"That's the best piece of luck I've had since I came to this 'verdammte' Legion," said the man. He was a German, a Pomeranian, I should say, judging from the dialect he spoke.
Meanwhile Black (John William Black was the negro's very appropriate name) had come back, with a bugler who looked as much like a "Yank" as anybody could look.
"So you're American?" the bugler asked.
"About half of me is," I said.
"Oh, German-American! I see. That's all right. It's pretty tough work here in the Legion; well, you'll see for yourself. I'm mighty glad to talk U.S. to a white man. The nigger's no good—you know you're not, Blacky!—and me and him are the only two Americans in this damfool outfit. Blacky's always kicking up a row about something, and he spends most of his time in prison, and when he's not there he generally manages to get drunk. Beat's me, on what! He's a pretty hard case, ain't you, Blacky?"
"Shoore—I—am, you son-of-an-old-trumpet!" grinned the negro.
"I wonder what company you'll be assigned to," continued the "son-of-an-old-trumpet." "If the sergeant should ask you whether you had any preference, tell him you would like to be assigned to the eleventh. That's my company. We could play poker. I could show you the ropes, too. Life's no snap in this outfit, you know!"
"Aren't there any other Americans in the Legion?"
"Oh yes, about twenty. There are seven with the fourth battalion of the first, somewhere in Indo-China. The second regiment of the Legion in Saida has thirteen or fourteen American légionnaires. Two of them are sergeants, and one is colour-sergeant; McAllister is his name. He's a good man. Yes, about twenty boys from the States have a hand in this Legion business!"
"Garde à vous!" commanded the sergeant, coming out of the regimental offices. "Attention!"