Casca 11: The Legionnaire Read Online Free Page A

depleted by the war, had to rebuild her strength by using that of her former conquerers. Well, that had happened more than once in history too.
    A whistle from the upper deck, followed by the curses of a caporal chef, told them to get ready to disembark; they were at the docks of Oran. He already had his small sack of personal effects ready and shoved his way up to the front of the line, waiting to climb the damp rusting ladders to the deck. He had never liked being closed in.
    At the word from the caporal, they began to climb. As they made it on deck, their names were called out and checked off the master roster. They were then put in ranks and marched down the ramp to the docks, where they were immediately put on trucks. The flaps dropped and they were driven out of the city escorted by gendarmes in American jeeps with machine guns mounted on the hoods. Anyone who suddenly felt a desire to change his mind about joining the Legion would not live long enough to do anything about it.
    The sun was barely up as they were loaded in the trucks, and before the heat of the day rose, they were already well out into the fifty miles that lay between the sea ports and what would be their new home. Langer knew that for many it would be hell.
    Sidi bel Abbes was the training center for the Legion. Before they were there a month, many would stick rifles into their mouths and pull the triggers with their toes, or simply hang themselves by their belts. The Legion had only one way of training men and that was to discipline and push them to the point where they were more afraid of their sergents than they were of dying. The Legion did have a few things in common with the SS and that was one of them, but Langer also knew that those who did make it through the training cycle for the most part would, in spite of their curses and oaths otherwise, end up having a great pride and feeling of belonging. That was what made the Legion what it was, a union of men.
    He caught a glimpse behind him as the trucks entered the crenellated walls that surrounded the city. Farmers with carts hauled by donkeys shook their fists at the trucks as they were forced off the road to make way. They were on their way into the central market to sell their wares as had been done since the country had belonged to the Carthaginians. Algeria had not always been a kind host to the Legion and Langer knew there would be trouble here again. There had always been trouble here. Perhaps that was why the French were in such a hurry to build up their forces. They were afraid that the rebels would take advantage of their weakened condition to stage another uprising.
    Sidi Slimane hadn't changed very much over the years. The same flat roofs and whitewashed mud brick houses were there as were the hostile looks under hooded eyes that watched them pass. He knew that the story of Abdul el-Kabar, the first Arab leader to fight against the Legion with any success, was still being told in the coffee houses. And that had been in 1832. The Arabs, like the Chinese in many ways, did not have the European concept of time.
    Curses and whistles informed him they were to get their asses out of the trucks and into ranks. They had arrived. They were at the headquarters of the 1st Regiment des Etrangeres. The sun pierced his eyes and he recalled a few of the things he didn't like about Africa. Their names were called off again, then they were marched into a walled enclosure that served as their barracks area, the walls of which were guarded by armed men. The only way out was with a pass, which would be rarely seen, or to be on patrol or training exercises. During their first year in the Legion there would be damned few passes.
    They were fed a sparse meal then sent to draw their kit from the quartermaster, all the time being escorted under the watchful eyes of a sergent chef and a caporal, who swore at them in a mixture of French, German and Arabic. Langer smiled inwardly at several of the Arabic curses he