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…..