"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.

One of the sharpshooters overhears our talk as he passes. He looks
upon us, laughs abundantly in his helmeted turban, and repeats our
words with significant shakes of his head: "Pas Kam'rad, non pas
Kam'rad, never! Cut head off!"

"No doubt they're a different race from us, with their tent-cloth
skin," Barque confesses, though he does not know himself what "cold
feet" are. "It worries them to rest, you know; they only live for