Their eyes are like balls of ivory or onyx,
that shine from faces like new pennies, flattened or angular. Now
and again comes swaying along above the line the coal-black mask of
a Senegalese sharpshooter. Behind the company goes a red flag with a
green hand in the center.
We watch them in silence. These are asked no questions. They command
respect, and even a little fear.
All the same, these Africans seem jolly and in high spirits. They
are going, of course, to the first line. That is their place, and
their passing is the sign of an imminent attack. They are made for
the offensive.
"Those and the 75 gun we can take our hats off to. They're
everywhere sent ahead at big moments, the Moroccan Division."
"They can't quite fit in with us. They go too fast--and there's no
way of stopping them."
Some of these diabolical images in yellow wood or bronze or ebony
are serious of mien, uneasy, and taciturn. Their faces have the
disquieting and secret look of the snare suddenly discovered. The
others laugh with a laugh that jangles like fantastic foreign
instruments of music, a laugh that bares the teeth.
We talk over the characteristics of these Africans; their ferocity
in attack, their devouring passion to be in with the bayonet, their
predilection for "no quarter." We recall those tales that they
themselves willingly tell, all in much the same words and with the
same gestures. They raise their arms over their heads--"Kam'rad,
Kam'rad!" "Non, pas Kam'rad!" And in pantomime they drive a bayonet
forward, at belly-height, drawing it back then with the help of a
foot.
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