Casca 11: The Legionnaire Read Online Free

pasts.
    Out of nearly three hundred men, two hundred and twenty three chose the POW camps. The rest were more than ready to give their oath of loyalty to France in exchange for the rights and gifts promised by the Polish sergent chef. Some of the volunteers would be weeded out later when they took their physicals, but the pre selection techniques shown by their field recruiters kept the number small. Many of them, when they were picked up and put into the bag, thought they were to be rearmed for the time when the Allies would move against the Russians. This rumor faded rapidly when they were told to get ready to leave. They would be taken by convoy to Marseilles and from there most would soon be off to the training camps in Algeria.
    It was amazing the changes that could take place in a few weeks. Hitler was dead. Germany had surrendered unconditionally. He had made it out of Berlin ready to give odds that he would be captured by the Ivans and sent to the slave labor camps. Now he was en route to North Africa and what? France wouldn't be doing all this for nothing. Where the Legion went, trouble lived.
    The crossing from Marseilles was made on choppy waters that soon had the tub's passengers heaving their guts before they were at sea three hours. Langer fared well enough. One minor benefit from his ancient affliction was he was never very prone to mal de mer and therefore received some pleasure in helping his fellow shipmates by eating their rations for them during the short sail from Europe to the coast of North Africa.
    It was one that he had made more times than he could recall. The worst part of it was the rancid odor of too many men, most stinking from their own vomit, packed in close confinement between the steel decks of the rusting freighter. They were permitted on deck twice a day to stretch their legs and get some fresh air, but always under the watchful eyes of guards who mounted their posts with the safeties off their weapons, ready to fire, even though the men they guarded would someday be their comrades. However, until they had proven themselves, they had to be watched, for they were the Boche , the hated Hun. Even the half dozen members of the guards that were of German origin felt themselves to be set apart from their countrymen below deck. They had passed the boundaries of national identity. They were Legionnaires.
    As before, Carl noticed that the men separated into different groups. He wondered why this was always true? He had seen it often enough. The cruel ones would gather to bully the others; and the intellectuals would find quiet corners to discuss obscure philosophies and the meaning of life. There were a few like him who preferred their own company. He knew these were the most dangerous of all. The ones who stayed alone were those with the greatest amount of hate in them or those who had something to hide. Men who had things about their past to conceal would not hesitate to kill to keep it that way.
    The vibrations of the old coal bucket eased as it slowed to a crawl upon entering the port of Oran. It was just before dawn. Carl knew that in a few hours he would be back on the soil of North Africa. Officially, the war had been over three months now and he was looking forward to seeing Oran and Algiers again. He knew he would not feel too strange being in North Africa. He had been there in much the same position before. The Legion was a marvelous device for one to use when there was a need to get lost and find a new identity. He also had an appreciation of the warm blood of the women. He recalled a dancer he had once known who came from Moulay and wondered if he went there, would he be able to find one her equal in the fine art of driving a man crazy.
    It looked like the Legion was still organized much as it had been. But why were the French so anxious to bring their former enemies into their ranks? It must have been that France had trouble brewing on the horizon and with her own manpower severely