All the Cowboys Ain't Gone by John J. Jacobson

Author:John J. Jacobson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2020-12-09T17:26:22+00:00

chapter 32

The outside of Legion Headquarters looked like a midsize nineteenth-century French hotel. Indeed, the legionnaire at the city gate who gave Lincoln directions had said, “You mean hotel to hell.” He chuckled to himself when he said it.

The French tricolor and the Legion’s own flag flew above the building, but the large double doors were locked. Four other hopeful enlistees were waiting outside the building: two Germans who had been with the caravan, a middle-aged Italian, and a young Swede whose white eyebrows glowed against his sunburned face. The Italian told them the office was closed for another ten minutes, until one o’clock.

At precisely one, a Legion corporal opened the doors from within and came outside. He looked the potential recruits over with evident distaste, muttered an oath in German, and then, in French, ordered them to come in and stand at attention.

They found themselves in a spotless room with two large wooden desks in the middle, and pine benches lining the wall opposite the desks. One of the desks was the corporal’s. Behind the other, meticulously clean with four small stacks of paper arranged on its blotter, sat a chief sergeant. He didn’t appear very absorbed in his work, for he spent most of his time looking at the recruits, also with unconcealed disgust. Behind the desks were three doors. One bore a placard reading Commandant de Brigade Brannon. Another door’s placard read Capitaine Duvoe. The walls were covered with plaques, pictures of legionnaires, and framed letters of commendation.

After about three minutes, the chief sergeant, in the accented French of a non-native speaker, said, “Why you have come here, I cannot possibly imagine; neither do I want to know. You have been extremely foolish in coming. If you decide to join us, you will find this out soon enough. The enlistment period for a legionnaire is five years. Once you join, nothing but death will get you out. If you survive, fifteen years’ honorable service earns a pension. In a few minutes, you will hear from Commandant de Brigade Brannon. You may sit at ease until then.”

After another twenty minutes, the door marked Commandant opened, and the officer walked out, slightly dragging his right leg. The chief sergeant called, “Attention!” as he and the corporal sprang up and saluted sharply. The commandant saluted them back with his left arm. The empty right sleeve of his tunic was pinned neatly behind him.

The man’s presence evoked awe and respect. Short, broad-shouldered but trim, not far past middle age, perhaps of Irish heritage. His face was ruddy from years of exposure to tropical sun, and his hair was close-cropped and gray, as was his goatee. With his one good eye, he gauged the caliber of those who stood before him. “Welcome, potential recruits,” he finally said in French seasoned with the lilt of his warrior island. “Thank you for your interest in our army. You will follow me and you will clearly understand the journey upon which you are considering embarking.”

The corporal opened the door without a name placard, and the commandant led the recruits through.

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