Fighting for the French Foreign Legion Read online

  I also believe that the quality of training in the Legion goes a long way in the preparation of the individual to take part in real operations. It’s not just the technical training, but psychological attitude. You can see it in the way that legionnaires conduct themselves, how they dress, and their overall professionalism and attitude when in a combat zone. There is just something that makes them stand out from the rest. Perhaps that’s why they manage to get past the selection process in the first place.

  I was certainly tired and ready for a break so was delighted when I was given a month’s leave and intended to relax back home in Scotland this time. While at home on leave I met someone who was to come into my life and change it for ever. We had known each other for many years, although our lives had taken separate paths until then.

  I headed back to Calvi at the end of my break with a new spring in my step. It was over seven years since I had had any kind of relationship, even casual. Work had occupied every moment of my day up until then and I can’t say that I had any regrets about living on my own. I hadn’t even given it a thought. I wasn’t into one-night stands and have never paid for sex in my life, although I do believe that there is a place for well-controlled, legalized brothels. It takes sex off the street, protects the women physically and medically and satisfies a need for sexual release that might otherwise end up with a woman being raped or worse.

  Once back in Calvi I started to communicate with my new-found love, sending and receiving a letter almost every day. This was in an age before the use of emails replaced good old-fashioned letters. You still can’t beat a good old love letter, which is far more personal and romantic.

  The next couple of months were spent getting back into the daily routine of the Regiment and achieving peak fitness. When you are involved in live operations you can’t just pop out for a quick run. You have to get back quickly to the standard of fitness expected in the REP. It is the months of expending energy rather than building it up that takes its toll. I also had to take into account that I was now in my forties. Most people my age couldn’t run the length of the street never mind carrying 30 kilos while in full combat gear.

  I had learned a lot in the Gulf and had had the chance to use some very sophisticated equipment not normally available to us. Despite this, the most important lesson of all had been that a well-trained, fit, dedicated soldier is of more value than any of the fanciest pieces of modern technology. Without the first, the second is useless. The American war machine works on the opposite theory and is designed round equipment and logistical wizardry, but I had watched it all grind to a halt at times because the men on the ground were not up to the job required of them. It’s not the fault of the men, it’s the American principle of bigger is better and all the money goes on logistics. One very senior American officer once told me that there was so much money involved, and so many people from the politicians down taking their cut of the profits, that those who had to use the equipment had no say in its purchase.

  In January 1992, I brought the new love of my life out to Corsica for a couple of weeks’ holiday. The weather was beautiful and we had a wonderful time getting to know each other properly. I also enjoyed showing off this beautiful island. A couple of months later she moved to Calvi permanently. Having recently moved into a fabulous flat overlooking the port, with a glorious view across the bay to the camp and the mountains, I was now able to combine work with a normal home life and was back to my old level of fitness.

  Saint Michel is the patron saint of parachutists. Yes, even the Legion has one, which is always an excuse for a bit of healthy competition between the companies. There is an intensive week of sporting activity, a big parade at the camp and an open day for the public with entertainment, side shows and of course a lot of parachuting.

  On the day of the parade, there can be anything up to 2,000 people lining the parade square to watch as the regimental colour is escorted from the museum and paraded before the assembled troops. As many as a hundred ‘Anciens’ – members of the ex-Legionnaires Association – march behind their own colour and pass in front of the Regiment to take their place in the celebrations. They are all dressed in a green beret with the REP badge, white shirt and green tie, black blazer, grey trousers and black shoes. They march with pride and are loudly applauded by the crowd which is made up of families, local Corsicans and tourists who have flocked to see this legendary regiment. Once everyone is assembled there is usually a fly-past by several Hercules and Transall transport aircraft, quickly followed by ‘La Patrouille de France’, the French equivalent of the ‘Red Arrows’ aerobatic display team.

  You have to watch a Legion parade to appreciate it. There is no comparison between the sharp precision of the British Army and the slow swagger of the Legion. It is quite different but equally good to watch. Everyone has a great time at ‘Saint Michel’. The kids love getting their hands on real boys’ toys, sliding down a rope from the top of the jump tower, and taking part in all the sideshows. The highlight of the day is the display by the aerobatic aircraft followed by demonstrations of both fixed and free-fall parachuting. One of the free-fall teams always makes a spectacular landing in the middle of the parade square which never fails to excite the crowd. It’s a great public relations exercise and the crowds seem to get bigger every year.

  The ultimate parade in France is the one that takes place in Paris on 14 July every year – Bastille Day. A different Legion regiment takes part every year and parades behind the Legion’s own band from Aubagne, ‘La Musique Principal’. Because of the slow marching pace of the Legion, they always go last just before the mechanized part of the parade. All of the regiments taking part march twenty abreast down the Champs-Elysées. When they get to the point where the President takes the salute, they divide, ten to the right, ten to the left. By tradition, the Legion divides for no one, not even the President, and the whole regiment goes to the President’s right. They are the only regiment to do this. Experiencing the fervour of the crowd is something that I will never forget. I was not taking part in the parade but walking down the inside of the barriers taking the official photographs for the Regiment.

  After the parade, a certain number from each regiment dine at the Presidential Palace or at the Mayor’s reception. I was honoured to be sent to dine with the Mayor, who at that time was Jaques Chirac. By pure chance I found myself seated next to him, and enjoyed his company and conversation throughout the meal. He seemed to like the Legion and asked me what hall of the Mairie the others were in. We then went to find them and he spent the next half an hour in our company singing Legion songs, all of which he knew. That night we were free to go out in town and it was impossible to buy a drink or pay for your meal. As soon as they saw the Legion uniform, that was it. We had a night to remember and a sore head in the morning to go with it.

  Corsica is a huge piece of granite that was pushed up out of the sea at the time when the Alps were created. When you look at a map, you see that the island is in perfect alignment with the Alps and the mountainous areas are as rugged as anything you find on the Continent. France has a series of classified walks in the Alps and the Pyrenees, but the most difficult one is the GR20 in Corsica. These walks, or ‘Grand Randonnées’, border on serious mountain climbing and should not be undertaken by anyone inexperienced.

  Every year, each company completes the GR20 which follows the mountainous spine of Corsica over a route that goes from sea level, over valleys and through mountain passes. It takes you through 110-foot-high pine forests, past mountain lakes and high plateaus. The scenery is spectacular. The highlight of the walk is standing on top of Corsica’s highest mountain, Monti Cinto. At roughly 9,000 feet it is twice the height of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK.

  When standing on the top, you can see the length and breadth of the island, and on a clear day all the way to the French and Italian coasts, and beyond to the snow-capped Alps. It is a route of exceptional natural beauty but requires a degree of experience to negotiate so
me of the passes. ‘La Col de Solitude’ or ‘Lonely Pass’ is an example. The risk level here is such that a permanent security system has been fixed into the rock face. You have to negotiate a curve in the rock face walking on a ledge which is no more than a foot wide, with a drop into the gorge below of over 500 feet. You can’t see round the curve and it is an irresponsible person who tries to get round the ledge without using the safety system. Before starting out you have to shout out in case there is someone coming the other way. Even hooked up it is quite daunting. You need to face the rock and you have the feeling that the weight of your pack will pull you off the ledge. Quite a few ramblers have had to turn back at this point because one or more of their party have refused to negotiate the hazard.

  Being the regimental photographer, each company requested my presence on their walk and most of the legionnaires wanted a souvenir photograph of themselves doing the GR20. This meant that during my eight years as regimental photographer, I completed the GR20 seventeen times. Sometimes two companies would set out from opposite ends of the route. I would set out with one company and change over when they met in the middle. Although it was hard going it was always a pleasure.

  If you are into serious hill walking I strongly recommend you go to Corsica and walk the GR20. You won’t regret it and will probably come back for more.

  Mountains are never the same twice and I completed the walk in all weathers. The GR20 is undertaken by thousands of civilians every year. Many forget that even if Corsica is in the middle of the Mediterranean, weather conditions in the mountains can change at a moment’s notice. Every year without fail, the mountain rescue teams have to go up and rescue some idiot at over 3,000ft caught out in a storm and freezing conditions, wearing nothing more than shorts and a tee shirt.

  For us holidays never last for long. World events were on the move again, and so were we.

  CHAPTER 14

  Why are We Here and What are We Doing?

  The next few chapters have been the hardest part of my story to write, and I don’t hesitate to say that the operation I am about to describe was to change my way of looking at world events, and to question the motives of those who make decisions that change, even destroy, the lives of millions.

  The mission given to the Regiment by the UN was to maintain the security of Sarajevo Airport during the height of the crisis from 6 January 1993 until the end of August that same year. The conditions imposed by the Serbian authorities on the handover of the airport to UN control, included ensuring that the airport was used exclusively for the transportation of humanitarian aid for the civilians trapped inside the city. Only UN personnel, peacekeeping delegations and certain accredited members of the world press would be allowed to fly in or out.

  The grounds of the airport had to be secured in such a way that no one could cross in or out of the city. Like all missions, advanced planning takes time and I was tasked with the job of obtaining up-to-date maps and photographs of the region. I also had to find information on the logistical strengths of the belligerents.

  SARAJEVO AND THE BALKANS

  Accurate information was scarce to say the least, but I was able to present a document covering everything from the estimated number of people being held within Sarajevo, to their ethnic breakdown. Not everyone was a Muslim – there were still a considerable number of the Christian and Jewish communities who had been unable to leave before the blockade was set up by the Serbs. After that it was too late and there was no way they could get through the front lines of the two sides.

  I had the additional advantage of being able to draw on the knowledge of our Yugoslavian legionnaires who knew first hand some of the problems we were likely to face. This was another clear example of the unique strengths that came from the multi-national, multi-racial composition of the Legion. This local knowledge and the language skills would help us to gain the confidence of both sides. There is no doubt that this played a major part in the eventual success of our mission.

  One person in particular played a major part in this and put himself at great personal risk on several occasions. Just how important a part he played will be made clearer as the story unfolds. A lesser man would have stayed quietly in the background. By the time we were ready to leave I felt that I already knew a lot about the country. We were told that the airport was fairly modern having been built to cater for the 1984 Winter Olympics.

  Photographs showed Sarajevo as a modern city with skyscrapers, parks and a river running through it. The Adriatic coast had long become a favourite with British holidaymakers and the yachting fraternity. The mission was going to be a doddle – after all, I had just come back from a so-called war. Boy, was I wrong! What awaited us was a nightmare world, far worse than anything I could have imagined.

  On 6 January, the advance party consisting of the command staff, of which I was part, and a combat company, flew out from Corsica on a civilian Air France 747 to Zagreb, the Croatian capital, after which all traces of normality disappeared. I thought that I had seen the worst of mankind while serving as a police officer, but again I was in for a big surprise.

  It was almost midday when we landed at Zagreb and for security reasons we manhandled all of our freight off the 747 and onto a UN-chartered Soviet Ilyushin II 76 transport aircraft for the short hop to Sarajevo. We knew that this would be a new experience when we were issued with flak jackets and told to sit on them rather than put them on. This was not because the seating was uncomfortable, but because the combatants on the ground from both sides used the approaching aircraft for small-arms practice. This was borne out by the number of pieces of ‘gaffer tape’ stuck on the outside of the aircraft over the bullet holes as a kind of instant repair. A bit of a wake-up call for us all and you could see the sudden realization that this was going to be dangerous on the faces of every one of us.

  We took off our green berets and replaced them with blue United Nations ones. We were now officially part of the United Nation Protection Force, or UNPROFOR as it was better known. This was the first ‘peacekeeping’ mission to be undertaken by the Regiment and our operational methods would have to be adapted to comply with the UN rules of engagement. It would be a test for all of us, regardless of rank.

  The flight itself was uneventful but I noticed that we had climbed well above the normal altitude for what was a short-haul flight. We were obviously flying well above any anti-aircraft batteries which might be tracking our flight from the ground. Fifteen minutes out from Sarajevo we were instructed to put on our helmets and, once we were on the ground, to wear our flak jackets. We were also told that as soon as the ramp went down we should not hang about on the tarmac admiring the view, but get into the protection of the earth banks as quickly as we could.

  Suddenly the nose of the aircraft was pointed towards the ground as we made our approach. We literally screeched to a halt, were off the runway and into the parking zone within two minutes of touching down. They had done this sort of thing before. When the rear ramp of the aircraft was lowered we saw a corridor made up of armoured airport fire engines between ourselves and the huge banks of earth which protected the terminal. We had only taken a few steps when there was the sound of gunfire and of bullets impacting against the sides of the fire engines. Seconds later, one of the lads who was only a few paces ahead of me fell to the ground holding his left leg. He had been shot in the calf by a round which had been deliberately bounced under the fire engines. The marksman couldn’t see his victim, but the chances of hitting someone were fairly high. The two lads nearest to him dropped what they were carrying and grabbed the victim as we all ran for cover.

  Word had obviously got out to the belligerents that a changeover was taking place and this was their way of welcoming us. Fortunately the injury was only a flesh wound, but it made us take seriously the security warnings given to us by the unit we were to replace. They were a French Regular Army unit who had been in Sarajevo for the past four months and had suffered quite a few casualties, including three dead. It w
as the first time that any of us had heard about this and it came as a bit of a shock.

  Geographically, Sarajevo is the easiest of cities to put under siege. It is situated in a valley with towering hills on all sides giving a clear field of fire into all areas of the city. The entire city was within easy range of the tanks and heavy mortars of the Serbian Army. Snipers controlled most of the road intersections, making it impossible to move about the city on foot or in non-armoured vehicles. Every exit from the city was closed off by Serbian forces. All aid coming in by road was channelled onto one road from the north which was controlled by the Serbs.

  The two opposing factions were only yards apart in some places and were engaged in World War One trench warfare tactics. This was our introduction to Sarajevo. I had gone from looking forward to the deployment to being very, very apprehensive about the whole affair. I spent my first night sharing accommodation in an unprotected two-storey office block in what had been the cargo area of the airport, with the guys I was replacing. They filled me in on their last four months of hell and it was obvious that they couldn’t wait to get on that plane. There were no shelters of any kind and if the building had taken a direct hit that would have been the end of us all. I didn’t sleep a wink because of the regular detonations of exploding shells. To me they sounded yards away but I was assured that although close, they were outside the airport perimeter.