The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
well-cut and fairly-new clothing seemed to mock the rags and general seediness of these poor fellows, my future comrades--all of whom would very probably prove much tougher soldiers than I should.
Before long, the Sergeant-Major returned and bade me follow him to the Colonel's office.
"Ah, mon enfant," said the old soldier, as I entered and bowed, "so you have not thought better of it, eh? Well, well, you must now do as you please."
"I wish to enlist, mon Commandant," I replied.
"Then read this form and sign it," he said, with a distinct sigh. "Remember though, that as soon as you have done so, you will be a soldier of France, entirely amenable to martial law, and without any appeal whatsoever. Your friends cannot possibly buy you out, and your Consul cannot help you, for five years. Nothing but death can remove you from the Legion."
I glanced over the grey printed form, a contract by which the signatory undertook to serve the French Republic for five years, as a soldier in the Légion Étrangère.
Five years was a long time--but Isobel would only be twenty-three at the end of it, and if Michael and Digby had done this, I could do the same. . . . It would be nice to return, a Colonel at twenty-five, and take Isobel to my regiment. . . . I signed my name.
"A little error, mon enfant?" smiled the Colonel, on reading my signature. "Or you prefer this nom-de-guerre, doubtless?"
I had written "J. Geste"!
Blushing and looking a fool, I asked to be allowed to change my mind and put my own name, and the kindly old gentleman, tearing up the form, gave me another which I signed "John Smith."
"Now, my boy, listen to me," said the Colonel. "You are a duly enlisted soldier of France and must join your regiment at once. If you do not do so, you will be treated as a deserter. You are to catch the Marseilles train from the Gare de Lyon this evening--nine-fifteen--and report yourself to the non-commissioned officer whom you will see waiting at the Marseilles terminus. Should you fail to find him, ask any gendarme to direct you to Fort St. Jean, and report yourself there. Don't forget. Fort St. Jean, the military depôt," and he rose and extended his hand. "I wish you good luck and quick promotion, mon enfant," he added. "Is there anything else I can tell you?"
"Do you always advise applicants to think better of it, sir?" I asked.
He looked at me a little sharply.
"I am not here to deter people from joining the Foreign Legion," he said. . . . "But some strike me as better suited to the life than others," he added, with a kindly shake of the hand. "Good-bye and good luck."
I thanked him and turned to commence my "ride on the Tiger" (along the Path of Glory).
"Come with me, recruit," said the Sergeant-Major, as he closed the door, "and move smartly."
In his office, he made out a railway-warrant for Marseilles, and a form that proclaimed the bearer to be John Smith, a soldier of the Legion, proceeding to the depôt in Algeria. He then unlocked a drawer, produced a cash-box, and doled out three francs on to the table.
"Subsistence-money, recruit," said he. "A squandering of public funds. Three sous would be ample."
I added two francs to them.
"Let us part friends, Sergeant-Major," said I, for I hate leaving ill-feeling behind me if I can avoid it.
"Recruit," replied he, pocketing the money, "you will get on. . . . If you respect and please all Sergeant-Majors. Good-bye."
And once more I found myself in the Rue St. Dominique, but no longer a free man. I had, with my own hand, padlocked about my ankle a chain unbreakable, the other end of which was somewhere in the desert of Sahara.
Having burnt my boats, I was quite anxious to push on, and I found myself deciding to go by the next train, instead of waiting till the evening. Had I realised that I was to sit for eighteen hours on an uncushioned wooden seat, I might have felt less eager. Eighteen hours the journey did last, however, and each hour more wearisome than the one before. I think the train must have visited every town and village in France, and the entire population have clattered noisily into my ancient, uncomfortable, unclean compartment, throughout the night. Certainly I reached Marseilles feeling ancient, uncomfortable, and unclean myself; and, unlike the compartment, very empty.
It was a wretched journey, rendered no pleasanter by the attentions of the guard, who, having seen from my railway-warrant that I was going to the Legion, behaved somewhat in the manner of a clever captor and skilful gaoler.
He was of a type of Frenchman that I do not like (there are several of them), and though he refrained from actual reproaches and abuse, he made it clear to me that I could not escape him, and to my fellow-travellers that they had a possible danger in their midst. Not precisely a convict; nor, so far as he actually knew, an ex-convict; but still, one who was going to join the Foreign Legion.
On arrival at the terminus, this worthy soul saved me the trouble of finding my non-commissioned officer, by himself finding the man and handing me over to him, with the air of one who has deserved well of his country and of his kind.
"There!" said he to the Sergeant. "There he is! Another little bird for your cage," and so depressed was I by hunger, sleeplessness, and aching bones that I so far departed from good manners and the equal mind as to say:
"Oh, for God's sake don't be such a funny little fat ass," but as I spoke in English he may have thought that I did but offer felicitations and regards.
I rather liked the look of the Sergeant. He was a dapper, alert person, and his bronzed face, though hard as iron, was not brutal nor vicious. He struck me as looking uncommonly like a man. He wore the usual uniform of the French infantry, but with a broad blue woollen sash round the waist, green epaulettes instead of red, and Zouave trousers.
Looking me over with a cold official stare, he asked me if I spoke French, and demanded my name, papers, and nationality.
"Another Englishman," he remarked to my intense joy. "Well--it might have been worse."
"Are you alone?" he enquired, and finding that I was, so far as I knew, bade me follow him.
Surely Michael and Digby were here, and I should see them in the next few minutes. I cheered up tremendously.
He led the way out of the station and down into the busy street and the exhilarating air and sunshine of Marseilles.
By the side of the taciturn Sergeant I walked, longing to ask him about the "other Englishmen," whose recent arrival he had implied by his exclamation, on hearing my nationality.
But his manner did not encourage polite converse, and, truth to tell, I had an even deeper longing at the moment--for the appeasement of a very healthy appetite.
I waxed diplomatic.
"A Sergeant would not share a bottle of wine with a recruit, I suppose, Monsieur?" I asked as we passed an attractive-looking café, from beneath whose gay striped awnings marble-topped tables and comfortable cane chairs shrieked an invitation to rest and refreshment.
"He would not, bleu," was the reply. "Not only from a natural sense of superiority, but also because it would be against the regulations. Neither is he addressed as 'Monsieur.' He has a military rank, and he is saluted by those who address him. . . . Some Sergeants, properly approached, might refresh themselves, perhaps, while a deserving bleu did the same. . . ."
I halted and saluted as though he were an officer. (Correct procedure in the French army, I found.)
"Monsieur le Sergent," said I, "will you honour me by drinking a glass of wine at this restaurant while I get some food? I am very hungry," and I produced a five-franc piece.
"Be here in quarter of an hour, bleu," was the reply, and taking the coin the Sergeant crossed the road to a wine-shop, as I promptly dived into the café and hungrily devoured my last civilian meal--an excellent one in every detail, down to the crisp rolls, fresh butter, and