called. Nobody answered. " Snedr ! ! " he yelled, getting angry. LEGIONNAIRE 9 Still no reply. Finally the lieutenant appeared beside the corporal, and looked over his list. " Oh," he said, " the man does not understand. Schneider ! " " Here ! " answered one of my new comrades at once. " Your name is Schneider ? " the lieutenant asked " Yes, sir." " Very well, in French your name is pronounced Snedr. Remember that ! " " Yes, sir." " Sign your name here." The man signed. One after the other the new recruits were called to the little window, and each signed his name, without bothering to look at what he signed. I came last this time. The lieutenant gave me a sheet of hectographed paper, and I glanced quickly over its contents. It was a formal contract for five years' service in the Foreign Legion between the Republic of France and the man who was foolish enough to sign it. There were a great many paragraphs and great stress was laid on the fact that the " enlisting party " had no right upon indemnification in case of sickness or disability, and no claim upon pension until after fifteen years of service. " Have you any personal papers ? " the lieutenant asked me suddenly. I almost laughed in his face he was such a picture of curiosity. In my German passport, however, I was described as " editor," and I had a 10 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION notion that this passport was much too good for an occasion like this. While searching my port- folio for " personal papers " I happened to find the application form of a life insurance company, with my name filled out. I gave this to the lieutenant with a very serious countenance. It was good enough for this. The officer looked at the thing and seemed quite puzzled. " Oh, that will do," he finally smiled, and gave me the pen to sign. 1 signed. And under my name I wrote the date : October 6, 1905. " The date was unnecessary," said the lieutenant. " Pardon me," I answered. " I wrote un- thinkingly it's an important date for me." " By God, you're right," said he. In single file we were marched to the barracks. One of the French soldiers who met us on the way stopped, and threw up his hands in laughing astonishment : "Eh!" And then, making a wry face, he yelled, in a coarse sing-song : " Nous sommes les legionnaires d'Afrique. . . ." * * * * Half an hour later three new recruits of the Foreign Legion, the recruit Schneider, the recruit Rader and the recruit Rosen, sat in a little room belonging to the quarters of the 31st French Regiment of Line. All three were Germans. Rader opened the conversation. " My name's Rader. Pretty good name, ain't it, LEGIONNAIRE 11 though it isn't my name, of course. I might have called myself von Rader Baron von Rader while I was at it, but I ain't proud. What's in a fine name, I say, if you've got nothing to fill your stomach with ? No, the suckers may call me Rader. My real name is Miiller. Can't use it ! Must have some regard for the feelings of my people. ..." " I mustn't hurt their delicate feelings," he repeated with a great roar of laughter. Then a long knife on the table attracted his attention. He took it up, mimicked the pose of a grand tragedian, opened his mouth and swallowed the knife, as if twelve-inch blades were his favourite repast. All at once the knife lay upon the table again, only to vanish in the coat-sleeve of Herr von Rader and appear again rather abruptly out of his left trousers pocket. "I'm an artist," Herr Rader, alias von Rader, alias Miiller said with a condescending smile. " A good one, too. Strictly first class. Why, these monkeys of Frenchmen don't know nothing about art ! Would they appreciate a true artist ? Not a bit of it. Boys, since I hopped over the frontier and made long nose at the German cop I left on the other side with a long face, I haven't had much to eat. Remarkably less than was good for my constitution. So Herr von Rader went to the dogs to the Foreign Legion, I meant to say. What's the difference if they don't treat me with proper respect, I'll be compelled to leave them again. On French leave ! Scoot, skin out, bunk it see ? " 12 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION Then Herr von Rader fished a number of mys- terious little boxes out of innumerable pockets, in- spected them carefully, turned round to mask his artistic preparations, turned to us again and his wide-opened satyr-mouth emitted a sheet of flame ! Little Schneider (he was very young) stared at the phenomenon with startled eyes. " Grand, ain't it ? " said Herr von Rader quietly. "I've a notion that this coon isn't going to waste his resources on French Africa. Oh no ! Some fine day I'll give the niggers of Central Africa a treat. I'll go partners with some big chief and do the conjuring part of the business. Heap big medicine! There's only one thing worrying me. How about drinking^ arrangements ? Palm-wine, ain't it ? Boys, if only they have such a thing as beer and kummel down there ! Say, old fellow (he turned to me) what do you think about this French absinthe ? " I mumbled something. " Awfully weak stuff ! " said Herr von Rader sorrowfully. " No d d good ! " If the comical fellow had known that, with his drollery and his fantastic yarns, he was helping me to battle with my despair, I suppose he would have been very much astonished. . . . There was a good deal of story-telling : about the hunger and the misery of such " artistes " of the road ; about the little tricks and " petty larcenies," by means of which the ever-hungry and ever- thirsty Herr von Rader had managed to eat occasionally, at least, on his wanderings over the roads of many countries ; about drinking and things unspeakable. LEGIONNAIRE 13 Most of the stories, however, told of hunger only, plain and simple hunger. Then Schneider's turn came. His story was very simple. A few weeks ago he was wearing the uniform of a German infantry regiment garrisoned at Cologne. He was then a recruit. One Sunday he had gone drinking with some other recruits and together they made a great deal of noise in the " Wirthshaus." The patrol came up. As the non- commissioned officer in command put Schneider under arrest, the boy shoved his superior aside, knocked some of the soldiers of the patrol down and took to his heels. When he had slept off the effects of his carouse in a corner, he got frightened and decided on flight. A dealer in second-hand clothes gave him an old civilian suit in exchange for his uniform. As a tramp he wandered till he reached the French frontier, and some other tramps showed him how to get across the frontier -line on a dark night. In the strange country hunger came and "We always talked about the Legion. All the other Germans on the road wanted to enlist in the Legion. Anyway, I never could have gone home again. My father would have killed me." " No, he wouldn't," said Her von Rader wisely. " You would have got all sorts of good things. It's all in the Bible. Yes, it is. . . ." The door opened and a sergeant came in. " Is the legionnaire Rosen here ? " I stood up. 14 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION " The lieutenant- colonel wishes to speak to you. Come along to the parade-ground." "... Keep your hat on," said the lieutenant- colonel. He spoke pure German. " No, you need not stand at attention. I have heard of you and would like to say a few words to you. I have served in the Foreign Legion as a common soldier. I con- sider it an honour to have served in this glorious corps. It all depends on yourself : men of talent and intelligence have better chances of promotion in the Legion than in any other regiment in the world. Educated men are valued in the Legion. What was your profession ? " "Journalist ..." I stuttered. I felt miserable. The stern grey eyes looked at me searchingly. " Well, I can understand that you do not care to talk about these things. However, I will give you some advice : Volunteer for the first battalion of the Legion. You have a much better chance there for active service. We are fighting a battle for civilisation in Algeria and many a splendid career has been won in the Legion. I wish you good luck ! " He gave me his hand. I believe this officer was a fine soldier and a brave man. * * * * Herr von Rader of the merry mind and the unquenchable thirst slept the easy sleep of light- hearted men ; I heard the German deserter groan in his sleep and call for his mother. All night long 1 lay awake. The events of my life passed before me in mad flight. I was once more a boy at LEGIONNAIRE 15 college ; I saw my father standing by the dock at Bremerhaven and heard his last good-bye and my motherVcrying. . . . Back to America my waking dreams carried me ; I saw myself a young cub of a reporter, and remembered in pain the enthusiasm of the profession, my enthusiasm how proud I was, when for the first time the city editor trusted me with a " big thing," how I chased through San Francisco in cabs, how I interviewed big men and wormed details out of secretive politicians . . . how I loved this work and how sweet success had tasted. Lost, lost for ever. Forget I must I tried to think of the time in Texas, the life on the Brazos farm, where hundreds of negroes had learned to respect me after a little shooting and more kindness shown them in their small troubles ; I tried to glory in remembrance of hard riding and straight shooting, of a brutal but gloriously free life. Why should I not live a rough life now ? I should be on active service in the Legion. Crouching down behind my rifle in the firing-line, waiting for the enemy. I would have a life of excitement, a life of danger. Hurrah for the wild old life ! Grant me adventures, Dame Fortune ! But fickle Lady Fortune would not grant even a night's oblivion. During the long night I fought with a wild desire to scream into the darkness the beloved name. ... I fought with my tears CHAPTER II L'AFRIQUE Transport of recruits on the railway : What our ticket did for us and France : The patriotic conductor : Mar- seilles : The gate of the French Colonies : The Colonial hotel : A study in blue and yellow : On the Mediter- ranean : The ship's cook : The story of the Royal Prince of Prussia at Saida : Oran : Wine and legion- naires : How the deserter reached Spain and why he returned NEXT morning we assembled on the parade-ground. A sergeant distributed silver pieces amongst us, a franc for each man, that being the meagre subsistence allowance given us for the long voyage to the Mediterranean. Besides, each man was given a loaf of bread. Then a corporal marched us to the railway station. The loaf of bread under my arm prompted me to look persistently at the ground. I was afraid of reading in the eyes of the passers-by wonder, surprise, or, worse still, compassion. The corporal took us to the Marseilles train, gave us his blessing, smoked a cigarette, and waited patiently until the train started. We travelled alone. But France ran no danger of losing her recruits on the way. The fact that we were intended for the Foreign Legion was written on our 16 L'AFRIQUE 17 military ticket in howling big red letters. The conductor watched with great care. He was a Frenchman and a patriot and had his suspicions that these new sons of France might have the perfidy to break faith and leave the train at some place other than Marseilles. He therefore kept a sharp look-out occupying a good strategic posi- tion right in front of our car whenever the train stopped at stations. The thing would have been impossible, anyway ; with that ticket one could never have passed the platform barriers. Said Herr von Rader : " They know all about their business. We are just little flies, don't you see, sonny, and this fine invention of a ticket is the thread wound about our little legs. We're [prisoners, brother mine ! " When we left the train at Marseilles, we saw our patriotic conductor run along the platform, signalling excitedly to a sergeant at the gate. "I've got them 1 Here they are ! " was the meaning of this human semaphore. The conductor was a taxpayer and took good care that France should receive her dues. The sergeant and a corporal received us lovingly. The corporal took charge and marched us through the town, while the sergeant trotted along the side- walk at a respectful distance. Without doubt he had no desire that any one should connect him with us. He was quite right. We did not look pretty and the night on the train had not enhanced what little beauty we may originally have possessed. Along the immense water-front of the port of 18 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION Marseilles we marched ; in the midst of a swarming throng of men, amongst a cosmopolitan human machine in full working blast. Past Arabs carrying heavy burdens and fat Levantines lazily strolling about, surrounded by Frenchmen of the south, always gesticulating, ever talking. Ship lay by ship. Elegant steam yachts were moored alongside of unkempt tramp -steamers, whose neglected ap- pearance told of the troubles of money-making on the high seas. There were Levantine barques with funny round sails, whose crews were dressed in flannel shirts of two exclusive colours : a screaming red and a howling blue. Sailing-ships of some hundred different rigs lay there in line, enormous elevators discharged their unceasing flow of grain, and a colossal swivel bridge hung high in the air on her single pillar, seeming to defy all laws of gravitation. Casks, barrels, boxes, sacks went flying through the air, past our noses, shoved, pushed, thrown, bundled about, propelled by the heavy fists of men who apparently could not work without a tremen- dous amount of yelling and screaming. Surely the combined noises of fifteen large cities cannot equal the hellish babel of Marseilles' water-front. We had to walk more than an hour before we reached the little fort, once the nucleus of Marseilles' harbour defence, whose sole purpose now is that of a gate through which to pass recruits for the colonial armies of France. Fort St. Jean it is called. Over the mediaeval drawbridge of the fort we marched. An enormous oaken door was L'AFRIQUE 19 opened by a couple of sentries. As we entered, a volley of whistles and yells greeted us the salute for the new legionnaires of France. On the time- worn pavement of the courtyard were crowded in a dense mass the soldiers of the African corps who were waiting for the next troopship. Spahis and Zouaves and Tirailleurs, who crowded round us like a swarm of bees. " Oh, la la, les bleus pour la Le'gion ! " (Here are the blues for the Legion.) " Why are we called blues ? " I asked a Spahi corporal who happened to stand near me. " Blues ? " he said. " Oh, well, that means recruits. Officially recruits are called 'les jeunes soldats,' young soldiers, but in the army we say the blues." " Wonder what it means," I said. The corporal lit a new cigarette and explained : " The origin of the name is uncertain. My captain told me once that it represented an old army tradition from Napoleonic times. The soldiers of Napoleon wore very stiff cravats to give shape to the high collars of their uniforms. These cravats are said to have been torture. They held the head like a vice, and it took a long time to get used to them. The recruits actually got blue in the face with these cravats round their necks, to the immense amusement of the old soldiers, who made fun of them : Aha, the blues look at the blues ! " Herr von Rader (in my memory he always figures as " Herr von Rader ") gave me a nudge : 20 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION " Say, old chap, take a look at the fellows with the colossal pants ! " The Spahis were at their toilette, arranging their spacious red trousers in picturesque folds. Herr von Rader looked at them with great wonder. " My soul what waste ! Why, it's astonishing. Out of a single pair of these pants I could make pants for a whole family and have a fine skirt left for my grandmother ! " Then came the Spahi's sashes. Two men helped each other at this important part of their toilet. One Spahi would fasten the blue sash, seven feet in length, and about half a yard in breadth, to his hip, and turn quickly about while his comrade held the other end, keeping the sash tight and tense until his brother-in-arms was rolled up in it. The Spahis seemed to attach great importance to the sit of their sashes, smoothing and ; tightening and re- tightening them with amusing coquetry. The great gloomy courtyard was one mass of soldiers. From a gallery a non-commissioned officer read off a string of names from a pay-roll, and in squads the soldiers went up the stairs to receive their travelling allowance. We recruits stood in a corner, not knowing what to do or whom to report ourselves to. Finally a corporal exhorted us to go to the devil. We were in the way. It would not be our turn for a long time. We could wait, we should wait, being nasty recruits, blues, nom de Dieu. Mumbling further things descrip- tive of how he despised blues he went off. Then came soldiers, carrying on boards long rows of L'AFRIQUE 21 little tin bowls. The Spahis and Zouaves crowded at once round the steaming pots, but Herr von Rader hurled himself in the fray, and captured portions for all of us. It was thus that I made the acquaintance of "la gamelle," the venerable tin eating bowl of the French army, baptized "la gamelle" centuries ago. I was tasting for the first time the soup of the French army, a mixture of bread and greenstuffs and small pieces of meat. The cooking of this soup was an ancient, time-honoured custom. The musketeers of Louis XIV., of Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin prepared their soup in the very same fashion. Lounging about the place we came to the canteen of this curious army hotel, and made our way through a labyrinth of wine-casks, which were massed in front of the little door. There was an awful din inside. We sat down at one of the long tables and were served with the French army wine at fifteen centimes a bottle. Good wine, too, but it was impossible to enjoy it quietly, the Lord of the Canteen, a fat little man with greedy eyes, being eager for business second-hand clothes business. He pestered us unceasingly with his offers and demands. Herr von Rader sold his boots for half a franc, after a great deal of haggling, since he wanted the half-franc badly, but objected to going barefooted. The owner of the canteen, however (who evidently thought the buying of good boots at half a franc a good thing), solved the difficulty. Out of some corner he conjured a pair of shoes such as the French Zouaves wear. Although they were 22 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION in a bad state of dilapidation, Herr von Rader figured out that four bottles of wine could be exchanged for fifty centimes, and the boots changed owners. . . . Of my possessions, the fat man desired my over- coat. He complimented me on my overcoat. An exceedingly beautiful overcoat such an overcoat as a poor man like he, the fat man, would be very glad to have. When 1 entered the Legion I would have to sell it and I would be sure not to get more than two francs for it. He would give me four. I never would get as much as that in Algeria, he said. Half an hour he talked to me in the vain endeavour to talk me out of the overcoat. But the " poor man " had a much too prosperous look about him. Moreover, a Zouave whispered in my ear that the cochon of a canteen-keeper was getting rich by his little " business." So I told him to go to a place which we generally consider hot and dis- agreeable. Then the fat man tried it with the others, and made excellent bargains. For a few copper pieces he bought many things, for the twentieth part of their value, boots and coats and pocket-books. The Swiss recruit even sold his trousers. He got five sous for them. He got a pair of old French infantry trousers into the bargain since he had to have some sort of compensation for these very necessary garments. The fat man's greedy eyes had a happy light in them and he bought whatever he could lay his hands on. There was money to be made even out of the poor devils of recruits for the Legion ! L'AFRIQUE 23 I preferred the open air. Leaving the wine and laughter behind me I walked through the fort and climbed up to the bulwarks. The cannon had vanished ; where once they had been mounted there grew little tufts of grass on the gravel. I was quiet and lonesome on the old battlements. They com- manded a view of the whole of Marseilles. The city and the port were enveloped in a curious yellowish light, the bright yellow of the South. Through a veil of yellow I saw the enormous massive street-blocks of Lower Marseilles, and far away the little villas of the suburbs, their flat roofs reflecting a multitude of colours, with an ever-domi- nating leitmotiv of yellow. The harbour seemed far away and its noises were dimly audible. The ship masts, the elevators, the bridges looked tiny and delicate as the threads of a giant spider's web. South of my bulwark there was the ocean and peace. Between the walls of St. Jean and the vis-a-vis, an ochre-coloured rocky promontory, there was a stretch of deep blue water, of the most beautiful blue in all the world. Herr von Rader had followed me. He didn't say a word, but sat quietly on the wall swaying to and fro, like a pendulum. From time to time he spat to the whispering waters below. And how pleased he was when he managed to hit a fisherman. But not a word he said. Little I cared for Herr von Rader and his con- tempt of the world. What a strange thing this ocean-bound fortress was ! The mighty walls now 24 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION enclosed but an inn. The fort had been turned into an inn in its old days. Its artillery had been sold for old iron long ago. It had ceased to be a fighting machine. It was a resting-place, an hotel for the recruits of France's colonial army to pass a day and a night until the troopship carried them to Africa or French Indo- China or Madagascar. Every day of the year the old fort received new guests for a day and a night. Many thousands of men had lodged in it. ... Fort St. Jean was France's gate for her colonial soldiers. For a few the gate to the Legion of Honour, for the majority the gate to suffering and misery and sickness, to a nameless grave in the hot sands of Africa. I wondered whither my road would lead me, in what manner I should perish. . . . * * * * The packet boat on which we were transported to Africa had left Marseilles. Holding my hands to my ears, so that I might not hear a French word or a French sound and be reminded that I was a legionnaire, I stood in the bows staring at the wonders of Marseilles. There were a number of little islands wrapped in blue mist, playing hide-and-seek, until the sun appeared. Now the game was over and the veil of mist disappeared. The hills and the houses lay glorious in an ocean of colour. There was a rocky island with an ancient gloomy castle. I knew it to be the prison of Monte Christo, the great adventurer of the elder Dumas, and I felt very much as the L'AFRIQUE 25 imprisoned Count of Monte Christo must have felt. Marseilles disappeared. Ocean and sun arranged a wonderful play for a poor devil of a legionnaire. Far out to sea the sun would try to catch the little waves, throwing floods of brilliant light on pearly cascading water. And then the little waves escaped again, amidst fun and laughter, and ran off to inspect our ship. They struck the ship's sides and seemed very much surprised that they were so solid. They said so plainly enough, making a great deal of noise and fuss about it. But they soon became good-humoured again and told the nicest stories about fairy palaces of the deep and the peace of the ocean. Unthinkingly I had taken my hands down, and heard my new comrades quarrelling amongst themselves. The wine had not been fairly divided. The spell was broken. I recognised now well enough that I was standing on one of the lowest steps of the world's ladder, but I hadnot expected contempt, disdain and rough treat- ment to touch me so soon. The ship's cook began it. " Nix comprends," cried the cook. The old packet of the " Compagnie des Messageries Maritimes," on which we made the voyage across the Mediterranean to Oran, had made a miserable bargain when hiring that cook. The thing was called Jacques. It even answered occasionally to its name if it felt like it. It was malicious, wondrously versed in profanity, addicted to lying, and very filthy. The first day there was nothing to eat for us 26 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION until evening. At three o'clock in the afternoon of the second day we were still waiting, very hungry indeed, for our first meal, and I thought it time to have a talk with Mr. Jacques. I told him that our board was paid for and that we wanted something to eat. Quick, too. The thing answered with a nicely chosen assort- ment of oaths. He swore like a well, like a man from Marseilles. He was pleased to inform me that according to his opinion dirty legionnaires were expressly made to do a lot of waiting. If he should happen to have spare time on his hands, he might try and get something to eat for us. But he was not quite sure whether or not he would have time ! Now this pleased me. I knew to a nicety how to arrange matters with this thing. " Well, my son," I said lovingly, " won't you please take a look at these eight comrades of mine ? They are Germans and cannot talk French. But they are very good at smashing things. They're quite experts at that sort of thing. See how they are looking at you ? I rather think they are going to beat you horribly." " Allez done ! " remarked the cook dubiously. He seemed uneasy. "They are Prussians. Very likely they'll kill you. I am going to help them at it." The cook took a look at me and a second look at the "Prussians." He was rather pale and seemed to think that he was up against it. First he cursed volubly, then he dived into his dark hole of a kitchen and fetched out a tin filled with macaroni, a number L'AFRIQUE 27 of loaves of bread, and a bucketful of wine about a gallon. There were no knives, however, exactly four forks for nine men, and one little drinking-cup. The other day one of these packets foundered somewhere on the Algerian coast. I sincerely hope it was the packet I crossed on, and that Jacques the cook was drowned. . . . * * * * On the evening of the second day a visitor came to us from the first-class part of the boat. He was a sergeant in the Foreign Legion and ventured among the third-class passengers to have a look at his new recruits. Being a Belgian, he could not talk German with them, and so I had the honour of conversation with him for a couple of hours. Yes, the Germans made fine soldiers, although they were very thick-headed. Such an obstinate race ! It would be best for me if I foregathered with Frenchmen only in the Legion. My French needed cultivating badly, said the sergeant. Then he ordered a bottle of wine and talked about the Legion. Lies, mostly. One of his stories is worth the telling however. In 1880 a young German enlisted in the Legion. He was an excellent soldier, spoke a brilliant French, and was considered a good fellow. A detachment of the Legion, of which he was a member, was suddenly attacked by Arabs near Saida. The com- manding officer, a lieutenant, was severely wounded, and all of the non-commissioned officers killed at the first attack. Now the young German took command and led a furious onslaught on the 28 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION attacking Arabs, managing to hold out until help came. Shot in the breast he was carried into camp, and the colonel of the regiment gave his own Cross of the Legion of Honour to the dying man. The young German asked the surgeon whether he had a chance of life. The doctor said yes, of course. But, finally, the new Chevalier of the Legion of Honour was told the truth and thereupon demanded a short interview with his commanding officer. Telegrams went flying between the little desert station and the capital of Germany. ... In the evening the legionnaire died. A week later a veiled lady appeared in Saida to take the body to the Fatherland. Chevaliers of the Legion of Honour escorted their dead comrade, and the French flag covered the coffin. The young German had been a royal prince of Prussia ! " Do you actually believe this yarn ? " I asked the sergeant. " It's an absolute fact ! " said he, very serious and very much offended. The same story was told me, with slight varia- tions, many times in the Legion. The "royal prince of Prussia " is part and parcel of the unwritten history of the Legion, told from legionnaire to legionnaire, and I have often wondered how much truth there may be in the legend. Very likely the man of Saida had been a German aristocrat, the black sheep of some good family, and in the course of time and telling the Legion had made him a royal prince of Prussia. L'AFRIQUE 29 Oran came in sight. Nine recruits promptly lined up on deck, staring with wondering eyes at the land to whose shores destiny had sent them to work and wage war for strangers, for a nation whose language even they did not understand. Sandstone cliffs formed a rugged coast-line. From their heights batteries were firing. The target was pontooned in the sea at a distance of about 5000 yards from the shore. But the columns of water thrown up by the bursting shrapnel never reached it. The old sergeant shrugged his shoulders. " I am not interested in any shooting but in ours," he said ; " anyway, at shooting with the old JLebel gun the Legion can beat any on earth." He was at least loyal to his Legion, the old grey- haired sergeant, even if he did tell so many lies. . . . The batteries were at any rate excellently^masked. It was quite impossible to detect their positions. Even when the old sergeant showed me where they were mounted, I could see nothing. High up on the crags the heavy cannon had been built in, behind little sandhills, flanked by large rocks, the whole arrangement looking so very much like nature that none could have suspected that it was artificial. The positions of the guns were perfect. We gained the harbour. Suddenly the cliffs opened out East and West, leaving an enormous gap. Out jumped, as from a conjurer's box, the fortress of Oran, a maze of flat-roofed houses on hilly ground. The inner harbour was ridiculously small, just a little square, its room quite taken up by twelve torpedo-boats, two small cruisers and 30 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION half a dozen merchant ships. We had hardly touched the pier when a corporal jumped on board. The famous corporal of the French army, the maid- of-all-work, the busy French corporal who attends to everything and has more real work to do than all the officers of a company together. He read off our names from a list and marched us off to quarters. It was a novel scene that met our gaze. Negroes, sparingly attired in loin-cloth and red fez, hurried past in a strange shuffling quickstep, carrying enormous loads on their heads ; taciturn Arabs stood around, wrapped from head to foot in white burnous-cloth ; officers promenaded with their women-folk and occasionally some fine lady would give us a look of curiosity and compassion. A Spahi orderly galloped by on a foaming horse and yelled in high amusement : " Bonjour, les bleus ! " We were marched across the city square. The surroundings and houses had nothing typical about them until we began to pass through little alleys and byways, where naked black children were playing and rolling in the dirt and filth. Then the sand came. The fine African sand that plays such a role in a legionnaire's life. But the road was an ideal road, hard as stone under its sandy covering. A generation of legionnaires, now long dead, had built this road leading to the barracks high up in the hills. The road swept in mighty curves along the cliffs. After an hour of marching we came to some very antiquated barracks. They L'AFRIQUE 31 were a counterpart of Fort St. Jean in Marseilles, one of the military hostelries for the many men needed to feed France's colonial stomach. In the courtyard a lieutenant called the roll and seemed very much amused when the new French soldiers answered to their names with a stentorian German: "Hier!" We were assigned a nasty little hole of a room. A long wooden bench ran along one side. The bare boards, fifteen feet long and six feet broad, were to form our bed. There was a pitcher of water in one corner and a pile of thin brown blankets lay in another. The earthen floor was covered with half-smoked cigarettes and rubbish. After dark I slipped out, glad indeed to leave the wooden bench. The unventilated little hole was not good enough for a dog ! I found a snug, quiet little corner in the courtyard and lay down, wrapped in my overcoat for about five minutes. Then shadowy figures in the uniform of the Legion paid me a visit. Yes, a fine evening. Brilliant idea of mine, to sleep in the open air. Filthy place, those quarters for recruits ! Yes, nom d'un petard ! The shadowy figures were old legionnaires, on special duty to keep the barracks in order. Did I like the Algerian wine ? They wanted to know. I did not know anything about it ? Impossible ! Did I know that the price of a " litre," of a full quart, was but four sous even up here on the hills ? Remarkably fine wine! " It's a pity [described with a variety of choice 32 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION epithets] that we haven't the [here followed a similar ornate flow of oaths] four sous. And the canteen isn't closed yet ! " Small wonder that then I made my first purchase in Africa. Several bottles of wine. . . . Somebody knocked at a door hard by, attracted by the jingling of bottles presumably. The knocking was quite modest at first. Then it became imperious. "Who is it?" I asked. "Oh, that's Reddy. He's thirsty, I suppose," said one of the legionnaires. " He's in the lock-up." My new friends seemed to regard " being in the lock-up " as the most natural thing that could happen to a legionnaire. We all went to the door of the cell. There was a small air-hole high up in the wall and presently a hand holding a tin cup appeared. " Fill up ! " a gruff voice demanded. One of the legionnaires climbed on another's shoulders and emptied the contents of half a bottle into the tin cup. " That's all right ! " said the poor prisoner. " What is he locked up for ? " I wanted to know. This the story. In the Legion he was nicknamed Reddy, being the happy possessor of a flaming head of red hair. Reddy was a veteran who had ten years of service to his credit and knew well enough that he was no good for anything in all the world except soldiering in the Legion. Ten years is a long time. But, when he was sent to the lonely old barracks on the L'AFRIQUE 33 Oran cliffs to play at housekeeping for recruits, a great desire for liberty came upon him. For hours together he would stare at the ocean. Finally he walked quietly down to the harbour on a fine evening and took his pick amongst the fishermen's boats. He did not waste time in considering whether or not the Arab proprietor of the chosen boat would like his proceedings. Such things as boats' chains did not worry Reddy. A large stone did the business. Reddy gave the boat a shove, hoisted sail, and sailed joyfully away. Spain was not far, and luck was with the deserter. In exactly seventeen hours the legionnaire reached the Spanish coast. He had landed at a very desolate spot, but after hunting about he managed to find fishermen's huts. Presently he was the guest of rough coast Spaniards, who did not quite know what to make of the man in red breeches. He got dried fish and nice clear water to live on. Reddy had forgotten all about civilian life, but in his dreams of freedom dried fish and water had not cut a special figure. He did not like it. He changed his mind, however, when a pretty Spanish girl appeared. The girl happened to be the wife of the man who had fed Reddy. The legionnaire neither knew nor cared. He chatted with the girl for an hour or so in a mixture of French and bits of Spanish and sign-talk, enjoying himself well enough until the husband joined in the conversation with a big knife. A gorgeous fight ensued. The other fisher- men assisted their friend and Reddy had a hard run for it. But he reached his boat and 34 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION got safely away, cursing freedom, Spain, and dried fish. For some time he cruised about and finally decided definitely that freedom was no good. In twenty-five hours he was back in Oran. The Arabian fisherman (who had seen the boat coming and wanted to talk things over) received a series of mighty kicks from Reddy in lieu of payment. Then the disgusted deserter reported to his commanding officer. He explained that he had jumped into the boat just for fun, that a big wind a horrible storm, sir had torn the boat from its chain and carried it out to sea. " Yes, sir, I nearly starved. ..." The captain happened to be a man with a sense of humour and Reddy got off with twenty days' imprisonment. " Damned lucky fellow, that ! It's a wonder that he was not sent to the penal battalion. That means dying by inches, you know," said the l^gion- naires, and uncorked the last bottle. I stared at them. They laughed about Reddy's luck. They thought his adventure very funny, this tragical adventure of a man who knew how to fight for the freedom he desired and then did not know what to do with liberty when he had gained it. My God, ten years in the Foreign Legion ! . . . CHAPTER III LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 French and American bugle-calls : Southward to the city of the Foreign Legion : Sidi-bel- Abbes : The ser- geant is not pleased : A final fight with pride : The jokes of the Legion : The wise negro : Bugler Smith : I help a legionnaire to desert : The Eleventh Com- pany : How clothes are sold in the Legion : Number 17889 A BUGLE sounded. 1 was lying on the bare ground in a corner of the courtyard, dozing in that strange borderland between sleeping and waking. The bugle bothered me. The sounds were familiar, but my sleepy brain could not place them. Again and again the calls sounded and half dreaming I searched my memory. Now I remembered. It was the reveille, the morning call of the American army. No, there could be no mistake one never forgets the quick nervous air of the American regular's morning call, nor its impressive text : I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up in the morning ! I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up at all ! 35 36 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION The old familiar sounds very naturally suggested old remembrances. I dreamt of a misty morning and a hammock slung between two mango-trees, somewhere in the valley of Santiago de Cuba, and a very tired war correspondent listening sleepily to the morning call floating over from the tents of the Sixth Cavalry hard by. A hazy recollection of fantastical foreign legions and broken fortunes crept into the dream. But surely there were no such things. Little Smiley, trumpeter of " B " troop of the Sixth, was sounding the morning call in his funny, drawn-out fashion of course it was Smiley : I can't get 'em up at all. . . . It was but a dream. Awakening, I sat up and stared about me. Where was Ij anyway? No mango-trees here, no tents, no Sixth Cavalry. And very slowly I realised that Cuba and war correspond- ing were things of the past, that the pebble-stones of the courtyard were part and parcel of a French bar- rack and the soldiers in flaming red trousers running about in the courtyard had a perfect right to call me their comrade. There had been no mistake however about the morning call. There it sounded for the third time : "I can't get 'em up " the reveille of the U.S. regulars ! The riddle's solution was rather simple: The "get 'em up" signals of the French and the American army are exactly the same. For three days we stayed at the old barracks high up on the cliffs near Oran. On the third day the LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 37 packet brought a new batch of recruits for the Foreign Legion, twenty men, most of them Germans. We were all bundled into a rickety little railway train and, at an average speed of about fifteen miles an hour, we raced towards the South, to Sidi- bel- Abbes, the recruiting depot of the Foreign Legion, and headquarters of the Legion's first regiment, the " Premier Etranger." It took us six hours to reach Sidi-bel- Abbes. As the distance was about eighty miles, I con- sidered this a very poor performance and felt personally aggrieved by the train's slowness. I had yet to learn that from now on time would be no object to me. After leaving Oran our train crawled through beautiful gardens and pretty little villas. The gardens were followed by long stretches of fields and farmhouses, and then at last civilisation vanished. The desert sands of Africa claimed their right. The burning sun shone upon wavy lines of endless sandhills, upon naked sand. After six hours' ride we arrived in Sidi-bel- Abbes. The little station was swarming with men in the uniform of the Foreign Legion. At the primitive little platform gate stood a guard of non-com- missioned officers, carefully watching for would-be deserters. A corporal took charge of us and we fell in line to march to the Legion's barracks. This first march through the streets and byways of Sidi-bel- Abb^s was a strange experience. The city of the Foreign Legion seemed to be composed 38 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION of peculiar odours and yellow colours in many varieties. I tried to classify the Sidi-bel- Abbes smell, but the attempt was a miserable failure. The strangely sweet scents coming from everywhere and nowhere, which apparently had a very com- posite composition, defied a white man's nose. They were heavy, dull, oppressive ; now reminding one of jasmine blossoms, now of mould and decay. In an atmosphere of yellow floated these scents. The atmosphere was yellow ; yellow were the old- fashioned ramparts of Sidi-bel- Abbes, built by soldiers of the Legion many years ago ; yellow was the fine sandy dust on the streets ; glaring yellow everywhere. The green gardens on the town's out- skirts seemed but animated little spots in a great com- pact mass of yellow. Far away in the background the colossal ridges of the Thessala mountains towered in gigantic shadows of pale yellow. Even the town's buildings flared up hi bright yellow. The people of Sidi-bel- Abbes, adapting themselves to nature in mimicry, must needs paint their houses yellow ! There were a few other colours, but the universal yellow swallowed them up without mercy. Between long rows of stately palms and through shady olive groves we marched. An omnibus rattled past. All the seats were occupied by Arabs. The white splendour of a mosque shone from afar. On the balcony of its high minaret a Mohammedan priest in flowing white robes slowly walked to and fro, sharply outlined against the sky. The mosque was far away, but 1 could hear the priest's sonorous voice calling to prayer : LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 39 " AIT il Allah. . . . God is God." We passed through the ancient gates of the city, which was surrounded with thick, clumsy walls, encircling all Sidi-bel- Abbes. The old walls had seen plenty of fighting. In their time they had been very useful to the small garrison in the con- tinuous struggle with the JBeni Amer, who had again and again tried to retake the place. Along the large well-kept road we marched. Suddenly, at a turning, the barrack buildings loomed up on both sides of the road the Spahis' cavalry barracks and the quarters of the Foreign Legion. In single file we marched through a small side entrance alongside of the cumbrous barrack gate. On a long bench near the gate the guard was sitting. They stared at us, grinning stupidly. Their sergeant, with his hands in pockets and a cigarette between the teeth, sized us up, apparently inspecting our physique as if he were taxing a herd of cattle. Then he passed judgment. " Pas bon ! " he remarked laconically to the corporal who escorted us. " No good ! " An ugly welcome it was. I stared at the immense gravel- covered barrack yard and its scrupulous cleanness, at the immense buildings and their naked fronts, at the bare windows. Why, this must be a mad- house and I surely I must be a madman, who had to live for five years (five years said the contract) in a place like this. A weird feeling crept over me. I must have lost my way. The moor had caught 40 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION me. I was lost in the jungle. Shut in by these walls I must spend my life. Must 1 live among these uniformed human machines, amongst unthink- ing, unfeeling automatons ? My head swam. A feeling of despair came over me. . . . Everywhere in the barrack buildings windows were thrown open, and legionnaires put their heads out, yelling : " Eh les bleus ! Bonjour, les bleus ! " From all sides they came at a run, calling out to each other joyously, " Les bleus." Our arrival appeared to be an amusement that should not be missed. Hundreds of legionnakes gathered around us, while we were waiting for orders in front of the regimental offices. The contrast between the snowy neatness of their white fatigue uniforms and our shabby attire was very much in their favour. We stood a crossfire of questions, answers and jokes. " Hello ! Hadn't enough to eat, eh ? " somebody yelled in German. " That's as may be," replied Herr von Rader in cutting sarcasm. " You didn't come to the Legion because you had too much money, did you ? " Applause and laughter greeted this answer. " Any one from Frankfort amongst you ? " another asked. " Merde ! " said he, as nobody replied and turned and walked off. Then came a surprise. A negro in the uniform of the Legion stalked up to me, regarding me dubiously, shaking his head as if he was not quite sure what to make of me. LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 41 " Talk U.S. ? " he asked finally. " Guess I do," I said. " Golly," yelled the nigger, " here's another ! You'se a h of a d fool ! Doucement, doucement, white man now, don't get mad. You'se surely is a fool ! What in h you want to come here for?" The humour of the situation struck me. Besides, I always rather liked darkies* "What did you come here for?" I asked him. " Me ? " said the nigger disgusted, " me ? This child's been fooled, see? I'se in Paris (this here nigger's been 'bout pretty much) and a great big doggone Paris cop nabbed me, see? Oh, 'bout miffing particular. I'se been having a swell time in one ob dem little Paris restorangs sweet times, honey 1 I'se kissed all the girls and I'se kicked eberyding else. Say it was a mess. But this here cop got in and he got me all right no flies on the Paris cops, honey ! In the station house they done a lot of talking to this here nigger, 'bout French penitentiaries, mostly. They did done tell me, it was penitentiary or Legion. This child stuck to the American Consul, o' course. Say, he was no good either. Says he, he done got no time to go fooling wid fresh niggers. Take yer medicine, says he. Which I did taking the Legion. Nix penitentiary for me. That's what this child come here for, sonny ! Bet yer a cigarette you'se be as sick of them Legion people in 'bout four weeks as this nigger is, sure. No good. Nix good. D bad ! " 42 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION " I knew that before," said I. " Then you'se sure done gone crazy, to come he-ar, sonny. Wait a bit, white man. I'se going to tell Smith. He's an American. He's all right. So long ! " And in the shambling gait of his race he walked hurriedly away. One of the recruits hailed from Munich. He was in high debate with another Bavarian legionnaire. . . . " You're from Munich, you fool ? There's no beer here I " the old legionnaire yelled. " Why didn't you stay in Munich and stick to the beer, eh ? Isn't it bad enough if one Munich fool drinks their sticky old wine? Why, I've almost forgotten how a ' Masskrug ' looks, and what the ' Hof braii- haus' is like. It's a sinful shame, it is. Yes, there's no beer here. You'll be surprised, you will ! " I was still laughing at the two legionnaires from the city of beer and " Steins " when an old soldier started talking to me very softly. " Won't you give me your suit of clothes ? You must sell it, you know, and you will not get more than a few sous for it." I looked at the man. " Why do you want my clothes ? " I asked him. " To get away ! I must get out of this ! My God, if I had civilian clothes, I might get through. I'd run away at once and I am pretty sure I could manage to sneak out of Algeria. You'll give me your suit, won't you ? This is about my only chance. I'll never have enough money to buy a suit. Is it LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 43 all right ? As soon as you are uniformed, I'll come for the suit. I can easily find out in what com- pany they are going to put you." Again the man looked at me with scared, plead- ing eyes, anxiously waiting. He was evidently in deadly earnest. I was deeply impressed. He meant to desert, of course. I had read enough about the Foreign Legion to know that desertion from that corps was a desperate and perilous under- taking. This poor devil was determined to risk it and I could help him. It occurred to me that, in a very short time, I might feel very much as he felt now. Certainly he should have my clothes. . . . " You can have them and welcome." " That's the best piece of luck I've had since I came to this * verdammte ' Legion," said the man. He was a German, a Pomeranian, I should say, judging from the dialect he spoke. Meanwhile Black (John William Black was the negro's very appropriate name) had come back, with a bugler who looked as much like a " Yank " as anybody could look. " So you're American ? " the bugler asked. " About half of me is," I said. "Oh, German- American ! I see. That's all right. It's pretty tough work here in the Legion ; well, you'll see for yourself. I'm mighty glad to talk U.S. to a white man. The nigger's no good you know you're not, Blacky ! and me and him are the only two Americans in this damfool outfit. Blacky 's always kicking up a row about something, 44 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION and he spends most of his time in prison, and when he's not there he generally manages to get drunk. Beat's me, on what ! He's a pretty hard case, ain't you, Blacky ? " "Shoore I am, you son-of-an-old-trumpet ! " grinned the negro. " I wonder what company you'll be assigned to," continued the " son-of-an-old-trumpet." " If the sergeant should ask you whether you had any pre- ference, tell him you would like to be assigned to the eleventh. That's my company. We could play poker. I could show you the ropes, too. Life's no snap in this outfit, you know ! " "Aren't there any other Americans in the Legion ? " " Oh yes, about twenty. There are seven with the fourth battalion of the first, somewhere in Indo-China. The second regiment of the Legion in Saida has thirteen or fourteen American legion- naires. Two of them are sergeants, and one is colour-sergeant ; McAllister is his name. He's a good man. Yes, about twenty boys from the States have a hand in this Legion business ! " " Garde a vous ! " commanded the sergeant, coming out of the regimental offices. "Atten- tion ! " The roll was called and we were divided up amongst two companies, the third and the eleventh. I was assigned to the eleventh " la onzi&me." We marched across the drill-ground to one of the bar- rack buildings. In the storeroom of the eleventh company underwear and white fatigue uniforms, LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 45 woven from African " Alfa " fibres, were issued to us. Then each man got a nightcap. These rather unsoldierly caps were worn by all of the legion- naires in the cold African nights. Soap and towels the sergeant-major also distributed, remarking that we seemed to be badly in need of soap, which cer- tainly was true. We were then marched off to a small house at the back of the drill-ground. Its one room contained a number of primitive shower-baths. While we were bathing, a sergeant watched at the door, critically inspecting and exhorting us again and again : " Bon Dieu, get a good wash ! Be sure you get a thorough wash ! " After we had dressed in the fatigue uniforms he commanded : " Take your civilian clothes under your arms," and led us to a little side entrance of the barracks. A sentinel opened the door and hell broke lose. Arabs, Levantines, Spanish Jews, niggers beleaguered the door, and the sentinel had to use the butt of his rifle he seemed to like the job though to keep them from getting in. In many languages they yelled, gesticulating with hands and feet, jumping about, making a horrible noise. At first I had no idea what it all meant. Then I understood. They wanted to buy our clothes . . . that was all. They got very excited over the business and seemed to think they could buy our things for a copper piece or two. Finally the sergeant acted himself as our agent and arranged prices. Even then it was a good thing for them. Any 46 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION second-hand clothes dealer in any of the world's large cities would have looked at the scene with the blackest envy. A good suit of clothes fetched two francs, boots eighty centimes, white shirts and cravats were thrown into the bargain. Every one of the native " men of business " knew well, of course, that the recruits were forced to sell at once. Civilian clothes are not allowed to be kept in the Legion. None of the recruits got more than three or four francs for his things. It was a great piece of swindling. I was saved the trouble of bartering with the native riff-raff. The legionnaire who took an interest in my clothes turned up, while the sergeant was busy at the door, pulled my clothes- bundle softly from under my arm, stuffed it under his jacket and walked away in a hurry. Next day he was missed, Smith told me. ... Our next visit was to the eleventh company's office, where our names and professions were entered on the company's lists. It was nothing but a matter of form. Herr von Rader declared that his father was the Chancellor of the German Supreme Court and that he himself was by profession a juggler and lance-corporal of marine reserves. And the colour-sergeant put it all down in the big book without the ghost of a smile. Each of us was given a number, the " matricule " number of the Foreign Legion. Our names mattered nothing. We were called by numbers : My number was 17889. From now on I was merely a number, a strict LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889 47 impersonal number. . . . They number men in peni- tentiaries. It was just the same in the Legion. I had got what I wanted. The great Legion's impersonality had swallowed me up. What was my name now ? . . . Number 17889. . . . CHAPTER IV THE FOREIGN LEGION'S BARRACKS In the company's storeroom : Mr. Smith American, legionnaire, 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 legionnaires : The canteen : Madame la Cantiniere : The regimental feast : Strange men and strange things : The skull : The prisoners' march : The wealth of Monsieur Rassedin, legionnaire : (t Re- habilitation " : 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 legionnaires de- tached 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 " kepis " upon our sinful heads, and again and again they anathematised our awk- 48 THE LEGION'S BARRACK'S 49 wardness 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. Voila ! Off with your mess of recruits. Try and make legionnaires 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 legionnaires 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 D 50 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION " 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 legionnaires 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 legionnaires. 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 THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 51 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, N 10247, soldat I 6re * classe." 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 encyclo- paedia of all things connected with the Legion. He could swear fluently in English, German, French, and Arabian, and had even acquired a pretty fair * 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. 52 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 hi 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 com- fortably on his bunk with his knees drawn up, his cap pulled down over his eyes. Smoking con- tentedly, the old soldier preached me the Legion's wisdom : " There's no money here the pay is not worth THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 53 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. Any- way, 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 some- thing 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 legionnaire'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 Legion.' 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 Legion ! ' That's the Legion. Do your work and don't worry. If any of the fellows get fresh, 54 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION hit quick and hit hard c'est la Legion. 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 ridicu- lous 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 legionnaire has no clothes-chest like the American regular. To get over this diffi- culty 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 'paque- tage,' how it should be. It's 'fantasie,' pure ' fantasie,' Dutchy dear. Making * fantasie ' * it is called in the Legion, if one tries to be always ' tres chic ' and ' parfaitement propre,' to be a swell. * This curious expression of the Foreign Legion is, of course, an imitation of the Moorish " fantasia." THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 55 Yes, that's the Legion. We are lazy by preference, but we're always neat. Always ! " 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire 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 " a la Legion." 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 legionnaires 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 56 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaires 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 sud- denly 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 legionnaire is distinctly unhappy without his well- beloved " merde." It's the most used word in the Foreign Legion. It has suffered curious deriva- tions : 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 wor- ships it. Out of it the legionnaire has even fabricated a verb. When an officer gives him a " dressing down," the legionnaire says simply and devoutly : THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 57 " II 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 legion- naires 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 legionnaires) 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 manceuvring-ground for dirty recruits ? " The old legionnaires knew their business, however. 58 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 " paque- tage" without help. That was a foregone con- clusion. Said one of them : " Can't you see that ? If such a thing as intelli- gence 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 legionnaires 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 : " A lions done 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 legionnaires left the quarters to pay a visit to the canteen and render homage to the immortal " litre " of the Foreign Legion. The whole per- formance was an old custom. Old legionnaires always rejoice when new recruits arrive antici- pating 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 LEGION'S BARRACKS 59 The Swiss, scared to death, asked every man in the room if he had seen his things. But his kit had vanished. The old legionnaires 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 legionnaires 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 some- thing for an old legionnaire. 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. 60 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaires 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 legionnaire rose slowly. " Viens la 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 legionnaires following. The bugler was amongst them. THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 61 " 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 sink- ing. 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." " Tres bien," the onlooking old legionnaires 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." 62 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 l^gion- naire very soon. We men of the Legion quarrel often, but at heart we're always comrades. C'est la Legion! 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 lan- guages ; 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 Tropfchen Aus dem kleinen Henkeltopfchen, Oh, Suss . . . a . . . na ! THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 63 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 l^gion- naires 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 petard, 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 Cantiniere" 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 legionnaires in quiet authority, imposing and comical at the same time. Madame la Cantiniere was the sutler of the Foreign Legion. Old tradition demands that a woman should keep the Legion's canteen. " Madame la Cantiniere de la Legion " 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 64 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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- Abbes. 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 neigh- bour, a quietly spoken* word would have been lost in the turmoil. Everybody was yelling and everybody seemed to be in high glee. The legionnaires 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 THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 65 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire 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 E 66 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION men were ashamed of having been so soft-hearted. A legionnaire 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 Cantiniere did a roaring trade. The copper pieces were continually jingling on the tin-covered surface of the bar. La Cantiniere was a very busy woman this evening, passing many hundreds of wine bottles to her thirsty clientele of legionnaires. 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 THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 67 exactly five cents in American, or twopence-half- penny 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 Cantiniere 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 68 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaire 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 some- THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 69 thing distinctly new. But there was more to follow. In very broken German the Arab addressed us : " Gut' Tag, legionnaires. Cigarette ! Ick sein deutsch Magdeburg gewesen 1 870." 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 legionnaire 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 dis- figured or not. Pleased with the notice he attracted, the legion- naire 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 legionnaires 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 70 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaires 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 : " A droit droit ; a 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 THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 71 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, guard- ing the marching prisoners. The term prisoner must not be misunderstood. These men were not criminals. The legionnaires 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 knap- sacks 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 paste- board card customary in the Legion described the owner as follows : JEAN RASSEDIN 12429 SOLD AT PREMIERE CLASSE. 72 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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, legionnaire, took his meals in the best hotel of the town and spent more money than any other man in Sidi-bel- Abbes. 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 legionnaire for a time, he got the news of the death of a rich relative, who had left him all his wealth. ... So Monsieur Rassedin, legionnaire, had become rich. He always carried a few thou- sands francs about him. Three men of the company were employed by him to keep his things THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 73 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 Bel- gium 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 hhn once why in thunder he did not get out of this confounded Legion. " ' Bugler,' " he said in answer. ' You are an old legionnaire 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 ? ' " 74 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION Everybody in Sidi-bel-Abbes 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 with- out 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' THE LEGION'S BARRACKS 75 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 legionnaires, Latour was serving for rehabilitation. The strangest man of all, however, seemed to me this man Smith, American, legionnaire, 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 : 6 All' il AUah. 76 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION "Yes, Dutchy, the Koran's somethinginteresting." 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. . . . CHAPTER V 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 : Indepen- dent soldiers : Forty kilometres a day : Uniform, ac- coutrements, baggage, victualling : The training of the legionnaire in detail : The legionnaire as a practical man : Specialties of the Legion : Programme for a week in the Legion : The legionnaire 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 know- ledge 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 legionnaire. 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. 77 78 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 : "Aujus." (Sauce.) The sauce was coffee, strong, black, excellent coffee. Mechanically each legionnaire 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 " reveille' " 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 done. Get up." Then he thundered out the famous "Allez, schieb' los ! " of the Legion. The curious term has been introduced by German legionnaires 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 VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 79 hurry and scurry. The primitive lavatory was on the ground floor of the barracks and one was obliged torun 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 legionnaire had to sweep under his bed, while the cleaning of the i 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 80 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION uniforms and leather trappings of shining bright- ness. The almost pedantic cleanliness of the Legion, the coquetry of each individual legionnaire 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 legionnaires. On the one side of the " Plateau " was the " village negre," the negro town. Close to the drill-ground the mosque, in proud white splen- dour, 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 : AIT il AUah. God is great. . . ." "Arre, arr 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 bur- dened, walked Arab women, the legs bare to above the knee, but the face modestly covered as pre- scribed 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 VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 81 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 a 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 exer- tion, until one had the feeling of being a machine, and could go on running for ever. Then came the command " A volonte' " (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, F 82 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION " 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 neces- sary 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 vonRader's continual lament. "I've an idea the suckers here are mistaking me for an express train ! " VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 83 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, legionnaires, a 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaires. 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 84 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaires went off on long marches or to field practice, or were ordered to " eorve'e," 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire over the polishing of his cartridge-belt ! The procedure was un- utterably 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 legionnaire's vanity was satisfied. . . . VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 85 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 con- sidered 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," 1 said at length to the fuming corporal in the vain attempt to appease him. " Mais, ca 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 legionnaire's wit " cercle d'enfer" (Hell's circle). Every free hour the legionnaires stood shoulder to shoulder around the 86 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION reservoir, in a large circle, shirt-sleeves turned up, with flushed and perspiring heads. Behind those washing other legionnaires 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 VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 87 free of creases. The poor devil of a legionnaire 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire 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 88 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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- Abbes 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaires 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 !" VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 89 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire. The French foreign soldier marches with an equipment called the " tenue de campagne 90 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legionnaire 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 " kepi " 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 "kepi," 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 knap- sack, 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 legionnaire's linen and polishing cloths, partly in the inside and partly in " ballots," in carefully pre- scribed bundles. Tent canvas and blanket encircle the knapsack in a long roll. The collapsible tent- VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 91 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 morn- ing. 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 ex- clusively 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 Legionnaire marches. . . . 92 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION The Foreign Legion, as an old troop of mer- cenaries, works like a machine. The newly re- cruited human material is quickly adapted to the old, faultlessly working parts. In barrack life and on the drill-ground the officers stand in the back- ground. 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 educa- tion 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 indepen- dent. The system of the marches is brutal ; the l^gion- naire 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 VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 93 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 legionnaire, premiere classe. Every movement was explained to us, the pur- pose of every manoeuvre illustrated precisely, so that we knew why we had to make this or thtM 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 prac- tical work, the reason for which every one under- stood. This was repeated on a larger scale when drilling in companies. Everything was directed towards the practical and useful ; one was not drilled me- chanically, 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 indepen- dence stepped in. In the course of the day every man was given a problem which he had to solve : 94 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 com- pany assembled, and every legionnaire could watch for himself how the scout-patrol carried out their ti,sk. Their movements were criticised by the watching legionnaires ; 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 regu- larly 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 in- structive lessons in the field the legionnaire 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 legionnaires, stirring their pride and ambition to achieve some- thing out of the common. One had the feeling of working for a sporting competition. On clear, VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 95 starry nights the company was often alarmed and marched into the surrounding country of Sidi-bel- Abbes. Far out in the open field we stopped. These exercises were conducted by our first lieutenant. He gathered the legionnaires round him in a circle and explained to them the constel- lations, 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 wonder- ful rapidity entrenchments were built up of haver- sacks 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 96 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 com- mand "A genoux ! " (Down on the knees !) sounded the whole line in long strides moved closely to- gether, 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 under- linen, 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 legionnaire 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 regula- tions 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 VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 97 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- Abbes 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 legionnaire 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 legionnaire must shoot, shoot much. As a desperate man he ought not to have arms in his possession. But the Legion has found a com- promise. A corporal stands behind every legion- naire 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 legionnaire from being a splendid soldier. Individual training Boer tactics practical in- struction . . . that is the Legion. And it marches. Now and then its marching powers are increased artificially. The " compagnies montees/' one with 98 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 legion " depends on its legs. These brilliant professional soldiers march. I will give you, naturally translated, my com- pany'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 quartermas- ter's direction. Wednesday. 5.30-6.30 Boxing. 7 Company musters for bathing. 8-11 Mending uniforms, prepara- tion for inspection by the colonel. VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 99 Thursday . 5. 30 March to the shooting-range. 12-1 Instruction in first-aid to wounded. 1.15 Work under the quarter- master's orders. Friday . 5 Military march. 1-2 Instruction in taking cover in flat ground. 2.30 Work under the quarter- master'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- Abbes 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 100 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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 merce- naries. The legionnaire 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 viUage a few hours distant the civil authorities are distributing "relief" in the form of natural pro- ducts to loafing Arabs. Eighty per cent, of Algeria's brilliant roads have been built by the Legion. The trowel is thrust into the legionnaire's hand. There, now you are a mason. He builds barracks for the troops and offices for the civil administra- tion. 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. VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS ioi 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 l^gion- naires 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 legionnaire. 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- Abbes 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- Abbes. 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: "II a maigri beaucoup ! " (He has got very thin !) IN TltE FOREIGN LEGION "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 legionnaires I was a working animal. Early in the morning the hard military service began. The afternoon brought the " corve'e " work, and the evening the ridiculous small jobs of the barrack routine. The word "corvee," 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. " Corve'e " 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 legionnaire one could ask things impossible in other French troops. If one saw a soldier working in Sidi-bel- Abbes, then he was sure to be a legionnaire. Arab Spahis or French soldiers of the line, who were also stationed in Sidi-bel- Abbes, had never VALUE OF FOREIGN REGIMENTS 103 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 legionnaire 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-Abbes, 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 legionnaire lies the whole blessed Sunday in 104 IN THE FOREIGN LEGION 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. . . . CHAPTER VI "THE LEGION GETS NO PAY " The money troubles of the Legion : Five centimes wages : The cheapest soldiers of the world : Letters from the Legion : The science of