IN THE NAVY

The Sgt who looked like Edge smashed the rifle butt down on the unmoving figure of Stetton. There was a sickening thud and his head slued to one side on the muddy slope. Another tirade of verbal abuse rained down on the prone figure. Sgt Lafarge now threw Stetton’s rifle down the slope behind him, leaving his hands free.

Lafarge reached for the Bowie knife he carried on his belt order. It’s bright length of steel contrasted against the olive green of Stetton’s tunic, glinting wickedly in the tanned fist. Sgt Lafarge grabbed a hold of the scruff of Stettons neck and the knife arced.

There was no cry of fear or groans of pain from the prone figure. Stetton was unconscious and well out of it. I reckon that’s what saved his life. Had he been able to speak and further excite the maddened Sgt. I reckoned the knife would have continued its journey across Stetton’s throat. But with no pleading or whimpering from the terrified man who had lapsed into unconsciousness the pleasure for Sgt Lafarge was gone. He released his grip and Stettons head once more smacked onto the rocky muddy slope.

Turning with a sneer and I glimpsed just a hint, of the excitement that had consumed him, before the shutters dropped in his cruel eyes. Sgt Lafarge sheathed his knife. He told Woody and I to pick up the useless piece of shit and carry him to the top of the mountain. There he would be dealt with.

 We had been going in single file following a track that meant we hauled our selves up the steep slope tree trunk by tree trunk. It never really got any wider, nor got any better, it was constantly worsened by the number of guys that had gone before you. The trouble was that, as each man slipped on the muddy soil. His boots was churning the soil up further.

 We were now like three abreast, and it didn’t work. It was making Woody and I mad at Stetton. It wasn’t his fault, the poor bastard was well out of it. He didn’t look at all in great shape, but he was still breathing. However it didn’t make our handling of him any less sympathetic, it wasn’t exactly all that gentle. Just practicable.

Stetton was now semi-conscious due to concussion (we found no visible chunks of skull missing. No depression or collapsed parts of the cranium, no exposed bone. No fluid from the ears, looking good). There was however a fairly ugly laceration about four inches long on the back of his head .The fusil 55/56 as it was called had a wooden stock, wooden butt with a steel butt plate on the bottom. The force, with which he had been struck, he was lucky to be alive.

This was only Tuesday, we didn’t get back to Castel until Friday midday. It left a lot of time for things to go really pear shaped.

When we eventually reached the top of the mountain we had been climbing. Having taken all of half the day to reach the summit. It had not been made any easier (already laden with our full kit and packs) with having to drag Stetton up the half of the complete climb. Woody and I were truly fucking knackered.

When we finally got out of the bloody trees it was virtually bare arsed and like a Bowling Green. God only knew how they got the lawn mowers up there. (I later found out the goats and sheep kept the grass so short). There before us were the ruins of some medieval castle quite spectacular in the fading rays of the Mediterranean suns. (Well we were near Perpignan and that wasn’t all the far from the coast. At the time with no maps or compasses you could have told me I was in Urals and I would have believed you). Any way it was an amazing sight.

After adjutant Martinez had cast his professional eye over Stetton and confirmed he was still breathing. He told Woody and I to sort him out and have him fit for the morning, and the March down the other side of the mountain. He felt that the injuries were nothing that Woody and I couldn’t deal with. Apparently we had now been promoted to medics and field surgeons.

 Stetton was now casualty that could hopefully make it back to the infirmary at Castel. Where if he died after he had been admitted, it would then be their responsibility, not Martinez’s. Producing a medical pack, he gleefully threw it at us. Then turning on his heel disappeared into the dusk puffing on his cigar.

I was starting to dread the coming of the dawn already. The Legion styles map reading I had seen so far left a lot to be desired. I just hoped that it was actual daylight we were to set off and not daybreak. As one could sometimes be a couple of hours after the other. Also dependant which direction we went in may have meant that the sun would be behind the mountain that we were going down, meaning it would all done in the dark.

During the climb that day we had often stopped our assent at the cry of “Below!” Crashing through the trees, bouncing eight to ten feet in the air. Boulders some as big as 5 foot in diameter hurtled past us to the bottom. Taking out anything in their path. Fortunately none of us, but the odds weren’t good.

Stetton was a Yank and was in fact the only one that I had met so far in the Legion. I don’t know what he was doing there but he was also trying to live the dream I believe. Except the frogs wouldn’t let him. The cadre seemed to have a right downer on Stetton.

Apparently it was not anything he had done personally (apart from being there and just breathing). It is a French thing. For some weird reason it is part of their heritage to hate the Amis the yanks. Maybe they just don’t like the fact that they helped bail them out in Second World War and in Indo China. That they made better movies, who knows? Only the French. I did know after one drunken exchange that Woody and I had with the Corporal Chief that he loathed them. His father was an American who had got his mother pregnant and dumped her before returning to the states. That really fucked him up. I remember the day or rather the early morning that he told me about it.

We had got the recruits up at about 0300 hours cause we were going to the small arms ranges that day and there was quite a bit to do. We all had to sober up for a start. Most of the NCO’s had just got back form a weekend in Toulouse and we were still pissed. The corporal Chief invited and Woody and I up to his bunk, for a hair of the dog.

We were sitting on the Corporal Chiefs bed. He was being in the middle passing a bottle of wine between us. I was translating some bits for Woody, as he hadn’t quite picked up on some of the phraseology and words yet. Although the he could speak pretty good English the corporal Chief was pissed and tended to do most of his talking in French.

It was here that I learned the phrase “La Legion c’est plein avec le peide, et l’alchoholic. Mai moi, je boire pas.” Well that one knocked me a bit for six I can tell you. I glanced at Woody and realised straight away he didn’t have a clue what had been just said. Hearing a bit of commotion from outside I jumped up and hung out the window. Telling them all to get in the press up position and went out the door so as to get downstairs fast. I laughed as I went out the door, so did the corporal Chief.

Woody joined me down stairs about 3 minutes later rather pale faced considering he’d just run down the stairs from the third floor. He didn’t speak to me for hours and didn’t discuss what had happened after I left the room for months. What the corporal Chief had said while we’d been sitting on the bed was;
“ The Legion is full of queers and alcoholics. Me, I don’t drink.”

After a nightmare trip down the mountain, Stetton was taken from Woody and I. He had managed to speak a bit and although not fully aware of his immediate surroundings. He did know he was in France and the Legion. He was taken back to Castel on the cammion (deuce & half) that had brought a re-supply of rations to us. He was obviously worse that Woody and I thought.

Stetton was being posted to Hawaii and one of the construction battalions. Apparently he could drive bulldozers, he would be used in the construction of a French Government rocket base. One that was used by French scientists to send satellites into space, I think the rockets were called Adrienne (or something similar). I hope he managed to get well enough to go.

Well we were now on day three and Legionnaire Engage Tracy was having a bit of a bad day it would appear. He was shaking his head and mumbling to himself in Greek and English and some other unintelligible language. Woody and I closed in on either side of him, as he seemed to veer very close to the edge on occasion. We were on a relatively easy bit. An actual path in fact, it was part of a tourist route we had somehow managed to latch on to. By the standards of the paths and routes we had been forced to take over the last few days, this was a fucking super highway. You could have driven a jeep along it with no fear.

Sounding like a very bad Stavros impersonator Tracy was telling us in his broken English that he couldn’t take any more of the training. He preferred to kill himself rather than go on. He was going to jump off the side of the track. As I stated this was a state of the art trail, though it did have a couple of limitations.

The right hand of the trail dropped into a gorge that was over 300 meters deep with a raging river running its length. The left side of the track was sheer and the odd football sized and bigger boulder tended to crash from the hidden heights. There was a mist floating about 20 feet above our heads, we were taking a short cut through the clouds as one had described it.

Woody and I tried to talk Tracy round but he was adamant. We asked what could be so bad that death was the only way out. The legion he replied. Woody and I both laughed. They lied to me croaked Tracy. This made Woody and I laugh even harder. Tracy snapped and ran towards the gorge and the long drop to the river.

Both Woody and I though caught unawares for a brief couple of seconds managed to bring Tracy to his knees a couple of feet from the edge of the drop. Calling him a crazy bastard the anger and the reality set in. We all nearly went over.  We started to beat the shit out of Tracy.

The adjutant arrived and gave Woody and I bollocking as well as a couple of slaps across the face and the odd punch in the ribs. (For an old bastard he could still give a good dig). After we managed to explain what had occurred the adjutant asked Tracy if it was true, when he said yes the adjutant flipped again and started slapping and punching poor old Tracy.

Once Adjutant Martinez’s fury had been spent he told us to take a break, clean Tracy up and if possible try and find out what the fuck was up with the crazy Greek. Boy did the shit sure travel downward in this mob.

Later, when I was being shall we say re-educated at my leisure (well for 7 months, 11 days and a breakfast) by the staff at the Military Corrective Training Centre Colchester. I found it necessary to employ the same methods on a member of the squad who was sharing my afternoon 5-mile run with me and the rest of my comrades.

It would appear there are times and individuals that no matter how much encouragement is offered. They are not listening to you. They are under the impression that you will go away and leave them alone. In times like this the methods that were used in France aptly suit the scenario.

Kick the fucking crap out of them and no matter how tired that individual thought he was. He will have found an unlimited new source of energy that he will use to achieve the aim and objective you are kicking and punching him towards.

We sat Tracey down and made a brew listening to his story of how he had joined the Legion. He had been a stoker on a small ship that sailed to and fro across the med. Having wanted more that a life being stuck in the boiler room he sought a change of job but his captain had rejected his offer.

 So Tracey decided to jump ship. Which he did in the French port of Marseilles. He made his way after a couple of days to the Legion recruiting office tried and hungry, and most of all broke with no where to turn. The legion welcomed him with open arms, and most importantly a plate of food.

He sat and nodded his head to the tentative recruiting Sgt and dutifully signed on the dotted line. He would watch the ships in the port from the battlements of the old fort and point and guesture at passing navy ships much to the amusement of fellow volunteers.

He had gone to Augbane and been processed arrived at Castel and started his training, learned a bit more of the French language. But all the instructors had steadfastly ignored his questions. Now unfortunately it was our turn to be asked and his question stopped the laughter dead.

Tracey wanted to know when all this marching would be finished and he would be allowed to join his ship. After all this was not the life for him. Did he not after all join up to serve in the Navy of the Foreign Legion. We didn’t have the heart to tell him. Martinez passed, as the conversation died, a knowing smile on his face.

One thing was for sure we wouldn’t be telling the poor bastard anything till we got on a bit of flat ground, no cliffs allowed.

GiAjl