French Foreign Legion
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“Money is a thing of immense value in the Foreign Legion,” Rosen wrote, because there was so little of it.100 Old legionnaires at Sidi-bel-Abbès and Saïda examined the weekly draft of recruits for those sheep who had not been completely shorn. They might be invited to the canteen for a little friendly advice about, how to get on in the Legion—at their expense, of course. The proceeds of the sale of civilian clothes, though modest enough under normal circumstances, could fund an evening's libations when a sou (twenty centimes, or about four cents) bought a litre of wine. Rosen claims to have witnessed some old soldiers in Sidi-bel-Abbès steal a recruit's equipment and then sell it back to him for five francs.101
Nor were legionnaires above writing home, exaggerating the difficulties of service, in the hope of eliciting a small contribution toward their well-being: “... His descriptions of famine and hardship are most moving,” Rosen wrote. “They must be very hard-hearted people indeed who do not acknowledge the receipt of such a letter with a small postal order. Then there is joy in the land of Sidi-bel-Abbès. For a day, or a few days, or even a week, the prodigal son with the postal order lives like a king. He has his boots cleaned for him and would not dream of making his own bed as long as his money lasts.”102 This was called having one's true, or “thing,” done for him. It was not resented so long as the unofficial servants were chosen from the patron's own squad, but on the contrary was regarded as a method of wealth distribution.103
Ehrhart found that legionnaires, himself included, frequently sang in the cafes, in the streets, or even begged to get money for drink, “but he mustn't be caught.” His colonel was scandalized when he discovered that veterans were selling their decorations to finance their evenings on the town—he called a quick inspection and retained the pay of any decorated legionnaire who could not produce his medals until they could be bought back.104 Others might make money at such highly prized skills as tattoo artist.
At five o'clock in the evening, a second “soupe” was served, identical to the first, after which the legionnaires were “free” until the “all in” at nine in the evening. Those with money might rush into town where cafes sold wine by the hour rather than by the glass, or drift into the canteen for a few liters to recover from the terrors of the day. Most, however, took one of their two white linen uniforms to the washhouse to beat, pummel and brush it to the standard of cleanliness upon which the Legion insisted. Like most things in the Legion, Rosen especially detested this obligation. However, this was one of the most pleasant parts of the day for most, a sort of social hour during which news and gossip were exchanged in an especially leisurely manner, as uniforms left untended on the line to dry had the disconcerting habit of vanishing into thin air. The American-born Maurice Magnus complained that the Legion's attention, almost obsession, with cleanliness did not extend to corporeal hygiene. Each squad was allowed only one shower a week, which was often sacrificed to training or fatigue duties, which made for strongly smelling barracks rooms.105
Then came the astiquage—the rubbing and polishing of the cartridge belt with melted wax until it shone to brilliance, a task that took up to two hours each evening. Growing impatient with this tedious process, and failing to identify it as a totem, or act of subordination, of the sort required by all armies, Rosen chose to paint his belt. The corporal “almost fainted” when he saw it.
He tore the belt out of my hand, and in a fit of rage ran round to all the mens rooms, to show the other corporals what horrible things happen in this sinful world. A painted cartridge-belt! The old soldiers of the companies came running up and with many “merdes” and “noms d'un chien” surveyed in petrified astonishment the greenhorn who had been so audacious as to attempt to supplant the sacred “astiquage” of the Legion by painting!106
As the nine o'clock “all in” approached, groups of legionnaires, many of them the worse for wear, could be seen making their way back to the barracks. At Sidi-bel-Abbès, the sergeant of the guard usually closed the large gates, leaving only a small sallyport open. “One could watch the drunken legionnaires stop several meters from the small door, then take aim to try to get through without bumping into something,” Ehrhart wrote. Those who missed “or who raised a ruckus” were thrown into the guard room. “I saw a legionnaire brought back in the costume of Adam!”107
Even for those who got into their rooms unhindered, this might be a tense moment, as Flutsch discovered when one of his fellow recruits who had drunk too much, a Corsican named Vittini, made the desperate mistake of talking back to a corporal: “The reply was immediate and decisive,” Flutsch remembered.
Two seconds later, Vittini, dazed by a head butt right in the face, sat on the floor leaning against the table. The Corporal, taking him by the shoulders and drawing him up, threw him down on his stomach. Holding him down with his knee, he grabbed a fist full of hair, and hammered his face on the flagstones, ignoring the cries of his victim. . . . I saw Vittini, his face completely masked in blood which flowed from his nose, his mouth, his forehead. ... “Warning to you new boys who don't yet know how to respect a corporal in the Legion,” [said the corporal.] “This is the first lesson.”
The unfortunate Corsican was then dragged off to the cells, “leaving behind him a trail which was still visible in the corridor eight days later, when he was released.”108
So far the Legion's training regimen appeared to be fairly mild, almost easy. Martyn believed that “He would be a lazy man indeed who could find anything to complain of in that first week's training,” which was “a bed of ease” when compared to that of the British cavalry. The “running drill” which occupied the second week “was a trifle harder.... [but as] the pace was no faster than our ‘double’, I cannot see that it could possibly do any healthy man the slightest injury.”109 But by the third week, life for new recruits became more interesting.
The Legion's pride, as has been seen, lay with its marching ability. Recruits began by undertaking short marches with diminished loads. Junger found this stage of training fairly pleasant, although he could not fail to note the incongruous spectacle of marching through an African landscape with a French regiment singing German marching songs.110 Ehrhart, too, found this aspect of training very enjoyable: “I liked trotting through the countryside in the mornings,” he remembered. “The band—drums, bugles, fifes—often played, or sung marches in German and in French. Life was good, and I did not regret having come to the Legion.”111 However, both distance and weight were gradually increased, until twenty-mile marches in full kit became fairly standard, a task made more onerous by the heavy hobnail boots issued to every legionnaire: “When we had got to this stage I cursed the day I enlisted,” Martyn remembered, “and I fancy most of the others were doing the same.”112 The German Raimund Anton Premschwitz could not believe the amount of equipment he was expected to pack into his knapsack. Even after the veterans helped him organize his kit (“. . . they don't work for nothing and I had to pay a liter of wine”), it appeared to him as an “unspeakable monster.”113 Martyn reckoned that he had between seventy and eighty pounds on his back.114
However, these were merely the hors d'oeuvres for longer marches, alerts or maneuvers. Bugles blasted “Aux armes!” in the dead of night. The barracks immediately shook into an uproar as corporals walked through their rooms shouting: “Faites le sac! En tenue de campagne d'Afrique!” (“Make up packs! Campaign uniform!”) Men hurriedly assembled their effects by lantern light while the wildest rumors circulated about rebellions in Morocco or among tribes in the south. However, the distribution of blank cartridges gave away the game—just another training exercise. With disappointed shouts of “Merde!” the legionnaires slipped down to the barracks square. The companies formed up and exited the barracks square in columns four abreast. The band struck up “Le Boudin,” which resounded off the houses of the still-dark streets. Sleepy and disheveled heads appeared from behind half-opened shutters and small groups of dark figures gathered on street corners to watch the Legion file ou
t of town.
At this stage, the marchers were fairly lighthearted. The band turned back once open country was reached, leaving the legionnaires to entertain themselves: “Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos!” (“My pack, by faith, always on my back!”) one legionnaire chanted, provoking general mirth. Some joked; the young legionnaires questioned the veterans about the destination. The reply was usually that the length of the march would be determined by the rank of the commanding officer: “Tell you what, Dutchy,” Rosen was told by an American legionnaire. “If the old man himself [the general] has got up in the middle of the night you may send your little legs a message to get ready for a lot of work.”115 Soon enough, the chatter died away to be replaced by the heavy tread of boots. The pack straps began to cut into the shoulders, while the arm whose hand clutched the rifle strap felt as if it were being attacked by a swarm of fire ants. At the first halt, the novices threw off their packs, while others simply flopped down on their backs without removing their loads.
After a rest that seemed to have lasted seconds rather than minutes, the march resumed. The effort to regain one's feet was intense. The cold dawn soon gave way to a progressively hotter morning. Recruits wondered if anyone could be suffering as intensely as they. The legs seemed as if they had no blood left in them, and the slightest bump or jolt from a comrade was like being broadsided by a sledgehammer. Anyone who attempted to fall out was shouted back into line. If that failed to work, then the soldier might be tied by the shoulders to a pole jutting from the baggage cart, which forced him to march or be dragged along over uneven ground. The air boiled in the lungs, faces wore a mask of white dust and the legionnaires leaned foxward into any rise in the ground, their breaths coming in short bursts until the summit was passed and the road slipped downward into a shallow valley. Finally, when it seemed as if further progress was beyond human endurance, someone mercifully shouted: “Halt! Campez!” Arms were stacked, sacks thrown to the ground and the tent supports and covers were extracted. The corporal of each section stepped out of line and held a tent pole high above his head to mark the tent line for the company. The legionnaires buttoned their tent sections together, and in seconds a suburb of canvas sprawled over what before had been a plain of white sand.
There was little time to relax: the soil was stripped into narrow trenches for cooking, potatoes peeled, coffee ground, wood gathered, baggage unloaded and sentries set out. In desert areas, each member of a section was required to contribute a half-liter of the two liters of water that he had been given in the morning for the soupe and coffee. Those who had consumed their water ration on the march might be given a handful of rice or macaroni in its precooked state.116 By seven o'clock in the evening the camp was a litter of slumbering soldiers, their rifles tied to their wrists or bound together and fixed to the wrist of the corporal sleeping in the tent as a precaution against marauding Arabs. At two o'clock the following morning, the camp sprang to life amidst the confusion of whistles and shouts, ‘if one could not find his pack, another his strap, a third his blanket, etc.,” wrote Premschwitz, “the best thing was that everyone had a rifle which did not belong to him—in the darkness, one simply took what was to hand.”117 Flutsch jumped into formation stuffing extraneous pieces of equipment into his pockets: “I must look stupid,” he said to a veteran. “Don't worry. You are not by yourself,” came the reply. “No one will make fun of you. This is not la biffe [the French infantry]. In the beginning, only those who have served in Africa can make out. And not even all of them!... The tirailleurs and the Bat d'Af are never in such a hurry.”118
And so it went on, day after grueling day, until the column reached Géryville or some other distant garrison, usually after a week of marching. When one legionnaire fell out on the march and dragged into camp an hour late, Lionel Hart's sergeant punished him with the crapaudine, a particularly harsh punishment which will be described later.119 Premschwitz complained that so many legionnaires fell out on one winter maneuver, exhausted not only by the march itself but also by their inability to sleep at night while shivering from cold beneath the one inadequate blanket issued to them, that the route was lined with soldiers crowding around tufts of alfa, which they set alight for warmth. It was four days before all of them wandered into camp.120
Nor did it do any good to appeal to the doctor—on the contrary, it could be positively dangerous. When Rosen complained of stomach cramps on the march, the surgeon dismissed him with a preemptory “on the march there are no sick men,” and he narrowly escaped punishment for shirking.121 Ehrhart, who had a bottle broken over his head in a bar brawl between French and German legionnaires, and no doubt suffering from a mammoth hangover, went to the doctor on the following morning to escape a scheduled march. “His diagnosis was to write in his notebook, ‘Seven days prison.’... During my seven days’ punishment, the lump [on my head] disappeared.” He also admitted that legionnaires were masters at simulating conjunctivitis or in working up a sore using matches and a knife.122
To outsiders, indeed to legionnaires, these training exercises and the punishments for those who could not keep up might have appeared unnecessarily harsh. However, even Rosen conceded that, given the dreadful conditions in which the Legion was frequently forced to campaign, where “separation from the troops means death,” strict march discipline was vital.123 A veteran explained to Flutsch that on campaign a man who dropped out was simply disarmed and left to try his luck with the enemy.124
These marches developed more than stamina, however. They became a test of individual pride: “A man who chokes because he's hurting is like one who doesn't want to fight—you despise him,” Flutsch was told.
You walk with your shoes full of blood and when you arrive, you will do the fatigues like everyone else and you go to bed at the same time as the others. No one will compliment you for it. You will be a real legionnaire, like the others. When they put you with another on campaign, he needs to know that he is with a man without having to look at your face and he needs to know that you will do your job.125
Individual pride was reinforced by national pride, the reluctance to have one's nation thought of as a weak link: When one of Flutsch's friends came down with dysentery on the march, he simply carried on with “the faucet running” because “Je suis un Gaulois!”126 Nor was this sense of national pride confined to the French.
Legion training was not uniformly praised. In 1881, Captain Jean-Louis Armengaud complained that he received a reinforcement of two hundred Legion recruits “who are hardly trained, and whose instruction will have to be completed at Ras-el-Ma” before they could be thrown into battle.127 Of course, this may have been exceptional due to the Bou-Amama revolt of that year. However, Flutsch was dispatched to Géryville after only twelve days’ training at Saïda.128 Premschwitz followed a seven-week instruction course at the turn of the century, while in 1910 Merolli remained thirteen weeks at the depot at Saïda, although his sergeant promised early release for those obviously proficient in their new trade.129
CRITICISMS OF LEGION training were essentially two. The first concerned the quality of Legion NCOs. The importance of the “firm but fair” training sergeant who serves as a role model for recruits, helping them to make the transition from civilian to soldier, has frequently been noted.130 Some, at least, felt that Legion NCOs relied more upon brutality than leadership. Jean Pfirmann discovered upon enlisting in 1887 that “We had some instructors whose morality was not exactly irreproachable. They came to the Foreign Legion to escape a sentence in the Bataillons d'Afrique. After training, some of them had been promoted. But they sometimes lacked mercy, and we found them very tough.” However, the colonel removed all NCOs with a disciplinary record from the training cadre. “The purge was complete, and for us, life got better.”131 Premschwitz found the training NCOs swelled with self-importance and generally insulting, a defect that was not remedied by Legion officers who were conspicuous by their absence.132 Merolli was a trifle more indulgent: “Among the NCOs, only one was real
ly impossible and of a brutal intransigence,” he wrote.133
The shortage of good NCOs was a major weakness of the Legion, as even Legion colonel de Villebois-Mareuil admitted in 1896.134 The problems of recruiting good NCOs were many. In the first place, many of the best men, those for instance who had been officers in a foreign army, had come to the Legion on sabbatical from the responsibilities and competitiveness of life and did not seek command positions. Also, peer pressure might cause potential NCOs to prefer to remain with their friends, especially when they realized that the task of a corporal who lived with his section and yet was responsible for maintaining discipline, often with his fists, was generally regarded as the most difficult—and the most lonely— job in the Legion. Lionel Hart found that the corporal was “... the dog of the company. He is on call day and night. He serves at the whim of the sergeant, who abuses him, and he must be on good terms with the soldiers who try to escape fatigues.”135 Pfirmann discovered that it required much tact to be a corporal when there were often men of superior education in his squad. “It is also right to insist that these men of superior background rarely ridicule a corporal,” he wrote. “Their good education prevents them.” Authority might also be compromised by national divisions—for instance, the German Pfirmann had difficulty making two French veterans of the Franco-Prussian War who “affirmed that it was very humiliating for a French soldier to be commanded by a German” carry out his orders.136 Becoming an NCO required that one go through special classes and pass examinations. This made promotion difficult for foreign soldiers whose command of French was inadequate—Pfirmann was surprised when he graduated number thirty-three of one hundred “student-corporals” “despite my inferiority in French.”137 As the best soldiers were often to be found among the foreigners, the Legion perhaps failed to take full advantage of a valuable source of leadership.138