Anon there was a whistle, a cry of Halt! and there was a few minutes' rest. Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them. Malvin made his master lie down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from the word "Halt!" to the word "Fall in!" The knapsack of black canvas is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and sundries. Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it, tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot, drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.
Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an entrenching tool, and his "sac." Add his rifle and water-bottle, and you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world. He does not carry his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy overcoat to be correct desert wear. Under his overcoat he has only a canvas shirt and white linen trousers (when en tenue de campagne d'Afrique), tucked into leather gaiters. Round his waist, his blue sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and body-support. The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the white cover of his képi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....
The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos," and the old favourite marching songs "Brigadier," "L'Empereur de Danmark," "Père Bugeaud," and "Tiens, voilà du boudin." Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--
"Trinken wir noch ein Tröpfchen
Aus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."
or Die Wacht am Rhein or the pathetic Morgenlied.
At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down. As the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbès overtook it. At the head rode a white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour.
"That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert. "That settles it: we're out for business this time, and I fancy you'll see some Arab-fighting before you are much older.... Feet going to be all right, do you think?"
"Fine," replied Rupert. "My boots are half full of tallow, and I've got a small bottle of bapédi in my sack...."
On tramped the Legion.
The day grew hot and packs grew heavy. The Battalion undeniably and unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks of coal. Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left. There was no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths was an occasional bitter curse. Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of constriction about the heart and lungs. He realised that he quite understood how people felt when they fainted....