In the Foreign Legion Part 7

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 "b.l.o.o.d.y," the American revels in his precious "d.a.m.ned," 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 derivations: Merdant, merdable.... It has a happy home in all French regiments--it is part and parcel of the French army's soldier-talk. The Legion wors.h.i.+ps 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:

"Il m'enmerde!"

The French army's primitive substantive of disgust is very ancient. It is time-honoured, it is cla.s.sical.

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 legionnaires 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 a.s.sortment 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 manoeuvring-ground for dirty recruits?"

The old legionnaires knew their business, however. Abuse alone was not good enough. They wanted to see practical results. So they explained to the "bleus" that recruits, and especially such recruits as now present, could never manage to build a "paquetage" without help. That was a foregone conclusion. Said one of them:

"Can't you see that? If such a thing as intelligence had a place in your empty heads, you would have seen long ago that you needed help.

Who's going to help you? We are. We old 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: "Allons donc pour un litre--let's drink a litre in the canteen."

The arguments of the old fellows met with enormous success. At frequent intervals old and young legionnaires left the quarters to pay a visit to the canteen and render homage to the immortal "litre" of the Foreign Legion. The whole performance was an old custom. Old legionnaires always rejoice when new recruits arrive--antic.i.p.ating many pleasant walks to the canteen....

One of the recruits, a Swiss, on returning from the canteen found that the greater part of the kit on his bed had disappeared. Almost everything was gone. A complete uniform, a fatigue suit, an overcoat and several other things were missing. The Swiss, scared to death, asked every man in the room if he had seen his things. But his kit had vanished.

The old 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 something 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. 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.

"Give him h.e.l.l," 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 surpa.s.sed mine by far. I could do but very little in his iron grip. I began to wonder how many of my ribs would survive the fray. But all at once I got the upper hand. Again and again he tried to get a grip of my throat, but I caught his hand every time. We rolled over and over. My strength was fast sinking. At the last moment almost, I noticed a big stone on the ground quite near his head. I wrested my hand free. Seizing my antagonist by the hair, I pounded his head against the stone as hard as I could. Once--twice--four times....

His grip relaxed....

"a.s.sez!" 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."

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 legionnaire 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 languages; in German, French, English, Italian and Spanish--there was the jingle of many bottles and gla.s.ses. As we entered a German was singing:

Trinken wir noch ein Tropfchen Aus dem kleinen Henkeltopfchen, Oh, Suss ... a ... na!

In sharp marching rhythm a Frenchman sang the refrain of one of the Legion's songs:

Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos ...

The canteen was crowded. Hundreds of legionnaires 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 gla.s.ses.

"There's no room here," I said.