Chapter 3: The Wooden Hand

The fourth year of my partnership with Maurice Champignon was special, extremely special.

Maurice returned from Morocco in the middle of March as usual and I reluctantly disengaged from Yolande’s voracious body to become a guest of the Hotel Imperial with no entry to her innermost parts until the following November. A few days after Maurice’s return a letter from Quartier Veniot Aubagne arrived for him. I was in my bedroom when I heard a great shout of delighted amazement from Maurice “Mon Dieu, c’est Maghifique!”

I rushed from the bedroom to see Maurice capering around the sitting room waving a piece of paper above his head and singing:

Vaillants guerriers de ce Régiment
Vous qui luttiez si superbement
En maintenant dans la tourmente
L’Honneur et la Fidélité
Vos successeurs ont serré les rangs
Donné leur cœur et versé leur sang
En combattant sans épouvante

I knew, from hearing Grigor Pavel croaking the same song the last time I visited him at Puyloubier, this was the marching song of the Fifth Foreign Infantry Regiment (5REI) aka the Tonkin Regiment, the unit Maurice served with during the First Indochina War.

As I entered the room Maurice ceased cavorting and singing and looked at me with glistening eyes. “This letter is from the General du Brigade commanding the Legion informing me I have been chosen to be the bearer of the Wooden Hand of Capitaine Danjou on Camerone Day at Quartier Veniot Aubagne. It is the greatest honour any legionnaire can be given. I am flabbergasted and absolutely astounded.”

I pumped his hand vigorously before hugging him to me and kissing his cheek, something I had never done before. “I am so happy for you, Maurice. No one deserves the honour more.”

He grinned at me. “Well, well, well! Even the quasi-Anglo Saxon shows emotion at such a time.” Maurice maintained the canard that I must have some Anglo Saxon blood because I liked – even admired – the English, employed many English idioms and phrases, supported an English football club, and kept my emotions buttoned up. He returned the gesture, kissing me on both cheeks. “You will of course be one of my supporters on the day, Philippe?”

It was then my turn to be flabbergasted or gobsmacked as Alfie Hinds would have described the emotion.

“It would be honour and a privilege, Maurice, but haven’t you other, older comrades, men who served with you in Indochina, Algeria, and Africa to be escort to the Bearer of the Wooden Hand?”

“There will be some still able to totter around the parade square but none who have been as close a friend as you.”

I clasped and shook his hand “Then I accept your offer with humble and grateful thanks. It will be the greatest day in my life, standing alongside the Bearer of the Wooden Hand of Capitaine Danjou on Camerone Day, Chevalier!”

“Excellent. I will reply to this letter and nominate you as one of my supporters and escort. I will ask Colonel Picard, who is now a lecturer at St Cyr, to be my other supporter. The Legion will select the three serving Legionnaires who will also escort The Wooden Hand.” He slumped into i an easy chair. I could see he was still dizzy from being chosen as the bearer of the Wooden Hand, which is the most prestigious appointment a legionnaire could aspire to, and I confess the enormity of me being an escort to the Wooden Hand was only now sinking in.

“Attending the Camerone Day Parade will delay our start to the Season. We will require to be put through our paces on the parade square at Quartier Vienot some time prior to Camerone Day so that we will know what we are doing on the day. It is an entirely different kettle of fish to be parading as bearer and escorts to the Wooden Hand than being drawn up in Review Order and presenting arms when the Wooden Hand is paraded past.” Maurice said after recovering his poise. “The shame would be too great to bear if we went direct from entertaining female during the Season to the parade ground at Quartier Vienot with no idea of the evolutions required by the bearer and his escort besides probably being exhausted from strenuous entertaining. I would imagine it being SOP for the civilian bearer and escorts to be at Quartier Vienot at least three days before the Great Day to have instruction. I think it best we stay closer to Aubagne and confine our activities to making money rather than expending energy.”

So it was at the end of March Maurice and I travelled to Marseille and put up at the Hotel Royal. There was a nearby casino where we exercised our card playing skills that had lain dormant during the winter months. We honed our skill playing vingt et un and poker and did not attempt to engage withany available females. Typically Sod’s Law showed its leering face as there was a plethora of pulchritudinous pairs of mature females and young girls, all giving us the glad eye inviting a closer familiarity, who appeared, ready, randy, and ripe for plucking. Nonetheless Maurice and I stiffened the sinews, those that weren’t already stiff, summoned up the blood and concentrated on making money rather than making whoopee.

A week before Camerone Day we tore ourselves away from the sirens of the casino and journeyed to Aubagne where we put up at a small family run hotel about 3 klicks from Quartier Vienot. We presented ourselves at HQ and came before the Colonel commanding the base where he introduced us to the three Legionnaires who would be escorting the Wooden Hand and the other ‘civilian’ escort Colonel Jean Luc Picard (retd). We were offered accommodation in the Officers’ Mess Annex but we were already sorted. As suspected we were then handed over to the tender mercies of Drill Instructors to learn the intricacies of a ceremony that is regarded in the Legion as a quasi-religious ritual.

I will not bore you with details of the ‘square bashing’, as foot drill and parading is known, at least it is so named in the British military and being ‘a quasi Anglo Saxon’ I tend to use the phrase learned from Alfie Hinds, God rest his soul. Suffice it to say we had to arrive at particular locations on the vast parade square at a particular time – assisted by the drum beat of a solitary bass drum and keeping in our mind the number of paces between these particular locations – I suppose it could be thought similar to the Stations of the Cross! The pace we marched and the length of stride we took were less than the legionary pace/stride but as the former legionnaires bearing/escorting the Wooden Hand were often in their 60s to 70s it was thought it better to go at a slower, more stately, pace rather than have a cardiac arrest mid-way through the parade. Of course the Legion march of 88 paces to the minute was followed by all on parade when the parade marched off the square to the sound of ‘le Boudin’ after the Wooden Hand had been ‘Trooped’ through the ranks of the First Foreign Regiment(1RE).

When the drill instructors were finally satisfied we would not embarrass ourselves, or more importantly the First Foreign Regiment, we knew practically every square metre of the vast quadrangle and where we had to be and which direction to be facing during every minute of the 45 minute long ceremony.

The most spine tingling moment of the ceremony or at least my spine certainly tingled, was when the Wooden Hand of Capitaine Danjou proudly borne by Chevalier Maurice Champignon, was slow marched (‘trooped’) through the ranks of 1RE standing in open review order presenting arms, with the solitary sound of a bass drum beating the cadence. When the Wooden Hand approached the Regimental standard the officer carrying the standard slowly lowered the proud emblem of the regiment so that the tasselled fringe of the flag brushed the ground just as the Wooden Hand Bearer and his escorts passed by. As I drew level with the lowered standard I glanced at the officer holding it and couldn’t believe my eyes. The man lowering the flag at my feet was none other than Capitaine Hector de Freitas, the bastard who had blindly countersigned and endorsed Lorenzo Masséna’s damning assessment of my instructional skills that had me banned from instructional duties and posted to the Green Hell of French Guiana. I could even recall De Freitas’s words as he dismissed me from his office after I had pleaded with him to give me a proper, truthful, assessment:

‘Soissons, your name stinks in the nostrils of all Legionnaires. You are the man who failed to parade on Camerone Day, too busy fornicating to attend the most important parade of the year.”

And here I was, the legionnaire hated, maligned and disdained for not parading with the hirsute Pioneers of the Foreign Legion on Camerone Day, now escorting the Bearer of the Wooden Hand of Capitaine Danjou, an honour only one step below the most prestigious of positions a legionnaire can attain.

The moment was too good to be true. As de Freitas stared wide eyed at me in a mixture of amazement, confusion, and possibly fear I met his astonished gaze and gave an exaggerated wink. Everything I wanted to say was said in that ocular movement.

’Eat your heart out, Shit-for-brains! The man you castigated for not attending a Camerone Day Parade is now escorting the Wooden Hand, and you are lowering the Regimental Standard in salute in front of me.’

The irony may have been lost on him but not on me.

Incidentally the ‘The Cooker’, the metal box where I was incarcerated for 48 hours for my crime of not parading on Camerone Day, no longer exists as a form of punishment in the Legion. Several years ago some tree hugging, whale saving, sandal wearing, bean eating, bearded hippy of a politician said confining a man in ‘The Cooker’ was barbaric, demeaning, and imposed great physical distress on the unfortunate inhabitant, which was the whole point of it – you tosser! Nonetheless the political party in power at the National Assembly thought it would gain them Brownie points if they banished using The Cooker as a punishment and now when a legionnaire offends any of the laws of the legion he is fined a week’s pay. Most, if not all, Legionnaires would rather spend 48 hours in The Cooker than lose a week’s pay, but that is progress.

After the parade, when the Wooden Hand had been returned to its special place of honour in the Legion Museum, there was a bit of a do, a function in the parlance, in the Officers’ Mess where Maurice, Colonel Jean Luc Picard, and I were guests of honour. Finger food and copious amounts of alcohol were on hand and amid the swirling gossiping maul I must have had my hand shaken by at least a 100 people, fortunately not all at the same time. After an hour or so the maul cleared slightly and I found a quiet corner and an easy chair wherein I slumped – knackered – as Alfie Hinds would say, God rest his soul. Maurice, who must be at least 25 years older than me, was in his element with a throng of well-wishers and former comrades around him; Colonel Jean Luc was equally be-swarmed by a mob of back slapping, cognac swilling officers. Left in my own in a corner I had closed my eyes – it had been a long and emotionally draining day – not that Maurice or Jean Luc displayed the slightest signs of weariness, which shows how tough Legion officers are!

I had my eyes closed but heard the creak of the leather upholstery when someone sat down in the chair opposite me. I casually opened my eyes and was horrified to see Lorenzo Masséna smiling at me.

“Hello Professor. Congratulations on being made escort to the Wooden Hand.A well-deserved honour I must say”

Masséna had aged well; his face was slightly fuller and his hair had flecks of silver but he remained a babe magnet in looks and physique. I looked for the sneer that I thought would accompany his assay at sarcasm but saw only friendliness and warmth in his face. He must have seen my bewilderment and he grinned.

“Yes, Professor, or may I call you Philippe? I am no longer that arrogant, crass and insensitive, spiteful person you knew at the Regiment of Instruction at Castelnaudary. I have you to thank for my change of character and indeed for my change of life.” He stood up from his chair leaned forward and offered me his hand.

“I humbly apologise for the terrible time I gave you and making your life a misery, including giving you such an untruthful and completely false appraisement of your instructional skills that you were never again considered for instructional duties. In my life I have done many bad things to many people and I am now attempting to make amends and put things right, although there are things that I caused to happen I can never put right. Please shake my hand and say you forgive me, or at least you do not still hate me although I would not blame you if you spat in my face and walked away.”

I did not spit in his face or shake his hand as I was waiting for the other boot to drop. Masséna was playing with me like a cat with a mouse.What was his game? He certainly looked and sounded sincere but he was a master of manipulating people and situations, and a leopard does not change his spots.

He saw I was not going to take his hand and sighed and withdrew his hand. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me any more than those other people I have contacted over the past years believed me at first. But please give me ten minutes of your time and I will explain how and why I’ve changed from that frightful, hurtful, thoroughly unpleasant man I was once to what I am now; not perfect, but a damn sight better than the Lorenzo Masséna I once was.”

I had no pressing engagement to attend; Maurice was still in the centre of a crowd of laughing and drinking legionnaires and I was piqued by Masséna’s obvious wish to get me to believe he had changed from being a predator to being -- what? I could not fathom his reason and wondered just what his Machiavellian mind was heading towards. I wouldn’t believe a word he said but might learn something about how he got away with defrauding the French Army by selling vehicle spares to the Marseille mafia headed by the Brothers Caramassoph.

“As you probably know, I transferred into the Legion for a three year engagement purely for political reasons?” Masséna began.

I nodded; it was generally known he was planning to succeed his father Andre Masséna as the National Assembly députe (delegate) for the constituency of Tours when Masséna senior was elevated to the Senate.

“To ensure I had the full support of my father’s political party, the Union for a Popular Movement ( UMP), I needed to marry a female relative of a prominent UMP member who had political clout in the party and was also a friend or at least a close political ally of my father. When I discovered Chloe Roubaix, as she was then, was the daughter of Pierre Roubaix of Clermont Ferrand it ticked all the boxes. Unfortunately when we returned from our honeymoon my father informed me Chloe was not the daughter of the Pierre Roubaix of Clermont Ferrand who sat as an UMP députe for the town of Clermont Ferrand and was politically close to my father but was instead the daughter of the Pierre Roubaix of Clermont Ferrand, a cousin of the UMP Pierre Roubaix, who wrote scurrilous articles in a left wing magazine castigating and satirizing my father and many other members of the UMP. My father demanded I divorce Chloe immediately, citing false representation by her as a reason. Chloe would not agree to a divorce that named her as the guilty party but instead cross petitioned that I be divorced for adultery. Less than six months married and I had reverted to type and was tomcatting my way through the available females of Castelnaudary. To be cited as an adulterer would lose me and my father support in the UMP and more likely than not prevent me standing for in the National Assembly. You unearthed pictures of me in flagrante and Chloe successfully divorced me and I had to resign my commission and then lay low in the country while my father rebuilt my, and his, reputation. Because of the furore...”

“Yes, I know all this, Masséna. Get to the part where you had your Road to Damascus Moment. Was it before or after I was thrown off instructing duties and put on permanent duty with Sous-Lieutenant Beaumont at the Survival and Navigation Course in the Pyrenees before being shipped out to French Guiana?”

“You have good reason to hate, despise, and distrust me, Professor, and I admit it was because of your pictorial unearthing of my sexual indiscretions that I wrote a totally incorrect and malicious appraisement, but in mitigation I didn’t think for one moment de Freitas would blindly counter sign it. He only had to sit in on one of your lectures or view the scores your students achieved in exams to see you were on top of your game when it came to instruction. I can only apologise for my action and for my belief in de Freitas’s intelligence, which was badly misplaced. Having you placed on permanent duty at the survival and navigation course base camp was another facet of my unpleasantness that I am truly sorry for, although having a permanent officer and second in command in place I believe greatly improved the standard of training, judging by the results of the recruits who passed through your and Beefy Beaumont’s hands. As for your posting to French Guiana that was all due to my father, I never had any influence with the Posting and Stationing Department of the Legion.”

“De Freitas is an idiot who thought the sun shone from out of your rear orifice. He said that your family and his were members of the Great Families of France and no one from such a family would deliberately give a false appraisement,” I said, anger whetting the tone of my voice as I recalled the injustice. “And it was because The Chevalier and I were investigating your stealing of army vehicle spares and selling them to the Brother Caramassoph that we were banished to French Guiana for the rest of our service.”

Masséna inclined his head, acknowledging his criminal actions. “I fully agree that De Freitas is a moron at best and a pompous poor excuse for an officer at worst but I didn’t know that at the time. His assertion that no member of ‘a Great Family of France’ would stoop so low as to write an incorrect and malicious appraisement shows what an imbecile the man is. The older and ‘greater’ the family the more steeped in chicanery and double dealing they are. Centuries of practise makes the imperfect. In fact, the methodology for diverting spares from the army to the mafia was my father’s, the noble scion of a Great Family of France! My only part in the operation was to follow the procedure exactly as my father had planned. I admit I committed fraud and benefited in a monetary way and had no misgivings that what I was doing was illegal and dishonest. My reprehensible behaviour was contrary to how an officer of the Republic of France’s army should behave, but I thoroughly enjoyed the extra money and the sense of achievement the fraud brought me. Of course an elected député to the National Assembly, as was my father at the time, is hardly the person one would suspect of defrauding the government he was part of, but unfortunately my father is even more rapacious than I was. He set up the fraudulent procedure using his knowledge of the accounting system in use, and its many weaknesses, obtained from being Chairman of the Military Appropriations Committee. I have since used my own resources to repay all the money I stole, but my father would not do likewise. When he stopped laughing, he called me a damn fool after I suggested he return the money he had acquired illegally. My father is a monster, and had I not married Carole I would have eventually become him.” He smiled as he mentioned his wife’s name and his whole face shone with an inner light if just thinking of his wife gave him immense pleasure and delight. “It was my father who chose Carole to be my wife! How ironic is that because it is her who has changed me from my father’s son - akin in thought, word, and deed to the old reprobate – to what I am now. He sent me a photograph of her with a note. “This girl is virginal and is the youngest daughter of the current Mayor of Tours who is a member of the UMP, even if his views are more to the left of mine. You will marry her in Tours Cathedral of Saint Gatianus (Cathédrale Saint-Gatien deTours) next Thursday at noon. Do not be late!” Masséna laughed as he recalled his father’s blunt order. “When I looked at the photograph I said to myself ‘I will not be spending many nights in her bed, but no doubt there will be plenty of mistress materiel in Paris to share my bed when I am elected as député for Tours’”. He took a wallet from his jacket pocket and withdrew a black and white photograph. “This is the picture my father sent me.”