Overstaying Welcomes

I’d never been so happy to enter a French Foreign Legion base. Typical emotions encountered upon crossing the metal gates of any one of the Legion regiments can range from dread to disillusionment and no further. Joy? Now that was a new one. The contrast between this, my final week in the Legion, and my first traversing of the security barrier of the headquarters of La Légion Étrangère was incalculable. Then, hand trembling, watching my passport being torn from my humid grip, not knowing what would happen next. Now, strolling out past the security gate with a casual nod to the corporal chef on duty, not……..knowing what would happen next either, actually.

It’s been exactly two weeks since I left the Legion, and only now have I plucked up the courage to write this, my final blog. The medals have been packed away, the parting photos held briefly on the iPhone for a few nostalgic glances before being committed to the annals of hard-drive history. Here I sit in my new house in Dublin, anxious beyond words to advance to the next chapter of my life but incapable of doing so, until this one has been properly, officially closed.

That last week at Aubagne, the headquarters of the French Foreign Legion, was one of the most surreal of the past five years. And that’s saying something. I had arrived with a Moldovan colleague, with whom I’d begun my adventure in Aubagne back in 2008. Once back at HQ, we encountered two more friends from basic training who had each embarked on different journeys over the course of their contracts. Four, in total. Four, from an original forty-six. Granted, three guys had left through the front gates a week earlier, which brought the total number of 5-and-out to seven. Seven who completed our contracts and moved on. About eight or so raised their hands to leave before the end of basic training. Following on from that, and by our own more-or-less accurate calculations, another twelve or so had deserted over the course of the five years. That leaves more than half of our co-trainees having signed on to continue their careers.

The atmosphere amongst the departing was one of calm and light-heartedness, with a grand total of eighteen soldiers wrapping up careers of varying lengths, the youngest of course being ourselves, clocking out at five, the oldest being an Adjudant Chef who managed to rack up a staggering 35 years of service. Respect was maintained among the ranks but with a far less formal air. Handshakes were heartier, jokes more honestly laughed at, everyone buzzing with excitement at closing the book on their legion stories. The week was spent sauntering from office to office, confirming our decisions, our personal details, our future plans, our addresses abroad to forward mail to, and so on.

I’m sorry, but fuck this!

All these banal details, bland, lifeless descriptions, this isn’t how it was when I first started this blog. There was more life to my writing, more self-indulgence in the images and pictures painted by my oftentimes-convoluted words and phrases. And to be honest, I miss that. I miss being submerged in the Legion, not knowing day from night, forward from back, down from up. Paddling uncertainly through a murky abyss, a crushing yet strangely comforting pressure enveloping me from all sides. It was peaceful down there, in its own chaotic way. The sharks would bump but never bite, the electric eels slither slimily through legs and around necks, toying and teasing without ever delivering that fatal shock. It was a weird sort of rush, to delude oneself into thinking it was dangerous for the sole purpose of excitement and adrenaline, only to unwaveringly recognize the security it provided, those deep, dark murky waters of the abyss, where every rock peppering the ocean floor was painted a brilliant white, all bundled together to spell “Honneur et Fidelité”.

Two weeks ago, I broke the surface and crawled through white-crest waves crashing down around me, relentlessly calling me back in to the ocean, sweeping my hands out from under me, rolling backwards and pulling desperately at me. I made it to dry land, peeled off my wetsuit hoping for a long-overdue chance to stretch and breathe. Instead I was met with a rush of cold, a goose-pimpling chill to replace the envelope of cosy deep-sea pressure. Joining the French Foreign Legion was the hardest thing I had ever done, until it came time to leave.

Not that I was ever tempted to stay. Five is five, no more no less, that’s what I said because that’s what I meant. That certainty, however, doesn’t cushion the blow as that cold rush of air hits your bare skin and you realize “I’m out!”. I’m out, on the outside, the gates clanked shut behind me, resonating in defiance at another soul lost, another man down, another Képi shoved unceremoniously into the back of a dusty wardrobe in some rented flat in some far-away city, far from the Legion, far from the sea.

Make no mistake: these past five years have been the most incredible, illuminating, heart-soaring and soul crushing, intensely beautiful, boring and bone-shuddering of my entire life. Every second, every minute, every hour, day, month and year of my service morphed into one single entity the moment I crossed those iron gates for the very last time. I have loved every second, minute, hour, day, month and year, because I have loved my time as a legionnaire so profoundly, so completely, and with more pride than one can imagine. I’ve met some of the most remarkable people this planet has to offer, not only because of what they did before joining the Legion, but because of having served therein. It is a unique and exclusive brotherhood, and in spite of my differences with many of them, brothers they shall forever remain.

This blog has been an amazing adventure, and through it I’ve grown immensely as a human being, as a soldier, a writer and a general GC (Kiwis, take note). I’ve thoroughly enjoyed corresponding with the numerous messages and comments directed my way. Never seen as a crutch in which to embellish my oftentimes mundane exploits, I’ve found writing this blog to have been more like a strong cupped hand beneath the sole of my boot, pushing me upward to a superior vantage point, my sole responsibility to holler down to you, the reader, calling out everything I see from across the great high wall that encircles this magnificent institution. I hope I have served you all as well as I have the nation of France, her people, and of course my fellow brothers-in-arms.

The next chapter of my life lies as yet unwritten, as shall this blog from this point onwards and forever more. I would like to thank every single person who has laid eyes on my words from the very bottom of my heart. It has been quite a ride.

Bon courage, et rappelez-vous tous:

Légionnaire un jour, Légionnaire toujours.

Dermot

Come Clean

Being in the Legion, being a Legionnaire, does not make you a certified commando by default. The Legion is not an “elite” fighting force in the traditional sense of the word. Our tactics are those of the French Army, our equipment equally so. We begin military life at an immediate disadvantage due to our linguistic incompetence. We suffer collectively for the ineptitude of one, even more so than in any “normal” army. Here, the group punishments take on an altogether nastier disguise, encouraging cohesion not in the name of dragging our flailing comrade through the mire with us, but rather in the hope that the mass turns on the one and forces him back out through the gate he came in. Some call it natural selection but, in the context of what the Legion stands for, it’s more a contradiction of the fabled camaraderie rumoured to permeate the hallowed halls of this mysterious institution.

Our strength isn’t found in being the fittest soldiers or fiercest fighters, because we are not. It comes from being the most mentally rustic and resistant of any armed force, anywhere. Every man has his breaking point. Push him too far and he’ll either snap or just collapse in a heap, refusing to go any further. A soldier’s limit is undoubtedly much, much higher than a normal person, but it exists nonetheless. A legionnaire’s limit, however? Word has it the search continues, but so far to no avail. That’s not to say we accomplish every task we set out to do, but we certainly wouldn’t dream of giving up until the order comes in to cease fire, down tools and regroup.

A resource readily available to most legionnaires to help them through the tougher times in the Legion is the “mafia”. This is a fairly unremarkable phenomenon in any environment that hosts large multinational groups of young men whereby legionnaires sharing the same nationality (or, at the very least, the same language) gravitate towards one another at mealtimes during the working day and for socializing after working hours. The largest mafias at 2REG were the Chinese, Malagasy, “Russian” (ie. any Russian-speaking Eastern European country), Romanian and Nepalese (believe it or not). The historical Mafia Anglaise was conspicuous in its absence at 2REG, hidden as it was up in the mountains and a long way from its spiritual home on Corsica where the Legion paratroopers proudly flew the English-speaking flag. Chez moi, there was but a mere handful of English-speaking legionnaires and, due to the contingent spanning various ranks and alcohol-tolerance levels, solidarity was at a premium. Oh, and naturally I was the only Irishman there. Time, it seemed, to mingle indiscriminately.

Cut to Djibouti, November 2009. It was my first overseas tour with the Legion. I had little more than a year’s service and was excited beyond imagining. Arriving at the Legion regiment there, the 13ème DBLE, we found ourselves sharing the base with a company from 2REP. Amidst their ranks were no less than four fellow Irishmen, the first I’d encountered in almost a year and a half in the Legion. I was dying to chat with a few lads from home, lapse back into my old Dublin lilt and have a bit of craic in the bar kicking back and talking shite. Imagine my surprise when the famous Repmen turned out to be less than welcoming, looking me up and down in the same way a pride of hungry male lions would eye a new cub, half in derision half in a chest-puffing display of dominance and territory marking. I was expecting a warm handshake and a bit of a chin-wag, but the fact that I came from a lowly engineering regiment seemed already enough of an excuse to exile me. I thought nothing of it, having my close friends from my section to hang out with. I’d gotten by without a mafia of any sort for this long, after all.

Among the various activities planned for our four-month stay was the fabled CECAP (Centre d’Entrainement au Combat à Arta Plage). This 3-week intensive training course took place in a remote area of Djibouti bordering the ocean, combining elements of tactical training and firing exercises with a host of physical challenges including an aquatic obstacle course and the infamous “Voie de l’Inonscience”, a grueling obstacle course for which the focal point was a gigantic drainpipe one had to climb up. I had spent the first two months in Djibouti trying desperately to improve my upper body strength for this challenge. You see, I was never the strongest in the arm department. Running like a thoroughbred has its advantages in the Legion, but is essentially not worth a thing if you’re left flailing half way up a rope or hanging from a pull-up bar. I had serious progress to make if I was going to climb this thing, and so I set to work.

When the day of judgment arrived, I was more than a little nervous and sure enough, when it came to the giant drainpipe I was hopeless. On top of my failure was the indignity of having torn the flesh off the backs of my hands in my vain attempts to wrap my hands desperately around this pipe and drag myself up. I was bloodied, beaten, bowed and defeated. Not bad enough that the vast majority of lads made it up and received their medal at the end, but now relations with the Irish guys had deteriorated to the point where a handshake upon crossing them during the day was now unthinkable. Four months after returning from Djibouti I created this blog. A few posts in, just before deploying to Afghanistan, I received a delightful comment from the boys thatyou can see here. I probably would’ve become militantly anti-REP if it wasn’t for the fact that a close mate from basic training was there and thus was on hand to continuously offer small insights into the mentality over there.

At the end of the course, after the ceremony to pin the badges of completion on the successful legionnaires, my platoon sergeant came over to me. “What happened out there?” he enquired calmly? “Je ne sais pas quoi dire, Chef….” I responded meekly. He chuckled, seeing my utter dejection at having not climbed up a drainpipe in the middle of the desert. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me that he’d seen me busting my balls the past few months in preparation for this course. He then took his own medal out of his pocket and put it in my hand, telling me that – although I couldn’t wear it on my uniform – I’d earned it. Then, as he got up to walk off he mused, “In any case, there aren’t any giant fucking drainpipes in Afghanistan”.

That medal has been one of my most prized possessions over the years, if only because of the person who handed it to me, with his other hand on my shoulder. A hand on my shoulder that I had naively hoped for from my more senior, higher ranked Irish compatriots. If anything it made me more proud and determined to interact with all my Legion colleagues regardless of race, creed, nationality. Fuck the mafias.

Legio Patria Nostra.

Tearless, Fearless, so why so Strange?

If I’m honest, I might have expected more emotion. Not that leaving behind my home of 5 years, my regiment in the isolated alpine foothills with scorching summers and apocalyptic winters wasn’t an emotionally charged experience, but rather how I was surprised the experience manifested itself less as a sustained sensation and more in short bursts of euphoric highs followed by gaping nothings. Every parting handshake spread across the past month or so sent a brief message to my brain, telling it “This is the last time you’ll ever shake this hand, see this face, hear this voice”, a message momentarily heeded and cherished, before being unceremoniously discarded, seeing itself wiped directly off the hard-drive, not even lingering in the recycle bin, if only for a while, for old times ‘sake.

Navigating the final few weeks of my contract here in the French Foreign Legion was a rather surreal affair. Surreal and extremely monotonous. I was left to my own devices to an obscene level, the plethora of time-tabled activities no longer concerning me as preparation for another 4-month mission in French Guiana erupted, exploded and cascaded all around me, trapping young recruits and seasoned, wearied veterans in its eerie, stubbornly incessant flow. Apart from morning sport, I was required for nothing save the occasional consultation of my leaving dossier, whereby they’d request a photocopy of some document before liberating back into the custody of my room and laptop. Freedom appeared more of a prison than the daily routine of the guys trucking onwards with their contracts. A seed of doubt for some, a cunning trick worth recognizing as such for others. I didn’t waiver, couldn’t so close to the end. My guns had been stuck to this far, not long to go now.

In spite of my differences with my platoon commander, when the time came for my “official” leaving party, and I was called upon to step forward and receive my parting gift, he spoke rather eloquently and without malice. Irrespective of the presence of the company captain and other lieutenants, I found his words to carry a sincerity all the same, as if – this close to the end – it was mere water under the bridge. I graciously accepted my gift (an ornate knife with my rank and name engraved in the blade), shook his hand firmly, and attempted to slip back into the crowd. Alas, a speech was demanded, and I accepted the challenge willingly (surprise surprise!!!). To paraphrase the main gist, I stated my firm belief that, whether leaving or staying beyond the five years, to each their own so long as you’re sure of your choice. I thanked everyone present for having contributed to my time at the 3^rd company of 2REG, and wished them all the best for the future. Nice, neat, diplomatic. I may just run for office one day!

That, of course, was the “official” party where we, the soon-to-be-departed invite all the big wigs and superiors to bid us farewell. The ACTUAL leaving party was held the night before and how the young legionnaires (naturally charged with the mission of cleaning up after the corporals’ messy arses) managed to render it presentable the next morning is a wonder. Knee-deep blankets of broken bottles enveloped the tiled floor as the music and beer flowed to almighty levels, the Corporal Chef overseeing the “safety” of the event being quickly exiled to the corridor as we locked the door to crank proceedings up a notch. Watching some of the videos the next day extracted more than a few sheepish expressions, but no doubt further down the line those expressions will turn from sheepish to sheer pride and nostalgia.

In the present, when the Friday arrived I climbed on to the bus for the last time, pulled out through the gates of my regiment for the last time, and instead of sleeping the entire journey to the train station my eyes stayed wide and searching, across the mountainous countryside, winding down through the various picturesque towns and villages. I listened more keenly than ever to the almost unfathomably wide range of languages and accents colouring the journey, soaking it all up, taking it all in.

I might have been slightly perplexed at the lack of poignancy. Give it time…..

Ring-in the Rung

On Tuesday 2^nd July 2013 my company swore in its new captain. He is, for me, the fifth company commander under whom I’ve served in as many years. No mean feat, given that the tenure of said post is two years. How, then, did one company come to have five captains in five years? Allow me to explain.

I arrived at my regiment – 2REG (or “2ème Régiment Étranger de Génie” which translates as 2^nd Foreign Engineering Regiment) in January of 2009. We were six in total, having been freshly dispatched from basic training to the mountains. Four of us were volunteers, finishing in the top ten of our class. The other two were unceremoniously bundled in for the purposes of filling free slots. Out of those six, three have signed on to continue their Legion careers (two remaining at regiment for now, the third having been reassigned to our Paris recruiting office), one succeeded in terminating his contract early, citing psychological issues, and two of us will be rolling up to Aubagne in four weeks’ time to bid farewell to the FFL.

Landing on the doorstep of our company way back in that January of 2009, our first port of call was naturally to the captain’s office. Only, the captain was away on holidays. And so it fell to the deputy captain, one Benoit Dupin, to welcome us to the family and tell us how it is. Having emerged from four months of the intense barrage of near-sanctimonious Legion self-glorification that is basic training, his directness was as refreshing as it was unexpected.

“Listen, this may not be the best regiment in the Legion. And this may not be the best company in this regiment. But this is your regiment now. And this is your company now also. Be proud of your company because, if you give your very best at all times, you’re pride will be rewarded with a company to be proud of.”

Little did we know how profound an effect Captain Dupin would have on our paths through the Legion.

The first captain, the one on holidays when I arrived, saw me through a four-month tour of Djibouti in early 2010 before stepping down that summer, his two years completed. I remember his ceremony vividly due to the tears he shed as he passed the torch and left our family for pastures new. Of course we, as young legionnaires, found it mildly amusing at the time but, looking back, it was rather touching. He was in his mid-forties, single and, now, no longer in charge of a group of men he had commanded and tutored and looked after for two years. Typically, the wives of both the parting and arriving captain are in attendance. For my first captain, it was his elderly parents by his side. He was, it appeared, devoted solely to the Legion.

The torch that my first captain passed on was received by the waiting Captain Dupin. Dupin had been the company’s deputy captain throughout the previous two years, although not for the four-month tour of Djibouti when he was otherwise engaged in France with training. When Dupin took command of our company, it injected a new lease of life into everybody. A fresh face will inevitably have that effect but with Dupin it was supercharged. We were buzzing. Afghanistan was on the horizon and, with Dupin spearheading our deployment, we felt ready for anything.

Anything except his getting killed less than a month into our tour.

That managed to sum the Legion up in one foul, brutal swoop. Wait and wait and wait for something good to come along, and when it does, watch as it gets ruthlessly torn from your grasp. The remaining months in Afghanistan weren’t easy on any of us, and certainly not for the captain who was obliged to take command of the company following Dupin’s death.

This diminutive yet sturdy fella led our troops for the five remaining months of our tour before formally relinquishing his command to the captain who has occupied the big chair on the bridge until last Tuesday. He was actually our deputy captain in Dupin’s absence back in Djibouti in 2010 and, more recently, saw us through our four-month tour of French Guiana. That makes four captains in little more than as many years, and now here comes the fifth.

The new guy was actually an old training platoon leader for a four-week combat engineering course undertaken back in 2009 when I was still a shaven-faced nipper, so there is some familiarity there. However he’ll hardly get the chance to plead his case – as the other four incessantly did (even the small fella in Afghanistan) – for me to sign-on and forge a fine career for myself in the French Foreign Legion.

Time’s up, and given the short stretch I’ll spend under the new guy and the lengthy time (certainly with Djibouti included) I’ve spent under the old guy, I found it fitting that it was the recently departed captain that handed me my going-away present at his own going-away BBQ.

Over the years this little traditional parting gift has seen its fair share of mocking and ridicule, some guys even leaving it behind when they go. Sure, it’s nothing monumental, just a simple framed photo of a Képi Blanc surrounded by the pennants of the company and regiment, with a small engraved plaque underneath reading “Cpl O’Shea 2008-2013”, but to me it meant a very great deal.

It’s already been safely packed into a crate and shipped home to Ireland where it will await to be hung on the wall of my new house. All that’s left are a few more weeks in my 3-man room before I’ll get to hammer that nail in to the wall.

Tick tock…..

Regress (Part Deux)

True colours shall eventually be shown, or show themselves if the universal need is sufficiently pressing. And so it was with my lieutenant throughout the course of this past week. I may not smell entirely of roses myself (certainly after four days in the mountains) but my scent is a hell of a lot more appealing than that of this petty excuse for a C.O.

Let’s recap, shall we?

LT wanted me back early from my end-of-contract holidays to go traipsing around the mountains. I told him where to go, leaving me with the dreaded anticipation of some sort of confrontation.

Still waiting…….

However, after having arrived back to regiment on the Sunday night, I awoke Monday morning with the sobering news that I had one hour to prepare my gear before grabbing the next bus up to our regiment’s camp in the small alpine town of Valloire. It seemed that he would stop at nothing to stamp his authority on my already-frowning forehead. Obedience comes easy to me, if that can be interpreted in any way except self-deprecating, and so I packed my bags and loaded up for the six-hour road trip to “le chalet”. The first familiar face I encountered upon disembarkation was that of my captain.

“Salut, O’Shea, ça va?” he exclaimed, greeting me with a hearty handshake and a pat on the shoulder.

“Ca va, Mon. Capitaine” I replied with an ironic smile.

“Listen” he continued, pulling me gently aside, “A departure time is a departure time, OK?”. The look in his eyes and his tone of voice was unmistakable, even he knew this was bullshit but at the same time he wasn’t about to undermine a lieutenant’s call in front of the corporal in question. I kept it short and professional.

“Oui, Mon. Capitaine”, and no more was said about it.

Next I sought out my LT to let him know I’d arrived. I must have surprised him somewhat, as he instinctively shook my hand before apparently immediately remembering his devout promise to play hard-ball with me, reverting to short, uninformative answers to my questions regarding the issuing of my rock-climbing gear and where to leave my bags. I decided to cut our reunion short and seek out the guys in my platoon. This childish petulant “tough love” was proving too much. Oh the laughs I got, stumbling into view with my backpack on my back and a less-than-impressed look on my face!! Well my mood soon lifted in the company of the lads, all half-slagging half-disbelieving that I was even summoned up to join them on this little mountain challenge.

The disbelief even spread to some of the NCOs, the reason being more than just disciplinary. It was a tactical matter.

You see, our platoon was split into two neat, symmetric squads of seven: one squad leader (sergeant) together with two 3-man teams, each headed up by a corporal team-leader. Enter me, becoming an 8^th man on one team and introducing a head-scratchingly unnecessary disequilibrium to proceedings. It was already evident that the LT was shooting himself in the foot on this one. Fuck it – I decided to take a backseat and let the younger (actually, only-just-out-of-corporal-school) corporal take the reins in our team, while I played the order-executing grunt in the shadows. The irony was not lost on me.

Despite all my grumblings and the fall-out with my CO, I actually really enjoyed my time in the mountains. For me, it was one last opportunity to bid farewell to the slopes and peaks that made me the soldier I am today. Over the past four and a half years I’ve skied, tumbled, climbed, slid, crawled up and down these mountains countless times. This particular requiem took in night rappelling, marching non-stop uphill from 10pm until 4am, day-time rock climbing with full kit, backpack and weapon (the old forearms took a beating on that one), a 70 metre day-time abseiling exercise, more climbing. The weather was fantastic, the pace not too hectic, the craic with the lads ninety as always, I was happy to be there. It was the principle of having been dragged up there for no other reason than to “show me who’s boss” (even at the expense of tactical rational) however that grinded my gears. Still, the LT was the one constantly coming out with egg on his face, in one instance misinterpreting a training scenario given by the instructors leading to him sending men into a heavily mined zone without preliminary detection.

My energy to justify my opposition generally waned as I realized any future discourse whatsoever between us was no more than a crazy fantasy. Upon our return to base on Thursday I decided to go all out in search of some sort of resolution to the juvenile tension between us. Despite having only returned from a 4-week vacation, I still had three days left to take before my contract’s up. What better time to put-in for my dates and provoke some sort of reaction than now, fresh from a dispute over …….. holidays!! I entered the office and unflinchingly stated the reason of my visit.

“What days are you looking for?” he asked reluctantly.

I gave my dates. He replied that due to the impending change of captains at the company, he’d have to wait until the new head honcho was in place before requesting the days on my behalf. That was it. No discussion. No dressing down from my LT over a perceived breach of discipline, failure to execute orders, however you’d like to word it.

I left the office, closed the door behind me and, for the first time, fully accepted the departure of the final tiny morsel of respect lingering within. Had he yelled my ears red, formally sanctioned a punishment for me, or at least told me that despite my impending exit I still had a contract and a hierarchy to respect, I may have bitten my tongue and said “Fair fucks, kid’s got balls”. Instead I was left ruing his lack of leadership and grateful that my guys were only redeploying to French Guiana this September, not Mali or Afghanistan. Whatever anyone says, graduating directly from officer school with the rank of captain a matter of crossed-out calendar days away does not make for a good leader. It seems I’m getting out at the right time.

Whether he decides to sit on my holiday request until the last moment (like the last time) or not is irrelevant. My stance is simple: I’ve three days left and I’ll be taking them on the specific days I’ve demanded, regardless of whether they’ve been authorized or not. The LT will then have to decide together with the new captain whether to justify my absence by using my 3 remaining holidays or whether to mark me as AWOL less than 7 days before I’m due to arrive at HQ for my final administrative hoop-jumping routine. My obedience has its breaking point. This particular lieutenant’s ineptitude, it would seem, does not.

5 weeks, tick tock………….