Fighting for the French Foreign Legion Page 6

  The end results would have put a Harrods Christmas window to shame. A panel comprising senior officers and local dignitaries visited each crèche on the afternoon of the 24th and the result was announced just after midnight. The camp was open to the public on the afternoon of Christmas Day and the locals came in their hundreds to see them. It’s a very French thing but nice all the same to see how hard everyone worked and the pride they took in the end product. You didn’t have to be religious to enjoy taking part – it was all part of that special bond that is almost unique to the Legion.

  I was learning that a major part of the Legion philosophy was that every Legionnaire should feel a member of the large family that is the Legion. A mass was held on Christmas Eve for those who wished to attend and included the wives, partners and children of those who were of Caporal Chef rank and above. By nine in the evening all family members had to leave the camp and all military personnel spent the evening with their respective companies. We ate a collective meal and members of each company would put on the entertainment. It was amazing the range of hidden talent within the ranks – from classical pianists to good guitar players, singers and comedians. It was the only time when the ‘other ranks’ could take the mickey out of the officers.

  After the meal we all retired to our respective bars before ‘doing the rounds’. Our Captain was due to address the Company just after midnight and I was still in plaster. Drastic situations demand drastic measures. The doctor had said that he wouldn’t take the cast off before the thirty days had passed and my Captain had said, ‘If you’re still in plaster, you won’t be going anywhere. So I went to my room and set about it with a knife. It was a lot harder to cut through than I thought that it would be, but after half an hour of hard graft I was ‘cast free’. I put on as tight a strapping as I could, bearing in mind I had to get my shoe on. I then got back into my dress uniform and went to the main room in time for the Captain’s address.

  My ankle was very stiff, but at least it wasn’t particularly painful. My Lieutenant noticed immediately and called me over with a wave of his finger. All he said was, ‘I won’t ask, so don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, but the Captain will.’

  After the Captain’s address and he had wished us all a Happy Christmas, he called me over. There was no point in lying about what I had done, so in my basic French I told him what I had done, and my reasoning. When I had finished he said that he would delay any decision until I had seen the doctor – it was up to him to declare me fit or not. So far so good.

  The evening went well and I sat as much as possible to keep the weight off my ankle, but it was inevitable that I would bump into the doctor sooner or later. He took one look at me, wished me ‘A merry Christmas and be in my surgery first thing Monday morning,’ shook my hand and walked away. I enjoyed the rest of the evening and was able to rest up for most of Christmas Day.

  At eight o’clock on the Monday morning I was seated in the waiting room at the hospital. The doctor held the rank of Colonel and therefore I was dressed in full dress uniform. An hour later I was called into his consulting room. I did my best to explain my position, bearing in mind my limited command of the French language. He didn’t even examine me but ordered me out to run four laps of the 400-metre running track. He had a clear view from his window so I had no way of cheating. Normally the distance was nothing but I was in full uniform complete with kepi, and I suffered. It was painful and I was very hot, but despite that I kept up a good pace round the track. It was no use hobbling round as I had to persuade him that I was fit. I was soon back in his consulting room and he asked me if I had had any problems.

  The sweat was pouring off me but I said no. He looked at me for ages before he spoke. ‘On your own head be it,’ then he signed me off as fit for operations. No light duties, no recuperation time, just get on with it.

  I was greatly relieved even if I knew that it was not going to be easy. When I reported back to the Company the Captain had already spoken to the doctor on the phone. The Company was due to leave for Tchad in two weeks and he made it clear that I had until then to prove my fitness or he would leave me behind.

  There was much to do in preparation for our pending departure and little time for physical activities. I found that I was able to jog at a reasonable pace for relatively short distances and always made sure that I was up with the rest at the end of each run. I was aware that the pace was not being pushed to enable me to keep up. It was another demonstration of the solidarity and team spirit that exists within the Legion.

  The first few days were difficult but the pain in my ankle began to ease and I kept it well strapped to give it extra support. With the preparations completed we were given a week’s embarkation leave in Calvi. This was the first real break I had had since joining and I hadn’t even been into town. The weather was beautiful and it gave me a chance to recover while relaxing. Calvi was beautiful, and along with my friends we explored every bar and restaurant. We sat out on the terraces and soaked up the winter sun – just what the doctor ordered in more ways than one.

  On 15 January 1984, we flew out of Calvi to the French air base of Istre on the Mediterranean coast, just west of Marseille. After a two-hour stopover we embarked on two transport command DC8s for Tchad. I had not appreciated the great distances involved when travelling in Africa. I knew it was big, but not that big.

  We flew over Corsica and down the east coat of Sardinia towards Sicily.

  We then crossed over to Malta before heading south into Egyptian air space to give me my first look at the great African continent. We were flying at 25,000 feet, the sky was crystal clear and the sand of the desert spread out below us as far as we could see. The great dunes looked like the ripples of sand on a beach after the tide goes out. I knew from that very moment that I was about to experience something special.

  The flight took over four hours on a flight path that took us over the great city of Cairo before following the River Nile southwards. Somewhere over the Egyptian frontier with the Sudan we turned south-west on a direct heading for Tchad. As we passed over the Darfur mountains the aircraft began its descent towards the Tchadien capital, Ndjamena.

  When we had left in mid-afternoon it had been about 6°C (42°F); it was now dark and when we finally came to a halt, and the doors of the aircraft were opened, the heat hit us like a brick wall. It was late evening local time and 22°C (74°F). We were in Africa.

  After leaving the aircraft we had to pass through passport control. Officially I was now French, or at least that’s what the passport said, but we didn’t actually have to present them as we passed in front of the Tchadian official. He just welcomed us to his country with a nod. We then returned to the tarmac and began unloading the tons of freight we had brought with us on the aircraft.

  By the time we had finished it was 11.00 pm local time, and we were all tired and soaked to the skin with sweat. After we had eaten we were taken to a hangar where rows of camp beds were laid out. We had been up since 5.00 am and couldn’t care less where we put our heads down. They kept the hangar doors open to let in what little air there was but it was still stifling hot and the only godsend was that it was not yet the time of year for mosquitoes. I, like everyone else, was sound asleep within minutes of lying down.

  By 6.00 am we were up, had been fed, the beds had been put away and we were on lorries heading for what would be our base camp for the next four weeks. The road followed the great river Chari as we headed towards the outskirts of the capital. It was only a short ten-minute trip to the camp which looked out across the river which formed the frontier between Tchad and Cameroon.

  After settling into our new accommodation blocks, we were briefed on what our duties were, how we should behave to the local population and what the ‘rules of engagement’were. This was a country where ‘Black Africa met Arab Africa’, which was part of the problem.

  Our first priority was the protection of France’s interests, to ensure the safety of the European and American resid
ents and to assist the maintenance of law and order within the country. We would assist the Tchadian military to secure the frontiers of the country against any invasion, but we were not there to keep the existing government in power against the democratic wishes of the people.

  For most of the month we patrolled deeper and deeper into the desert without sight nor sound of any enemy. We soon became used to the dry heat of the day and the low temperatures at night. The sand gave up its heat quickly once the sun went down and woollen sweaters had to be worn in the evening. I had fallen in love with the desert – it was so clean and at first glance untouched by man. Nothing was left to waste, every last scrap being used by the few inhabitants who lived in this hostile and at times life threatening environment.

  Everything about the desert was impressive, particularly the size, the emptiness and the silence. At night there was no light pollution from towns or industry to obscure the night sky, which was filled with millions of stars – you could even watch the passage of satellites with the naked eye. I had never seen anything so amazing and it made me realize just how small mankind was. We were like one of the grains of sand in the desert we were standing in, such was the scale of things.

  Two days after we returned to the capital we were put on two hours’ standby, twenty-four hours a day. Word was coming in that a French Mirage reconnaissance fighter with a crew of two had been shot down deep inside Tchadian territory. We were immediately briefed to perform a search and rescue mission and to drive out the Libyan patrol that was suspected of being guilty of the attack. The incident had taken place in north-western Tchad, somewhere along the 16th parallel which traversed the country. To give an idea of the distances involved, if we set out overland, and assuming the enemy stayed where they were, it would take us three weeks to cross the desert to get there.

  Within an hour and a half of the alert we were airborne in a Transall heading for the town of Moussorro where there was a French forward air base. Even this was two hours’ flying time from the capital. From there it was planned that we would transfer to Puma helicopters for the rest of the mission. It was assumed by everyone that we would press on immediately in the hope of recovering the crew quickly. We didn’t know the status of the pilots and a quick recovery was essential as they could be under attack on the ground from the Libyan patrol.

  To our surprise we were put on hold while the logistics for the operation were put in place. The distances were so great that the helicopters would need to refuel out in the desert to be able to complete the mission. Tankers with a ground escort were already heading out to the rendezvous point, but it would take them a day at least to get there, which meant that the helicopters were going nowhere until they knew that they could be refueled. It also gave the diplomats time to try to defuse the situation, if only for the sake of the stranded pilots. We were told that they had ejected and that they were close to the downed aircraft. At least we had an exact location for the operation and would not have to search for them.

  Hours turned into two days before we were given the go-ahead, which must have given the attacking group plenty of time to get clear of the area. But ours was not to reason why, just to get on with it. The tankers were in place having being escorted across the desert by the 1ere REC, the Legion tank regiment whose home base was in Orange, just north of Avignon in southern France. They were equipped with six-wheeled armoured vehicles called RC10s, which were ideal for the sand. They had the ability to move over all types of terrain at high speed while having the firepower of a main battle tank with their 120mm guns.

  When we eventually took off, the four Pumas were escorted by two Gazelle helicopter gunships and there would be additional fighter cover in the area if required. As we neared the downed aircraft the Gazelles reported that there was no sign of the Libyans. They were long gone. We landed within a couple of hundred metres of the wreckage as we could not be sure that the Libyans had not left behind surprise presents such as mines, before withdrawing.

  From the tracks left in the sand it appeared that the attacking force had been made up of half a dozen 4x4 vehicles, probably Toyota Landcruiser pick-ups, which were the preferred form of transport in this part of the world, with 20mm anti-aircraft guns mounted on the back. The soldiers would have been armed with Russian or Chinese AK47 assault rifles and RPG7 shoulder-fired rockets. The rockets were simple but effective against soft-skinned vehicles but were of little use against armour. There are lots of more sophisticated weapons on the market, but you should never forget that it doesn’t matter a damn what kind of weapon kills you, you are dead and that’s that.

  There were no mines round the wreckage and we were clear to make our approach. It was clear that the crew had not survived the crash. The cockpit canopy was still in place and their bodies were strapped to their seats. The risk to us was that the ejector seats might be unstable. The aircraft was extensively damaged by the crash and there was evidence of it having been hit by a rocket. I think that they must have come in low for a closer look and a lucky shot with an RPG had brought it down. There had been no fire and the aircraft’s weapons were still in place, except for one missile which was found a short distance from the crash site. We had brought an expert with us and it took an hour before he was sure that it was safe to remove the bodies.

  We took photographs of the crash site and removed the two flight recorders. Further examination of the wreckage revealed multiple bullet holes which had penetrated the engine. We therefore took more photographs which could be used by the crash investigators. Nothing else could be salvaged so it was decided to destroy the aircraft with explosives. After the charges had been detonated we flew back low over the crash site. There was nothing left that would not be covered by the next sandstorm and that looked like being sooner than we had thought.

  The wind was beginning to rise and the sky had turned a greyish brown colour to the south, the direction we had to go to reach our refueling point. The pilots were keen to be on their way, but we were not even half an hour into the journey before the decision was made to land. By now there was a wall of sand towering into the sky across the whole of the horizon. The air intakes of the helicopter engines were covered and ropes tied to the rotor blades. Each rope was then tied round the waist of a Legionnaire who lay down in the sand with his back to the wind to wait the arrival of the storm.

  We all had the traditional headgear worn by the nomads, called a ‘sech’. This was a yard-long piece of fine woven cloth that you wrapped round your head like a turban. When the wind and sand got up you covered your mouth and ears with it to keep out the sand. The fine weave acted as a barrier but let you breath. We also had sand goggles although you couldn’t even see your hand when you held it up in front of your face.

  The temperature had risen dramatically and was now well into the mid-40s (120°F). It was difficult to breath and the sand was building up at my back like a snowdrift protecting me from the force of the wind. It was not a pleasant experience.

  The worst of the storm passed over us within half an hour but we had to wait another couple of hours until the sand in the air had settled enough to let us take the covers off the engines. The finer particles of sand, which were suspended in the air, would have clogged the engines in seconds. We just had to be patient, something every soldier needs to be. There is a military saying: ‘Hurry up and wait’.

  The remainder of the journey back to base was uneventful but it took us several hours to clean all our equipment. A blocked rifle caused by a man not taking the time to clean it properly could cost him his life. We had all found another use for one of man’s greatest inventions, the condom – you simply slipped it over the barrel of your rifle and kept it in place with an elastic band. It kept everything out just as efficiently as it kept everything in. If you had to use it in a hurry you didn’t even have to take it off unless you were firing blanks – no pun intended.

  Our next deployment took us to the north-eastern part of the country where we occupied an old fort at the
small town of Iriba, which was a meeting point for the camel trains which still cross the Sahara. There was a good, deep, freshwater well on the outskirts of the town which was the sole reason for the town’s existence. The entrance to the fort had been built at the turn of the century from red brick. I have no idea where the bricks came from as there was nothing like it for hundreds of miles. I can only assume that every last brick had been brought in on the back of a camel.

  There was a desert landing strip about 5 miles out of the town which was used to fly in supplies for the base. This was the only direct link with the outside world – it took at least a month to get there overland. There were no roads as we know them, only mile after mile of sand with not a single feature to guide you. All navigation out here was done by the sun, the stars and today with the aid of a good GPS system. Such a thing was unheard of in 1984 and a compass was the only technical aid we could rely on. The airstrip was no more than half a mile of flat sand, there were no buildings and the only landing aids were tins of oil that we lit if visibility was poor. Night landings were for emergencies only. It was a strange part of the country with pyramid-style hills dotted about the landscape several miles apart. The nearest one to the landing strip was about half a mile away and about 900 feet high; it dominated the landscape with commanding views in all directions. An observation post was established on the top and was manned day and night. We made shelters from the sun with tarpaulins stretched between the rocks, then dusted them with sand to camouflage the site. Each group did a week’s guard duty, but it was very hot, cramped and boring.

  Very little happened in the area and we organized lizard races to keep ourselves amused. The greatest danger was sunburn and dehydration, and we had to have water brought out to us every day as it was important to keep up our fluid intake. A couple of the lads had to descend to the foot of the hill every morning to collect the supplies and it was no joke climbing back up in the heat. We always tried to do it while the sun cast a shadow over that side of the hill.