The opening scene quite well boggles the psyche. In an Algerian town in 1943, a tribal senior walks strongly through the restricted avenues calling for volunteers. The country must be spared, he says, and it is the youthful menfolk’s obligation to wash the French banner in their blood. It resemble a through-the-mirror rendition of The Battle of Algiers. Nobody yells him down; there is no open deliberation, no governmental issues. They sign up. The Algerian and north African abhorring of their French magnificent expert has been such an unchallenged reason in current silver screen and dynamic culture that this scene is verging on profane to liberal ears.
So we take after the fortunes of the seventh Algerian Infantry Regiment as they fight through Italy and push up into France for a last retribution with the Wehrmacht, having been guaranteed – in spite of the fact that, as I say, these certifications are not the slightest bit a state of their enrolment – that in the armed force they would have uniformity with the troopers of white terrain France. Their endeavors are delegated with military achievement, the principal that France has tasted following the disgracing catastrophe of 1940, and at first the north Africans seem to take an interest in the developing happiness and alleviation. Yet, they soon understand that they are peons in the military republic: getting menial apportions, no leave and no advancement through the positions.