Flood the Pain Away

Now, I never pass up the opportunity to jot down a few words on page or screen. But then, most of you already know that much. I was nevertheless surprised and mindful when recently asked to pen a rather exceptional letter to the Chef de Corps just before Christmas. The purpose of the letter was to convince our cher Colonel not to kick a friend of mine out of the Legion entirely. My friend (who I'll call "Chico" in order to protect his identity) came to me begging for my assistance in drawing up this written plea for mercy. I simply couldn't refuse. Camaraderie is a particularly potent strength possessed by any legionnaire worth his salt. Chico's also an English speaker, a rather infamous if painfully likable member of my particular regiment's Mafia Anglaise. This added a further layer of obligation on my shoulders. We're all brothers-in-arms at the end of the day, but the mafias are traditionally expected to help each other out to a slightly higher degree than the general populous.

Besides, me and Chico go WAY back……

The culture in the Legion is composed of many things, but alcohol must surely be among the leading contenders for "Most Ever-Present". My first encounter with the Legion's drinking culture didn't leave me particularly shocked, just pining for a cold one myself. The incident described in a previous post had most of the guys in fits of laughter, if the truth be told. Doing push-ups for being able to sing a melody correctly while the cat-stranglers in the section continued to serenade us as per the corporals' drunken orders has to go down as one of the funniest and most bizarre memories of my time in the legion so far. Of course the now infamous documentary aired in 2009 exposing the "barbaric" and "dehumanizing" treatment of some new recruits at a different farm has since put paid to all but the most isolated incidents of a similar nature these days. It is indisputably for the best, as despite the humorous nature of most rites of passage such as my own, the line found itself overstepped a little to frequently and, in certain cases, with rather grave consequences.

The treatment of new recruits is one thing. Some see it as giving a poor image to the legion and encouraging head-ache-inducing desertion rates. Others see it as a mandatory gauntlet from which only those worthy of donning the Képi Blanc emerge. Others still might rationally argue that it serves as an instructive prelude to life at regiment. For you see, "Les Presentations" begin immediately upon one's arrival at their designated/chosen regiment, and continue throughout one's career, reappearing at each professional milestone - notably a climb in rank. Young legionnaires are requested to present themselves before the door of each corporal's room in his section. Knock once, open the door, slide a case of beer in to the centre of the floor, close the door, knock a second time, await the order to enter, enter, present yourself. Open a beer and serve the corporal, open one for yourself. Then it's cheers, beers and a get-to-you-know-you chat. Now, what I've described is probably the most basic, no-frills presentation a young legionnaire will have to make. The majority of presentations tend to take on a more inventive - daresay interactive - guise, of which I'd rather leave to your respective imaginations.

Time goes by, the Corvée Log fills to overflowing through countless hours spent sweeping, mopping, scrubbing and polishing, and eventually the young Legionnaire becomes "Legionnaire de 1ere Classe". The venue switches, the bedroom giving way to the company club, playing host to the presentation of this new entity - this 1ere Classe. The routine is simple, classic, and very very effective. The newly ordained stands himself on a stool while his comrades fill a standard-issue helmet to capacity with beer. My calculations may be slightly awry but that equates to around 2 litres of the good stuff. The 1ere Classe takes the helmet and begins pouring it down his throat. The goal is to drink it all without stopping. Any stop for breath is chastised and derided mercilessly. Any stop to vomit your guts up, however, is greeted with deafening cheers from all present. Well, all except the young legionnaire forced to hold the bucket just beneath the helmet throughout the entire ordeal. Again, this is a bog-standard description. A friend in another regiment whose company specializes in aquatic combat described a rather elaborately choreographed episode involving scuba gear. Don't ask!

And then comes my most recent encounter with the Presentation timeline - that of a newly crowned corporal. Unlike its predecessors, this one takes on a bit more significance as the captain himself is found in attendance. Your rank - a small velcro square with two green stripes - is rolled up and slipped down the neck of a waiting Heineken bottle. 

"Caporal Legion-eire, à vos orders Mon. Capitaine". 

Clink goes the bottle and down goes the beer. In one go, of course, but then we're no young legionnaires or chest-puffing 1ere Classes. We're corporals now, the shepherds to the sheep, sharing a ceremonial beer with the farmer employing us to watch over his herds. With the captain out of the way, we move on to the deputy captain. Same process, same polite toasting, another bottle downed in one. This continues through all the superiors present, including a collective effort for all the current corporals. That left me with 2 captains, 3 lieutenants, an adjutant, 3 platoon sergeants, 3 squad sergeants, 2 corporal chefs and one more beer for my new family, the corporals themselves. Of course we didn't stop drinking once the official presentations were concluded, and of course I've no idea how I got to bed that night (or how I finished the 8km run the next day without throwing up - many weren't so lucky with their gag reflexes), but we somehow made it through and are apparently the better, stronger soldier for it. Perhaps.

The problem with alcohol in the legion doesn't stem from these occasional binges, however. It's origins lie closer to its startlingly ready availability in regiments. Whereas the Americans have strict prohibition enforced throughout their bases (if not entirely on home soil then most certainly overseas), the French armed forces have boxes of wine beside the water jugs at midday and evening meals. It's sale in stores in Legion regiments also has many unashamedly buying a cheeky mid-week crate and knocking it back in a bedroom full of compatriots. In communal situations the danger might be less, but then there are the legionnaires who happily (or not) lock themselves away in their rooms chugging back can after can relentlessly. "Alcoholic" is a seldom-used term in the Legion. One would more often hear something along the lines of "Ah he like's a drink". Being Irish, I'd venture that I've a rather refined eye and ear for such thinly veiled excuses. The truth is that there is an alarming level of alcohol abuse throughout the legion, and almost every single case goes either unaddressed or conveniently disguised as incompetency or a joker-like nature. Nobody cares how much you drink as long as you remain "operational", but when the booze takes control, dependability inevitably falls by the wayside. No recognition, no treatment, nothing but blind scolding at an unstoppable slide in professionalism.

And so we land back with Chico. A man who, the morning after my very first presentation here at regiment, helped himself to the remaining 12 beers from our presentation stock. It was around 7.15am. The guy has spent the equivalent of an entire month in jail for every year of service. Every single slip-up, fuck-up or "banane" as we call them here has been a direct result of his being in the most incredible state of inebriation that it would make Keith Richards look like Mother Teresa (actually, that's not too dissimilar a pairing, aesthetically!) The most recent episode (touching briefly upon it) involved a poker game-gone-sour and a few subsequent black eyes for all parties concerned. Proving the straw that broke the camel's back, the colonel decided enough was enough. Chico had to go. That was, of course, until I stepped in with some rather poignantly articulate handy work. Chico came to see me on Christmas day, as I was preparing to head off for 2 weeks of holidays.

"Dude, the colonel loved your letter!! He……he said 'Chico, I really liked your letter'. You fuckin' saved me dawg. Fuckin' awesome letter!" 

(cue drunken hug - yep, Chico was once again under the influence, 10am on Christmas morning).

I was absolutely delighted for him, though. For all his mistakes, the lad's got a heart of gold and deserves to be allowed see out the relatively short time left on his contract, therefore earning a sense of completion and achievement in having served a 5 year contract in the Legion that will hopefully inspire him on to bigger and better things. Not that I hadn't mulled over the rather paradoxical nature of an institution looking to kick someone out for alcohol-related disciplinary discrepancies when the institution itself may very well have been instrumental in the development of his dependancy. In any case, the colonel seemed to soften his stance while having a brief chat with Chico on Christmas eve.

Over a cold beer, of course.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

I'd almost forgotten what Christmas was. As impossible as it sounds, it's actually more reasonable than you'd imagine. A certain milestone is long-acknowledged among us young adults, that marker when Christmas stops being a juicy gift-fest bestowing the latest in technology or clothing vouchers and switches over to something a little more reserved, more mature. We start buying "ourselves" presents, and the whole holiday season suddenly finds itself more focused on family togetherness than sheer materialism. Oftentimes, nieces or nephews have since entered the picture, therefore diverting attention away from our perfumes and Playstation games as the festive magic discovers a new lease of life. Throughout my childhood, the only purpose my parents served on Christmas morning was to supplement Santa's hedonistic haul with some additional trinkets, on top of day-long gluttonous nourishment. Now I find myself yearning for their company at this time of year as much to satisfy my own homesickness as to appease their anxiety about my well-being. After having successfully survived the last three years' festivities in basic training, Djibouti and Afghanistan respectively, I'd only momentarily hesitate before saying that they can rest assured for this year. After all, you never know……

The motto reads "Legio Patria Nostra". The Legion is our fatherland. Our home. Once upon a time I considered this motto slightly archaic, daresay obsolete given these modern times we live in, times of perennial connection to every nook and cranny of the planet. But this Christmas something changed. Something inside forced me to take a step back to the very edge of the frame, to try to digest the entirety of this cracked, crazy, cacophonous canvas of the strange. Finding myself roped into arguably the most tedious duty in the Legion at Christmas time - the dreaded "Crèche" - I had initially held a discreet send-off party for the sum total of my festive cheer as the two weeks leading up to Christmas Eve prepared to be inundated with the unenviable duty of rummaging around in rubbish bins and scavenging through the catacomb-like basement of the company building in search of any material deemed usable for the construction of our company creche. 

The Legion crèche is a scale model inspired by whatever theme has been decided by the superiors earlier in the year (ie. 2 weeks before the thing is due to be finished), typically encompassing legion postings overseas and culminating in the appearance of the nativity scene placed centrally in the display.

And so, with a sarcastic, impatient, yet essentially motivated platoon sergeant at the helm, I was introduced to my team for this particular challenge. Enter the Zimbabwean, the Nepalese, the Czech and the Mexican. Four countries, four continents, yet in an incredibly convenient turn of events, one language. Thus English reigned in the converted classroom as we set to work. The idea was for each of the four to recount their last Christmas, in their native countries, before coming to the Legion. They each were responsible for their own corner of the display table, decorating it appropriately to reflect a typical landscape from their home country. That was their job. Mine was to take them one by one, co-construct a coherent script for each legionnaire to read, and record it on to my mac before then mixing in traditional music to play in the background as the speeches were read out. Not as easy (or as fun) as it sounds.

The models progressed, the scripts tightened up further, the music settled on a definitive playlist, and eventually the lighting entered the ring for an all-out royal rumble on my patience, nerves and concentration. The judging would be on the 23rd (by the colonel, no less - our creche being one of eight prepared by different companies and groups from the regiment) while the 24th would be an open-door-day for families of serving legionnaires as well as any interested civilians who cared to pop in for a look. By lunchtime on the 24th, the fatigue and ennui had reached boiling point. The heat in the classroom was causing the four guys (who had to remain standing perfectly still behind their respective scenes during the ten-minute-long performance) to slowly lose consciousness, as well as causing my sweating hands to slip on the mouse touch-pad, threatening to derail my delicately balanced sound-mixing duties. Unknown to me, however, was another factor at work, slowly chipping away at the guys' festive spirit. It was explained to me over a beer later in the evening;

"It's actually quite hard, hearing your own voice relive a fantastic Christmas spent with all your family and friends back home in Mexico, and you being stuck in this stuffy classroom like some museum exhibit for all these strangers."

For my Zimbabwean friend, the melancholy touched deeper still.

"I really don't want to hear that recording again. The government took our farm, our home. That fantastical Christmas can never be repeated again. I can't bear to think of some fat politician sitting on my porch, eating at my table. It's too much."

The guys from Czech Republic and Nepal shared similar sentiments. Everyone was more than relieved when the sergeant came into the classroom to announce the end of our infernal shift. The bar beckoned. The company enjoyed a large Christmas meal together, followed by the traditional gift-giving, where the company captain hands each legionnaire a gift. The "sketches" then kicked off, where the corporals and legionnaires prepare comedic skits on their commanding officers. I myself hopped up on stage with a Russian friend, guitars-in-hand, to perform a rendition of  R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion" of all tunes. It went down to raucous applause (I later found out from my captain that the colonel - who was coincidentally in attendance - had attempted to sing along, without knowing a single correct lyric). Fair play!

The night, overall, was a resounding success. Our crèche placed third out of eight, which was a respectable result. Sat around in a circle, though, the crèche team took to recounting more recent memories, those accumulated in our (relatively short/long) time in the Legion. Some stories had us in tears with laughter. Bottles clinked, toasts were called, more stories, more tears, more bottles. Our distant homes were, for once, at the back of our mind as the limelight shone down on this little huddled circle of new-found brothers, in a new-found home. Perhaps Christmas has traversed another rung on the evolutionary ladder. Perhaps, for the time being, this is what it's all about.

I sure hope so.

Merry Christmas to one and all.

Born Again

"Les excuses sont comme des trous de cul - tout le monde en a un". *

One of the things I truly admire about the military hierarchy is the very definite boundaries of responsibility. One's proverbial "limite gauche - limit droite"**, beyond which not only are you not obliged to stray, but in some cases not even permitted to. Of course, initiative is encouraged here in the Legion, but mainly in a retrospective manner. Making a decision to intervene, assist or take charge of something outside your zone of responsibility can only ever be greeted with two outcomes. You either get shouted at for taking too much initiative, for considering yourself too smart for your own good, or you get a rollicking for sticking to your fixed responsibilities instead of using your brain and going the extra mile. You can simply never know. Therefore a wonderful counter-phrase invented by legionnaires frankly states "Ce n'est pas mon niveau."***. Voila! If it ventures outside your perimeter of responsibility, fuck it! Let someone else deal with it. Relief hurtles towards a stressed legionnaire in the form of a buck discreetly passed, a loophole discovered in the list of his objectives. 

"I'm not qualified for that." 

"I'm not the corporal on duty." 

Or the most famous and recyclable of all; 

"Moi pas compris."****

Of course this may be a slight exaggeration. Initiative is something that all employers encourage and reward. In that respect, the Legion is no different. But the ever-present option to sit back on a laissez-faire, work-to-rule attitude would certainly appear to be the more popular candidate. A fear of getting something wrong knocks the desire to go above and beyond the call of duty right out of the ring and in to the snarling audience below. A shame, really. But everybody's been guilty at one point or another. I've just begun to realize, however, that while my service record to-date might appear whiter-than-white, it's been more so my personal life outside of the Legion ("What personal life outside of the Legion?" some of the less educated observers of this formidable establishment might ask) that has suffered the consequences of a certain shirking of responsibilities. Let me explain.

Men of every race and religion have, for almost two centuries, used their old lives, lives ravaged, torn, irreparable or just unbearably monotonous, as excuses to flock to France and embark on a military lifestyle quite unlike any other on the planet. We're all told we are volunteers, came to the Legion of our own free will, but the truth could never be further from such a facile and banal statement. Men feel compelled to come to the Legion, to hammer on its gates and demand entry, demand anonymity, demand a complete deconstruction and reconstruction of their very selves. A broken-down marriage, criminal record or crippling tragedy might serve as the superficial explanation, indeed many most certainly believe that it is for this very reason that they were drawn to the gates of Fort de Nogent or Aubagne. But something greater was at work. Something greater is always at work whenever the Legion is concerned. When you join the Legion, you don't just get away from whatever you thought you needed to get away from. You get away from it ALL. Bills, tax returns, rent, DIY duties, they all go "poof" in a cloud of green and red smoke as you suddenly find yourself being led through life by the hand. A whistle tells you when to get out of bed, a whistle tells you when to eat, a whistle tells you when to return to bed before it all begins again the next day. Your passport's out of date? No worries, word will travel down the chain of command until it eventually reaches you, demanding no more than a few photos to be taken during your free weekend in order to remedy the situation. Don't know what to take out in the field for a few weeks' camping and training? Relax, wait until your C.O. prints out a full list of every item to be included in your bag, everything from what boots to take to how many t-shirts and pairs of socks you'll need. Don't forget a change of underwear and spare batteries for your torch either. Ah bless.

So for those who chose to regard it from such angles, Legion life is a breeze. But as I said earlier, it's not life in the Legion that has me perplexed these past few days. It's the life outside the Legion. The life I catch a brief glimpse of for 48 hours a week and again while on vacation. My keyhole voyeurism directed towards all things "real" exhibits a rather rose-tinted Friday-night-to-Sunday-morning non-stop party. Relaxing train rides to Paris, hotel rooms, pubs, clubs, girls, shopping, restaurants, cinemas, all in one nauseatingly high-speed montage that leaves little left in reserve for the return to work Monday morning. But sure Monday doesn't require much effort anyway, does it? Cruise-control, remember? 

The problem lies in the inevitable transition awaiting the end of my contract here. A soldier's wage is pittance in terms of modern living standards, but when food, accommodation, heating, electricity and travel is all paid for, that pittance transforms into a rather enviable lump of pocket money. The rate of expenditure would have made my pre-Legion self's hair stand on end, and that was BEFORE the global economic melt-down. What happens when those other five days of the week, those continuously negotiated by my civilian friends enduring challenging careers in all walks of life, return? What happens when bills, tax-returns, health insurance, rent, food, heating, electricity, etc all come crawling back, up the staircase and scratching at my bedroom door like the undead monsters of adulthood? What then?

I can feel a few New Year's Resolutions forming at the back of my mind as I type this now. Cut-backs, budgeting, forward planning. Measures must be taken. They don't teach you that in Castel, however. "Chacun sa merde!"*****. Becoming a Legionnaire is - dare I say -  the easy part. It's transforming back in to a functioning member of society that's the real challenge. I guess it'll up to me to show some initiative. The only difference in this case is that there'll be nobody to give me a right ol' rollicking if I don't show enough, or too much…or……. I don't know!!! Guess I better make the most of the 20 months of hassle-free living that lies before me.

Vive la Légion!

*       "Excuses are like assholes, everybody's got one."

**     (Literally "Left Limit - Right Limit). A term used to designate surveillance sectors in the French Army.

***    "It's not my level."

****  (Literally "Me no understand."). Used incessantly by young Legionnaires when unable to follow orders.

***** (Literally "Each one his own shit)". An expression meaning "Each man for himself".