Chapter 2: Heather

The Chevalier was casevaced (casualty evacuation) to France. His left knee had been shattered and muscles in the leg badly torn but other than that he was in good spirits when I saw him at the airfield.

“I owe you my life, Caporal-chef Soissons,” he said. Capitaine Draganov was present so the Chevalier kept in formal mode.

“You would have done the same for me, Lieutenant.” I replied.

“I doubt I would have been able to carry you so far and so fast as you did me, but I would have done my best.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “Thank you, Philippe,” he said sotto voce. “I won’t forget what you did and will find ways to repay you.” He gave me a broad smile and was then stretchered into the aircraft and we took our leave.

*****

Alfie Hinds death hit me hard, harder than even Ferdi Azarian’s. I had similar feelings of guilt for their deaths but for different reason. Ferdi had died at the hand of the mad woman Chardonnay Du Plessier because of my taunting of her whereas Alfie had died at the hand of the Chevalier who had sent him painlessly into eternity, because I did not have the moral courage to pull the trigger. Had not the Chevalier been there Alfie Hinds would have suffered the same terrible fate as Dimitri Raganovski. I was willing to let Alfie Hinds die a horrific death to keep my conscience clear; what sort of friend was that?

I had been closer to Alfie Hinds than to any other legionnaire, including Ferdi Azarian. I first met Alfie on the basic course in Corsica where he had been open about why he joined the Legion and what he had done before joining. In fact he was the only member of the Legion I knew that was so open. Of course Alfie Hinds hadn’t been running from the law or an irate father/husband/wife/ or pregnant girlfriend; he had just wanted a new start in life and had no criminal acts or moral lapses as excess baggage as so many of us in the Legion bear.

About two months before Operation Achilles, during a visit to what Alfie referred to as a ‘knocking shop’, the brothel in Djibouti frequented by legionnaires, he mentioned the L word. We had both enjoyed an energetic work out with a pair of newly arrived Filipinas — Alfie’s and my favourite sort of female companions — and were sat in a bar quietly drinking an après sex Rhone red for me, and can of Tusker Ale for him.

“‘Ave you ever been in love, Phil?” he asked. Alfie was the only person who called me by that truncated form of my name that I think is an Anglo thing. All my family and friends call me Philippe, as did The Chevalier in informal meetings. I was known as ‘Professor’ to my comrades in the Legion.

I took a swallow of my wine. “Yes, I fell head over heels in love with Jacquelynne, the first girl I ever had sex with, and I was heart-broken when told not to visit her again.”

“What, ‘er dad didn’t want you calling on ‘er coz you didn’t ‘ave enough dosh to keep ‘er in the manner what she was used to?” (‘Dosh’ is English slang for money)

“It was nothing like that, Alfie. Jacquelynne was a very expensive whore.”

He stared at me, trying but failing to keep a look composed equally of amazement, derision, and pity from appearing on his face. “You fell in love wiv a brass? Your first bit of grumble and grunt was wiv a prossie; did your dad pay for you to break your duck?”

I didn’t quite understand what he meant by ‘break your duck’ or ‘grumble and grunt’ but guessed, correctly, that ‘brass’ and ‘prossie’ were English slang for a prostitute. I explained the circumstances leading to my free evening’s entertainment in the House of Joy. Alfie was impressed.

“Blimey, Phil, you must ‘ave been a clever sod at university and would have been made for life wiv a degree an’ everyfing. What got you into the Legion?” As soon as he said it he apologised. “Sorry, mate. I shouldn’t ‘ave asked you that.”

I ignored his question, least said soonest mended, and continued with my sorry tale. “Of course, I thought she loved me as much as I loved her and was heartbroken when the Madam of the House told me it was usual for a John, as a whore’s customers are referred to, to fall in love with a whore but a whore never falls in love with her ‘John’. I had been thoroughly convinced by Jacquelynne’s behaviour that she was in love with me and was not just a well-trained and experienced whore doing what a whore does best. Since then I’ve never felt the same emotion for any other woman, although I always enjoy ... err ... shagging them, whore or pick up. Evenso the mad woman Chardonnay Du Plessier sometimes had me wondering if I was in love with her.”

“You know when you’re in love, Phil. It catches you by your throat, todger, bollocks, and heart. The sun shines brighter, the sky is bluer, and everything is bloody marvellous. Of course the clever bit is knowing if the bird is in love wiv you, too.”

“Have you ever been in love, Alfie?”

“‘Undreds of times. Every time I dips me wick I falls in love. It only lasts as long as I’m shagging her, maybe a bit longer if she’s give me a mega good ride.” He smiled in recollection. “The first bit of grumble and grunt I ‘ad was Traci Beeker. We was in the same class in school and it was ‘er what taught me ‘ow to keep a girl ‘appy in the shagging stakes. I fell for ‘er big time. I suppose we all fall in love with our first shag? Naturally a girl with ‘er talent was shagging the whole school, teachers and all. Broke my ‘eart when I went round ‘er gaff one evening and found ‘er and the ‘eadmaster shagging each other’s brains out.” (gaff = residence, house)

“So you fall in love with whoever is underneath you...”

“Or on top,” he interrupted.

“ ... and it never lasts longer than that?” I concluded.

I saw a shadow of sadness pass across his face and he took a long swig at his beer before speaking. “I did fall in love with someone once and I’m still in love with ‘er. We was a matched pair; made for each other we was, and in another life I would have married ‘er, settled down, raised a load of sprogs and lived ‘appily ever after.”

“Tell me about her, Alfie,” I said, and he did.

Alfie had been in Germany with 2 Para (Second Battalion, The Parachute Regiment) for over a year. He loved the life. He worked hard and played even harder, and had been through a slew of obliging females, German and British. It was love ‘em and leave ‘em; no commitment, no clinging on, no looking back; the four Fs, in fact.

Then he met Heather. She was well educated, middle class, and several years older than Alfie who was 22 years old at the time. She was completely out of his class and experience but they had a passionate relationship that only ended when he was given a two year sentence in a military prison (the Glasshouse) for striking an officer.

“It’s ‘ard to explain our attraction, love, for each other. We just knew we was made for each other,” he said. “We ‘ad nothing in common but our love, and knew it couldn’t last. Every time we met and made love was paradise, every minute apart was purgatory.”

“I suppose she finished with you when you were jailed?”

“No. I finished wiv ‘er, and told ‘er not to visit me in prison. I got banged up for two years in the Glasshouse at Shepton Mallet. She was ruining ‘er life being my lover. I wanted ‘er to cut the tie and ‘ave a proper life wiv out me. She said she would wait for me to come out the army but I knew, and so did she but wouldn’t admit it, that we could never live together when I got out of the Glasshouse. I would have a dishonourable discharge from the Army and wouldn’t get noworthwhile or well-paid job. She ‘ad never worked since leaving university, other than ‘elping out at nurseries, and was used to living in posh houses and ‘aving money. I ‘ad nothing like that to offer ‘er. We would ‘ave ended up fighting like cat and dog and I couldn’t face that. It was for the best we ended our relationship although it broke my ‘eart in pieces, and I know she felt the same.”

“So punching an officer finished both your army career and your love life. What on earth made you do such a stupid thing?”

“The bastard deserved every punch I give ‘im. If I ‘adn’t been dragged off ‘im I would have killed the shitehawk. ‘E was ‘Eather’s ‘usband, and ‘e treated ‘er...”

“Ecky bloody thump, thump,” I lapsed into northern English jargon at the shock of learning Alfie’s lover in Germany was the wife of the officer he had assaulted. “Had he found out about his wife’s affair with you?”

Alfie shook his head “Nah, ‘e was as thick as pig shit and never ‘ad a clue. We was very discreet. ‘Eather ‘ad other blokes before me and knew how to keep a low profile when it came to having rumpy pumpy on the side.”(sexual congress out of wedlock). He saw the look on my face. “She weren’t no slag. ‘Er ‘usband, Major Percival St. John Fanshawe, ‘ad more bits on the side (lovers) than I’ve ‘ad ‘ot dinners. I know for a fact ‘e’d been giving the NAAFI (Navy, Army, and Air force Institute) canteen manageress a seeing to (sexual congress). I’d ‘ad a piece of her before I met ‘Eather and she said how much nicer it was ‘aving a squaddie like me stuff her rather than a poncey officer. ‘E treated ‘Eather like shit. She always ‘ad bruises and said she was prone because of ‘er soft skin. She ‘ad them bruises because that bastard Fanshawe used to punch ‘er when e’ was pissed, which was more often than not. One day she was wearing a long sleeved blouse although it was a boiling ‘ot day. I made ‘er roll up the sleeve. The fuckpig ‘ad stubbed a cigarette out on ‘er arm. I went ballistic, and stormed round to ‘is office and punched seventeen shades of shit out of ‘im.”