The Passing of Morocco

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

‘There,’ said the Scot as the general turned his wrath upon his officers, ‘that will make a splendid picture, “A Critical Moment on the Battlefield; General Drude foaming at his Staff.” Won’t you ask them to pose a minute?’

We moved back a hundred yards, taking the shelter of a battered Saint House, and began to barter with some soldiers for something to eat. For three cigarettes apiece four of them were willing to part with a two-inch cube of stringy meat and a slab of soggy brown bread, with a cupful of water. As we sat at breakfast with these fellows their officers got out kodaks and photographed the group, perhaps desiring to show the contrast of civilians in Panama hats beside their bloomered, fezzed Algerians. With still a hunk of bread to be masticated we had to rise and go forward. All of the army ahead of us moved off and the reserves took up a position on the ridge the cannon had just occupied. As soon as the general took his departure we began to look about for some protecting line of men or mules, but there were none following him. The rectangle had divided into two squares, and we were with the second, which would remain where it was. The object of this manœuvre was to entice the Moors into the breach, they thinking to cut off the first square and to be caught between the two. But the Moors had had their lesson at this game three weeks before.

Realising soon that we were with the passive force we resolved to overtake the Foreign Legion, now actively engaged, and accordingly set out across the valley after them for a two-mile chase. A caravan track led down through gullies and trailed in and out, round earth mounds and ‘Saint Houses,’ often cutting us off from the view of both forces at the same time, and once hiding from us even the balloon. Crossing a trodden grain-field to shorten our distance we came upon three Arabs, dead or dying, a dead horse, and the scatterings of a shell. A lean old brown man, with a thin white beard and a shaven head, lay naked, with eyes and mouth wide open to the sun, arms and legs flung apart, a gash in his stomach, and a bullet wound with a powder stain between the eyes. His companions, still wearing their long cotton shirts and resting on their arms, might have been feigning sleep; so, as a matter of precaution we walked round them at a distance. It came to me that this was fool business to have started after the general and I said so. ‘Human nature,’ replied the Scot; ‘we have been trying to avoid the general all morning, now we wished we had him.’ We talked of going back but came to the conclusion that it was as far back as it was forward, and went on to a knoll, where four guns had taken up a position and were blazing away as fast as their gunners could load them.

Of course our independence of General Drude revived as we got to a place of more or less security, and we swung away from him towards the right flank. Choosing a good point from which to watch the engagement, we saluted the captain of a line of Algerians and lay down among the men. Below us, in plain view, not a quarter of a mile away, was the camp of the Moors, about four hundred tents, ragged and black with dirt, some of them old circular army tents, but mostly patched coverings of sacking such as are to be seen all over Morocco. It was to destroy this camp, discovered by the balloon, that the French army had come out, and we had managed to come over the knoll at the moment that the first flames were applied to it. Just beyond the camp the squalid village of Taddert, beneath a cluster of holy tombs, a place of pilgrimage, was already afire.

The Moors at Taddert had evidently been taken by surprise. They left most of their possessions behind in the camp, getting away with only their horses and their guns. A soldier of the Foreign Legion came back driving three undersized donkeys, and carrying several short, pot-like Moorish drums. We spoke to him and he told us that they had taken seven prisoners and had shot them.

The Arabs hung about the hills, keeping constantly on the move to avoid shells. Organisation among them seemed totally lacking and ammunition was evidently scarce. Once in a while a horseman or a group of two or three would come furiously charging down to within a mile of the guns and, turning to retire again, would send a wild shot or two in our direction. Wherever a group of more than three appeared, a shell burst over their heads and scattered their frightened horses, sometimes riderless. The fight was entirely one-sided, yet the French general seemed unwilling to risk a close engagement that might cost the lives of many of his men.

After an hour my companion, though under fire for the first time, became, as he put it, ‘exceedingly bored,’ and lying down on the ground as if for a nap, asked me to wake him ‘if the Moors should come within photographing distance.’ I suggested that he might have a look at them with a pair of glasses and that he might borrow those of a young officer who had just come up.

‘Monsoor,’ he said, rising and saluting the officer, ‘Permettez moi à user votre binoculaires, s’il vous plaît?’

‘You want to look through my glasses?—certainly,’ came the reply. ‘There, you see that shot; it is meant for those Moroccans converging on the sky-line. There, it explodes. It got four of them. It was well aimed. These are splendid guns we have. No other country has such guns. I should say many of the Moors are killed to-day. Not less than three hundred. What is that? Give me my things! Pardon, it is only les Goumiers. They look like Moroccans but of course we must not shoot them!’

The energetic Scot interrupted. ‘I should like to see your men fire a volley so that I might get a picture; my paper wants scenes of the fighting about Casablanca.’