The Passing of Morocco

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

THE FRENCH WAR BALLOON.

AN ALGERIAN SPAHI.

Spread out in front of us on the bare, rolling country was a moving body of men forming a more or less regular rectangle, of which the front and rear were the short ends, about half as long as the sides. The outer lines were marked by companies of infantry, bloomered Tirailleurs and the Foreign Legion, marching in open order, often single file, with parallel lines at the front and vital points. Within the rectangle travelled the field artillery, three sections of two guns each; a mountain battery, carried dismantled on mules; a troop of Algerian cavalry; the general and his staff; and a brigade of the Red Cross. Outside the main body, flung a mile to the front and far off either wing, scattered detachments of Goumiers, in flowing robes, served as scouts. Already three of them on the sky-line, by the position of their horses, signalled that the way was clear.

This little army, counting in its ranks Germans, Arabs, and negroes, as well as native Frenchmen, numbered all told less than three thousand men. It had got into fighting formation under shelter of a battery and two short flanking lines of infantry lodged on the first ridge; and passing through the wire entanglements the various detachments had found their positions without a halt. The force, even though small, was well handled, and the men were keen for the advance. Of course they were thoroughly confident; they might have been recklessly so but for the controlling hand of the cautious general.

Finding ourselves at a rear corner of the block we set our speed at about double that of the columns of the troops and took a general direction diagonally towards a section of the artillery, now kicking up a pretty dust as it dragged through the ploughed fields. Overtaking the guns we slogged on with them for a mile or more, advising the officers not to waste their camera films, as they seemed inclined to do, before the morning clouds disappeared.

The helmets of the artillerymen and Légionnaires hid their faces and made them look like British soldiers; and this was disappointing, to find that the only French troops in the army had left behind in camp the little red caps that give them the appearance of belonging to the time of the French Revolution.

Though inside us we carried no breakfast, neither were we laden with doughy bread and heavy water-bottles, to say nothing of rifles; and after a short breathing spell and a ride on the guns we were soon able to say au revoir to the battery and to press on ahead. Our eagerness to ascertain the object of the movement led us towards the general’s staff; but we did not get there. The little man with the big moustache spied us at some distance and sent an officer to say that correspondents should keep back with the hospital corps. Thinking perhaps it would be best not to argue this point, we thanked the officer, sent our compliments to Monsieur le Général Drude, and dropped back till the artillery hid us from his view, grateful that he had not sent an orderly with us.

It was only four miles out from Casablanca, as the front line came to the crest of the second rise, that the firing began. About half a mile ahead of us we saw the forward guns go galloping up the slope and swing into position; and a minute later two screeching shells went flying into the distance. A battery to the left was going rapidly to the front, and, keeping an eye on the general, we made over to it and passed to the far side, to be out of his view. It happened that by so doing we also took the shelter of the battery from a feeble Moorish fire, and our apparent anxiety brought down upon us the chaff of the soldiers. But we did not offer to explain. With this battery we went forward to the firing line; and as soon as the guns were in action, the Scot, forgetting the fight in the interest of his own mission, began dodging in and out among the busy artillerists, snapping pictures of them in action. Though the men kept to their work, several of the officers had time to pose for a picture, and one smart-looking young fellow on horseback rode over from the other battery to draw up before the camera. All went well till the general, stealing a march on us, came up behind on foot. I do not know exactly what he said, as I do not catch French shouted rapidly, but I shall not forget the picture he made. Standing with his legs apart, his arms shaking in the air, his cap on the back of his head, the little man in khaki not only frightened us with his rage but made liars of his officers. The same men who had posed for us now turned upon us in a most outrageous manner. Some of them, I am sure, used ‘cuss’ words, which fortunately not understanding we did not have to resent; several called us imbeciles, and one threatened to put us under arrest.