THE FARM

We would leave the main camp and from time to time spend the odd week or two at ruined farms. These were spread through out the local area.  Here we would be employed as virtual slave labour, the work depending on the time of year. It could involve painting or building works.  Whatever the owner wanted done to the property or the land. We often had to dig up old or redundant grapevines. Until you have tried to dig up one of those bastards, you’ve not earned the right to drink a bottle of French wine.

During these period’s we spent in the open countryside so to speak. It was a bit Jack London-ish, The Call of the Wild and all that .The need to  get away from it all and the Legion in particular. Well, we had spent the previous few weeks in a 30-foot high walled camp, hidden from the rest of the world.

All this vast amount of space did something to people’s brains. It gave them ideas; it made them think of home and the luxuries they had left  behind. Just to sit, while having a shit. Instead of the horrible squatting with legs astride a hole in the ground, to name but one.

You could always tell when the Germans were up to something. They all grouped together and spoke only German. Temporarily forgetting any  multi lingual talents that they had previously been displaying. As soon as you approached their little group a silence would descend on it.  They would politely answer any question within reason and wait for you to go away again.

They would make some kind of plan and then they would all fall out with each other. It was usually over who was going to be boss, or sometimes over who was going to hold the escape money. Yes. I did say escape.

In those first couple of weeks that we endured at Casserne La Passet, it was not all Beau Gueste I can tell you. It was not all glamour. Beau  Gueste, that’s a book to read my friend.

Full of misnomers at least. If you could relate to the real world and the consequences of pain and all it’s attributes. Read that and it will put you  off from going. If, you can relate.

The problem is that people are a lot softer today than they were 30 or 40 years ago. The men that come after me in 30 or 40 years time will be even lest hard and robust than me. Each generation sets new standards, of which people at times fail to achieve miserably.

Some of the individuals were lacking in pure balls. Which meant that their stamina’s were ultimately a lot lower than in previous decades.

But! We were, were we not, volunteers after all.

The scum of the earth, just shit, engage volunteers.

Legionnaires.

If somebody did decide to ‘tack le route’ as the French called it. Or desert, as it should more commonly be recognised as. To a certain extent it  was unofficially accepted that the Legion way of life may not suit everyone. If you decided to leg it, there were a couple of ground rules. First  you didn’t take your weapon with you. As you would be classed as armed, and ultimately could be shot by the Gendarmes. Secondly you only went if you knew that there was a 100% chance of getting away without being caught.

For when they were caught (as the majority, often were) they would be paraded in front of the rest of the company. Normally they already had  the shit beaten out of them. Eyes puffed and half-closed. Nose possibly broken, covered in crusted blood. Bruises galore, and every colour you’ve ever heard of or seen. Plus a few you hadn’t.

They were hand cuffed, and obviously in great pain from a previous beating. They would then have the shit kicked out of them again. A running commentary would often ensue as the fists and boot went in. About how they had broken the trust of the officers. Stabbing them in the back by trying to run away. They who had welcomed them with open arms. When they had no where else to go. No one else to turn to, and had taken them in under their wing.

Brothers in Arms. Soldier’s of France.

These were the same people that were giving all the guidance, fatherly wisdom and advice. That could possibly have been learned from being a  member of the family in the Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Now showing their compassion in a resilient, kick the shit out the bastard cavalier attitude.

Instead of being comrades in arms, here they were getting a beating that could kill them, all the while being told that they were an ungrateful traitorous bastard.

The offender would eventually be taken to one side and given a Sac a’ Do (Bergen/rucksack, to you and me) the straps however had been replaced with bands or strands of wire. He was then told his task. He was to carry a pile of small stones about 1 or 2 meters (high). Kayuus. From a point that was about twenty-five metres away from the existing pile.

The seeming small and insignificant stones filling the rucksack in a never-ending flow. Each handful increasing the weight that he would soon have to carry on his back. The sharp stones digging in to the flesh and cutting his hands. Stopping, pausing for a moment. Obviously reflecting on his bad luck, and how he had come to find himself in this unfortunate position. He was rudely brought back to his senses and the real world by pain. Receiving a punch to the side of the head to break his daydream and remind him to continue with the task and punishment at hand.

Sometimes the shear weight of the rucksack defeated all attempts by the man under punishment to get it on his back and manage to stand up. Where upon he would once again receive a torrent of kicks and a beating with the NCO’s stick, in an effort to make him stand and shift the pile of stones.

When he did finally manage to achieve a weight that he was capable of carrying he would start on his trek to the other side of the open area. However on each trip that he made it was not as simple as first explained to him. Nothing in the Legion is as easy as it sounds. He had to travel in a circle around the Nco who was in charge of the punishment. He could only travel three paces before being struck on the head or shoulders, (usually with a stick or some like object) where upon he would have to reverse direction and still attempt to get to the other end.

He was to move the pile from its present location to the opposite end basically. Having as much pain inflicted upon him as possible during the passage between the two. He was also bare footed, on ground that was covered in flint and sharp thorns. This often left the feet bleeding and later on septic, due to the cuts, and thorns which became embedded his soles of the feet.

As you ate your meal you could see the poor bastard struggling to cope with his task. Just thankful that it hadn’t been you who had tried the foolhardy break for freedom. During these training sessions away from the main camp the routine was mirrored on the day to day routine we would normally have under taken at the Casserne. With a few variations though.

I didn’t realise that the reason that we were told to place our boots at the bottom of our sleeping bags was not one of regimental routine. It was a quick way of checking during bed checks in the small hours that you hadn’t fucked off. As no sane man would leave during darkness to attempt to travel over that terrain with out his boots.

You could smile if you didn’t know the consequences.

Me.

I was full of ideals and didn’t know any better. I lived the dream. And hoped that it would get better. Later I would understand where I stood, and of the Legion way of life.

GiAjl