Fighting for the French Foreign Legion Read online

  Inter-group rivalry was intense and there was a league table, with points being awarded for all aspects of military knowledge. As the instructors raised the pace, the numbers of those dropping out increased accordingly.

  We were rapidly approaching the end of our third month and with it an event that would change our lives for ever and stay imprinted in our memories for the rest of our lives – making the transition from ‘Engagé Voluntaire’ to being a ‘Legionnaire’.

  A week of practical and written tests covering everything from shooting, weapons, explosives and mines, combat tactics, map reading, signals, first aid, maths and French, led up to the final endurance test known as ‘The Kepi March’. This was a four-day forced march with combat objectives and ambushes day and night. The route covered every type of terrain imaginable and was a real test of physical and mental endurance.

  On the final day of the march we got back to the farm at about 10.00 in the evening. With everyone almost out on their feet, we noticed that the farmyard/parade square was lit by tins filled with oil. Of the thirty of us who had started out on the training together, only twenty of us were left. All my friends had made it through, even though we were not all in the same combat groups. Up until now we had only touched the famous white kepi when we were fitted for them on our last weekend at Castelnaudary. They had then been put in plastic bags, labelled with our names and taken from us. Over the past couple of weeks we had been learning by heart to recite the ‘Legion Code of Honour’, but had not realized just how important and moving a ceremony it would be.

  We were lined up before our Captain and the Colonel of the training regiment to begin the ceremony that would turn us into Legionnaires. After a short speech by the Colonel, we were asked to repeat the ‘Code of Honour’ in unison. At the end the Colonel gave the order ‘Remise de la kepi’. As one, we removed the green beret with our left hand, put it into the left trouser pocket, placed the kepi on our heads with the right hand and saluted. These movements were all done in silence.

  I was now a Legionnaire.

  We celebrated our new status that night with more than a few beers and lots of traditional singing. We were all on a high and the fatigue of the last four hours was forgotten ... for the moment.

  The following day we had an unheard of lie-in, didn’t get up until eight and the day was spent cleaning and checking our equipment. We still had another month of training to go before we would be assigned to a regiment.

  When I had started out on this challenge I had known that there was a distinct possibility that a percentage of my fellow recruits might be violent criminals, thieves, drug users or bullies. I now felt confident that these men, who were my brothers in arms, were made of better stuff, and if they had dubious backgrounds, they were changed men.

  The selection system and training was designed to weed out the wrong type of recruit right from the start. Due to the huge number of young men turning up at the gates for selection, and the relatively small number that made it, the Legion could afford to be very selective. The physical, mental and moral standards set guaranteed that most of the undesirables could be eliminated from the start. There will always be a certain number of undesirables who will manage to slip through the system, but few who will stick it out through the rigorous training.

  Of the twenty of us left, five were English, two Scots, a South African, a Vietnamese, an Australian, a Swiss, a Swede, a Canadian, a Japanese, two Italians, a Tahitian and three ‘French’.

  Our time at the farm had come to an end and we moved back to the main camp at Castelnaudary. The remaining instruction was theoretic and included more about the history of the Legion and about today’s regiments. What was left of the two companies that had started together were combined, and we were told that whoever finished in the top ten at the end of the month would be given the chance to choose which regiment they wanted to go to. I did not have any particular preference and had assumed that at my age I would probably end up in administration.

  By now it was the end of October 1983 and it was becoming colder by the day. We continued to have weekly tests which were designed to test our aptitude for different specialities such as signals, medics, vehicle mechanics or administration. The other choice that would be offered to the top group was to stay behind at Castelnaudary for two years, with an immediate chance to go on an accelerated Caporals’ course. It would mean rapid promotion but those selected would only get the chance of going to one of the combat regiments after two years.

  When the final results were announced, I could not believe that I was in the leading group along with the names of my closest friends. We talked about it at great length and agreed that if we could we would stick together and apply for the same regiment. The 2eme Regiment Etranger de Parachutistes is the elite of the Legion, so we all asked to go there. I was excited at the prospect and wished to stay with my friends despite my age.

  We were interviewed individually and I still expected that my application would be rejected because of my age. I couldn’t get it into my head that as far as everyone was concerned I was only twenty-eight – mature but not too old. I am convinced that if my real age had been on my personal documents, I would not have had a chance.

  To our delight we were all told that we would be going to the REP and that a further selection process would have to be gone through once we got there.

  CHAPTER 5

  The 2ème REP

  The journey from Castelnaudary to Calvi in Corsica was literally another voyage into the unknown. Everyone retraced their steps by train back to Aubagne where we spent a couple of days completing our administrative documents before continuing our separate ways to our new regiments. We said our goodbyes to the others, knowing we might never see them again, or at least not for a couple of years. While at Aubagne it felt strange looking at all the young men behind the fence of the recruiting centre waiting to find out if they would go on the same voyage of discovery as ourselves. It seemed a lifetime since we had been there too, not four months.

  To get to Corsica we had to travel on the overnight ferry from Marseille to Bastia, the largest town on the island. We were escorted by a Caporal Chef and a Caporal who were heading back to the regiment. It was seemingly normal for anyone in transport to perform this duty, even though there was nowhere we could go as we were taken to the port by bus and would be met on the other side to be taken to the camp. It was made clear to us that any misbehaviour would not be tolerated. We were not as yet members of the Regiment and putting a foot wrong would result in the culprit, or all of us for that matter, being sent back to Aubagne.

  After being allocated our cabins we gathered on the top deck of the ship to watch our departure out of the legendary port. It was to be a voyage that I would make many times in the future and it would never lose its magic. At exactly 10.00 pm the ship slipped its birth at the Quay Laffiette and the great inner port suddenly lay before us. With the Basilica on our left and the old fort of Saint Jean on the right, the view was magnificent. The old port was illuminated like a Christmas tree and the church high on the hill to our right overlooked the port like a guardian angel.

  After the ship had turned round it headed out to sea, passing through the entrance in the breakwater. We were told by someone that we should go to the other side of the deck if we wanted to see one of the most famous places in the Mediterranean – the infamous prison from The Count of Monte Cristo on the island of Ratonneau, ‘Le Chateau d’If’. It is now a tourist must for anyone visiting Marseille and a small ferry makes the voyage every hour during daylight hours.

  We watched the island slip past before going below to one of the lounges for a couple of beers before returning to our cabins for the night. There were four of us to a cabin and although it was very warm the cabin were quite large and well ventilated. Another Scot had joined us from the other section and this was the first time he had been further afield than the east end of Glasgow. Just getting this far had been a monumental experience for him and the t
ension had been building in him for weeks.

  At about four in the morning the Scottish lad suddenly sat up in bed and started screaming. He was sound asleep but was fighting some unseen enemy and thrashing about. We tried to hold him down and in the heat of the moment he bit the ear of one of the lads quite badly. He was hyperventilating and we had to send for the ship’s doctor to give him a tranquilizer to calm him down. Most of the passengers on our deck were now awake and goodness knows what they must have been thinking. My friend required a couple of stitches in his ear. When the lad woke up in the morning he did not believe us when we told him what he had done, and did not have any recollection of the incident whatsoever.

  We all rose early and went on deck to get our first view of Corsica. None of us had any idea of the terrain or anything else about the island apart from the fact that Napoleon was born there. We watched as the ship rounded the most northern part of the island known as Cap Corse and were impressed by the sheer size and beauty of the mountains which rose straight out of the sea.

  When we finally docked at Bastia it was just after 7.00 am. Everyone was looking forward to what the new day would bring and it was obvious at first glance that the island was much larger than we had imagined. All we knew was that Calvi and the Legion camp were on the other side of the island, and that it would take us a couple of hours to get there by bus. Although it was November, it was much warmer than it had been in France – in fact, to us it was downright hot. What must it be like in the middle of summer?

  Everything we owned fitted into our kitbags and we were first off the ferry via the car ramp. The military police were waiting for us on the quayside and we were joined by several other Legionnaires who were returning to the Regiment from the Continent. Some had been on leave, some on courses.

  Within the hour we had left the port on the Legion bus and were heading out of town towards the foothills of the mountains. The road followed the coast for half an hour before beginning the tortuous journey up into the hills. This was not a road for the faint at heart but our driver was not in the least put off and handled the bus with great skill. At times we were looking down into a vertical drop of over a hundred feet into a fast-flowing river. It took another three quarters of an hour to reach the highest part of the journey and the bus stopped at the top of the pass to allow everyone a quick comfort stop at the roadside.

  The pass bridged the spine of the mountain range which ran from tip to toe of the island. Corsica lies on a north-south axis parallel to Italy and although it is now part of France, it is closer to Italy. It was occupied by the Italians at the time of Nelson and the local language is an ancient Italian dialect which is still spoken daily by the indigenous population. The view from the top of the pass was spectacular – you could see all the way to the sea and the ribbons of sand that formed the beautiful beaches were set off by the brilliant turquoise of the sea.

  It took us another hour to make the descent to the coast and as we rounded a bend in the village of Lumio, our escorts pointed out the camp which was halfway between where we were and the town of Calvi. Calvi is situated at the far side of a large horseshoe bay and we could clearly make it out, sitting at the foot of the walls of the old Genoese citadel which guards the entrance to the harbour. We were still a couple of hundred feet above sea level and the entire bay was laid out before us like a 3D map.

  My life seemed to have been progressing in clearly defined steps over the past six months and I was under no illusion that this next phase was going to be another major step in my life.

  Five minutes later we had arrived at the gates of Camp Raffalli. We were now at sea level and the camp was framed by the magnificent, snow-capped mountains. I did not realize that they were almost 3,000 metres in height, twice that of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK. From the beach to the foothills was less than 15 miles and the mountains seemed to tower over us.

  We were taken straight to a single-storey accommodation block which would be our home for the next four weeks. Before being accepted by the Regiment we had to take part in four weeks’ parachute training, at the end of which we would have to make a series of jumps to qualify for our jump wings. Only then would we become part of the Regiment.

  Despite the snow capping the mountains, the rise in temperature brought it home to us that we were now in the Med. There was a difference of almost 10° Celsius between Castelnaudary and Calvi, and the sky was a shade of blue that I had only seen in travel brochures.

  It turned out that there were already twenty others waiting on us to arrive before they could start parachute training. There was also another group of thirty who were halfway through it and would make their jumps a couple of weeks later. Each group was known as a ‘promo’ and to the rest of the Regiment as the ‘black socks brigade’. We hadn’t been issued with sports socks yet and our black socks stood out a mile.

  We were more or less in isolation from the rest of the camp, not being permitted to leave our building without an escort. We even ran to and from the mess to eat in two columns. In fact, we never walked anywhere, everything was done at a jog and our overall fitness was being raised to another level. We were now running a minimum of 15 kilometres every day. We were taught to fall and roll from ever increasing heights until we progressed to the jump tower in the third week. This was an electric pylon sort of structure with a platform 30 metres off the ground. We were strapped into a parachute harness which was in turn attached to a cable which went up to another platform where your rate of descent was controlled by an instructor on the cable break. As the third week went on so the speed of our descent was increased, and on occasions it felt as if there was no one operating the break. As a result some of our landings were pretty hard which was in no doubt intended to gave us a taste of what the real thing would be like.

  At the end of each week we had to complete an 8-kilometre run in full combat kit, 15kg sack (which was weighed), plus your rifle, in under an hour. This was preceded by a 1,500-metre fast run in the same kit which had to be completed in under ten minutes. We then had a five-minute breather before the start of the 8km run.

  At first we did well to get round within the given time but as fitness levels rose the times dropped until we were doing the main run in around the 45-minute mark. As part of these tests we had to pick up a sack filled with 80kg of sand and run 60 metres with it slung over your shoulder in under twenty seconds. This simulated carrying someone off the battlefield. We also had to be able to run in sports kit for twelve minutes, covering the maximum distance possible but not less than 2 kilometres. Points were awarded for the distance covered. Failure at any one of these tests meant immediate failure resulting in being returned to Aubagne for reassignment to another regiment. We had already lost six of our group by the end of the second week. Before heading to the mess for any of our meals we had to do six tractions, or pullups as they are sometimes known; we then had to do the same thing when we got back.

  At last the big week came and we were faced with the final test: the jumps. To gain your jump wings in France you have to make a minimum of six jumps. We were scheduled to make ten including a night jump. That does not sound like a lot but that was only the total number of jumps taken during the promo. Throughout any given year we were expected to make some jumps every time a suitable aircraft paid a visit.

  Every two weeks a military transport aircraft equipped for parachuting visited the Regiment for four days of jumping. The airport at Calvi is less than 5 kilometres from the camp and the turn-round time for the aircraft between jumps is only thirty minutes. This meant an enormous number of jumps could be made by the Regiment over the four days. The drop zone was within the perimeter of the camp itself and during ‘jump week’ the activities of the Regiment revolved around the aim of getting as many jumps in by as many people as possible.

  The aircraft would be in the air from first light to dusk, with a two-hour midday break for the flight crew. That meant being ready to leave for the airport at six in the morning,
with the last jump around eight in the evening. It was a long day, but we were a parachute regiment and were better paid than the rest of the Army.

  The aircraft normally used was the C130 Transall made by France and Germany, and powered by Rolls Royce engines. It was similar to the Hercules but had the advantage of the landing wheels being housed in pods on the outside of the fuselage, unlike the Herc where the wheel bays encroach on the cabin space. It could also fly slower than the Herc, and having only two engines meant there was a lot less turbulence when exiting the aircraft.

  Our big day had arrived and we set off at about 7.30 am for the airport –no lorry for us, just a gentle 5kg jog to warm us up. As it was, we arrived at the embarkation site long before anyone else. The vehicle with the parachutes had not even arrived, in fact no one else had and we had to jump over the gate to get in. We had been up since 5.00 and it seemed as if half the day had passed already. The adrenaline was working overtime and I was really excited and nervous at the prospect of making my first jump.

  We were looking out to sea watching for the first sight of the plane, but what came out of the bright-blue sky was not what any of us had expected. It looked like a museum piece and it wasn’t until it landed and taxied up to where we were waiting that we realized this was the aircraft we would be jumping from. It was a 1950s Nord Atlas – a cigar with wings and two booms trailing back to the rear tail plane. It had radial engines like a Dakota which I thought it was when I first spotted the trails of black smoke when it was still about 5 miles out to sea.