Fighting for the French Foreign Legion Read online

  The journey was uneventful and I was beginning to realize just how big a country France is. The population of the UK and France may be the same, but there the comparison ends. I enjoy travelling and fortunately it was daylight so I was able to see the changing countryside as we made our way south towards the Méditerranée. My spirits were up and it was hard to believe that I had been at such a low ebb exactly seven days earlier. Life is a strange affair.

  Apart from being the selection centre for the Legion, Aubagne is also the place through which all Legion personnel pass on their way to and from a posting, on a course or for medical treatment. It is the hub of everything that happens within the Legion, including administration. The selection centre of the Legion is like no other in any army. Your length of stay there can vary from a couple of hours to several weeks. During your stay there you are locked in behind a 3-metre-high fence topped with razor wire. You can ask to leave at any time during your stay and will have all your belongings returned to you before you are taken to your port of entry to France and deported. You are also given enough money to assure your immediate needs for the journey. I was astonished to discover that there were 200 other young men in the centre going through the selection process.

  Our uniforms were taken away from us and we were left with our tracksuits, a change of underwear and of course the regulation black socks and blue trainers; the only time we were allowed out of the compound was to go to the camp infirmary for various medicals. The accommodation was modern if basic and spread over three floors. New arrivals were accommodated on the top floor in one large barrack room, with bunk beds stacked three high. We had no clothes or possessions so we did not need a locker. Our change of underwear, toothbrush and toiletries were kept in a small bag which we hung on the end of our bed. There was a large exercise yard with some keep-fit equipment and a Nissen hut type of building to shelter in if the weather was bad. There were also two classrooms where some of the tests took place.

  On the day of our arrival we were taken to the infirmary where we were given a very thorough medical, including x-rays, to confirm that we were healthy and carried no ailments that could spread to others in such crowded conditions. We were also examined to ensure that we were not homosexual or carrying any sexual diseases. If you didn’t like it you could leave. We had been joined by others who had arrived from other recruiting centres, including those who walked up to the gates of Aubagne.

  There were seventy-five of us who attended the infirmary that first day and on our return we were already down to fifty. We were given yellow armbands and it was explained that the aim was to progress through selection on to the second floor where we would be given a red armband. We were locked out of the building from 8.00 am to 5.00 pm every day and had to amuse ourselves in the yard when we were not undergoing one test or another.

  The following day, the next step in the induction process started. The French Army has a security service called the Deuxième Bureau, or B2, amongst whose functions is the security evaluation of all military personnel. They are responsible for all levels of clearance throughout your military career, but should not be confused with the French Secret Service, the DST. My first interview was carried out by an English NCO in the Legion. I was asked to confirm the information I had already provided and to write the equivalent of a CV, including everything about my personal background. No other questions were asked at this stage of the procedure and I was shown back to the compound.

  The following day nothing happened and I spent the day people watching. My fellow applicants were of all shapes and sizes, religions, nationalities and social backgrounds. There were certainly some ex-military amongst them, but most were there for a variety of reasons, ranging from escaping from political upheaval in their own country to unemployment, or from personal problems such as a marital breakdown. There were bound to be some who had a criminal background but the system was designed to weed them out.

  A few were from the French colonies such as Tahiti and were looked on favourably. A small percentage were there because of the Legion’s reputation and looked upon themselves as super heroes. An even smaller number wanted to be mercenary soldiers and considered themselves as ultimate killers. Most of these were gone after the first interview. I noticed that the number of lads in our original group was going down rapidly by the hour, but that they were quickly being replaced by newcomers.

  The following day I was recalled by the B2 and asked to write my history again. This is a tactic used by the police worldwide to check the authenticity of the original statement. Very few people who have made up the first version can remember what they said the first time in every detail. Half an hour after I had finished I was called back into the room and asked about my police career. They had confirmed that I had told the truth through Interpol but were concerned that I had been sent to seek out the identities of UK nationals who might have taken refuge in the Legion.

  After several hours of fairly intensive interrogation I was left alone for five minutes before being told to return to the compound. I thought that I was going to be rejected at that point but instead was taken to the second floor and given a red armband. I had passed to the next stage.

  The following morning I went back to the infirmary to get the results of my blood tests. Everything was fine and that afternoon I started a series of IQ tests. These are given to each candidate in his own language and I found them pretty easy. I knew that I wouldn’t have any problem with this side of the selection process. During the next couple of days I made friends with a Canadian, a South African, a Vietnamese and a Japanese. We would become very close friends over the coming years.

  A fortnight after entering the recruitment centre I was called to see the officer in charge. He advised me that I had passed initial selection and would leave for the training regiment at Castelnaudary near Toulouse in a few days – if I wished to continue. This would be my last chance to walk away before signing a five-year contract. I was also asked if I wished to change my name. This is a Legion tradition which goes back to its time of conception. If you choose to do so, your old identity will cease to exist within the Legion from that moment. The Legion will protect your anonymity under a code of honour that cannot be broken by either party. If a Legionnaire were to reveal his old identity or presence in the Legion to anyone, the Legion would consider the agreement broken and would immediately withdraw their protection. Under the rules, if a man’s new name was Fred Bloggs, any enquiry about his real name would be rebuffed. The man’s real name would only be known to the B2 – all his paperwork, including his contract of engagement, would be in his new name. Even the commanding officer of his regiment would not know his real name, although the B2 security officer attached to the regiment would have access to his file.

  I had no reason to change my name but it was suggested that due to my age it might be easier for me if they changed my date of birth. Future instructors might go easier on me if I lost ten years of my age, so at the stroke of a pen I went from thirty-eight to twenty-eight. Oh, if only it was so easy physically.

  From my initial group of seventy-five, we were now down to just eight. We moved to the ground floor and joined another twelve who were waiting for the numbers to be made up before heading for the training regiment. Although I had signed a five-year contract, in French, I was still not a Legionnaire. I thought I was, but I wasn’t. We were called ‘Engagé Voluntaires’. None of us knew that what we had just signed was an agreement that if we passed the instruction at Castelnaudary, the five-year contract would be valid. We had not only signed an agreement that gave them the right to kick us out at any time up to that point, without notice or explanation, but we also retained the right to ask to leave during the same period. If this had been explained to us it might have stopped some lads deserting. It was all there in black and white, but even those who could read French didn’t look at the small print.

  At the end of the day, the Legion wanted to be the ones who decided who should stay and who sh
ould go. After all it was the Legion that was spending the money on our upkeep and instruction. Luckily for me, all my new friends had made it this far and we would soon learn to help each other through the months to come. We were kitted out for the journey and were told to sign our personal clothes and possessions over to the Legion. They would be kept in a store until we passed out, but after that the Legion could dispose of them as they wished. I still had £150 worth of French Francs which were put into a Post Office account and the book kept by the B2.

  CHAPTER 4

  Basic Instruction

  Castelnaudary is a small agricultural market town about 15 miles from the second city of France, Toulouse. It is a very fertile area and there are many famous vineyards in the region. It also supports one of the largest cooperative storage systems in Europe and the Canal du Midi flows through the centre of the town. Although the immediate area round the town is flat, the Pyrenees are only a stone’s throw away.

  In my time, the actual camp was situated in the heart of the old town, but a new modern camp has now been built a couple of miles south of the town and has all the facilities you require to train a modern army. The original barracks were built at the turn of the century and it was not until the 1960s that it was taken over by the Legion. It was typical of old army camps throughout France and although the accommodation was adequate, it was far from modern.

  The ‘caserne’ (barracks) comprised two large four-storey buildings that would have passed for prison blocks, on either side of the parade square. There were several slightly newer secondary buildings within the compound, which was surrounded by a 20-foot-high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. The two main buildings were divided into four instruction companies and a command company. There were a further two basic instruction companies based in old farms which lay a couple of miles outside the town.

  We travelled from Aubagne to Castelnaudary by train, and again I enjoyed seeing more of France as we made our way along the coast towards Spain before heading inland towards Toulouse. Half an hour before we got to our destination, we passed the medieval town of Carcassonne, with its high walls and pointed towers. There is nothing like that in the UK.

  On our arrival we were lined up on the parade square and from that moment on all orders and instruction was given in French. We were forbidden to speak our own languages during the working day – to do so would lead to a punishment. We were joined by forty other recruits who had been waiting for our arrival before beginning instruction.

  They started to split us into two companies of thirty, and again my luck held when my new friends were assigned to the same company. We were then paired up with a French speaker who became your partner, or ‘benom’, for the rest of our instruction. My benom was called Thomas, who was actually French and had served in the Navy during his national service, which still existed in France. He spoke a little English but the idea was that you would pick up enough French to enable you to understand the basics quickly. Surnames were used all the time by the instructors and strangely this would become the common way of addressing even our friends. French nationals are not supposed to be able to join the Legion so most of them say that they come from French-speaking countries such as Monaco, Switzerland and even Canada.

  We were issued with our full kit and I was impressed by the fact that everything was brand new. The idea was that you were responsible for keeping your equipment in good condition and had to account for any abnormal breakages or deterioration. There was method in their madness.

  I had always thought of myself as being fit but I had no idea what real fitness was. I was to discover depths of personal endurance that would help me go on long after I would normally have given up.

  The best news of all was that we were being sent to one of the farms to undergo our instruction – it had to be better than being confined inside the barracks. We were fed and watered, and spent the first night at the main camp. It had been a long day and I was glad to get my head down early before having a good night’s sleep.

  The following morning we were up at the crack of dawn and breakfasted before setting out for the farm. This would be home for the next four months and I was keen to get on with it. I knew that it was going to be tough going, but it was what I needed in my life at that moment.

  The farm buildings had been converted and adapted for use as a military training camp. The large stone barn had been converted into our quarters, with the ground floor used for storage of our equipment and a classroom for indoor instruction. The loft had been turned into our accommodation with the use of classic camp beds. With its high wooden roof and spacious feeling, it was perfect for the job. There was a stairway but we were forbidden to use it unless we were carrying equipment. The only other access was by climbing or descending a rope attached to the old barn hoist, which would have been used to lift straw bales up to the top floor. My first attempts at climbing the rope were pathetic and I had to learn the technique. We soon learned that it was not about pure muscle power – there is an easy way and a hard way to do everything, and this was no exception. By the end of our time at the farm I could go up and down that rope like a circus act, without using my feet – but then so could everyone else, for that matter.

  It was rare that we were indoors and the grounds were extensive with every type of terrain you could imagine. There was open ground, woodlands and a ravine with a fast-flowing river winding its way through it. There was even a deserted village that had been adapted for use as an urban combat complex, and an obstacle course that had been designed to test speed, agility and strength. This course was identical in every military camp in France and the national records for its completion by a group or individual were held by the Legion. At first I was just pleased to get round it, but after a while I found myself racing against the clock, never mind the guy next to me.

  There was also a football/rugby pitch and our overall fitness was helped along with daily 15-kilometre runs in sports kit or 8 kilometres in combats. I found that my age was actually a plus factor as I had a certain stamina that was lacking in the younger lads. I was having no trouble keeping up with the physical programme, and if anything was stronger overall than most. My weak point was my arm strength, but that was improving every day.

  I was enjoying every minute of it, throwing myself into every challenge that came my way, and there was plenty of mental stimulation as well. I was also picking up more and more French every day with the help of my benom. Every night I went to sleep exhausted but contented. Any sign of depression had been banished for good. I was literally a changed man, healthy and proud of my achievements. There was no one telling me, ‘Don’t be stupid, you can’t do that.’

  The farmyard was our parade ground and we had to learn the slow marching style that is unique to the Legion. It is more of a swagger compared to the stiff marching style of the British Army, and there were also the marching songs that proclaim the glorious history of the Legion. We had to sing every night, which was also an enjoyable way to improve our French.

  After a couple of weeks we had our first drop-outs. The physical training and instruction methods used by the Legion were designed to weed out the weak as soon as possible. We were subjected to some pretty harsh treatment with what seemed at the time as pointless repetitive group punishment. Some cracked and left, either officially by the front door or by deserting at night. Sometimes it was difficult to decide which was which as one moment they would be there, the next never to be seen again. It was impossible to find out the truth and rumours about what had happened to them were rife – everything from heroic tales of how the person had evaded capture, that they had been caught and were being tortured in a dungeon somewhere, to tales that they had been shot. The more extreme the story the happier our instructors were and they did nothing to make us think differently. It was all part of the legend. What was happening was that there was a bonding of those who remained and our energies were being directed, without us knowing, it into strong groups who worked together f
or each other. The reality was that we were being manipulated by experts – it was they who were in complete control.

  As our training progressed, there were subtle changes in the instructors’ methods and our new-found strengths were used to form groups which could rely on each other, drawing on individual strengths. It showed us the power that exists within a well-bonded group as individuals began to demonstrate leadership qualities within the group. We believed that it was us who were beginning to beat the system, thinking that we were special, an elite group who were better than those who had passed this way before us. We were now working and thinking like soldiers determined to achieve the tasks set us.

  After two months of non-stop effort, seven days a week of intensive instruction, we returned to the main camp for our first bit of freedom since we walked into the recruiting centres. We were given a four-hour pass to go into town. For the first five years of your service, dress uniform has to be worn in town by all Legionnaires below the rank of Caporal Chef. At this stage we still wore a beret, not a kepi, which made us stand out against the ‘real’ Legionnaires, but we were still proud to wear the uniform.

  That first evening in town might have been expected to turn into a drunken release of pent-up emotions. In fact, most of us went and had a slap-up meal and a couple of beers before heading back to camp half an hour before we were due back. No one turned up late or the worse for drink. Later on there were some who succumbed to temptation, but for now we all had a new-found pride in ourselves as individuals and as a group.

  Another milestone had been passed and when we returned to the farm on the Monday morning, we were ready to tackle the next part of our training.

  It was not only our attitudes that had changed – the teaching methods and aims moved up a gear. If we thought that we had reached the peak of fitness and tolerance to extreme conditions, were we sadly mistaken. The length and pace of the marches increased, and combat exercises doubled in intensity and duration, with little or no sleep. Each combat group was now working as a team, with unit achievement more important than individual.