Memoirs of the Foreign Legion by Maurice Magnus

MY room was a hall room; as I have said, it was just half the size of the other rooms, and opened out on to the large stairs. The other rooms on my floor contained twenty-eight beds each--in mine there were only fourteen beds. There was just space enough between the beds to squeeze through. The beds were hard and uncomfortable, and consisted of an iron frame with thin bands of wavy steel across it, as an apology for a spring; the woollen mattress was so thin that these steel bands were distinctly noticeable on one's anatomy; the sheets were of the coarsest linen, and the heavy blanket was made of a dirty looking felt. Opposite the door was a large window with old-fashioned small square panes. Seven beds stood in a row on each side of the wall. In the middle of the room stood a long deal table and two benches. Above the table a coffin-shaped box was suspended from the ceiling by two large iron rods. Attached to the bottom of this coffin, which had a shutter on each side and contained the tin dishes of the men, was a dirty little petroleum lamp, by the light of which no one could possibly read. On the walls behind the beds, 2 ft. above them, a shelf of about 1 1/2 ft. in width ran along the entire length of the room, and the space above each man's bed was the part allotted to him for depositing his clothes. The clothes had to be folded and laid in such a manner as to form a perfect square tower, with not an edge of anything sticking out. This was an art not easily learned. Next to this tower, each man had a little wooden box in which he kept his personal treasures. Under the shelf were hooks on which to hang his _accoutrements_ and _musette_, and, in order to keep these hidden, a regulation towel was nailed to the edge of the shelf hanging down full-spread, like a curtain.

The fourteen men in my room formed a squad--the occupants of each room fornied a squad no matter what the size of it might be. A curious medley of men they were. The corporal, a small stocky Frenchman with a bullet-head, wide forehead, and hair cut like an _apache_, looked in his uniform like one of those bloodthirsty soldiers of the French Revolution who would have cut the heart out of an aristocrat and strung him up at the next lamp-post. He never wore socks nor foot-rags, but only the filthy heavy greasy regulation _brodequins_--and he never washed his feet. He had registered as a Belgian, and had signed for five years under a false name. No one knew his real name, but we all knew that he was the youngest and most notorious _maquereau_ in Paris. His last "affair" had been rather risky, and to evade punishment he thought it might be well to disappear for a few years, until the Paris police had forgotten him. He was a perfect type of bully and it was simply impossible for him to talk to any one in a decent manner. He always shouted at his men and ordered them about as if he were a slave driver, which in truth he was. He was sulky and had not much to say, and even in return for the cigars I brought him. occasionally to ameliorate his temper, I only heard a grunt instead of a thank you. He spoke some Italian, though I don't know where he learnt it--he said he had never been to Italy. A great friend of his was another _maquereau_ from Marseilles, who was in the same room with us. They called each other by their first names, which was very unusual in the Legion, and exchanged many recollections about the prostitutes and women who had kept them. The Marseilles pimp's name was Francois. Francois was just as filthy personally as the corporal, and he shirked his exercises and duties under every imaginable pretext. For shirking the exercises he was punished, about which he did not care; and, as for shirking his duties in the room, no one was quite his equal in foul and vile language, so they allowed themselves to be bullied.