"Your name is Schneider?" the lieutenant asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, in French your name is pronounced Snedr. Remember that!"
"Yes, sir."
"Sign your name here."
The man signed. One after the other the new recruits were called to the little window, and each signed his name, without bothering to look at what he signed. I came last this time. The lieutenant gave me a sheet of hectographed paper, and I glanced quickly over its contents. It was a formal contract for five years' service in the Foreign Legion between the Republic of France and the man who was foolish enough to sign it. There were a great many paragraphs and great stress was laid on the fact that the "enlisting party" had no right upon indemnification in case of sickness or disability, and no claim upon pension until after fifteen years of service.
"Have you any personal papers?" the lieutenant asked me suddenly.
I almost laughed in his face—he was such a picture of curiosity. In my German passport, however, I was described as "editor," and I had a notion that this passport was much too good for an occasion like this. While searching my portfolio for "personal papers" I happened to find the application form of a life insurance company, with my name filled out. I gave this to the lieutenant with a very serious countenance. It was good enough for this. The officer looked at the thing and seemed quite puzzled.
"Oh, that will do," he finally smiled, and gave me the pen to sign.
I signed. And under my name I wrote the date: October 6, 1905.