Grounds for Divorce

Regardless of having reason, motive, seeking out truth, upholding honour, adhering to logic or just simply knowing beyond all certainty that you're in the right, there is never any justification for insubordination in the army. None. Never.

The tighter the blinkers, the straighter and steadier the progress. As a young Legionnaire I was nothing if not subordinate. Yes Sir, No Sir, Three Bags Full Sir - there really wasn't anything to it, all this Legion Lark. So I thought. So I still do. Instead of believing the Legion to have become increasingly more difficult as time goes by, I've decided that it's rather we, as human beings, that make things more difficult the longer we have to play around with them. Complicating things is one of our species' proverbial passe-temps préférés, and an increasing seniority among the rank and file here in the Legion provides a perfect case-in-point.

Your service record counts, sure. Results in various training courses, fitness levels, they all go towards a favourable impression of what one "imagines" a Legionnaire to be. But at the end of the day, it's the "note de geuele" that REALLY counts. Basically, how much you're considered an affable, competent soldier by your superiors. Pull-ups don't count. Running doesn't count. Levels of French do (otherwise how else could one make such a favourable impression). And so gradually an image of one as a Legionnaire is built from the ground up. Be a dickhead who works hard, enjoy respect. Be a nice guy who can still be firm when required, same. Be a sissy pushover who wreaks sly shadowy revenge (most likely in the form of larceny), be reviled but essentially impossible to publicly (and physically) condemn. And the stereotypical depictions go on and on. Now it's undeniably advantageous to have a pleasant working relationship with one's superiors, but that line can occasionally be crossed whereby the subordinates become a tad too comfortable. Ending up in cahoots with easily coerced superiors isn't the inevitability in this scenario, however. Rather the surprising development sees one become increasingly irritated by overly-accommodating bosses seemingly encouraging a loose, uninterested approach to daily duties. Once it doesn't impact them, they couldn't care less. Surely, this isn't how an army should be.

The temptation to lash out at an inanely boorish commanding officer can sometimes push one to one's very limits. The tongue ploughs into a clamped jaw, almost liquidizing itself through gaps in violently gritted teeth as a volley of venomous vulgarities screams to be let loose on the unsuspecting ears of the imbecile before us. With a fast-approaching exit from this military life looming ever larger on the horizon, the temptation borders on the grotesque. Silent diatribes are formed in front of the bathroom mirror as fluorescent lights flicker overhead, night-time providing the ideal moment for climaxing emotions to articulate themselves spectacularly beneath furrowed brows. The diatribes remain silent of course. It's one thing to rant and vent in private, quite another to risk the remainder of a hitherto successful military career and the essential Certificate of Good Conduct awaiting legionnaires at the end of their 5 year stint. Some might say it lacks balls, others might counter that it shows brains. Others again still struggle to distinguish between the two. 

Either way, it would be foolhardy to risk the past 4 years' hard work for some deluded idea of (re)establishing principals. You come to the Legion to get pissed on. I know I did, standing in the corridors of Fort de Nogent on the first day, expecting a gigantic thump in the solar plexus that never came. Always thinking that whenever they'd scream "Get up" at the end of a marathon push-up session, we'd just drop right back down in to the mud again for more punishment. But standing we remained. The danger is in overcoming the state of stress and tension, settling into a wafer-thin complacency ready to dissolve upon the slightest reminder of the constant, underlying reality here in the Legion. On this particular journey, we're all just riding bitch, clinging desperately to the faded denim coat tails trailing in the wind. At no point, absolutely NO point whatsoever will we get to change places, grip the handle-bars and steer our own course. No chance. None. Never.

The only solution is to get the fuck off and go buy your own bike.

(B)itch to Scratch

The most effective and comprehensive way to defeat a soldier? Simple - give him absolutely nothing to do. Not a tap, not a single iota of active physical or intellectual engagement. Deny him that which he was designed to do - soldier. Then sit back and watch him crumble.

It has been six weeks since our last mission here in French Guiana, our last mission being only our second mission. And let it be clear that I mean "mission" in the true sense. Not the "mission" of taking this shovel and carrying it to that sergeant over there. Nor the "mission" of overseeing the morning chores by the young legionnaires. For us, the mission in Guiana was always only going to mean one thing - trekking through the jungle and flushing out illegal gold-digging operations.

Twice, in almost two months.

Ever since the killing of two soldiers by the increasingly brazen and formidable "garimpeiros" at the end of June, the reaction has been disappointing yet inevitably understandable. A freeze on all non-urgent raids in order to focus attention and efforts in the infamously hostile area where the two soldiers fell. The construction of an impressively sized advanced operating base is ongoing, the slow expansion of controlled territory radiating outward like ripples in a still pond. Our platoon, based further north these past two months have had LITERALLY nothing to do. The excruciating inactivity owes equally to the scheduled exchange of gendarme platoons based in the locality, with whom we embark on our patrols with this. Such a transitional period could never have fell so unkindly, the gendarmes' orientation further delaying any anticipated return to business.

Enter "Le Cafard". Now I openly admit - in advance - how disrespectful and sensationalist it might be to draw comparisons with battered, tattered, dogged and besieged Legionnaires holed up in Saharan forts more than a century and a half ago, but damn it if the doesn't temptation linger still. The word "Cafard" in French means "Cockroach", but also serves as an incredibly apt expression for a certain type of boredom. Unlike the passive kind, that has you idling aimlessly with nothing more than the faint whiff of discontent, Le Cafard actively grates at the inside of your skull, as if a cockroach itself crawled into your ear canal and set to work burrowing right through to your tortured brain. It's a mixture of restlessness, frustration, depression, and resignation, all rolled into one asphyxiating ball wedged deep down your throat. If the air was difficult to breath in before, the cessation of activities has merely accentuated the pressure. In the absence of a real mission, our superiors set us to work on various dreamt-up construction projects around the camp. Sure, we grumbled upon their announcements but in truth, we were grateful for the distraction. Apart from those menial work details and the occasional guard duty, there is literally nothing to do here. The sole bar for twenty kilometers (located right outside the base) is out-of-bounds except under the surveillance of an NCO, the bar on base is a paltry melange of crappy beer and even worse music, staffed by some of the most uninterested "soldiers" I've had the misfortune of encountering, the WiFi is sporadic at best.

To be honest, I'm not that pushed. Having already experienced Djibouti as a green-gilled recruit and Afghanistan a year later, encountering an overseas tour as disappointing as this one - at this point in my career - barely registers an enduring complaint beyond my usual gripe. The younger, less-experienced Legionnaires however are finding it particularly tough, given their expectations upon departure. Expectations merely whetted even further with the first few (successful) forays into the jungle. Then, in a sudden and violent coup, nothing. They'll return to France with nothing more than a couple of half-finished anecdotes and a slightly swollen bank account (soon to be emptied by the impending three weeks of holidays). I firmly expect the number of lads returning from vacation to notably undercut the figures leaving base with packed suitcases. Budgetary difficulties back in France mean 2013 is a blank space, a calendrical void desperately papering over the cracks with various training exercises and generic courses confined to the mainland. As the last few granules trickle to the bottom of my hourglass, others stare up despondently at a bulging mass of static, stagnant sand wondering if it might not be best to take the fireman's axe to it right now, save themselves the trouble and time. The alternative, of watching painstakingly as each grain slithers and crawls towards the hole, tumbles to the bottom with a hollow glass clink, hardly offers more glamour or inspiration. Slithering and crawling, like our good friend Le Cafard, rummaging around up there for excuses to flee. I've always held deserters with the utmost contempt, yet this generation have - at least to a certain degree - my sympathy.

Watch this space.

Burn It Down

If you're a lowly soldier, war is simple. Follow orders, go where directed, shoot when instructed, sleep, repeat. Any sense of culpability - if detected even from a very great distance - is quickly squashed, like a disorientated cockroach scuttling across a freshly polished floor. No guilt, no regrets, no sleepless nights, just a collection of macho photos and equally cock-stiffening stories to slur out over a sticky bar. "Simple comme Bonjour" as they say in France.

And in France, a similar clarity reassuringly graces the decision-making of metropolitan law enforcement. The law is written, nay engraved for all to read. Sinisterly motivated lawyers may continually try their utmost to bend and warp interpretations to suit the needs of their own specific quests, but the written word remains unchanged, unbroken. There for all to read, for all to obey. An experienced and comprehensive police force maintain a visible yet non-intrusive presence to ensure its enforcement. Infractions are punished accordingly. Full stop.

So what to make of French Guiana then? Technically considered a department of the French mainland despite its enormous distance from Europe, the same laws that exist in France are practiced and enforced here as well. The rules of the road synchronize themselves conveniently with those of France (and with impressive facility too, given the high quality of infrastructure established in such a remote and climatically challenging environment). The currency is the Euro. The official language - spoken by almost everyone within its borders - is French. All very civilized in theory, but all the while tending to overlook one discreet yet profound difference.

French Guiana is in the midst of a war on illegal gold digging. A war perhaps similar to those declared by law enforcement on drugs and arms smuggling back in France, but inevitably destined to venture far closer to the limits of what an actual war resembles in the traditional sense. Here in Guyanne, there are no diligent bystanders to blow whistles and point in the direction of the fleeing bank robber, no CCTV footage to identify pickpockets or sexual deviants. Here there's just the jungle. The savage, dense, near-impossible-to-navigate rainforest that hides our hunted deep within. Those who brave informing the Gendarmerie of possible site-locations or witnessed activity risk severe sanction from the gold diggers, or "Garimpeiros" as they're known here in French Guiana and bordering Surinam and Brazil. Cases in the not-too-distant past have seen French forces stumble upon sites only to find a heap of corpses scattered throughout the clearing. Ratting out your colleagues to save your own skin is a risky business down in these parts.

And so off we go to "war", patrolling the quad-bike trails in search of the Garimpeiros, assault rifle at the ready but without a single cartridge in the chamber. If we catch a glimpse and they flee, chase is never given. "Too dangerous" they say. If they're armed but not assuming a menacing attitude (personally, I would've thought that being armed already put paid to any illusion of a non-menacing attitude) it is strictly forbidden to open fire. Admittedly lacking confusion except in those grey moments. Is the weapon pointed at me in the process of being raised or being lowered? Is he running at me or around me? Who knows? Certainly not the law makers back in their mahogany splattered offices in Paris - the closest to woodland they're likely to come in there lives.

An early mission saw us arrive at a freshly deserted site, water yet to come to the boil, damp clothes hanging out to dry, women's clothes, children's clothes. It's far from a glamorous, gold-nugget-decorated life the Garimpeiros lead. They live up to their necks in mud, scavenging metres under the equatorial forest floor for the paltriest scraps of gold for up to twelve hours a day. They have rickety shacks that serve as homes, showers, toilets, shops. Pets roam free, occasionally children too. Prostitutes play an integral part in any site, as do armed guards to alert the workers to incoming French forces. It's their life, a sorry existence, one born of necessity more so than choice. A life we are obliged to objectify, annul and eradicate at all cost. Watching those children's clothing go up in flames, unable to look away as the burnt, blackened edges of mattresses, satellite dishes, washing detergent, shoes, eggs, milk, creeped ever inwards towards a charred centre of nothingness, nothingness is exactly what I felt. The time of conscientiousness is long gone, the moment for heart-string-twanging reflections on the right and wrong of our actions is behind me. I no longer worry, I no longer care. There's a job to do, a law to uphold. My pay grade doesn't venture outside of those boundaries, and my thoughts are slowly, finally beginning to catch on. Was this their goal all along? If so, it was a hard fought victory.

That, or a slow burning surrender. Slow burning like all those hard earned possessions, like those rickety shelters serving as homes for people born and bred a million miles from anything we could possibly consider normality. 

Burn, burn, burn. 

Burn it all, until nothing remains but ashes.