CHAPTER IV WITH THE FOREIGN LEGION

It was to see the war balloon go up that I planned with a youthful wag of a Scot to rise at five o’clock one morning and walk out to the French lines before breakfast. He came to the roof and got me up, and we passed through the ruined streets, over the fallen bricks and mortar, to the outer gate, the Bab-el-Sok. Arriving in the open, the balloon appeared to us already, to our surprise, high in the air; and on the straight road that divided the French camp we noticed a thick, lifting cloud of brown dust. Lengthening our stride we pushed on as fast as the heavy sand would allow, passing the camp and overtaking the trail of dust just as the last cavalry troop of the picturesque French army turned out through an opening in the wire entanglements which guarded the town. General Drude did not inform correspondents when he proposed an attack.

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.

‘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.’

‘Perhaps I can do so in a few minutes, if you stay by me.’

The general passed within a few yards, and, ignoring us, went back to the ambulance brigade to see a wounded man of the Foreign Legion. We followed him and took his photograph as he shook hands with the trooper on the litter.

‘Good picture,’ I said.

‘Rotten,’ said the Scot. ‘They’ll think in London that I got Drude to pose; the wounded chap hadn’t a bloodstain on him and he smoked a cigarette.’

We had not long to wait, however, before an example of real misery came to our view. A Goumier covered with blood, riding a staggering wounded horse, brought in a Moor without a stitch of clothes, tied by a red sash to his saddle. Captor, captive, and horse fell to the ground almost together. The Goumier had been shot in the chest, and expired while his fellow horsemen relieved him of his purple cloak and his turban and gave him water. The Moor (who had been taken in the fire at Taddert) was a mass of burns from head to foot. On one hand nothing remained but stumps of fingers, and loose charred flesh hung down from his legs. Well might the French have shot this creature; but they bound up his wounds.

At one o’clock the Arab camp was a mass of smouldering rags, while Taddert blazed from every corner. The day’s work was done. Long parallel lines of men marching single file in open order trailed over the stony ground back towards the white walled city.