did. On the day of his arrival with the depot-train from Oran, I

happened to hear when the sergeant of the company for the first time ordered him to do some work. Abramovici nearly got a fit at this unheard-of demand. His arms waved frantically in the air like a windmill, and wild words flowed from his mouth.

The poor sergeant wished to put in a word sideways. He wished to give a quiet command, he wanted to get furious. But he could not. He could only see with numb astonishment the lurid red nose, he turned away to get out of the reach of the "windmill arms," and at last fell down on the nearest bed with a horrible Arab oath, and laughed as he had never laughed before in his life. When he at last recovered his breath again, he said in broken German: "Oh, Gott in Himmel, cet homme là, zu viel sprechen.--Talks too much."

But Abramovici went on jabbering, until at last his harangue ended in laments to the God of his Fathers.

This was the way he always got off--one so seldom hears a laugh down there that Monsieur Viaïsse was highly appreciated by officers and men.

He called me his friend. He began our friendship with the conventional question:

"Wie haisst! will you give me a cigarette?"

Many a cigarette the Roumanian Jew from Berlin got from me, as long as there was silver in my pocket. In return he assured me of his high esteem, and when longing for a smoke called me "Herr Baron." When with the silver pieces the cigarettes came to an end, our friendship suffered a little in consequence.

I myself lived in a state of continual irritation. The least trifle put me into such a rage that I can hardly credit it to-day. Often enough I would tear down my "paquetage" from the shelf, destroying what had been wearisome work, just because some trousers or jacket did not seem to be folded correctly. It had been nothing else but "cafard" when I had roared at the captain because the doctor refused to give me an opiate on the march--it was exactly the same "cafard" in a milder form when I roared at this or that comrade just because he was in my way when I was busy polishing. My vexation, my irritability, my brooding was the madness of the Foreign Legion.

No légionnaire escapes from it.

The rest of my comrades in the room all had at different times the "cafard" more or less seriously.... Crowded together like horses in a bad stable the men became dangerous. They fought over the quarter of a litre of the Legion wine that was apportioned to us every second day, and watched with ridiculous suspicion that the next man did not get more than he did; one quarrelled over a piece of bread; one took one's neighbour for a thief who wanted to steal a bit of black wax for leather polishing. If one man got more work to do than his neighbour, he cried murder and roared out about protection, and favouritism, and vicious preference.

This was the atmosphere in which the Legion whims were developed. It was really strange how many of the légionnaires had a screw loose, often only harmless peculiarities, but which could increase to madness.

All idiocy in the Legion is called "cafard." A légionnaire is gloomy, sitting sullenly on his bed for hours, speaking to no one. If you ask him what is the matter, he will answer with a gross insult. He sits thinking all the time and does the queerest things. He has the "cafard."...

His madness may turn into a senseless explosion or fit of fury; men suffering from "cafard" will run a bayonet through their comrade's body, without any reason, without any outward cause. Sometimes they rush out into the desert, sometimes they tear every piece of their outfit into rags, just to vex themselves and others thoroughly.

The "cafard" is at its worst in the hot season when the sun burns down relentlessly from the cloudless, deep blue sky, with the strange greenish colouring of the horizon peculiar to Algeria. Then the barrack-yard of the Foreign Legion lies deserted. It is so hot that the stones on the yellow clayey ground seem to move in the glimmering overheated air. The légionnaire sentries wear the flowing white neck-protector, and have stuffed wet cloths into their képis.

In the soldiers' quarters the légionnaires lie on their mattresses and take their siesta, the strictly prescribed rest from 11 A.M. until 3 P.M. The white man is a useless object in the sun-blaze of the hot season. In the infernal heat of the soldiers' rooms the "cafard" has often been the cause of great disaster. It has often happened that during the siesta légionnaires have suddenly jumped out of the window, three stories high, without any outward cause whatever.

Once (very likely when affected with "cafard") I wrote down during the siesta a description of what our men's room looked like. These few lines are the only thing I ever wrote in the Legion:

"I lay on my bed half naked. The room was as hot as a stove, filled with the stench of perspiration. A brilliant strip of sunlight played through the long room from window to window. Oh, the heat, the heat. Even the walls felt hot. In the bare, whitewashed room the men lay groaning on their beds in all kinds of possible and impossible positions. Some were swearing, others quarrelling--nothing brings on the "cafard" so quickly as physical suffering. Two Spaniards were quarrelling in the loud gesticulating manner of their race; a German in the next bed had fallen asleep, and was muttering words of German in his dream. He was dreaming of his mother. In the other corner of the room a Frenchman was shouting frantically to some one to give him a brush--his own brush was lost. His bed neighbour hummed a marching song, half in Arabic, half in French, always with the same refrain:

"'Si le caporal savait ça, il dirait: Nom de Dieu.'

"Another man slowly and automatically rubbed his leather straps, a third one informed everybody that the sergeant was a rogue and was working him to death. Here the German awoke. Disturbed in his sleep he yelled out: 'Shut up you beggars.' And the Frenchmen and Spaniards began to curse on hearing German words.

"'Monsieur le Caporal'[4] sat up slowly and tiredly and, leaning on his elbow, said in a low tone of voice:

[4] "Monsieur le Caporal" was Corporal Wassermann's nickname, because in the eyes of the légionnaires he was far too particular in his manners and language when giving orders.

"'A little silence, please.'

"The Spaniards laughed and a Frenchman said under his breath, the damned 'casque à pique,' meaning the Prussian helmet, might leave honest légionnaires in peace during siesta.

"The corporal did not move. In his quiet even tone he went on speaking: 'Silence. You all know that during siesta all noise is forbidden. Legrand, for using the epithet "casque à pique," I punish you with two days' barrack arrest. You are not serving in a French line regiment, but in the Foreign Legion. You understand, do you not, that in the Foreign Legion no man is taxed with his nationality. And in every respect it is very unwise to vex your corporal. Ça y est.'

"At that the légionnaire laughed and quiet reigned once more.

"My God, the heat was terrible. Then all at once a slashing, metallic sound. One of the Spaniards had pulled down the long bayonet that always hangs over a légionnaire's bed, and was in the act of assaulting his countryman and comrade. The corporal sprang between the two and sent one flying to the right, the other to the left. In a second the whole place was in an uproar. The two Spaniards threw themselves upon each other, anxious to kill each other. The other légionnaires laughed and howled out through it all....

"At last the signal, 'Debout, légionnaires, debout!' 'Up, up!' sounded down in the yard. The siesta was at an end."

This is what I wrote while lying half naked in my bed, groaning at the heat. The description has the advantage of the impressions of the moment. This was what happened when the "cafard" was at its "best."

Then again whole numbers of soldiers are affected by it in the same way. The légionnaires of half a company would put their heads together, planning some act of desperation. One time it would be mutiny en masse, at another time desertion in a body. This madness is well known wherever a company of légionnaires is stationed. In some kind of form it is always present. It is the cause of the horrible tattooing, of drinking and brawling; it is the reason for that peculiar longing for continual change, that restlessness typical of the Foreign Legion.

The légionnaires are themselves not aware what influence the "cafard" has on them. When an old légionnaire says grumpily, "J'ai le cafard," he is just telling his neighbours to keep clear of him, that he has a bad fit of the blues, that it is advisable for his comrades to leave him alone. He has no idea that a hidden power, like unto madness, is making him act in such a manner, he only believes himself to be in a bad humour. But the bad humour rises and increases, often driving him to murder, more often to suicide. The légionnaire cannot foresee the effects of the "cafard." The typical "cafard demoniacs," the old grumpy fellows who do their duty like machines and at other times hardly speak at all, are instinctively feared, as if their comrades knew that at any moment the least trifle could lead to an outbreak of the dormant madness.

I have witnessed such an explosion (that is the proper term for it). We had a man in our company who had served for many years in the Legion. He was a Frenchman and had worn the Legion's uniform for more than ten years. He got out of our way whenever he could, and when his duties were over, slunk away into lonely corners of the barrack-yard. Every fifth day he left the barracks, on pay-day, to return reeling, evidently drunk, just before evening muster. He never was rowdy, but silent as usual, he threw himself upon his bed. Where he went to, where he bought his wine, with whom he drank it, nobody knew.

One pay-day, when the half of our company was on guard-duty, he for once came back too late. The barrack-gates had long been closed; Smith and I were still sitting on the bench in front of the guard-room, the sergeant and the other légionnaires were lying inside on their bunks. All at once the sentry at the gate called the officer on duty with the laconic report:

"Sergeant--la porte!"

The gate! Swearing, the man came with his keys. Outside stood the grumpy old légionnaire, swaying from side to side and his képi at the back of his head.

"Bertillon?" the sergeant said, unlocking the gate. "You ---- old pig, you ought to know by this time when to come home."

Bertillon staggered in and remained standing in front of the sergeant.

"Be off with you and get into your quarters!" he commanded. "You can be jolly glad that your own company is on guard duty, else you would have been locked up at once. Allez--schieb' los!"

The old légionnaire stared at the sergeant. Suddenly, without saying a word, he hit him right in the face with his fist.

"Aux armes!" the reeling sergeant yelled. Bertillon had pulled out his bayonet and was slashing and hitting at every one, roaring like a wild beast. A terrible tussle ensued. We were twelve to one, but it took us more than a quarter of an hour to get the upper hand of the "cafard" madman, and every one had been more or less wounded by his bayonet. At length we contrived to throw blankets over his head, and strapping him up like a parcel, we threw him into the prison.

On opening the cell the next morning he was found dead. At the post-mortem examination the army surgeon stated that the bursting of an artery in the brain had been the cause of death.

These are the worst cases of "cafard."

Generally the peculiar malady of the Foreign Legion shows itself in all kinds of peculiar whims. Smith's comical reciting of the Koran chapters was such a whim. Many developed some kind of fixed idea.

The cook of my company was an old légionnaire who had served in the Legion for fifteen years and was soon to be pensioned off; his fixed idea was that he was Bismarck's double. His name was Schlesinger. Like the German Prime Minister, he had the stature of a giant, and in his heavy face with the bald head, in the sharp eyes, there certainly was a slight resemblance to the features of the "man of iron." The Legion, being good-natured and having a great sense of humour, did old Schlesinger the favour of never calling him anything else but "Bismarck."

Herr von Rader was the first one to draw my attention to him. He had heard of the cook's peculiarity and ... forthwith rushed to the kitchen. He lounged about the door till the cook, getting suspicious, came to see if the intruder intended stealing. Hardly had von Rader seen him, when he called out in astonishment: "Good gracious! that surely must be Bismarck!"

The cook drew himself up majestically and smiled condescendingly.

"Such a likeness!" in a surprised voice from von Rader.

"Very like--n'est-ce pas?" said Schlesinger, highly flattered.

"Really wonderful! You surely must be a relation of the Bismarck family?"

"That may be," nodded the cook, very much pleased. This was quite a new idea. It had never entered his head that he might be related to Bismarck.

"You're certainly a relation," said von Rader in a tone of conviction, "an illegitimate."

"Très possible--très possible," the cook murmured, proud and happy. "Are you a young soldier?" he asked the man who had put the wonderful idea into his poor old légionnaire's head.

"That's so," groaned von Rader. "I am like you, and have once been something better. My father" (von Rader lowered his voice to a whisper as if he were disclosing the greatest secret), "my father was a count!"

Bismarck was much impressed by his announcement.

"And now I must starve in the Legion," added von Rader sadly.

"Pas ça," said Schlesinger, and, disappearing into the kitchen, he returned with a large piece of roast pork. "Tiens, camarade. To-morrow we will talk again about--about our ancestors. Mais--say nothing."

"Nothing," assured von Rader, putting his finger to his lips.

From that day the pseudo-Bismarck and the pseudo-count were seen together almost daily, and von Rader always had a piece of meat in his knapsack, when we had to eat dry bread in the drill pause.

If any one called the cook "Schlesinger" he was deeply offended and did not answer; even the officers called him Bismarck.

There was another légionnaire I cannot forget--Little Krügerle. His whim was--to steal grapes. A very funny idea, for Krügerle never ate grapes himself; he did not like them. With great trouble he got them into the barracks and then gave them away.

His one idea was to steal the grapes.

This was his cafard, his special rage against the possessors of vineyards. But his cafard had its own tale....

Grapes were worth very little in Algeria, but when every year at the grape harvest three thousand légionnaires strolled in the evenings along the paths beside the vineyards, when each légionnaire ate about five pounds of grapes, taking another ten pounds under his cloak--then the Spanish grape-farmers grew angry. They sent a deputation to the colonel, declaring that his légionnaires were worse than a locust-plague. The colonel abused them all and sent out a command that all who transgressed again would be punished. The légionnaires laughed--were a little more careful, but stole quite as many grapes as formerly. Seeing that it would not do like this, the Spaniards engaged Arabs, gave them small-shot guns and told them not to spare the offenders. The following morning the army surgeon was much astonished, on going his daily round, to find sixty-five légionnaires wounded by small shot.

The extraction of all the small shot took so much time that he got furious and went to the colonel and complained. The latter, having an idea what was the matter, examined the "invalids," who promptly told a great story of having been suddenly attacked by Arabs. The colonel laughed and ordered them all to be locked up for four weeks on bread and water.

Now the Spaniards were left in peace, because the grapes were not worth while being shot and locked up for, the légionnaires said sadly.

But from this time dated little Krügerle's cafard. Every day he went out to steal grapes. With the greatest patience and cunning he crawled about in the vineyards and stole grapes. Once he was shot and ran right back to the barracks and into the soldiers' room. Five minutes later, all the fifteen men there were busily occupied in digging the countless shot out of their comrade's back--with pocket-knives!

Krügerle underwent the operation with more or less tranquillity--but it was worth suffering a little; if he had gone to the surgeon, four weeks of cellule arrest would have been his lot.

He swore great oaths--but went stealing grapes again the following day.

* * * * *

The germ of madness, of tragedy, always lies hidden in the cafard. I was a witness of the following tragedy.

In our room in the corner by the window an Austrian had his bed. His name was Bauer. He had joined the company with a new batch of recruits, shortly after I did, in good health, fresh and curious like all the other recruits: an average man, who did not easily learn the French words of command, but did his work conscientiously. Week by week he got quieter. Stupidly he did his work and spoke to nobody. In his free time he sat on his bed moodily staring in front of him. Now and then he would be punished for neglecting his uniform, but this did not seem to make any impression on him at all. He returned from prison as moody as before. Nobody took any notice of him. All at once the poor quiet creature became the centre of attraction, an object of ridicule and enmity, and for weeks the gossip of the Legion's quarters.

Suddenly Bauer was attacked by a most ravenous appetite. If possible he was quieter than formerly; but when the midday soup appeared, he fell over it like a wild animal, devouring it greedily, and greedily he watched us while we were eating. When we had finished, he crept up to the table, examining the empty dishes in the hope of finding a few drops left. After this he would rush down to the kitchen to the old cook to beg some leavings from him. The other men in the room were so brutalised by their own misfortunes in life that they only looked upon this poor devil as a clown to serve for their amusement.

They threw pieces of bread into corners, and yelled with pleasure when Bauer crawled about on all-fours under the beds to look for the coveted morsel. They poured petroleum into his soup, and were wild with delight when the poor fellow nevertheless emptied the dish greedily.

Day by day Bauer grew worse. From the other soldiers' quarters, even from the other companies, the légionnaires came at soup-time to our room to inspect the prodigy. All the time he sat crouching on his bed, smiling vacantly and gobbling down whatever he could get. He would gnaw at the dry bone held out to him by a légionnaire with the same grin as he would chew a piece of hard leather given to him by another man. It was the beginning of insanity....

Soon the whole regiment was talking about the man with the unappeasable appetite. If any one wished to have a joke, they brought the glutton a dry crust or a piece of hard Legion biscuit, just to watch him devour it. For weeks these scenes occurred, without the authorities thinking it necessary to interfere.

The end came suddenly. One day we only found half-chewed crusts on our table instead of the usual daily portion of bread. Bauer had stolen away from his work and eaten our rations!

The légionnaires threw themselves upon him--where their own comforts were concerned it was no joking matter. One of them struck the poor devil, who, biting and scratching and hitting at every one, shrieked like a madman. The watch was roused, and the poor fellow, chained hand and foot, was carried across to the infirmary.

Three days after, the eleventh company conducted a small black cart to the grave-yard of Sidi-bel-Abbès. In the rudely made coffin on the cart lay the remains of Légionnaire Bauer. In the infirmary he had smashed his head against the wall.... At the grave the captain said briefly, in a cold voice: "Recevez les derniers adieux de votre chef et de vos camarades."

This was his funeral sermon.