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 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, guarding 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 knapsacks 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 pasteboard card customary in the Legion described the owner as follows:

JEAN Ra.s.sEDIN 12429 SOLDAT PREMIERE CLa.s.sE.

Ra.s.sedin 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 Ra.s.sedin, legionnaire, took his meals in the best hotel of the town and spent more money than any other man in Sidi-bel-Abbes.

Ra.s.sedin 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 Ra.s.sedin, legionnaire, had become rich. He always carried a few thousands francs about him. Three men of the company were employed by him to keep his things 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 subst.i.tutes, the thing could easily be done. His family had succeeded in getting him a pardon granted for deserting. Monsieur Ra.s.sedin could have gone back to Belgium 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 him 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?'"

Everybody in Sidi-bel-Abbes knew Ra.s.sedin, even the little black children in the streets. Many a time he used to throw franc pieces amongst them.

In quarters Ra.s.sedin 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 pa.s.sed without some old soldiers of the company coming to our quarters in search of Ra.s.sedin. They would simply rub their throats in pantomime:

"Ra.s.sedin, tant d' soif.--Heap big thirst."

Then Ra.s.sedin 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'

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: 'All' il Allah....'"

"Yes, Dutchy, the Koran's something interesting." 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 : Independent soldiers : Forty kilometres a day : Uniform, accoutrements, 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 knowledge of the dire punishment which awaited him if he inconsiderately disturbed the sleep of his comrades. For the hours of sleep are a "Holy of Holies" to the 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.

In a few minutes the orderly returned from the kitchen dragging with him a large earthenware jug, lighted the petroleum lamp which hung in the middle of the room, and his voice then sounded loudly through the room:

"Au jus." (Sauce.)

The sauce was coffee, strong, black, excellent coffee. Mechanically each 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 Wa.s.sermann, who liked to remain in bed until the last moment, called out continually:

"Le--e--vez-vous donc.--Get up."

Then he thundered out the famous "Allez, schieb' los!" of the Legion.

The curious term has been introduced by German legionnaires and has pa.s.sed into the vocabulary of Algerian French. Not only the soldiers continually used this funny mixture of German and French, but Arabs and negro children in the street, when they wanted to hurry each other up, shrieked out: "Allez, schieb' los!"

"Allez, schieb' los! Pas du temps. No more time!" roared the corporal.

The day began with hurry and scurry. The primitive lavatory was on the ground floor of the barracks and one was obliged to run up and down four flights of stairs in order to wash oneself. There was not a minute to spare. The boots had to be brushed; the blankets and mattresses of the bed had to be folded neatly and piled up at the foot of the bunk.

Whilst this was being done the orderly shouted excitedly: