In the Foreign Legion Part 18

It is these little anecdotes and the rough jokes in the jargon of the Legion that are typical of the great weight laid on the marching performances in the Foreign Legion, without regard to the wear and tear of the human machine, without consideration of the many lives that are lost.

Even General de Negrier, the only commander that the Legion loved because he loved the Legion and knew how to come into personal touch with each legionnaire, knew no mercy in the matter of marching. When he was commander of the Foreign Legion he did everything in his power for his troops. Each legionnaire was allowed to come to him with his personal affairs, every wounded man was a hero in his eyes, a brave man, for whom he could not do enough. But when he saw an exhausted legionnaire stumble out of the ranks and collapse during the terrible marches in Madagascar, the expression in his face became hard and pitiless. That was a grievous crime in his eyes. Then he would cry out the three words that have since become a proverb of the Legion:

"March or die!"

Marches which no European commander would attempt are nothing out of the common; they are the basis on which the Foreign Legion has won its laurels. But they are also the foundation for illness, decline, and death.

In each of these marches is embodied the principle of absolute disregard for human life. The possibility of such disregard is one of the chief advantages of the Foreign Legion in the eyes of the authorities. From a military point of view the marches of the Legion are splendid, a triumph of training and discipline; from a humane standpoint they are the height of unprincipled exploitation. No New York Jewish clothes-dealer, who keeps hundreds of people at starvation wages at the sewing-machines, does such a splendid piece of business as "la Legion," which for a mere nothing saps the life from thousands of human creatures. It is not the cruelties of the penal battalion, not the brutality of punishments, not the poor devils who for some mere trifle are shot under martial law, that ill.u.s.trate best the horrors of the Legion system. It is the marches that do this; the marches of the Foreign Legion condemn the system of the Foreign Legion!

Our manoeuvre march of 600 kilometres occupied sixteen days. On the stages in the far south the rations consisted almost entirely of rice, and to the hards.h.i.+ps of the daily 40 kilometres the pangs of hunger were added. In spite of that the distance daily covered remained the same.

I still suffered from pains in my stomach. To-day it is a puzzle to me how I managed to march 300 kilometres in this condition in the burning sun and to stand the cold during the nights. But others were no better off. They marched with open wounds in their feet; with blisters between neck and shoulder-blades, where the straps of the heavy knapsack pressed; with eyes inflamed by the sun; with severe bronchial troubles; with bleeding and festering sores on their thighs. Many limped, and most marched bent wellnigh double, sunk together--a miserable, pitiful sight. Surly, silent, raging bitterness pictured in the hard lines of the face and in the tired eyes, we stamped onwards. The only words heard were curses.

Our nerves were strained to bursting-point. Over the whole troop lay the strain of over-exertion, bodily and mental nerve-sickness. The Foreign Legion has manufactured a special expression of its own for this mental state--"Cafard."

The "cafard" reigned. The "cafard" of the Foreign Legion, a near relative to tropical madness, is a collective name for all the inconceivable stupidities, excesses and crimes which tormented nerves can commit. The English language has no word for this condition. In "cafard" murder hides, and suicide and mutiny; it means self-mutilation and planless flight out into the desert; it is the height of madness and the depth of despair.

Many nights we were roused from sleep by a pandemonium of noise.

Legionnaires--legionnaires in "cafard"--jumped round the tents in the dim light of the watch-fires, roaring the old Legion song out into the night. The "song" commenced with abusing the corporal and went on through the whole scale of charges up to the commander-general--in a horrible Legion French, of which the chief advantage was its extraordinary power of detailed expression. No officer was pa.s.sed over in this song and each one was carefully mentioned by name, so that there might be no mistake....

The song was painted with insults in rainbow colours. The insinuation that Captain So-and-So kept up his private harem with the funds of the company was one of the most harmless, and with the a.s.sertion that he was an old monkey, the register of the regiment commander's sins only began.

At the top of their voices the "cafard" madmen shrieked this song of insubordination out into the still night, until the camp became lively.

With many oaths the sentries tussled with the mad singers, and from out of the darkness bawling voices roared applause.

Such things were not taken seriously. The "singers" were bound to pegs in front of the guard-tent over the night, to give them a chance to cool down, and they had to join their companies at day-break--to march on.

When we got back to Sidi-bel-Abbes, our uniforms and our spirits were in sad condition....

CHAPTER X

THE MADNESS OF THE FOREIGN LEGION

An unpleasant occurrence : The last three coppers : The Roumanian Jew from Berlin : Monsieur Via.s.se : The Legion's atmosphere : The Cafard demoniacs : Bismarck's double : Krugerle's whim : The madness of Legionnaire Bauer : Brutal humour : A tragedy

In the interval between the terrible exertions of the great manoeuvre march and a period of hard work in the sewers of the Arab prison of Sidi-bel-Abbes, something I had long been dreading occurred. Even by changing my few gold pieces into the smallest of coppers, I could not spin them out eternally. One fine day the sum of my riches consisted of three thick, round copper pieces. Although big and heavy, they were not worth more than a few cents.

I lay stretched out on my bed, tired and vexed. Smith, who, being a bugler, was not obliged to waste his strength in cleaning Arab sewers, was chaffing me. He thought it a great joke to inquire with friendly solicitude about the unpleasant details of my work.

I did not like his raillery. Wis.h.i.+ng for revenge, I remembered with grim humour that the state of my finances would be of a certain interest to my friend Smith.

"Hallo, bugler," said I.

Smith, lounging on his bed, muttered something about privileged sons of the Prophet--and inquired if the Arab convicts had been satisfied with my work?

"Bugler, I've no more money!" I said.

He jumped up from his bed, looking at me aghast.

"What d'you say?"

"My money is finished."

Smith's face grew long.

He was evidently thinking of the countless casks of wine lying stored in Sidi-bel-Abbes.... All at once his face cleared. He had found a way out of the difficulty.

"Send for some more!" he advised.

I shook my head.

"Nonsense," said the bugler, with the happy confidence of the Legion.

"They'll send you some, a legionnaire always gets something sent him.

Shall I help you to write a real, nice, touching letter, Dutchy?"

Again I shook my head. But the bugler would not let me off so easily.

Going through the different grades of relations.h.i.+p, he inquired as to my connections. When I declared with intentional spitefulness that they were all as poor as church mice, he swore a little in Arabic and thoughtfully repeated a chapter of the Koran, treating of the duties of friends.h.i.+p. A little inspired by this, he asked for a whole hour about my former friends. I told him that they were either dead or on the point of starvation. The bugler thought this ridiculous, but with much tact did not continue the subject, coming, no doubt, to the conclusion that I had either killed somebody or robbed a bank in good old Germany.

Nothing but that could keep a legionnaire from writing begging letters!

I let the philosopher keep his opinion.

After thinking deeply for a time, he muttered nothing but a resigned, "C'est la Legion."

After a while he asked: "And is there really nothing left?"

Without saying a word, I pulled out my three copper pieces.

Then a slight smile spread over his face. "Do you know, we'll buy drink with that," he said softly. As we went down the stairs to the canteen, he wisely proposed buying two half-bottles instead of a whole one, for the half-bottles were always filled three-quarters full by Madame la Cantiniere. In this way we got the fullest measure possible for the three coppers.

My friend the bugler emptied the bottle with great respect, till not a drop was left. Then he became sad again, but said in a comforting way:

"Inschallah--and if we haven't any money, sonny, then we've got none.

But if I were you, I should after all write to somebody for a little bra.s.s----"

Only now, in my utter dest.i.tution, did I really recognise my position.

The few pieces of silver I had still had in my possession, which in former times would just have been sufficient for a few theatre tickets or a few hundred cigarettes, had, in the land of Sidi-bel-Abbes, been a fortune, and had saved me from much wearisome, petty work. Thanks to them, I had been able, after long marches or heavy fatigue duty, to go straight into town without having to bother about polis.h.i.+ng and was.h.i.+ng. The smallest coin could purchase release from these burdens--now all this was at an end. For hours after I came off duty, I, like the others, stood at the wash-tub, or tediously polished my leather-work.

My horizon had narrowed; now it only encircled the drill-ground, barrack-yard, and my bunk in the Legion's quarters. I spent hours lying on my bed and staring at the whitewashed wall opposite, with the long shelf on which the knapsacks were packed. My interests were now quite taken up by all the petty, trifling considerations of the Legion. I quarrelled with the others whether it were really my turn to fetch fresh water in the big earthenware jug; I disputed the highly important matter of sweeping underneath my bed, and it was a question of vital interest to me whether I was ordered to scrub the bench or the large table at the great Sat.u.r.day cleaning.... The bench was so much easier to do.

The days all pa.s.sed in the same monotonous manner. The grey sameness tired the brain and made one indifferent to the little considerations and small services that people should render to each other when living such a hard life, crowded into so small a s.p.a.ce. Everywhere the worst side of human nature showed itself, and even the greatest fool was soon clever enough to find out the bad points of the man who worked beside him by day and slept next to him at night. Petty malice, ill-natured gossip, ridiculous intrigues formed the atmosphere of the Legion.

I learnt to know a great deal about human nature, and what I learnt was not inspiriting. With the exception of jolly Herr von Rader, Abramovici was the only man I knew who had a spark of humour left in him. He was the queerest character in the room. He declared he was a Roumanian, but only spoke German, and that with a terrible Berlin accent, which was, to say the least, very strange in a Roumanian. When questioned as to his religion, he told the corporal that he was a "pork-eating" Jew. I suppose he meant that he had no delicate convictions.

The man was tall and very thin and appeared to be made of india-rubber.