Untitled Chapter

ANGELS SING THEE TO THY REST

MISERY, THY NAME IS LEGION - Tonkin 1883

Thomas dropped his pack onto the deck of the riverboat. Marcel followed, while Bartoli looked as though he was already on the verge of collapse.

It was barely sunup when they boarded with the rest of the Legion company, and already their clothes were soaked through.

This was nothing like the heat of Sidi Bel Abbès. There, the sun burned a man dry. Tonkin was different. The humidity seemed to suck the moisture from his body, soak it into his clothes, then leave it there. Nothing dried. Shirt, trousers, socks—all clung to him as though he had dressed after swimming.

“Chasse et baise,” Bartoli muttered. “Never before have we carried so much sh—”

He paused as a bevy of junior Officers walked passed.

“Equipment. The Third Republic must want this place very badly to give us so much of it.”

Thomas looked at him.

“Yes, but look at our uniforms. We have lost our képis and been given these damned colonial helmets. Our Legion uniforms have disappeared, and instead we look as though we dressed ourselves from the remains of a rummage sale.”

Marcel, the enormous Russian, nodded solemnly.

No one was entirely certain how much Marcel understood when people spoke to him. Most men had decided it was better not to test the question too closely.

The orders were simple enough; issued with the expected dispassion of the sergent-chef. They would travel along the Red River, disembark, then march for roughly four hours towards a place called Sơn Tây.

Thomas felt an immediate rush of relief when he finally took off his pack. If he could wedge it behind him, perhaps he might even sleep before they reached the landing place.

That hope disappeared quickly.

More men came aboard.

And more.

What had seemed a reasonably spacious deck became a jumble of bodies, rifles, fixed equipment, bayonets, water bottles, blanket rolls, ammunition pouches, spare cartridges and sections of tent equipment. Men squeezed themselves wherever there was room, and there was still more to come.

The guns had not yet been loaded.

Nor their ammunition and stores.

Thomas found himself pressed against the gunwale, trapped between his pack, Bartoli—who possessed no understanding whatsoever of personal space—and the mountain of humanity that was Marcel.

It was going to be a very long morning.

He looked down at himself.

A buff-coloured jacket two sizes too large. White trousers secured with strings. A striped sailor’s shirt beneath the jacket. His normal boots. And on his head, a heavy colonial helmet that seemed determined to cook his brain before the enemy had the opportunity to shoot him.

The clothing had been loose when he tried it on at Sidi Bel Abbès.

After a long sea voyage spent alternating between mal de Mer and diarrhea, it now hung from him.

Thomas had never felt less like a Legionnaire than he did right now..

Beneath his boots, the engine began to throb.

The vibration travelled through the deck and up his legs. Even at idle it seemed to rattle his teeth.

He closed his eyes.

The boat had not even moved yet.

“Misery,” he murmured, “thy name is Legion.”

In true Legion fashion, the officers left the minutiae to the NCOs.

Curses, shouts and the occasional well-placed kick got men and equipment aboard in remarkably short order. Packs were shoved beneath benches, rifles stacked where they could be reached, ammunition passed hand to hand and reluctant bodies forced into spaces that did not appear large enough to hold them.

Then the boat moved.

Thomas felt the change through the gunwale before he noticed the river sliding past. The engine settled into a steady mechanical throb, the vibration travelling through the deck, his pack and finally into his bones.

After a while, even that became strangely comforting.

His eyes closed.

The voices around him faded into fragments—the bark of an NCO, Bartoli complaining about something, boots scraping across timber, the dull pulse of the engine beneath it all.

Thomas drifted into that place between sleeping and waking, where a man was conscious of everything and nothing, and for a little while belonged to neither.

A loud ripping sound rent the air.

Thomas snapped awake and grabbed for his rifle.

Beside him, Marcel let out a deep groan. He drew a gob of saliva up from somewhere deep inside himself, realised there was nowhere to spit, and was forced to swallow it.

Then the smell hit them.

Men nearby gagged. One doubled over and nearly vomited.

“JEEEEESUS CHRIST! What the fuck just died?”

Marcel nudged Thomas with one massive elbow and pointed.

Bartoli sat exactly where he had been, wearing an enormous grin.

“Better out than in, mon ami.”

Thomas stared at him.

“Better for who?”

Two Legionnaires nearby immediately asked whether anyone would object if Bartoli were thrown overboard. Several nearby hoped it was not a rhetorical question.

“Jesus wept,” Thomas said. “Another one of those and I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

Bartoli only smiled wider.

Gradually, the deck settled again and the men returned to whatever they had been doing before Bartoli declared war on the atmosphere.

A few hours later, they were preparing to disembark.

Men rose painfully, fighting stiff backs and cramped legs after hours packed together on the deck. Packs were dragged out, rifles recovered, straps tightened and water bottles checked. There was much swearing as men wrestled themselves back into equipment that seemed to have grown heavier during the journey.

Eventually the company formed up and began filing ashore.

Getting off the riverboat was the easy part.

Thomas looked at the country ahead.

Dense vegetation crowded the riverbank. Trees, tangled vines and undergrowth seemed to press together into a wall of green. Somewhere beyond it lay Sơn Tây.

He felt the weight of the pack on his back, then at the ammunition, rifle, water bottles, blanket roll and the rest of the equipment hanging from him.

How in God’s name were they supposed to carry all this through that?

As usual, the NCOs provided the answer.

By shouting, cursing and a kick if needed

Within minutes the column was moving.

How far?

Which direction?

How long would it take?

It did not matter.

In the Legion, a man marched until he was told to stop.

Or he was left where he fell.

Today they were marching for Sơn Tây.