Chapter 6: And in Some Far Distant Region

“What?” I said, my voice registering both surprise and ignorance.

The Chevalier ignored my rudeness and repeated his statement. “DILE’s next assignment is with the Fifth Mixed Pacific Regiment (5e Régiment Mixte du Pacifique) at Hao, the base depot for the testing sites at Mururoa and Fangataufa Atolls.”

“Where is Hao and those other places you mention, and what is being tested at the testing site?”

“To answer your questions in the order you asked them, Philippe; French Polynesia and nuclear weapons. It might seem incongruous that those two topics should be mentioned in the same sentence and in the same breath but nevertheless it is true. France tests its nuclear weapons in an area that subsists on tourism.” He chuckled when he saw the alarm on my face. “Don’t worry Philippe, there are no series of tests planned during our visit...” he paused, “well, not as far as I know, but of course the dates when tests are carried out are Top Secret and known only to a select few, of which, alas, I am not one. Be that as it may, Greenpeace, plus other environmentalist groups, Peaceniks, and Foreign Powers — both friends and foes — are forever trying to gain access to the test sites, which is why the Fifth Mixed Pacific Regiment is in French Polynesia. ‘Mixed’ in this context is not by ethnicity but by function. The Fifth Mixed Pacific Regiment comprises of two construction companies, a support company, and a combat company.”

This conversation took place about a week after I returned to Aubagne from Castelnaudary where I had been a stand-in instructor with the temporary rank of sergent- chef. Lieutenant Colonel Torquonde informed me there was no establishment for another sergent- chef with DILE and he reluctantly had to revert me back to sergent.

“You did a first rate job, Sergent Soissons, not only in helping out Commandant Draganov — for which he was extremely grateful — but also embellishing the reputation of DILE, for which I am extremely grateful. Had it been in my gift I would have made your temporary rank permanent but unfortunately I do not have that authority. However, I suggest you apply for instructional duties. Should your application be successful, and I see no reason why it would not be given that the Commandant of the Regiment of Instruction holds you in high regard, you would be promoted to sergent-chef when you take up instructional duties. I fear there is little prospect of promotion in the near or even median future if you remain with DILE.”

A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, whatever that means; but I recall Alfie Hinds used the saying frequently, so I took Colonel Torquonde’s advice and applied for instructional duties. There was one slight problem; instructors spend three years in post and applicants for instructional duties require at least three years’ uncompleted service. I had two and a half years to serve of my current enlistment, taking me to fifteen years’ service. To be eligible to apply for instructional duty I would need to sign on for another five year enlistment, which would make me a twenty year man. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead but did realise being an instructor meant I would be static for three years in a pleasant area of France rather than in some sand scoured, fly blown lump of real estate at the arse end of the world. I knew after my three year spell of instructing I would be posted away but could reapply after a year, hopefully getting another three years of instructional duty. I thought about the pros and cons of instructing and the pros won hands down. Promotion to sergent-chef, and a reasonably cushy job in an area full of available females. (‘Cushy’ means easy, comfortable, and was another of Alfie’s sayings. ‘Cushy’ does not derive from ‘cushion’ but from Hindi/Urdu, meaning ‘good’.)

I re-engaged for a further five years, which would be added to the two and a half years still left on my current engagement, before I applied for Instructional duties and had my application immediately approved by Lieutenant- Colonel Torquonde.

It was only after my application had been dispatched I thought of a con. What if I wasn’t selected for instructional duties? I had now added another five years to my enlistment and could be posted to some hell hole like Djibouti or French Guiana for the remainder of my seven plus years of service. I calmed down when I recalled Lieutenant- Colonel Torquonde’s words about how grateful Commandant Draganov had been for me stepping in to help and he, being the Commandant of the Regiment of Instruction, would surely ensure my application was accepted?

Two days before DILE flew out to French Polynesia Commandant Draganov was appointed chef de battalion of 1RE and left the Regiment of Instruction to take up his new post.

Bugger, bugger, bugger! (One of Alfie Hind’s sayings when things went tits up)

It took DILE four days to get from Aubagne to Hao. We first flew from Marseille to Cayenne in a chartered Air France Boeing 707, a bi-weekly flight for military and government personnel to get to and from their place of duty in French Guiana. During the eleven hour flight I shared with the Chevalier my fears of not being accepted on instructional duties now Commandant Draganov was no longer the commander of the Regiment of Instruction.

“I would I think Commandant Draganov will have made a note of your assistance with the signalling course, and the incoming Commandant would probably ask the current instructors, especially the Adjutants and Adjutant- chef, their opinion of the applicants. I don’t think you have much to fear, but even if you don’t get accepted this year you can re-apply the following year.” The Chevalier said, soothing my fears. He then grinned before continuing. “Now you are a twenty year man you will have plenty of times to try again!” With that something of a false hope I composed myself for sleep and possible disappointment.

DILE spent the night in Cayenne and then faced another long day’s travel next morning. We had travelled in uniform; green berets and combat clothing, to French Guiana but as we would be flying on from Cayenne in civilian aircraft for the remainder of the journey we wore civilian clothing. The DILE team consisted of twenty five personnel and the powers that be at Quartier Vienot hoped we would be assumed to be a Rugby Union football team on a tour of South America and Polynesia rather than a French Foreign Legion inspection team travelling to a nuclear testing site. From Cayenne we flew to San Paulo in Brazil, and — after a three hour wait at the terminal — boarded a flight to Lima in Peru. Four hours later we touched down at Jorge Chávez International Airport and were met by an assistant Military Attaché from the French Embassy in Lima. We gratefully collapsed into bed after a swiftly taken dinner at the Hotel Costa del Sol Wyndham, and it was late morning before we had breakfast and then prepared to board an aircraft for the ten hour flight to Papeete in Tahiti.

The assistant military attaché was at the airport to see us off. When in the hearing of Peruvians he spoke loudly of the matches we were supposed to be playing during our ‘tour’ of Polynesia. He rather spoiled the charade when, as we filed our way through to the departure lounge, he said, equally loudly, “I hope you have all packed lead lined underwear in your kit bags as well as jock straps and scrumcaps!” So much for secrecy.

By the time we landed at Papeete we were exhausted and more than a little perturbed at the military attaché’s farewell remark. Perhaps nuclear tests were to be carried out during our stay, or was the man, a Capitaine de corvette, pulling of the legs? The French Navy has a nautical sense of humour that is lost on landsmen.

We were given two days rest in Papeete, allowing our body clocks to catch up with the many changes of time zones we had traversed, before we flew in a French Air Force Transall C-160 to Hao, 920 kms (570 miles) east of Tahiti. On landing at Hao we were relieved to learn that there were no current tests scheduled, nor were there any in the near future. Besides the Legion unit on Hao DILE also had to inspect the detachment at the testing site at Mururoa Atoll, 450 kms (280 miles) to the east of Hao.

For an island no larger than 35 square kilometres in area Hao had an impressive infrastructure, not least being the 3000+ metres runway. Other facilities included electrical and desalinization plants and a hospital. All were built and maintained by the Fifth Mixed Pacific Regiment via the construction and support companies, and I wondered what would happen to the island when/if France ceased testing nuclear weapons in French Polynesia and the Fifth Mixed Pacific Regiment (5 RMP) was redeployed or disbanded. The current regiment was the latest reincarnation of Fifth Foreign Infantry Regiment (5 REI) aka The Tonkin Regiment, in which both Grigor Pavel and the Chevalier had served in Indochina. Having a former member of 5 REI as part of the inspectorate was a bonus as the Chevalier was regarded as a legend by members of the current regiment and DILE rode on the back of his popularity. Any hesitancy or distaste on the part of 5 RMP personnel to work with DILE vanished, and the Chevalier was treated as an honoured guest rather than a snooping busybody.

There were a few minor discrepancies in the paper work at Regimental Head Quarters (RHQ) but they were soon rectified by some in-house training by DILE. Being so far from the centre of things in a far flung outpost of France it was no wonder that the procedures in place at 5 RMP RHQ were somewhat antiquated, but the commissary and administrative staff were no fools and once they had been shown the new procedures I had no doubt their future paper work would be error and fraud free. There was little local purchasing of goods or services on Hao, the area of commerce where most of the ‘creative accounting’ had taken place in those units where DILE had uncovered fraud.

After our inspection on Hao we took to the skies, again in a Transall C-160, to fly the 450 kms (280 miles) to Mururoa Atoll. However there was precious little to inspect as most of the work at Mururoa was classified Top Secret and so was any associated paperwork, even duty rotas. There were no indigenous civilians on the island and thus no chicanery between commissary staff and local business men. All supplies were delivered by Transall C-160 from Hao and we knew from our inspection at Hao that any former errors in the paperwork would not be repeated. After two days we flew back to Hao and signed off the complete inspection.

The least said about what I saw on Mururoa the better. The Legion detachment on Mururoa was employed in scouring the island for interlopers while the French Navy kept a watch on any vessel approaching the atoll. As for what testing structures and apparatus I came across during my short stay on the island my lips are sealed. If they were not I could find myself in prison, if I was lucky. You’ve heard the saying ‘if I tell you I will have to kill you’? In certain circles it is not a joke. ‘Nuff said.

We had hoped our stay in French Polynesia would include sun, sea, sand, and sex, the latter supplied by beauteous Polynesian females in grass skirts and gyrating hips. We had sampled the first three but not the fourth. In fact there had been a dearth of beauteous Polynesian females with or without gyrating hips under grass skirts. Hao had a population of about 1000 locals but most of the young ones had migrated to Tahiti for work. What employment there was on Hao was tied to the Legion and there seemed to be little agriculture other than the cultivation of peanuts. Fishing was restricted to certain areas and there were no tourists flying in on the weekly Transall 160, which carried supplies and legionnaires returning from R and R in Tahiti plus the occasional local retuning home for a visit.

However the highlight of our trip was yet to come. DILE arrived back in Papeete after concluding the inspection and was given three days of rest and recuperation, which we grabbed with both hands.

Until you’ve copulated with a hip swinging Otea girl you have no inkling of what Paradise is really like. No wonder Captain Bligh’s men threw him overboard before sailing the Bounty back to Tahiti and taking up with the native women. Okay, so most of the mutineers ended up swinging from a gibbet but the time they spent with their inamoratas before the Royal Navy caught up with them was probably worth the price of being executed. Never before had I experienced such a pulsating, pelvically produced pleasure as I enjoyed with a sweet and fragrant Tahitian girl by the name of Puaiti, which means ‘flower’ in Tahitian. I sipped at her nectar like a greedy Tetragonula carbonaria when her petals opened for me, and have to confess to making something of a pig of myself during the 48 hours I spent with her. ‘Spent’ in all meanings of the word, and Puati was worth every French Pacific Franc. Had I been able I would have smuggled her back to France, left the Legion and then spent every minute of every day making love with her.

I did spend a few hours of my time in Papeete looking for Gaspard Delroy, my one time collaborator in the manufacture of LSD. I didn’t find him but the attractive young Tahitian girl at his sprawling, luxury bungalow informed me Professor Gaspard Delroy was on a lecture tour of Australia with three of his female researchers. I gathered that the luscious female telling me this was also one of the researchers helping Gaspard as he continued his investigations into Polynesian mating rituals. Gaspard had always been a hands on sort of person, as Gloria, the lottery under-manager in Grenoble and the quartet of Polynesian pulchritude currently being handled, would agree.

DILE’s return journey to Marseille was the reverse of the route we took to Tahiti but most of DILE spent the air time asleep, recovering from R and R in Papeete.

Back at Aubagne we made out our reports and were informed our next assignment would be in a week’s time at Camp du Larzac, the current base of the 61st Engineer-Legion Mixed Battalion (61e Bataillon Mixte Génie Légion/ 61e BMGL).

The 61st BMGL was unique in that it was comprised of legionnaires and French Army engineers, hence ‘Mixed’, and had been engaged in constructing the largest military training area in Western Europe at Canjeurs, where I had served, albeit briefly, with 3rd Foreign Construction Company (3e Compagnie de Construction Etrangère, 3CCE). The work at Canjeurs having been completed six months previously 61st BMGL relocated to Camp du Larzac, which is located in the commune of La Cavaler, about 90 kms NW of Montpellier.

A massive extension to the Larzac training area had been planned, but mass, non-violent, demonstrations by the local population, and the usual suspects from Paris, protesting at the huge amount of grazing land being appropriated for the expansion caused the scheme to be put on hold. Meantime 61st BMGL were modernising the camp’s accommodation, plus constructing a new rifle range and an 81mm/120 mm mortar firing range.

The day after arriving at Larzac camp DILE came up against a problem. 61 BMGL was working with a mish mash of Legion and French Army procedures. The battalion comprised of 510 men divided into of three companies;

Engineer Construction Company (Compagnie de Travaux Génie CTG) staffed by French army engineers who worked to French Army procedures.

Legion Construction Company (Compagnie de Travaux Légion, CTL) staffed by legionnaires who worked to Legion procedures

HQ & Services Company (Compagnie de Commandement et des Services, CCS) staffed with both legionnaires and French Army personnel and working with whichever procedure the paper shuffler was familiar with.

Utter confusion and inefficiency! I wondered how the camp at Canjeurs came to be built given the haphazard and cavalier manner of the unit’s administration. There would have been, and must still be, plenty of opportunities for fraud and misappropriation of funds.

Incidentally the Legion Construction Company (CTL), was a direct descendant of 3rd Foreign Construction Company (3CCE) and several former members of 3CCE, including Hans Krause, were serving in CTL.

Lieutenant Colonel Torquonde held long and convoluted discussions with the chef du battalion of 61st BMGL, Commandant Festubert, and the capitaines commanding the three companies, to devise a system applicable to all three companies. He got his way and DILE came up with a set of procedures that melded the disparate systems together. However during our investigation using the new procedures a massive fraud was discovered.

Both CTG and CTL used earth moving vehicles that required the frequent changing of parts. The stocks of the spares held by CTG, (Compagnie de Travaux Génie), of the French Army were well below the numbers recorded during a physical stock check. The sub-standard systems formerly in use had not flagged up the discrepancy and it was assumed expensive equipment was being stolen during the entire time CTG was at Canjeurs, besides what had gone missing since 61st BMGL arrived at Camp Larzac.

Capitaine Desalle, the commander of CTG, was held responsible and was arrested and interrogated by French Army military police. I had no dealings with the CTG other than when introduced to the officers and SNCOs of 61st BMGL when DILE first arrived at Camp du Lanzac. The second in command of CTG, Lieutenant Lorenzo Masséna, seemed to be a competent, if a trifle arrogant, officer although no more than some Legion lieutenants I had come across during my service.

It took DILE another 4 weeks to finish the inspection and ensure the new procedures adopted by 61st BMGL were working smoothly. Capitaine Desalle continued to protest his innocence and no wads of money had been discovered in his bank account. DILE were not involved in investigating the theft as a French Army officer was the main, and only suspect, and the Legion had no wish to wash someone else’s dirty linen in public, although it stuck in the craw that a Legion unit had been involved in the chicanery.

“The only way of discovering the person responsible for the theft is to follow the money. Someone bought the stolen items and the cash has ended up in someone’s bank account. Follow the money, find the crook,” said the Chevalier.

“It is none of our business now, Maurice,” Lieutenant Colonel Torquonde said. “Let the Army sort out their own rotten apples. But to make sure there is no Legion involvement in the crime I will have the bank accounts belonging to the Officers, SNCOs, and legionnaire of BMGL looked at.”

Later that week I heard from the Chevalier that Colonel Torquonde had been as good as his word, and none of the officers, SNCOs, or legionnaires of the 61st BMGL had any large amounts of money in their bank accounts – quite the opposite in fact.

“Well, someone has profited and if not a legionnaire then it must be a French Army member of BMGL. However I doubt they’ve got the right man in Capitaine Desalle. He never struck me as bright enough to pull off such a coup,” said the Chevalier.

The Brothers Caramasoph.

“How long are you going to be here at Camp Larzac?” Hans Krause asked. He and I were in the Sergents’ Mess having lunch. Hans was Adjutant of the Legion Construction Company (CTL) of 61BMG and I had been a member of the team who inspected their procedures. Needless to say we found only a few insignificant errors in their files and records as Hans ran a tight ship.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I would think no more than a week. We have pretty much finished the inspection but Colonel Torquonde would like to know who has been stealing expensive equipment from CTG before we head back to Aubagne. Thousands, possibly tens of thousands of francs are involved, but there’s no trace of where the money went and no paper trail to indicate who it was that organised the fraud. All the officers and SNCOs of CTG are suspect, as are the French Army personnel in the HQ Company, CSS. The Chevalier doesn’t believe Capitaine Desalle has enough brainpower to be the culprit, but he is the only one in the frame at the moment.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that no legionnaires are involved. Our plant is not as up to date as the army engineers’ equipment, and our spares are nowhere near as expensive, or resalable.” Hans had a peculiar expression on his face, as if holding something back.

“Do you know something DILE doesn’t, Hans?”

He gazed at me for a moment as if coming to a decision. “I might know someone who might know something that might help you, Professor. Meet me in the car park after work. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

“That’s a lot of mights, and I can find my own females if you are thinking of setting me up on a blind date,” I joked, and he grinned.

“I know you need no help from me or anyone else to get off with a female, Professor. The person I want you to meet is my girlfriend.”

Hans Krause had been in the same squad as me during the basic course in Corsica. He was a quiet, extremely conscientious, and thoughtful sort of person, with an air of quiet authority about him even when an Enlisted Volunteer. I wasn’t surprised he had risen to the rank of Adjutant, as he seemed never to be at a loss, no matter what was thrown at him. When I fell from grace by missing the Camerone Day parade and was banished to 3rd Foreign Construction Company (3CCE) he was most supportive of me. Although not bosom friends we shared a feeling of friendship and respect.

I was interested to learn he had a girlfriend. Like most legionnaires Hans had no trouble in attracting females; and like most legionnaires he did not make lasting attachments. For him to state a female was his girlfriend meant she was an important part of his life and I was intrigued to discover what sort of woman she would be. I estimated Hans was at least five years older than I was, which would put him in his mid-thirties. I knew his current enlistment had a couple more years left to run and I supposed he would enlist for another five years, making him a twenty year man like myself.

Later that afternoon I met him in the camp car park. I got in the passenger seat of his car and asked where we were going. His answer, ‘Montpellier’ surprised me.

“It’s only about ninety klicks down the A Seventy Five. We will be there in an hour.” Hans drove an Audi — ’Vorsprung Durch Technik’ — and was a fast but skilful driver. We drew up to a multi-story car park in Montpellier just over an hour after leaving Camp Larzac.

“We walk from here,” he said.

After getting his ticket from the machine, we set off into the tangle of alleys and narrow streets of Old Montpellier. It was a maze as far as I could tell but Hans piloted us unerringly to a small bistro cum bar in the middle of the Old Town. The neon sign proclaimed the bar to be ‘Dido’s Palace’ and inside the Carthaginian ambience was maintained with frescos of Carthage, Hannibal and other notable Carthaginians, and of course the carousel-like Great Harbour. There were about a dozen or so customers sitting around drinking and or eating at tables around a small dance floor and in the more private alcoves set along two walls of the large room. The lighting was low, and I wondered if Dido’s Place was a discreet rendezvous for lovers.

“Hans! I didn’t expect to see you today,” said a female from behind the bar. She came out from the counter and gave Hans a full blooded kiss on his lips, I assumed her to be Hans’s girlfriend (there ain’t no flies on me!). The couple eventually disengaged their lips and Hans made the introduction.

“Elissa, liebling, meet my old friend Philippe Soissons. Philippe, this is Elissa, Queen of Dido’s Palace.” I held out my hand which Elissa took and pulled me into an embrace, her lips lightly brushing my cheek.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Philippe. Hans often speaks of you,” she said. “Likewise, or at least the first part,” I replied.

She grinned. “We only met about six months ago so Hans would not have had the opportunity of speaking to you about me.” She glanced around the room. “I have to get back behind the bar, Hans, but I will join you in an hour.” They exchanged a kiss and then Elissa returned to the bar and serving customers.

“What do you think of her?” Hans asked.

“She’s gorgeous,” I said, and meaning it. Elissa’s complexion was an attractive shade of café au lait and her large eyes were as black as coal, as was her plaited hair that hung midway down her back and would be a sight to see when she shook it out. I estimated her age in the early thirties and she stood somewhere near 167 cms (5 ft 6ins) tall. Her body was well formed, verging on the voluptuous. Although her accent was pure Marseille it was not the grating, whining, version that sets my teeth on edge.

“I met her a week after BMGL arrived at Camp Larzac,” Hans said. “I was in Montpellier transferring my bank account and we bumped into each other, literally, on a street crossing. She apologised as she had been ferreting in her handbag for something and hadn’t been looking where she was going. Any way we went for a coffee and an hour later I was in love. We will marry when I leave the legion in six months’ time.”

“But you must have more than...” I began

“I’ve been given permission to resign in six months.”

“What will you do for work?”

“I am a fully trained heavy plant operator and would walk into a job in the construction industry, especially road building. But I will work for Elissa. She owns Dido’s Palace, and I have been helping out behind the bar as well as security, not that the place needs it.” There was a satisfied look on Hans face that showed how pleased he was with his life and how it would get even better.

“Well, congratulations. I hope you both will be very happy.”

“We will be,” he said with a huge smile on his face. “We recognised that the other was our ‘other half’ and we were meant to be together. Have you not met anyone you could settle down with?”

“No. Married life is not for me, but I’m sure you two will make a go of it. Is Elissa the person you wanted me to meet?” I said, changing the subject.

“Yes. Elissa is from Marseille, and she has two brothers who are businessmen in the city — well-connected businessmen, if you know what I mean?” He looked at me meaningfully.

“You mean connected as in La Brise...”

“Yes, but Elissa isn’t part of it. She left Marseille to get away from all that sort of business. However they are a close and loving family and she keeps in touch with her brothers. One of their legitimate businesses is a heavy plant hire firm...”

“Heavy plant, as in the earth moving machines used by the French Army engineers of BMGL?”

“Yes that sort of plant. Elissa can find out who her brothers have done business with — “ he paused. “That’s all I can tell you. Elissa can answer your questions when she joins us. In the, meantime, what have you been up to since I last saw you?. It must be nearly ten years ago.”

I gave him an abbreviated account of my time with BEPI and DILE.

“I’m sorry to hear Alfie Hinds is no longer with us,” Hans said. “He and I got on well together at Corte, although I found him difficult to understand when he spoke English.”

“Me too,” I said. We both laughed then raised our glasses in Alfie’s memory.

Elissa slid into a chair between Hans and me after first giving him another full on kiss. She smiled at me “I love Hans like crazy and can’t stop kissing him even after being only a short time way.”

Hans blushed but looked as pleased as punch. “Philippe has some questions about the plant hire firm your brothers own, Elissa. Do you mind answering them?”

Elissa gave a sigh. “What mischief have they been up to now?”

I told her about the spares for earth moving vehicles going missing from 61 BMGL. She nodded her head. “Yes, it sounds the sort of business in which my brothers could well be involved. I worked part time in their office a few years ago and recall making out a monthly cheque for 5,000 francs to a firm that supplied them with spare parts for their heavy plant; excavator and digger equipment. As far as my brothers were concerned it was a legitimate business deal, and they would swear on their grandmother’s life they had no idea the spares had been stolen from the army. Our grandmother has been dead for five years by the way. Caramasoph Earth Movers is a legitimate business; they pay all of their taxes, well, most of them, but it is also a front for laundering the money from their illegitimate businesses: drug dealing, prostitution, gambling and smuggling.”

“What bank do they use for their legitimate business?” I asked.

“The International Bank of Marseille, it’s in Rue de la République.”

I made a note of the name and for the rest of the evening enjoyed the company of two people much in love. I admit to being envious of Hans in what he had, and would have until death did them part.

Elissa told me something of her family, who were Pied Noirs from Algeria. Her great grandfather was a Greek who married the daughter of a French settler. Her grandfather married an Algerian woman whose brother was a Harki, an Algerian serving in the French military. Elissa’s grandmother was Tuareg, one of the “Blue People” a nomadic Berber tribe whose men wear Indigo coloured face veils but the females wear no face covering.