All at once the stillness of the night was turned into a perfect pandemonium—shouting and yelling and roaring sounded from room to room, the barracks were in an uproar.
"Faites le sac. En tenue de campagne d'Afrique," the corporals shouted, and renewed rejoicing answered them.
The "African field equipment" was not such a simple thing, and in spite of all the yelling and shouting we worked with feverish excitement, for in ten minutes we had to stand in the barrack-yard ready for marching. There was singing and whistling everywhere while the knapsacks were packed and everybody wondered whether we were going "au Maroc" at last or whether the Arab tribes of the South were in rebellion again. The cartridge-cases were brought from the magazine and their covers burst open with hatchets. The packets of cartridges were thrown from man to man. We tore off the cardboard covering and … saw that they were blank cartridges.
"Merde!" roared Corporal Wassermann.
Roaring and singing stopped as if by magic. As blank cartridges only were served out, it could but be a question of a short manœuvre and the Legion would not dream of working up enthusiasm for an ordinary "marche militaire." In this case the short manœuvre march really extended over three hundred kilometres—three hundred kilometres to the South, three hundred kilometres back again; a total distance of six hundred kilometres, which is about four hundred miles….
By the light of a lantern the companies formed up in the barrack-yard. In a moment the baggage and ammunition carts were packed, because the Legion always carries sharp ammunition on the march to be prepared for any emergency. Then we went out into the night to the tune of the Legion's march.
Any one who has once heard the march of the Legion will never forget it, its peculiar sharp rhythm broken by the bugles' storm signal. The Legion's band is forbidden to play it in the garrison or on the parade—the regimental march is played before the enemy or on long marches.
Sidi-bel-Abbès woke up as soon as the band commenced to play in the quiet streets; windows were thrown open and out of the corners all the riff-raff of the sleeping town came into view: miserable-looking white men and dirty negroes looked at the marching company with sleepy eyes in high astonishment. In a few minutes we were out of town and marched along the yellow sandy road in dim moonlight. The marching order was in column of four as is customary in the Legion.
I marched in the first row of fours of my company. In the front the four drummers plodded along close behind our captain's white horse. Abreast of the captain walked Lieutenant Garde-Jörgensen, a Dane, a soldier of fortune….
The silent march into the night was trying for my burning curiosity, and I did a most unmilitary thing: