A Modern Legionary

by John Patrick Le Poer

"What is it?"

"A Little Corporal to lead a schoolboy sergeant-major, that is all."

He drew back and looked at me. A susurrus of approbation went through the room. Very little more was said. The general gave me the medal that I had won, paid me a compliment or two, and went away. But the story went round, and what would be hurtful to a Frenchman, who was at once soldier and citizen, was a cause of no offence in a legionary, who was only a soldier. But what I said was liked, and many a present I received afterwards. The French know that the legionary is a soldier pure and simple—well, not always pure, and very seldom simple—and they know that the soldier of the French army who gives up for life the clothes of the pékin and who dreams of nothing except fighting and promotion looks on Napoleon the Great as a terrestrial Archangel Michael. Him would we follow, him would we serve. God grant us another like him, and then——. And the legionaries understood, and wished as warmly as any Frenchman for the advent of another ideal restless man and restless man's idol. The Little Corporal when he was the great commander was bad, let us admit, to many, but he was never bad to the man who served him well. It was not birth or wealth that brought promotion under him but courage and devotion to duty. True, he made mistakes, and these great ones—the imprisonment of the Pope, the invasion of the white Tsar's frozen land, the too early return from Elba were such—but in his mistakes even he was colossal, unapproachable.

It was after this visit and the receipt of the military medal that the jesting conversations began amongst us. However, I have told of them already, and there is no use in going back upon a told story. That does very well in conversation, especially when the glasses are filled and the pipes going merrily, but in writing it is of no account.

Very soon after this I was strong enough, the surgeons said, to cross to Algeria. All the men whose acquaintance I had made were good enough to say that, though they were glad I was able to leave hospital, yet they were sorry to lose my companionship. I thanked them all, told them that I had had a pleasant time, and hoped to meet them again. In this I was sincere. I have very pleasant memories of the hospital, but all the same I wanted to get back to my own comrades.

Shortly after the surgeons had put my name on the outgoing list I left the hospital for the troopship. I was brought to Oran, and there sent again to hospital, but only for a few days. Here I was treated very well indeed by those in charge, and I made a few casual acquaintances, whose comradeship helped very much to pass the dreary time of waiting until the principal surgeon should order me to be sent back to the regiment. I think they kept me longer than was absolutely necessary, and this for two reasons—my youth and the military medal. The surgeons were quite as curious as my hospital companions to hear my story, to learn all about my country and why I left it to join the Legion, how I liked the French service, and every other thing that they could think of. For the first time in my life I was made much of as a man of good service and tried valour; if I gave somewhat exaggerated accounts of the perils I had passed who can blame me? There was no sneering now at the Foreign Legion; oh no! we were in Algeria, la patrie des légionnaires.

At last the surgeon-in-chief told me that I should soon leave the hospital. I thanked him for the information, and said that the only cause of regret at leaving was that I should leave so many good comrades behind.

"Have you been well treated here, sergeant-major?" he asked.

"Very well, sir; so well that I have lost the simple soldier's fear of the hospital."

He laughed, and said: "I am glad. Take the advice of a friend, always seek the surgeon when you are ill or wounded. The old prejudice was, in its time, a just one; nowadays things are different."