With the Foreign Legion

Evening Post, Volume CVI, Issue 141, 18 December 1928, Page 34

With the Foreign Legion

By R. C. Elliott

[(■.•opyrightJ

.Not another s^ul-was in the barracks.qu'aib of tho depot of the Foreign Legion at Sidi-Bel-Abbes, where I sat under the deep purple of tho Algerian sky. A thousand stars blossomed there, and a silver moon hung suspended like some fabled .escutcheon of the night. rshuddered as tho howl of a jackal far away rent .'the air. It died away, andfrom the direction of the canteen camo a chorus of voices singing in German. Though I did not understand-the 'words, 1 know what they wero singing; .it was sonic folk-song of their youth, arid they rendered it with all the yearning..and all the longing of men far away from, homo and kith and kin on the oven of Christmas. 'All my endcavoiirs to shut out tlio voices were in vain, and they pcrsist.ently'raiig- in my ears. I had sought the solitude of the night to forget, or perhaps, after all,-it was to remember. For cloven months I had lived beneath this foreign sky, sometimes admiring and sometimes cursing its cruel sun. I should go on admiring and cursing it for another four years before release came, and to-night, what the rigours of a dosert campaign..had left.of mentality was in thoughtful retrospection. "Thus lost to the world by events going on in the barracks, I was surprised ■when I felt a. hand on my shoulder. Looking up I saw Macdonald, my Scots friend. He sat down beside me and gazed fixedly into my eyes for a moment. "Ye'ro thinking of back there, biddie," nodding to where the bright light of the North Star blinked at ns in a bemused way. I nodded assent, and Macdonald, too, passed info deep reflection. ' Like a man who risks his all upon one throw of the dice, like the gambler in souls who stakes his household gods, his home, his love, and his all, I had sold my body to Franco, and I had lost. - Would the -hand of memory never be .stilled? I could soak myself in the fatigue of tho day; I could clrowu memory in the storm of tlio battle, and, when this wa3 not, enough—why, there was always wine, rich red wine and an hour's oblivion. , But this night the hurt of memory wag sweet. Mind and physique rose above the death of the day, aud the fantastic children of the imagination flocked around to play for a brief while. The seduction of the Algerian night passed away, and I was once again in a far north country. There was a thick mantle of snow wrapping tho earth in white; I saw tho glow of red firesides, breaking the black, of night and tho yellow glow of lamp-lit windows. I heard'the laughter of children and then a hushed silence. Tho hum of talk.ceased, as the strains of a carol broke in upon the night. 1 listened, too. When the last note had died away, .'there was tho tinkle of a bull; a door was thrown open, and voices were raised in a merry welcome to the greeting of: ■■' "God rest you, merry gentlemen!. A happy Christmas to you and till yours." The singers are admitted and toasts are drunk in sparkling wine. In a corner of the room an old lady sits with her eyes in the far away. Perhaps her thoughts havo drifted to where two men arc sitting in a barack square under southern skies and .-.., "Come along, laddie, we can't sit here," it was Macdonald speaking. "We'll go into (ho town and sec if any of the other boj's aro there. Anyhow, we can split a pottle." I rose and followed him. I knew exactly what was in his mind. There was a knife wound somewhere that was aching with tho stir of memories. Our footsteps led us to the Arab vil-' lage where, if the pleasures are a little wilder and more unconventional, the price of oblivion is much less than in the French quarter. Over the' moonlit plateau and into the narrowJ and tortuous streets of the native village we passed. "We'll have a Christmas iv our own way, man. A bottle o' wine and a wee dance '11 do us a power-of good." By this time we had come in sight of the lurid glare from tho doorway of the Moulin Rouge, the principal aneo and drinking hell of the Legionnaire. No need to speculate as. to the interior. The scene of false madness was too familiar, and for a moment I felt revolted. Tho half-naked and abandoned women would be dancing in the arms of wine-flushed men to the twang Of asthmatical guitars; thero would bo the usual raucous singing of vulgar songs in French and German and Polish. It was scarcely a -fitting atmosphere for the night when—Oh, well, what did it matter, anyhow? "Here you arc," said Macdonald, ' producing thirty sous and putting thorn into tho hand of tho witch-like hag who stands guard at the door of custom. Suddenly wo halted on tho threshold. Were we dreaming, or had the hand of time really been turned back? A violin was speaking in tones of ineffable sweet sadness from within, and to its accompaniment three voices iv perfect harmony rose—in English. "Whilo shepherds watched their flocks by night." "Do you hoar it, Mac?" He nodded. For a, moment we stood and listened, and then, as if by common consent, wo turned, and 'walked away. Macdonald '"orily.'.'tumcd round onco to look rcgretfuliv at the grinning hag who held-his .thirty pieces. Ugh! I'shivered, as the red of dawn peeped over the waking hills the next morning. My eyes opened wide iv surprise when I saw tho world to which Ijhad- wakened, this un-baked earth of North Africa, was covered with snow. "Mon Dieu!" ejaculated Abd cl Kaber, a dusky son of the desert south. "This is snow—the'first we've seen for twenty years." "T-ladghed,' a littlo emptily albeit. "Yes, that is to remind lis of Christmas." .; .Fate was pleased to turn the thumbscrews of memory a little tighter. Looking down into the courtyard, on this morning when children get up with the dawn in an eager expectation of a mythical benevolence, I saw the orange tree standing there in its sentinel-like solitude., Its rich fruit of ripened gold stood out like flaming lamps through the glistening white of the snow—a gigantic Christmas-tree, laden ready for the feast. That night the snow remained, but the heavy sky had moved on, and the stars shone once more. A host of men wore gathered in the barrack square— men drawn from every comer of the world; black and white, yellow and bronze; men from the parched desert, mid others from tho snowy wastes of tho Northland. In the centre I hero stood, a monster tree garlanded with tiny candles and numerous packages. Macdonald and I went down and joined the throng. Our company sergeant Sanded us each a ticket, mine bearing tho number D-l, while Macdonald 's bore 01). The srrypnnl began calling out 11m ....numbers while, an officer took down tho

Two Britons Spend Christmas in Algeria j

packages from tlio tree which were marked with the corresponding num-. bcr. /..,.. . Boxes of chocolates, pairs of socks, books, safety-razors, bottles of wine, and a. host of other gifts were being distributed; I looked. at Macdonald, who was eagerly straining his neck to try and see what his prize would be. His eye was set on a swelling bottle. , ''It'll just be ma luck to get a paper cap'or a toy balloon," he said turning to me anxiously. "Ninety-four!" I stepped up and saluted," took the gift, a small penknife, and waited for Macdonald's turn. I stood beside him as ho took off the wrapper, and I had to turn away my head to hide tho smile I could not repress. "What in the name o' -! Gosh, man! Do ye no see what they've'given me? A safety-razor, and me with the finest beard in the Legion;" and there was a world of scorn and sadness in his voice. "I can no cat the thing, and I can; no drink it." He ■turned round on a sudden thought, and tho next moment I saw he was talking to Abd el Kaber, gesticulating to put .more power into his poor French. There was an exchange of gifts, and Macdonald cjima.back with the happiest grinning face I had seen 'for many a month. "I'd hate like anything to let that da.7« make a fool o' himsel'." "What on earth have you got, Mac?" As I'reachcd out my'hand for the large' bottle he held in his arms, ho clutched his burden tighter to him. "I've got Christmas right here, laddie. It's Scotch, by all the:powers." "Scotch! But how on earth did it come here, and how did you manage to wrest it from Abd el Kaber?" I inquired, ..well knowing the thirst of this Arab for alcohol.

"I don't know how it crime here, but I ken iino hoo I got it. He asked me what was written on tho bottle, because it's in English." "What did you tell him, Mat:?" "I told him it was embrocation, and showed him the label. The poor fule believed mo when I told him it was poison." Suddenly a voice rang out as wo were moving away into the shadows. "Come hero tho man who drew num-, ber four," came the command. "He's got tho Capitainc's-gift by mistake." Macdonald thrust a bottle into my arms, and pushed me away. "Run, man, run!" he whispered hoarsely. "Kun as you've never none before. D'ye no ken ye.'ye got his whisky." ' Up in the dim-lit corner of the bar-rack-room that night, an Englishman and a Scotsman toasted silently to the fates who had taken pity on their solitude and had, at long last, smiled kindly. ...-■■■■• " "Here's to the Capitaine!" I said. But Mac was too busy to answer!