But even if we assume that Legion morale was fragile, that the quality of its recruitment was uneven and that its multinational character made it difficult to meld such disparate elements into a unified force, how could the Legion maximize its—apparently limited—assets? One way lay in the regimental structure of the period, which required that each regiment produce picked companies of grenadiers and voltigeurs, or light troops, the remainder being assigned to line companies, compagnies du centre, as the French called them. In this way the Legion was able to select and group its most motivated and skilled soldiers under its most dynamic officers. This paid enormous dividends in the Crimea, for instance, where Marshal Saint-Arnaud formed a bataillon de marche from the elite companies of the two Legion regiments. It was this bataillon d'élite that kept its discipline at the Alma, which prompted General Canrobert to call upon his “brave legionnaires” to “serve as an example to the others.” Elite companies also carried out most of the assaults assigned to the Legion on important objectives during the dreadful winter siege of Sebastopol.54 The grenadier company of the 2e étranger led the assault on Ischeriden and distinguished itself at Magenta.55
In 1868, elite companies were dissolved in the French army because the increased firepower of modern weapons had made the specialized functions of grenadiers and skirmishers obsolete. This also appeared to be a victory for those who argued that elite companies hurt the overall performance of a unit because they siphoned off and concentrated the best talent to the detriment of the rest of the regiment. Their loss was regretted as well, because those serving in elite companies lost the extra pay that went with the assignment.56 After 1870, the Legion continued the practice of forming bataillons de marche. However, the criticism leveled at these was that, unlike the old elite battalions made up of established companies, the new organizations, while also made up of picked troops, broke up the standing companies and therefore had to reforge a unity among officers and men who were largely unknown to each other.
A second way in which the Legion was able to confound its critics was by turning the heterogeneous origins of its soldiers to its advantage. While French line units recruited the bulk of their soldiers through a national lottery in which all twenty-year-old males were required to participate, the Legion took virtually anyone who walked through the door of the recruiting bureau. While most of them would not be shortlisted for Who's Who, they were generally older men—the average age in the 1860s was between twenty-eight and thirty-two years57—whose experience and diverse backgrounds the Legion was able to draw upon in times of need. The Legion has always maintained that the heterogeneous origins of its soldiers was especially useful for tasks of colonization, such as construction or agriculture. And while there is no evidence that the backgrounds of legionnaires were more diverse than those of line soldiers in this period, it is certainly possible that they were more experienced at their former professions, young conscripts hardly advancing beyond the stage of apprentice before their call-up, if indeed they had acquired any skills at all.
However, what probably did distinguish the Legion from line infantry regiments in this period was the number of ex-soldiers, often deserters, in its ranks. For instance, of five hundred men who joined the Legion between 1868 and 1870, fully seventy-four, or 14 percent, listed their professions as “ex-militaire” or “ex-officier.”58 As has been shown, the large number of former soldiers with experience in arms other than the infantry who served with the Legion in Spain allowed Conrad to create a light division that included cavalry and artillery. This sort of flexibility was not demanded of the Legion in Algeria because the French possessed their own cavalry, and because artillery was virtually useless there. Nor were flexibility and adaptability much in demand in the set-piece European battles that the Legion fought in this period. However, in Mexico the diverse nature, and the military nature, of Legion recruitment allowed them to modify their force structure to meet new tactical situations.
Chapter 7
MEXICO,
1863-1867
MEXICO WAS NOT a success for French arms. However, better political management might have salvaged some advantage for France out of an adventure Napoleon III appears to have entered into rather impetuously, with an inadequate grasp of the complexities of Mexican politics. As the political and military situation in Mexico deteriorated for the French, especially after the summer of 1865, the Legion's operational flexibility was severely tested, as was its discipline and morale. If some Legion officers began to draw parallels between Mexico and the ill-fated Spanish venture of 1808–14 under Napoleon I, it was because for them the two countries had more in common than a language.
The Mexican campaign was at once the Legion's salvation while at the same time it almost produced its eclipse, at least temporarily. In 1861, the 1er régiment étranger was dissolved, and on December 16 of that year the war ministry suspended enlistments in the régiment étranger (ex–2e régiment étranger) for an indefinite period. On December 30, 1861, a ministerial note allowed all legionnaires who were foreigners with one year's service remaining of their two-year enlistment to return to civilian life.1 Clearly the government seemed intent upon reducing Legion strength substantially. Mexico reversed this policy and allowed for the rapid expansion of the Legion—on March 22, 1864, enlistments were once again accepted for the corps.
One of the reasons for the volte-face of the French government toward the Legion was that, as in Spain in 1835, Paris began to envisage a central role for the Legion in its Mexican policy. The genesis of that role stretched back to January 1862, when the courts of France and Austria began negotiations to create a throne in Mexico for the Archduke Maximilian. One of Maximilian's conditions for acceptance was that he be given a body of at least ten thousand soldiers recruited in Europe to form the nucleus of a future Mexican army.
The political difficulties for Napoleon III of handing over a corps made up of Frenchmen were obvious. In September 1863, Napoleon III proposed to bequeath the Foreign Legion to Maximilian, at least for a certain period. It is likely that the idea originally was that of Bazaine, who was preparing to take over command of the French expeditionary corps in Mexico, and who had participated in the earlier Spanish experiment. The Convention of Miramar, signed on April 10, 1864, stipulated that the Legion would remain French so long as French troops continued to occupy Mexico, and then would pass under the authority of the Mexican government. A critical difference between Miramar and the Franco-Spanish accord of 1835 was that the Legion officers would retain their normal right to promotion in the French army. Vacancies created by the progressive departure of Europeans from the corps would be filled by Mexicans. The plans to raise the Legion to a strength of eight battalions continued until December 13, 1866, when Napoleon III, under threat of war with the United States, decided to repatriate the Legion to France with the remainder of the French forces.
Despite the enthusiasm of the departure from Sidi-bel-Abbès, and a monotonous but otherwise pleasant crossing, the first views of Mexico conjured up a deep sense of foreboding in some. Standing at the ship's railing, Charles Zédé saw “A muddy coast devoid of vegetation signposted with the carcasses of wrecked ships. On our right, a small island upon which sat the dilapidated fortress of San Juan de Ulla; on the left, the Isla de los Sacrificios, absolutely arid, but covered by a multitude of crosses indicating the graves of our sailors, victims of the insalubrious climate.” Indeed, the place reeked of death—vultures circled overhead while large sharks, clearly visible beneath the surface of the water, shadowed the ships: “On land and on sea, these disgusting animals seem to stalk you like a prey.”2 The view once ashore was equally depressing. Veracruz was hardly more than an agglomeration of low houses that shouldered up to an inadequate harbor, “depressing and dead,” wrote Diesbach de Torny, “wide streets with grass growing in them and few inhabitants.” Virtually the only amusement was to watch the incredibly voracious vultures eat the rubbish that was thrown out into the streets or feed on the ca
rcasses of animals, and even men, that were found floating in the harbor each morning.3
To legionnaires, there seemed to be nothing worse than Veracruz. But there was—the tropical lowlands behind Veracruz, which immediately became the Legion's theater of operations. To them fell the task of escorting supply convoys along the primitive roads that ran west through the lugubrious bush toward the highlands beyond. It was loathsome and dangerous duty. The wagons were too heavy for the roads, little more than paths, that were rutted and slashed by deep ravines, called barrancas, carved out by the torrential rains. “These [marches] are terribly tiring, privations of food, of clothes,” Diesbach de Torny wrote in his diary. “We sleep for five or six days at the foot of trees in the water. Almost always torrential rain, and no change of clothes, no way to get dry. Impossible to light a fire . . . always sleeping in wet clothes. The next day, the march resumes in the same clothes. It is an ordeal that few people realize.”4 Marching from dawn to sunset in these conditions, a convoy could seldom cover more than eight miles.5
Not only did the terrain and climate prolong these journeys almost interminably, but they caused excessive fatigue and made legionnaires particularly susceptible to the second great scourge of the coast—vomito, or yellow fever. Even the newest arrival quickly became familiar with the symptoms of the disease. The first sign of the onset of vomito was constipation, followed by a headache, then cramps in the neck that soon spread to the entire body. Then the vomiting began, dark blood “which looks like coffee with the grounds suspended in it,” wrote Zédé. The stricken were fed olive oil while “poultices made from the disgusting mud from the streams of Veracruz were applied to the legs.” Not surprisingly, this treatment was seldom effective and death usually followed within six to twelve hours.6 These first months in the lowlands devastated the original Legion force that arrived in 1863. Zédé claimed that one-third of the Legion force in Mexico perished in 1863.7 However, Diesbach de Torny put his losses higher—his company of 124 men was quickly reduced to only 25, while in October 1863 he complained that 109 legionnaires had died of vomito in eleven days, while a further 160 were ill.8
The obvious answer to the problem of the vomito was to march troops as quickly as possible through the disease-ridden coastal plain to the healthy highland town of Córdoba, approximately sixty miles inland and 2,800 feet above sea level. The complication arose from the fact that Mexican guerrillas repeatedly struck out of the jungles against the convoys. Not that the Mexicans were particularly intrepid soldiers. On the contrary, legionnaire Amiable had a low opinion of them: “The Mexican is afraid of gunfire,” he wrote. “When he shoots, he turns his head. One of their volleys discharged at 30 feet never frightens you. If one is hit, it's just bad luck. We have always said that ten of ours can fight fifty of these bandits, and usually give them a good thrashing.”9 Diesbach de Torny agreed: “Their method is to flee as soon as they fire,” he wrote. “They come back later to see what damage they have done and to strip the dead and finish off the wounded by mutilating them horribly. Like all cowards, these men are cruel.”10 Of course, the Mexican resistance to the French, especially in the early stages of the intervention, was very much of the “come as you are” variety. Many of them were indeed bandits, and the rest, though perhaps extremely patriotic, were little more than ill-organized guerrilla bands formed around highly independent leaders who on occasion might be persuaded to join forces with other bands to mount a large raid. So long as the odds could be kept at five to one, then, barring surprise, it was not much of a contest. But what if the Mexicans could increase the odds to twenty to one?
At seven o'clock on the morning of April 30, 1863, Captain Jean Danjou, a hero of the Crimea who had lost a hand when his musket had exploded during a topographical expedition in Algeria and who carried a wooden one in its place,11 ordered his reconnaissance team of sixty-two legionnaires and three officers to halt near the small village of Camarón, about fifty miles southwest of Veracruz. They had been searching the countryside west of Palo Verde for signs of Mexican guerrillas since one o'clock in the morning, but so far had found none. Now it was time for coffee. Sentinels were set, wood gathered and the fires lighted. Before the coffee could be drunk, however, the lookouts signaled Mexicans to the west. Danjou ordered the fires doused. His legionnaires took up their arms. The Mexicans soon appeared, mounted on horseback. Danjou formed a square on some open ground. The Mexicans attacked. Danjou waited until they were within one hundred yards before he unleashed a volley that shattered the charge. While the Mexicans reorganized, he moved his square one hundred yards to the east onto a small rise surmounted by a hedge of cactus to await a second, more tentative charge, which was easily repulsed.
Danjou ordered his troops into the Hacienda de la Trinidad, a square-walled farmyard that stood about two hundred yards east of Camarón along the road to Palo Verde. This fortress—for that was what it was to become—was about fifty yards square. The ten-foot-high wall was pierced by two doors and a third opening that obviously had once been an entrance. A string of rooms occupied the north face. Danjou set about shoring up the defenses, a task the Mexicans did not disturb. However, the problem for Danjou was that even if the Mexicans could not see in, he could not see out. Sergeant Morzicki, son of a Polish officer who had taken refuge in France, was hoisted onto the roof of the north face. He reported sombreros as far as the eye could see. Furthermore, they appeared to be well armed, and were dismounting and taking off their spurs. Time passed. The legionnaires were out of water and the heat was oppressive. Finally a Mexican came forward waving a white handkerchief. He pointed out that the French were hopelessly outnumbered and suggested that they surrender. Danjou refused. Corporal Louis Maine, one of the survivors, explained why: “As the enemy had shown neither infantry nor artillery, we could defend ourselves for a long time against cavalrymen no matter how numerous. It was not with their short carbines without bayonets that they could overwhelm a company of the Legion behind walls.” Danjou obliged his men to raise their hands and swear that they would defend themselves to the death.12
According to Maine, things held together fairly well at first. Attempts by the cavalrymen to get into the farmyard were thwarted with little difficulty, and it appeared that the Mexicans had little stomach for a fight to the finish. However, around midday two things occurred that altered the situation. Danjou, who had been circulating in the yard with a cavalier disregard for his own safety, was struck in the chest by a bullet and killed. Worse, the Mexicans were reinforced by three battalions of infantry. By two o'clock in the afternoon, pockets of surviving legionnaires pressed hard against the walls to avoid the plunging fire that had transformed the central courtyard into an abattoir. The building on the north face had caught fire, which swathed the farmyard in smoke asphyxiating enough to leave the devil himself gasping for breath, adding considerably to the torment of thirst. “Hope no longer existed,” Maine recounted. “Still, no one thought of surrender.”
By late afternoon, “There was only five of us left: Second lieutenant Clément Maudet, a Prussian named Wenzel, Catteau, Constantin and me,” testified Maine.
We held the enemy at a distance, but we could not hold out much longer as our bullets were almost exhausted. Soon, we had only one each. It was six o'clock and we had fought since the morning. “Ready... fire!” said the lieutenant. We discharged our five rifles and, he in front, we jumped forward with fixed bayonets. We were met by a formidable volley. Catteau threw himself in front of his officer to make a rampart with his body, and was struck with 19 bullets. Despite this devotion, the Lieutenant himself was hit with two bullets. Wenzel also fell, wounded in the shoulder, but he got up immediately. Three of us were still on our feet, Wenzel, Constantin and I. . . . We were about to jump over the Lieutenant's body and charge again, but the Mexicans surrounded us with their bayonets at our chests. We thought we had breathed our last, when a senior officer who was in the front rank of the assailants ordered them to stop and with a brusque movemen
t of his saber raised their bayonets which threatened us: “Surrender!” he told us. “We will surrender,” I replied, “if you will leave us our arms and treat our lieutenant who is wounded.” He agreed. He offered me his arm, gave the other to the wounded Wenzel and they brought a stretcher for the Lieutenant. We arrived behind a small rise where [Mexican] Colonel Milan was. “Is this all that is left?” he asked when he saw us. And when told yes, “These are not men. They are demons.”13
Diesbach de Torny was with the first French troops to reach Camarón on May 2 to find that the bodies of legionnaires had been left to the vultures, “so that one could not recognize the poor unfortunates who after such brave conduct were left for two days to these ignoble animals.”14
The defense of El Camarón, or Camerone as the French called it, was an inspiring example of heroism and courage, which, as will be seen, came to form the central myth of the Legion. However, when viewed in another light, it suggested that the French might have some strategic problems in Mexico that might prove insurmountable. The overriding problem was a political one. French intervention in Latin America was one of Napoleon Ill's long-held ambitions. Even before he became emperor, he dreamed of extending French influence into Central and South America to thwart the expanding Protestant and Anglo-Saxon culture of the United States. He was encouraged in these ambitions after 1860 when the victory of Benito Juárez in the Mexican civil war caused a number of conservative Mexican exiles to seek asylum in Paris. There they were able to gain the ear of the French emperor through his wife, Eugenie de Montijo, of Spanish origin and very pious, who held that it was the duty of the Catholic states of Europe to protect the Church wherever it was menaced in the world. As the Second Empire depended in large measure upon Catholic support, the sentiments of the empress were of more than casual interest. They were given a sharper focus, however, when Juárez defaulted on his international loans. Important French financial interests led by the Due de Mornay utilized the mendacious reports of the French representative in Mexico, Dubois de Saligny, to persuade Napoleon III that the population desired nothing more than liberation from the tyranny of Juárez and his Liberals.15
French Foreign Legion Page 24