A Soldier of the Legion: An Englishman's Adventures Under the French Flag in Algeria and TonquinManington, George
History
A Soldier of the Legion: An Englishman's Adventures Under the French Flag in Algeria and Tonquin
Manington, George
Algeria -- History; France. Armée. Légion étrangère; Vietnam, Northern -- History
He handed me my gun, which, after adjusting the breech-bolt, I hung up
on its hook. We then went over to the little wooden canteen, and over
a pint of Algerian wine we exchanged confidences. He told me that he
was from Edinburgh, had failed to get into Sandhurst, and "listed" as
a private in an infantry regiment. He served in India with his corps,
rose to the rank of sergeant and was broken after a "drunk"; was again
promoted, and was in charge of a military telegraph station in Burmah
during the last campaign. Tired of the service, he had "bought out,"
and returned to Scotland. Once home he had gone on a series of "busts,"
which had so disgusted his people that they had refused to come to his
aid when he had run through all he possessed.
Almost devoid of resources, and having heard of the Legion, he went
over to Calais and enlisted. He told me that he had the firm intention
of turning over a new leaf and of doing his utmost to obtain a
commission in his new corps, and I have no doubt, considering his
previous experience, that he would have succeeded. Unfortunately, his
career was cut short in a most untoward manner, much to my grief, an
account of which is given in its proper place in this narrative.
Knox and I soon became fast friends. His knowledge of the calling was
a great aid to me, and he was always glad to help by giving me "tips,"
which, small though they might seem, were of great assistance and often
kept me from getting into trouble. On evenings and Sundays we passed
all our spare time together, going for walks in the town, or outside of
it.
We often visited the Arab quarter, which is the great curiosity of
all Algerian towns. Together we would enjoy a dish of _kus-kus_, a
slice of braised mutton, or a plateful of fresh dates, in a Moorish
tavern; or sit over small cups of thick coffee and listen to a native
story-teller, or watch the _Moukirs_ dance in an Arab _café_.
On Sundays we went further afield, and took long walks through the
vineyards, during which we would talk of home and our people, and
speculate on what they might be doing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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