Chapter 5: “Legio, Patria Nostra”

There was what sounded like a gasp of relief before Marcus spoke again.

“Thank you, Philippe. That way there will be no comebacks for Sybil or Gaspard if you do a runner, and I bless you for that. As for the Legion, well, the first thing you should know is that Frenchmen are not officially recruited into the Legion!”

“But I thought...”

“I said officially recruited, Philippe. There is a well-known and well used stratagem to get around that stipulation. When you enlist you must say you are Belgian, or Swiss, or from any other country that has French as an official language. Of course anyone with half an ear can tell what part of France a Frenchman comes from by his regional accent but that is ignored. However, if you enlist at a police station and say you are a French speaking foreigner the police will hold you for a day or two while they make inquiries in the area indicated by your accent. Once you’re in the Legion the police can’t touch you so naturally they check on Frenchmen enlisting in case they are wanted in connection with any sort of crime. I advise you to travel to Marseille and enlist at the Legion Reception Office in Rue du Chantier since it is from Marseille you will be shipped out to do your basic training. Get to Marseille as soon as you can. At the moment Mam’selle Delahoussaye’s death has not been reported; the University authorities are ensuring they are in the clear before making it official. They intend notifying the Gendarmerie of her death tomorrow so you had better be on your way by then.”

I thanked him for the information but before I hung up the telephone Marcus had some words of encouragement for me. “Good luck Philippe. You are an intelligent and resourceful young man who I know will do well in La Légion étrangère.”

I wrote a note to my parents giving brief details of my drug manufacturing and advised them to get rid of any chemicals without bona fide paperwork and to warn my brother Charles in Basel to make sure he was not suspected of supplying his parents with ‘substandard’ chemicals. I left the note on my bedside table, packed a rucksack and made my way to Valence railway station where I caught the first available train to Marseille. As luck would have it the train only made one stop en route, Avignon, and I was in the seaport by 6 pm.

“Andorra? That’s a first. It is more usually Swiss or Belgians I meet. But I can tell that you haven’t lived in Andorra for some time as you have a Rhone Valley accent that could sharpen a bayonet!” The recruiting NCO at the Reception Centre in Rue du Chantier smiled grimly. “OK, so what name do you go by?”

“Philippe Soissons.”

“Age?”

“Eighteen.”

He glanced up from the card he was filling in. “I guess it’s the altitude of Andorra that makes you look sixteen.” He was right about my age. I was a few months short of being 17 but my height usually convinced people I was older.

“Occupation?”

“Pharmacist.”

“We don’t get many of them joining the legion. I’ll put you down as a pox doctor’s assistant.” He signed and then stamped a card before handing it to me. “This carte d’service, will keep les flics off your back. It certifies you are an Enlisted Volunteer in the Foreign Legion but not yet a Legionnaire. You become that after successfully completing the basic training course and receiving your kepi blanc. You have a bed in room twenty one, which is on the second floor. Reveille is at oh five thirty hours, breakfast at oh six hundred hours, and you will parade in the basement gymnasium at oh seven hundred hours. You will be here until we have enough recruits to ship to Corsica. Welcome to La Légion étrangère, Enlisted Volunteer Philippe Soissons.” He held out his hand. I shook it, feeling the callouses on his palm. He grinned at my surprise that a paper pusher should have such workmanlike hands. “Every man in the Legion is an infantryman – remember that, Professor!”

There were four other occupants of room 21. Two were obviously Germans as I heard them speaking together and could pick out the odd word here and there. I learned later that Albrecht Zimmerman and Hans Krause F were East Germans, former border guards who had decided to make a break for the West and had cut their way through the barbed wire entanglement that divides East Germany from West Germany. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

At this time in history many of the recruits to the Foreign Legion were East Europeans from either the USSR or satellite countries of that evil empire. As for the other two members of room 21, Bron Lepik was from Estonia and Ferdi Azarian from Armenia.

Directly across the corridor from room 21 was room 22, also with five occupants; three Poles, who I think had travelled from Poland together, a Hungarian and an Austrian. We paraded in groups of ten in the gymnasium and rooms 21 and 22 were considered a squad.

Several days passed, with most of the time spent in the gymnasium. However the non-French-speakers attended French lessons during the afternoon and les gaulles, the Gauls, as native French enlisted into the Legion are referred to, were utilised as cleaners and kitchen helpers. The Gauls were also expected to help the non-French-speakers with their language skills. Ironically all four of my roommates had a smattering of English and I was able to translate French into English so they learned the basic commands. That was hard work as far as Ferdi from Armenia was concerned, but the Germans and Estonian soon understood orders given in French although they could not read or write the language.

A week after I enlisted another batch of recruits arrived at the Reception Centre. There were about 70 of them and were accommodated on the third floor which until then had been empty. I calculated there were approximately 150 recruits housed at the centre and supposed we would be soon shipped off to Corsica where our introduction to the Legion would begin in earnest.

I was proved to be correct for two days after the arrival of the 70 new recruits we were driven in several coaches to the docks, embarked on a French Navy transport vessel and sailed overnight to Ajaccio, the capital and main port of the island of Corsica.

Life would never be the same again for any of us.

The headquarters and depot of The Foreign Legion had been at Sidi Bel Abbès in Algeria since 1833, two years after the formation of the French Foreign Legion. However, when Algeria gained independence from France the Legion had to abandon their spiritual home, along with the cemetery where legionnaires killed in battle lay buried presided over by a memorial to the Legion’s dead. The Legion did not take kindly to having their traditional and spiritual home taken from them, and even at the time I joined the Legion there was still a bitter resentment towards the politicians, especially the President of the Republic who had sanctioned it.

The new HQ and Depot of the Foreign Legion is now established at Quartier Vienot in Aubagne, -- a town about twenty kilometres east of Marseille -- along with the interred bodies and the massive memorial from the cemetery at Sidi Bel Abbès. But I, along with all the other recruits at the reception centre, were sent to complete the four months of basic training with the 2^nd Enlisted Volunteer Company (2 CEV) at Corte in the mountains of northern Corsica rather than the burning sand of North Africa or the pleasant environs of southern France.

On arrival at Corte we were issued uniforms of a sort. We already had tee shirts, shorts and shoes for gymnasium work, and what we now received were sand coloured one piece coveralls. We were also issued headgear, but not the White Kepi, nor even the Green Beret worn by legionnaires but a ball cap with an elongated peak. The instructing staff referred to us dressed in this substandard uniform as ‘Sand Lizards’. That being said we were issued with two pairs of well-made leather boots, and great care was taken to ensure the boots fitted comfortably.

“There are two things you must look after in the legion,” Sergent -chef Kovalenko in charge of our training, told us when issuing the footwear. “One is your rifle (that we hadn’t yet been issued) and the other is your feet. Look after them and they will look after you!”

‘That’s three things,’ I heard someone mutter, but so did the bat eared Sergent chef Kovelenko who ordered the man to do 50 press ups. “You don’t open your mouth until I tell you to,” he said watching as the poor man struggled to complete the press-ups.

Before we started on our training we had been given a lecture on the most important piece of Foreign Legion history:

The Battle of Camerone.

This was an important action during the Second French intervention in Mexico. It occurred in late April 1863. In the eight-hour battle, a company of 65 men of the French Foreign Legion faced almost 2,000 Mexican infantrymen and cavalrymen. This action is portrayed as the supreme example of bravery and determination of fighting to the finish and is how every legionnaire is expected to behave when in a similar circumstance. No surrender. Fight to the finish; to the last bullet and then, using the bayonet, to the last man. Today, the prosthetic wooden hand of Capitaine Jean Danjou, who commanded the troops and was killed at Camerone, is paraded annually on Camerone Day, August 30^th, at the Legion’s HQ in Aubagne, carried by a designated legionnaire – a serving or former member of the Legion. To be designated to carry the wooden hand of Capitaine Danjou during Camerone Day is seen as the most distinguished honour for any member of the French Foreign Legion.

The training required to become a member of the Foreign Legion is harsh, brutal, punishing and uncompromising, and a case of survival of the fittest. Many didn’t survive and those of us who did were never the same people as those who had first entered that anteroom of Hell.

During the first four weeks at Corte we spent alternate mornings in the gymnasium continuing with the circuit training exercises began in Marseille; pull up, press ups, sit ups, squats, star jumps, skipping, and lifting weights, and on the parade square manoeuvring in column and line awhile attempting to keep in step. We were not going to be ‘Asphalt soldiers’, as legionnaires sneeringly referred to those units who parade outside the Elysee Palace or turn out to salute visiting dignitaries, but even so we needed to be able to march in step and halt at the same time. Afternoons were spent in our sand lizard uniforms running up and down the small, less precipitate, mountains convenient to Corte Citadel, which was situated at the edge of the town. At first we ran about 10 kilometres with no packs, working our way upwards each day to eventually running 20 kilometres with a back pack carrying 20 kilograms of stones -- a 20 -20 run as it was known. I excelled at this Corsican Fell running and soon had a reputation as a mountain runner. The downside was I arrived back at the Citadel well before anyone else and was put on kitchen fatigues. At the end of the four weeks I estimate a quarter of our number had left the Legion. No one stopped them from walking away and there were no recriminations. They just handed in their kit and were given a travel warrant to wherever they wanted to go to in Metropolitan France and that was that.

“No one twisted their arms to join the legion,” Sergent-Chef Kovalenko said as we watched one of our former colleagues leave the Citadel. “And the Legion wants no one who fails to reach our standards.”

It was also at the end of the four weeks when we handed in our Sand lizard suits and were kitted out with a proper uniform; combat clothing as it was referred to. We swapped our elongated peaked ball caps for green berets but without any cap badge attached. They would be affixed after we had successfully completed our training and were posted to our new unit. Rifles were also issued; the standard French infantryman’s weapon of a MAS-49/56 rifle with a magazine that held ten rounds of 7.5 mm ammo.

‘So always count your shots!’ the armourer caporal-chef shouted as he issued the weapons.

We spent less time in the gym now that we were up to the level of fitness required by the Legion but with more equipment and uniform we spent more time on ‘admin,’ that is cleaning and maintaining same, which in the case of uniforms including footwear; washing and ironing clothing, polishing boots, and cleaning and polishing the barrack room. We were also now ‘privileged’, as Sergent-chef Kovelenko informed us, to stand guard over the Citadel.

Slowly but surely the pressure on us was ratcheted up. Like the mountains of Corsica discipline in the legion was harsh, uncompromising, and stark.In those far off days, 40 plus years ago, life was tough. People were hardier and accepted conditions and treatment that would have today’s young people flocking to human rights lawyers. There was no such thing as Human Rights; you did what you were told or you were punished. The Legion did not believe in mollycoddling and you were tested to your limit and beyond. The Legion took a recruit then broke him down into his component parts. He was then reassembled into the sort of man required by the Legion; men who obeyed orders instantly, could exist on scraps, would march until they dropped with exhaustion, get up and march some more, and then kill the enemy. The last item being the raison d’etre of a Legionnaire.

We did a lot of marching; not much on the parade ground but over the mountains. ‘We are not asphalt soldiers,’ said Sergent Zysk, the NCO who had recruited me at Marseille and was also our platoon’s chief instructor/tormentor. Out in the field – the sun baked, rock hard, stony soil of Corsica – we dug trenches, and after Sergent Zysk had measured the depth, and checked the sheerness of the sides and the height of the parapet and the parados, we back filled the trenches.

“You won’t know we’ve been here when it snows,” I heard a voice say.

With our newly acquired rifles we spent many hours on the firing range, firing off huge amounts of ammunition and blasting the targets to shreds. We then spent just as many hours pasting up new targets and then even more hours picking up the thousands of spent cartridge cases strewn across the firing point.

Then it was back to marching, at times carrying up to 40 kgs on our backs.

“You’ve all heard of Marius’s Mules of the Roman legions? Well, you are ‘De Gaulle’s Donkeys’ of the Foreign Legion,” said Sergent Zysk. “In fact donkeys are not allowed to carry the loads we do as it is considered cruelty to dumb animals, but legionnaires are even dumber so carry even heavier loads.”

We marched over the mountains. We marched through the mountains. We marched along mountain ridges all over the north of Corsica, and when we had done that we did it again, and again, and then marched some more.

“Your new best friends are your feet,” said Sergent Zysk. “Look after them and they will look after you.” My new best friends complained interminably but I ignored them and eventually they stopped complaining.

We marched under a blazing hot sun. “This is nothing to what we had in Algeria,” said Sergent Zysk. “We fried eggs on the stones in the desert.”

We marched through snow and sleet. “This is nothing to what it was like in the Tell Atlas Mountains. Snow drifts up to your armpits and bands of Riffs taking pot shots at you. This is a holiday compared to Algeria,” said Sergent Zysk.

When a man fell out of the column and slumped at the side of the track Sergent Zysk or one of his two Caporal–chef minions, Bhardon and Monah, would kick him. If he didn’t rise to his feet then Sergent Zysk or either Caporal –chef Bhardon or Monah, sometimes all three, would urinate on the prostrate fellow. That usually did the trick; otherwise they took his rifle and left him to find his own way home.

‘March or Die’ was a Legion aphorism. All recruits did the former and some recruits did the latter.

In this softer, more touchy-feely age, it sounds medieval but it is true; ask anyone who served in any military formation 40 plus years ago and they will tell you of being kicked or punched, or having a bayonet pricking their derriere, to keep them moving forward. The British Royal Air Force is not alone in believing the way to the stars, or in the case of the Legion the way to a white kepi, is through hardship.(‘Per ardua ad astra’, although in the Legion ’Per ordure ad astra’ is probably more accurate). A Human Rights lawyer would have had a field day back then but there were no Human Rights’ lawyers in those days since there were no Human Rights.

We also had intense instruction on platoon level weapons and learned to fire, strip, clean, and reassemble the Chatellerault Light Machine Gun, and the 81 mm Mortar. The rate of fire of the light machine gun was 450 rounds per minute but the magazine only held 25 rounds so there were a lot of magazines to be humped around by the number two on the gun, who in most cases was me. I also had the task of filling the magazines with 25 rounds while the gunner merrily blasted a target to shreds, although the gunner also had to help pick up the brass cases after a day’s firing on the range. Tens of thousands would be a conservative guess.

The 81 mm mortar had no brass cases to pick up after a day firing but a mortar was a heavy weapon to carry. It could be split into three loads (barrel, butt plate and bipod) and by far the heaviest was the butt plate. Guess who was the poor mutt who carried the butt plate? I seemed to be the beast of burden to go to because as one of the tallest Enlisted Volunteers I caught the eyes of NCOs. Fortunately we only fired the 81mm three times during the 4 month course.

We also undertook unarmed combat training, where we had our derrieres handed to us by our instructors. The same could be said for the bayonet fighting training. We learned squad, platoon, and company attack and defence tactics, together with internal security procedures. The latter involved guarding key points, searching vehicles and people for weapons and or explosives, and cordon and search exercises. FIBU exercises – Fighting In Built Up areas – house to house fighting, was carried out at a specially constructed training area a few kilometres to the north of Corte Citadel. Clearing houses was hard exhausting work and I learned the safest way to break into a defended house was through the roof!

The barrack accommodation at Citadel Corte comprised of a two story block. Each floor had 10 rooms and each room housed an infantry squad of ten men. A platoon comprised of 3 squads i.e. three rooms. The same roommates as had been with me in room 21 at the Marseille’s reception centre, the two Germans, Albrecht Zimmerman and Hans Krause, the Estonian Bron Lepik and Ferdi Azarian from Armenia, were with me in the room in Corte Citadel plus those who had been across the corridor in room 22 at the reception centre, or at least four of them were. The three Poles and the Hungarian remained from that room but the Austrian had decided the Legion wasn’t for him after only two days at the reception centre. However there was also a member of the previous recruit intake in the room. He had not passed the four month basic course as he did not complete The White Kepi March.

The White Kepi March was the final element of the basic training course and consists of a march of 80 Kilometres carrying a MAS-49/65 rifle, 60 rounds of ammunition plus a backpack weighing almost F 40 kilos. The march must be completed in 48 hours and anyone who failed the White Kepi March had to endure the whole four months of basic training again. One such fellow was with us in the room. I first thought him Belgian as his French accent was so terrible but I was amazed to discover he was English. There are some ‘Anglos’ in the legion, as those enlisted in the legion that have English as their first language are referred to. They are few and far between and Alfie Hinds, as he introduced himself, was the only one I ever served with.