Hakluyt
01-24-2006, 07:04 AM
http://www.guardian.co.uk/guardianweekly/story/0,12674,1689215,00.html
'Our only allegiance was to the Legion'
Erwin James
Guardian Weekly
"Being a legionnaire is easy," said the captain, "and being a civilian is easy. It is the change from being a civilian to becoming a legionnaire that some find difficult." It was a month since I had walked into the recruitment office of the Légion Etrangère in the heart of the Citadelle in Lille, northern France. The night before, I'd got drunk on cheap wine and fallen asleep in an alley. A kind soul had thrown a piece of old carpet over me which had protected me from the heavy January frost and probably kept me alive. Grimy and bedraggled, I limped out on to the main thoroughfare to enlist in my new life.
After leaving behind a trail of devastation, and the prospect of many years in prison in Britain, I had come to France join the Foreign Legion.
Reading the reports earlier this month about "flabby" British recruits being put to shame in the Legion by battle-hardened eastern Europeans, I had a sharp pang of nostalgia. For I remember how grateful I was as a young man, many years ago, when the Legion offered me the chance of a way out of deep trouble. I had led a reckless and undisciplined life, and was in very poor physical and mental condition. Most of what I had heard about the Legion had left me feeling that it was a place where only desperate men would go. Well, I was certainly desperate.
It was 5.30am and still dark as the captain, flanked by a sergeant and three scowling corporals, continued his welcoming address. He had already given our sleepy-eyed group, his latest batch of volunteers, the same speech in French, Spanish and German, his native tongue. We learned later that he was fluent in nine languages. My section, 40-strong, had arrived at the Legion's basic training camp in Castelnaudary, close to the Spanish border, the day before. We had already been through three weeks of rigorous physical and psychological assessments, including interrogations by members of the Legion's secret police, the Deuxième Bureau, hunting for criminals on behalf of Interpol. We were told that only one in 12 applicants made it to basic training.
On that first morning at Castel we were ordered to lay out our kit neatly in front of us on groundsheets, ready, we thought, for the captain's inspection. "We are going to help you make the change," the captain continued, "but you will have to work very hard." Without warning the corporals began kicking our shiny new kit in all directions.
A Chilean recruit named Garcia, with whom I'd become friendly, swore in Spanish. Two of the corporals raced at him and began screaming into his face. "Seulement français! Seulement français!" They pushed him to the ground and screamed again, "Allez! Pompez!" Garcia was made to do push-ups while we gathered our stuff together. Then we were ordered to change into PE kit for the first of what were to become regular dawn runs. Garcia was still struggling with his push-ups when we returned, exhausted, an hour later. Our first lesson: on no account were we allowed to speak anything other than French, even when we swore.
Our instruction was to last for four months. On the whole we were a motley crew: some tall, some skinny, many flabby, a few who were quite fit. Around half the section were French. There were a number of Germans, a man from Iceland, another from Sri Lanka and one other Brit. We formed strong bonds as we marched through the foothills of the Pyrenees, shot at targets on the rifle ranges with our Famas 5.56s, and broke the ice for weekly swims in the local reservoir - relentlessly urged on by the corporals, one of whom, a big Tahitian, had only one eye but could shoot his rifle more accurately than anyone else in the regiment. We were punched and kicked, made to dig holes and then fill them in for no discernible reason, and regularly dragged out of our bunks in the early hours and made to march and sing around the quadrangle under floodlights. And we undertook the "képi march", the hardest task of all.
The trek lasts for four days and nights, through the Pyrenean foothills, during which we stopped only for brief moments of respite and sporadic bouts of sleep. When it was over, we lit a huge bonfire and drank wine and sang our Legion songs until it was time for our captain to present each of us with our képi, the famous Legion white cap. "You must wear it with honour and fidélité," he instructed. "A vos ordres, mon capitaine!" we replied in chorus. By then, the differences in our backgrounds, or the condition we'd been in before, had little relevance. Those of us with the will (in my case, the desperation) to succeed had been taken in, revitalised, reprogrammed and finally regurgitated as fully fledged legionnaires.
There were 28 of us left in the section at the end of the four months (nine had deserted and three were hospitalised and medically discharged). Those of us who remained were fitter and healthier than we had ever been in our lives, and as close as a family, an ideal that the Legion deliberately sets out to achieve.
From Castel we were dispersed to regiments around the world: Djibouti, French Guiana, Tahiti . . . some went to regiments in mainland France. I was dispatched to Corsica to join the 2ème Régiment étranger de parachutistes - the Legion's only parachute regiment. We took the ferry from Marseille to Ajaccio, our new kepis gleaming in the May sunshine.
Our teachers were fiercer and even less forgiving than those at Castel. Getting us out of bed in the early hours to don parachutes and jump off bedside lockers was a favourite jape. "Allez! Saut!" Loading our Bergens with rocks for the "sac à dos", the 8km run with full pack, was another. It was a relief when the time came for us to jump for real from a Transall C160 transport plane. Two months later, in summer 1982, we were in Beirut, helping to keep the peace.
Our only allegiance was to the Legion. But it was hard not to feel for the plight of the civilian population. The eternal sunshine and clear blue sky seemed to shed an incongruous light on this battle-scarred city. The mission in Beirut complete, we returned to Calvi to be presented with our Médaille d'Outre-Mer (overseas medal) and Médaille Défense National. We were "bluebeats" (novices) no longer.
From then on we spent our time training - endlessly. The regime was full and rigorous, with every type of sport or hobby available, but living in constant anticipation of a mission d'outre-mer could also be tedious. When the tours were over we returned to Corsica to enjoy three weeks of leave, before settling back into a life of constant preparation and training. I found that being a legionnaire presented an ordered way of life that offered the possibility of redemption from past sins and failures. For me, it was the family I had never had.
When, in 1983, the orders came for us to go to Chad to support the Chadian government against Libyan-backed rebels, we expected real conflict. "C'est la guerre" echoed through the camp, a mixture of excitement and anticipation of serious conflict. It turned out not to be the case exactly - there was a war, it just wasn't our war. But we loved being legionnaires in the desert. For young men like me, who didn't really belong anywhere else, it was like being given a home.
A few months later I was arrested and never saw my comrades again. I never forgot what I gained from the Legion. It got me through the difficult times that were waiting. If Brits are failing in basic training now, it's not because they are not in good condition. It's because they don't need to be there badly enough.
Erwin James served 20 years of a life sentence before being released in August 2004
'Our only allegiance was to the Legion'
Erwin James
Guardian Weekly
"Being a legionnaire is easy," said the captain, "and being a civilian is easy. It is the change from being a civilian to becoming a legionnaire that some find difficult." It was a month since I had walked into the recruitment office of the Légion Etrangère in the heart of the Citadelle in Lille, northern France. The night before, I'd got drunk on cheap wine and fallen asleep in an alley. A kind soul had thrown a piece of old carpet over me which had protected me from the heavy January frost and probably kept me alive. Grimy and bedraggled, I limped out on to the main thoroughfare to enlist in my new life.
After leaving behind a trail of devastation, and the prospect of many years in prison in Britain, I had come to France join the Foreign Legion.
Reading the reports earlier this month about "flabby" British recruits being put to shame in the Legion by battle-hardened eastern Europeans, I had a sharp pang of nostalgia. For I remember how grateful I was as a young man, many years ago, when the Legion offered me the chance of a way out of deep trouble. I had led a reckless and undisciplined life, and was in very poor physical and mental condition. Most of what I had heard about the Legion had left me feeling that it was a place where only desperate men would go. Well, I was certainly desperate.
It was 5.30am and still dark as the captain, flanked by a sergeant and three scowling corporals, continued his welcoming address. He had already given our sleepy-eyed group, his latest batch of volunteers, the same speech in French, Spanish and German, his native tongue. We learned later that he was fluent in nine languages. My section, 40-strong, had arrived at the Legion's basic training camp in Castelnaudary, close to the Spanish border, the day before. We had already been through three weeks of rigorous physical and psychological assessments, including interrogations by members of the Legion's secret police, the Deuxième Bureau, hunting for criminals on behalf of Interpol. We were told that only one in 12 applicants made it to basic training.
On that first morning at Castel we were ordered to lay out our kit neatly in front of us on groundsheets, ready, we thought, for the captain's inspection. "We are going to help you make the change," the captain continued, "but you will have to work very hard." Without warning the corporals began kicking our shiny new kit in all directions.
A Chilean recruit named Garcia, with whom I'd become friendly, swore in Spanish. Two of the corporals raced at him and began screaming into his face. "Seulement français! Seulement français!" They pushed him to the ground and screamed again, "Allez! Pompez!" Garcia was made to do push-ups while we gathered our stuff together. Then we were ordered to change into PE kit for the first of what were to become regular dawn runs. Garcia was still struggling with his push-ups when we returned, exhausted, an hour later. Our first lesson: on no account were we allowed to speak anything other than French, even when we swore.
Our instruction was to last for four months. On the whole we were a motley crew: some tall, some skinny, many flabby, a few who were quite fit. Around half the section were French. There were a number of Germans, a man from Iceland, another from Sri Lanka and one other Brit. We formed strong bonds as we marched through the foothills of the Pyrenees, shot at targets on the rifle ranges with our Famas 5.56s, and broke the ice for weekly swims in the local reservoir - relentlessly urged on by the corporals, one of whom, a big Tahitian, had only one eye but could shoot his rifle more accurately than anyone else in the regiment. We were punched and kicked, made to dig holes and then fill them in for no discernible reason, and regularly dragged out of our bunks in the early hours and made to march and sing around the quadrangle under floodlights. And we undertook the "képi march", the hardest task of all.
The trek lasts for four days and nights, through the Pyrenean foothills, during which we stopped only for brief moments of respite and sporadic bouts of sleep. When it was over, we lit a huge bonfire and drank wine and sang our Legion songs until it was time for our captain to present each of us with our képi, the famous Legion white cap. "You must wear it with honour and fidélité," he instructed. "A vos ordres, mon capitaine!" we replied in chorus. By then, the differences in our backgrounds, or the condition we'd been in before, had little relevance. Those of us with the will (in my case, the desperation) to succeed had been taken in, revitalised, reprogrammed and finally regurgitated as fully fledged legionnaires.
There were 28 of us left in the section at the end of the four months (nine had deserted and three were hospitalised and medically discharged). Those of us who remained were fitter and healthier than we had ever been in our lives, and as close as a family, an ideal that the Legion deliberately sets out to achieve.
From Castel we were dispersed to regiments around the world: Djibouti, French Guiana, Tahiti . . . some went to regiments in mainland France. I was dispatched to Corsica to join the 2ème Régiment étranger de parachutistes - the Legion's only parachute regiment. We took the ferry from Marseille to Ajaccio, our new kepis gleaming in the May sunshine.
Our teachers were fiercer and even less forgiving than those at Castel. Getting us out of bed in the early hours to don parachutes and jump off bedside lockers was a favourite jape. "Allez! Saut!" Loading our Bergens with rocks for the "sac à dos", the 8km run with full pack, was another. It was a relief when the time came for us to jump for real from a Transall C160 transport plane. Two months later, in summer 1982, we were in Beirut, helping to keep the peace.
Our only allegiance was to the Legion. But it was hard not to feel for the plight of the civilian population. The eternal sunshine and clear blue sky seemed to shed an incongruous light on this battle-scarred city. The mission in Beirut complete, we returned to Calvi to be presented with our Médaille d'Outre-Mer (overseas medal) and Médaille Défense National. We were "bluebeats" (novices) no longer.
From then on we spent our time training - endlessly. The regime was full and rigorous, with every type of sport or hobby available, but living in constant anticipation of a mission d'outre-mer could also be tedious. When the tours were over we returned to Corsica to enjoy three weeks of leave, before settling back into a life of constant preparation and training. I found that being a legionnaire presented an ordered way of life that offered the possibility of redemption from past sins and failures. For me, it was the family I had never had.
When, in 1983, the orders came for us to go to Chad to support the Chadian government against Libyan-backed rebels, we expected real conflict. "C'est la guerre" echoed through the camp, a mixture of excitement and anticipation of serious conflict. It turned out not to be the case exactly - there was a war, it just wasn't our war. But we loved being legionnaires in the desert. For young men like me, who didn't really belong anywhere else, it was like being given a home.
A few months later I was arrested and never saw my comrades again. I never forgot what I gained from the Legion. It got me through the difficult times that were waiting. If Brits are failing in basic training now, it's not because they are not in good condition. It's because they don't need to be there badly enough.
Erwin James served 20 years of a life sentence before being released in August 2004