"Don't you get fed up with Depôt life, Bull?"
"I have been fed up with life, Depôt and otherwise, for over twenty years," was the reply.... "Don't forget that life here in Sidi is a great deal better than life in a desert station in the South. It is supportable anyhow; there--it simply isn't; and those who don't desert and die, go mad and die. The exceptions, who do neither, deteriorate horribly, and come away very different men.... Make the most of Sidi, my boy, while you are here, and remember that foreign service, when in Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa, inevitably means fever and dysentery, and generally broken health for life.... Moreover, Algeria is the only part of the French colonial possessions in which the climate lets one enjoy one's pipe."
That very night, shortly after the caserne had fallen silent and still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary, an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later, non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "Aux armes! Aux armes! Aux armes!" at the top of their voices.
Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout, "Levez-vous donc. Levez-vous! Faites le sac! Faites le sac! En tenue de Campagne d'Afrique."
"'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb. "Oo-bloomin'-ray."
"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull. "We've got to be on the barrack-square in full 'African field equipment' in ten minutes."
The chambrée became the scene of feverish activity, as well as of delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song, without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.
In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised open. What would the cardboard packets contain? A few seconds after the first packet had been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had spread throughout the Battalion.
Ball-Cartridge!
The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.