My ears are still ringing, so strange was the sound the
first time I heard it. I had reached for my Képi, the meeting with my
commanding officer – the company captain – drawing to a close. As I raised my
arrow-straight hand to my right temple stating firmly; “Je peux disposer, a vos
ordres Mon. Capitaine”, with a friendly grin he called after me; “Vas-y, casse-toi
O’Shea!”.
O’Shea. My name. My real name. It was the first time I’d been called it in over four years. For four years I had masqueraded under a false identity. Or rather, a false real identity. The change of persona could be traced all the way back to my very first day in the Legion. Stepping hesitantly through the wrought iron gates of Fort de Nogent in Paris, climbing the creaking wooden stairs to a fourth floor corridor where we lined up like sweating, quivering dominos awaiting the fateful clobber to send us slamming sequentially into the cold, hard tiled floor. The clobber never came. Instead we were called one by one into an office where a thin Chinese corporal sat motionless behind a jaded plastic desk. Standing before him, understanding the blunt gestures more than the sporadic French words being hurled across the cluttered surface, we each stripped down to our underwear, slowly turned a full 360° to satisfy the standard concerns regarding illicit substances or dangerous items. My own eyelid flutter frisking over with, I dressed myself before sitting down to answer some routine questions across the desk.
And then I saw the post-it. A small square slip of sticky yellow paper was unceremoniously (a word one could use to describe almost every part of the interaction) shoved towards me. Nothing cluttered about the post-it, mind you. It was in fact refreshingly simplistic. New name, new date of birth. Voila! Memorise it, toss it, Bob’s your uncle. I had gone from Dermot O’Shea, born on 10th May 1986 to Mark Ogilvie, born on 9th June 1986. City of birth changed from Dublin to Cork. Parents’ names, mother’s maiden name, everything switched up for what seemed like the fuck of it. As if I didn’t already have enough to process on my first day inside the Legion’s walls.
O’Shea. My name. My real name. It was the first time I’d been called it in over four years. For four years I had masqueraded under a false identity. Or rather, a false real identity. The change of persona could be traced all the way back to my very first day in the Legion. Stepping hesitantly through the wrought iron gates of Fort de Nogent in Paris, climbing the creaking wooden stairs to a fourth floor corridor where we lined up like sweating, quivering dominos awaiting the fateful clobber to send us slamming sequentially into the cold, hard tiled floor. The clobber never came. Instead we were called one by one into an office where a thin Chinese corporal sat motionless behind a jaded plastic desk. Standing before him, understanding the blunt gestures more than the sporadic French words being hurled across the cluttered surface, we each stripped down to our underwear, slowly turned a full 360° to satisfy the standard concerns regarding illicit substances or dangerous items. My own eyelid flutter frisking over with, I dressed myself before sitting down to answer some routine questions across the desk.
And then I saw the post-it. A small square slip of sticky yellow paper was unceremoniously (a word one could use to describe almost every part of the interaction) shoved towards me. Nothing cluttered about the post-it, mind you. It was in fact refreshingly simplistic. New name, new date of birth. Voila! Memorise it, toss it, Bob’s your uncle. I had gone from Dermot O’Shea, born on 10th May 1986 to Mark Ogilvie, born on 9th June 1986. City of birth changed from Dublin to Cork. Parents’ names, mother’s maiden name, everything switched up for what seemed like the fuck of it. As if I didn’t already have enough to process on my first day inside the Legion’s walls.
Now I’ll be honest here; I’m still not 100% sure on the
reasons for the Legion changing recruits’ names upon enlistment. The
possibility of a man seeking refuge and anonymity with the Legion’s ranks under
a false identity has long been “known” and was more or less true (give or take
a few technicalities regarding qualifying criteria). But this blanket policy?
Sorry but I’ve never truly discovered one all-encompassing indisputable answer.
My best educated guess was a certain facility to shut down bank accounts, write-off
unpaid taxes/loans and basically erase the record of a deserter in the event
that their fleeing left a trail of administrative headaches in its wake. In the
last 30 years the Legion has gone from having enlistment under a false identity
as an option to having it compulsory and then back to optional again but so
much so that only exceptional cases need even think of requesting the
change-up.
Today men sign up under their real names, real date of
birth, everything. Yet the photo ID presented at recruitment (passport,
national ID card) only serves to get them in under their real details in a
preliminary sense. Their “situation” is not yet deemed “regular” by the French
Ministry of Defense until they can provide an approved French translation of
their birth certificate. Obtaining one of these can prove significantly harder
for some than for others. I held off on presenting my own as, to be honest, I
never really envisaged myself staying in France beyond my Legion contract.
Hence no desire to dive into the paper-clip minefield of entrusting the Legion
with correctly handling my bureaucratic needs. Direct experience (certainly in
my particular combat company) has left some singed fingers to say the least.
Yet as is always the case, circumstances change and I now
find myself – after more than 4 years serving under and replying without
hesitation to a fake name – back in my own skin. A relief, certainly, but in
keeping with the Legion’s “two sides to every coin” policy, it has also proved
in indefatigable headache. My military ID has been changed back to my real
name, but I’m still awaiting the updating of my bank account details. This
renders any attempt at over-the-counter bank transactions in the meantime
futile. My ID doesn’t match the account holder’s name. Until my bank account is
updated, my mobile phone contract remains under the old name too. So I have
Orange France ringing up asking to speak to a Mr. Ogilvie for the next while at
least. The eager wait stretches further to include the updating of everything
from PayPal to iTunes accounts, all previously set up under the old name – that
which appears on the credit card – as, until the new credit card in my real
name arrives, I can’t very well change the accounts. My taxes can’t be paid
either until the bank account’s sorted. I’ve been assured the wait won’t
surpass an inordinate period of delay. We shall see.
For now, at least, the outwardly visible bipolarity has been
carved down to size, with my age-old party trick of producing my military ID
and passport showing the same photo under different identities being resigned
to the archive of mildly-amusing ice-breakers.
Now to figure out to handle the inward bipolarity. All
suggestions welcome. That, and patiently correct all colleagues who
mis-pronounce my name. I mean, it’s not that hard, is it? Sheesh!
