In those days they had boots of crimson
leather, and majestic red mantles. They used to sit in a circle,
contemplating from under their turbans the vast expanse of mud
watered by the skies of Artois. To-day, they wear the ochre
helmet, and show the profiles of Saracen warriors.
The Algerian has just been killed, kicked in the belly by his
beautiful white horse.
In the ambulance there was a Mussulman orderly, a well-to-do
tradesman, who had volunteered for the work. He, on the other
hand, was extremely European, nay, Parisian; but a plump,
malicious smile showed itself in the midst of his crisp grey
beard, and he had the look in the eyes peculiar to those who come
from the other side of the Mediterranean.
Rashid "behaved very well." He had found native words when tending
the dying man, and had lavished on him the consolations necessary
to those of his country.
When the Algerian was dead, he arranged the winding-sheet himself,
in his own fashion; then he lighted a cigarette, and set out in
search of Monet and Renaud.
For lack of space, we had no mortuary at the time in the
ambulance. Corpses were placed in the chapel of the cemetery while
awaiting burial. The military burial-ground had been established
within the precincts of the church, close by the civilian
cemetery, and in a few weeks it had invaded it like a cancer and
threatened to devour it.
Rashid had thought of everything, and this was why he went in
search of Monet and Renaud, Catholic priests and ambulance
orderlies of the second class.
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