PARLEZ-VOUS-FRANCAIS

He was leaning out of the window, as the Spanish train pulled into Marseilles. He'd spent the last couple of months AWOL from his unit, in Germany, sunning himself on a Spanish beach, among other places, and now, he had a decision to make. Whether to try and return to his regiment, and accept the consequences of his unofficial holiday. Or, to join the French Foreign Legion, like he had been telling every-one.

Leaving the train station, he spent the next couple of hours, wandering around the city . Not only was he hot, tired, and very hungry, but also extremely broke. He'd been told by Gary, the ex-commando, that he had flown to Spain with, that he should turn himself in, and sort out the army problem .

Right, decision time was here. Fed up, and tired, I spied a policeman on the opposite side of the street. Hand my self in. At least it will give a nice little trip out for someone, when the military police come and collect me.

My attempts to speak with the policeman, were not going down very well at all. My French was crap, and the policeman did not speak any English. I was trying to explain, that I was absent from the British Army, and would like to give my self up. So I could get my free train ticket, or what ever, and get out of France . A ray of inspiration gleamed in the cop's eye. Or was it just the sun reflecting off his helicopter pilot style glasses. He grabbed my wrists and started to hand cuff me . This was not the response I had hoped for. I had heard that French jails were not the best in the world.

My short trip in his Inspector Cloussea style, Citroen police van, had been most unpleasant. If it hadn't been for the fact, that I knew it was a police vehicle, I could have easily mistaken i,t for a farmer's pig van. Although it had been claustrophobic, (to say the least), it had also been very dark. I could smell, but not see, the slimy sticky mess, that I had put my hand on, when I had groped my way along the hard wooden seat in the back. On arrival at the police station, I was hustled through the back .Then, still hand cuffed, pushed into an empty cell. The door slammed shut, behind me. After twenty minutes or so, my friendly cop returned, (that's friendly, only because he hadn't beaten me up).

He was holding out in front of him, one of their police hand held radio's. He Put it up to my ear. I could hear an English sounding voice. Apparently, he had understood me, when I was telling him that I was a deserter. Where it had got confusing, was that I had being doing most of the talking, and he the head nodding. He had only understood one word in every twelve.

I had tried to tell him that I was absent. That I had been thinking about joining the Foreign Legion, but had now decided, to return to my regiment, and sort it out. Not knowing the French for absent, I had used the equivalent, or so I thought . Deserter. This one word linked in the same sentence along with Foreign Legion. Prompted my French friend here, to think that I was a deserter from the actual Foreign Legion itself. They got rewards for capturing these guys, and sending them back.

The voice on the other end of the radio, was in fact, an Englishman, who had served with the FFL, and had remained in France, joining the police force, (it seems, that there are quite a few, ex-legionnaires who do this, a good guide for not getting arrested in France one would think).

Now that the little misunderstanding had been sorted out. I was given directions to the recruiting office of the FFL, and a friendly warning, not to hang around, if I didn't join. Because I was obviously broke, so if I was seen again, I would be arrested for vagrancy, (it would also seem that they get a bounty if they send guys down to join, they had it both ways). However if I went down to the recruiting office, I would get a free meal, and a bed for the night.

The recruiting office, was located down in the harbour area, in an old castle fort . It had been a part of the harbour's defences, from Christ knows when. It took quite a lot of serious kicking, and punching, of the heavy door to raise any one from the depths within. I had come at a bad time, they were having their afternoon nap, and I had disturbed them. Not a sign that bode any good, I can tell you. Any way, he let me in.

I was directed to a room, well, you couldn't exactly call it an office. The walls being covered with posters of far away places, with immaculately dressed Legionnaires. Chisel chinned ,bronzed, fit, (very WW2 Germanic). Different posters, depicted different regiments. There were a few small cabinets in the room, also . In these, the brevet badges of current, and past, legion units, and regiments. I had been left alone, for about a couple of hours, now. I didn't know if this was part of some kind of test, (to see how badly I really did want to join, and not be wasting their time), or whether they had gone to finish off their afternoon siesta. Eventually a Sergeant appeared.

In the early stages you are not aware fully, to the surroundings. You naturally presume, that because you speak English, that everybody else does too. I had been talking to this Sergeant, and it is only now, as I write this, that I realise he must have been an Englishman.

The whole interview was conducted in English. I was asked why I wanted to join, if the police were after me, (that was a bit rich, seeing they'd sent me), but he meant the British police, or perhaps Interpol. After assuring him that I didn't have anyone hunting for me, ( did I omit the British Army?, I guess I did. It must have slipped my mind at the time).

After satisfying him that I was genuine, in my wanting to sign on, he explained to me, that it would be for 5 years. That when I had fulfilled the obligations of my contract, I could apply for French citizenship, and remain in France, should I so wish. I was informed that I needed a name, in order to enlist. He pulled out a thickly filled book, from a desk drawer. It was like a phone book. Turning to the section "L" he threw a few names at me. Eventually I chose "Ladeer ", keeping my first name of Jim.

My parents were given new identities also. They now came from Aberdeen, in Scotland, but were living in Ontario, in Canada. I still remained a Scot,but was continually referred to, throughout my stay in France, as a "Roast Beef". An adverse nick name, for Englishmen. Usually "Les Fucking Roast Beef". I never quite noticed it before, but it was very self evident in France, that the word "Fuck", was repeated, at least three times, in each sentence spoken by any English legionnaire.

My new nom de guerre in place, I signed on the dotted line, and prepared for a five year stay, in the service of France, as a Legionnaire . Asked if I smoked, I replied yes, and was given twenty Disc Bleu Cigarettes. I was told to grab my things, and follow the Sergeant, where he showed me to a communal sleeping area. I would normally have called it the accommodation block, but it looked more like a cross between an old dungeon, and a powder store room, for cannons. There, I was given a bed with two sheets, and two, sausage shaped pillows. Then, I was told it was time to eat. They have a saying in the Legion, (in fact, they have lots of sayings), roughly translated it is, " the Legion may be hard, but you're guaranteed a meal, at the end of it ". You usually hope it's not a salad. Of that, I can tell you for definite.

There were six of us, awaiting transport to Augbangne. They didn't waste petrol on these journeys, so they waited, until they could fill the van, with as many as they could, before driving. They also made some provisional checks with the police on us all. Two of the guys were from Italy, and although they took our passports from us, they didn't seem to mind the Italians keeping hold of their eight inch flick knives. I didn't see the signs, that in later life, would be so apparent, especially on judging the mentality of some of my fellow (soldiers) Legionnaires. I spent several days, waiting to go on, to the next staging point. In the meantime, the Italians left, but not in the service of France. They got deported back to Italy. Times had changed slightly . The legion no longer accepted murderers, or political dissidents, or terrorists. So, they were sent on their merry little way. Everybody is getting so choosy these days, it's just not fair.

Any way. I eventually made it to Augbangne. This is the home of the FFL, and where the museum is, (although the training regiment, and depot, is at Castelnaudery, Aude), here, they have Captain Danjou's wooden hand, on show. It was there, that I was relieved of all my clothes, and personal papers. Not to mention, the beard I had grown, and most of the hair, from the top of my head. We were given khaki coloured shirts, and trousers, being allowed to keep our own foot wear. We looked a right Fred Karno's army, I can tell you. We spent the day, doing mundane fatigues, in the cookhouse and dining areas. At night, we were allowed a couple of beers, and we were still getting free cigs.

There must have been about sixty or seventy of us by now, split into three groups . Each group, depending of duration of stay so far , and of the progression with the individuals vetting. We were given different coloured tabs, to wear on our shoulder epaulettes. We were, however, basically split into two groups, "Franco-Fones", and "Non-Franco-Fones".

At this stage, let me please apologise, for my atrocious spelling of the French language. For, although I did manage to speak it like a native, I never did learn how to spell, most of the words . I unfortunately got into a habit of writing, and spelling, the words as you pronounced them. Hey , it worked for me.

What it meant, in layman's terms, was that there was one group, where they could all speak French, the Franco-Fones,(cause basically, they were French) and another group, which made up the foreign part, of the Foreign Legion. Where a multitude of languages were spoken, but the common one, being English, called, the non-Franco-Fones. There were quite a lot of thugs there, and the vast majority, were being turfed out, but it didn't stop them from trying to establish a pecking order, whilst they were there.

I remember one instance, where there was myself, an ex-Royal Marine, known as Woody Kay, an ex-Portuguese mercenary geezer, known as Gourdino, and a Korean, whose name I can't remember, but whom, the French had nick named Ping-Pong. Ping-Pong was built like a sumo wrestler, (we are talking brick shit house here, people). He didn't say a lot, but smiled all the time, and nodded, when we spoke to him.

We accepted him, and he accepted us . We tried teaching him English, and some French phrases, we were picking up. It was while we were trying out a new phrase, that the trouble started. One of the Franco-Fones started to take the piss out of old Ping-Pong, and he sat there smiling, just ignoring the whole thing. Unfortunately, this attitude was really pissing the Franco-Fones off, as they wanted to provoke a fight, and were not being successful.

Finally, something did happen, and Ping-Pong eventually got to his feet. Whereupon, he was immediately surrounded, by about seven Kermit's, as Woody called them. Which, much to our delight, they totally did not understand the reference to frogs. Any way, Ping-Pong took a look round, and waved the three of us away .It lasted, mere seconds. In fact, all I saw, was one guy stepping forward, with a raised fist . Then, Ping-Pong was rejoining us, and all the kermits, were either sitting on their arses on the ground, or lying on their backs, unmoving.

It would seem, that Ping-Pong, had done some national service in the South Korean army. Where they are taught extensive, un-armed combat, and karate. Luckily, we were issued our uniforms the next day . Finger printed, index and thumbs only, then photographed, for our ID cards.

We were driven early in the morning, to Marseilles' train station, in a sealed deuce-and-a-half truck. In case some one recognised you, and your anonymity was blown, before you start. Yeah!. Well, we all believed it too. It was in case somebody had a change of heart, and was going to fuck off out of it, during the journey to the station. We were off-loaded from the trucks, and  shepherded through the station like sheep. Directed to a platform, and made to stand, in columns of six. We were subjected to a fifteen minute speech, of  which, at that time, we understood absolutely none of it.

The NCO's, after having given their little speech, were now leaving us alone on the platform. They had said, " Person qui. bushie, toolmond qui rest sur place. Person qui parle, mais fume sur place". I was trying to spot someone who could speak English, that could translate, what had been said. Behind me three rows back was Gourdino. I was noticing different blokes furtively get cigarettes out, and light up. My attention was still on Gourdino, when I was punched in the back of the head. I went down like a sack of potatoes.

I rolled over, and managed to grab a foot, before it managed to connect with the side of my head.I screamed out in broken french."Non-Franco-fone". That I didn't speak the language. To which, a Corporal spat back at me; "You better start learning,mate, and fast". Bloody hell, yet another Englishman. Maybe I should have stayed at home!. I later learned, that what we'd been told was;"You will not move, you will remain where you are, you can smoke if you want to, but do not speak".

I often thought, a simple, "shut up there", would have sufficed, but I got the message. I was later to learn, that this was one way, of ensuring the corporals didn't have a hard time, from any one. Beat the crap out of one, and the other sixty or so, will listen to your every heart beat. Still. I did, in all honesty, expect to lose a few teeth, along the way . But, I was hoping to get to the training regiment first. It looked like, it could be the start, of an interesting five years.

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