The Almighty One

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power. – Abraham Lincoln

Kiss ass from the bottom up and the only visible sufferers are your own two lips, scrapping desperately, smacking eagerly against the pert cheeks of the military hierarchy. Down in the gutter, it’s every man for himself. Faceless, nameless, there is no hurt or “fair play”. Climb one tiny little rung on that ladder, however, and the entire landscape changes dramatically. Suddenly we have these things called subordinates, along with these other things called responsibilities. And I just thought I’d finally be rid of those pesky cleaning chores.

I spent three years watching, observing the corporals commanding me. Some inspired, demanding nothing beyond strict obedience, exemplary discipline and no back-talk. Others demoralized, screaming and shouting like obscenely incompetent behemoths, punishing legionnaires for their own poorly camouflaged errors and then forcing them into physical exertion visibly beyond their own capability. It was all part and parcel I guess, another mental gauntlet to stumble scared and hopefully through to the other side. The other side was, of course, my corporal training course (note that I use the word “training” loosely). So body-and-soul-shattering were those two months earning our stripes that - even in the darkest hours of the early morning, collecting rocks or carrying a 90kg comrade on my back for the hell of it – I already knew the divisive effect that graduating from that platoon would have on my various fellow legionnaires. Some, like me, would return to their respective regiments determined to channel their hard work and suffering into a positive example for the young legionnaires to follow. Others, unfortunately, would return with exaggerated tales of the horrors of “Stage Caporal” and live off such inflated myths for as long as they could, all the while heaping misery on the naïve, far-from-blissfully-ignorant subordinates. I feel perpetually vindicated in my choice/natural inclination.

That’s not to say it’s always easy.

The past four weeks several identically ranked colleagues and I have taken charge of an internal training course here at regiment. Stress free, so close to the end of my contract, showing the young ‘uns the ropes and what serving in an engineering regiment entails. Piece of piss, I thought. Well, technically it was, from an instructor’s point of view. The young ‘uns, however……….. let’s just say I’m thankful Afghanistan’s finished for several reasons!

You either have it or you don’t. I guess that could be a relevant pithy expulsion concerning my apprentices over the past month. Everybody makes mistakes but the spectacular nature of some of the recent mishaps would’ve been hilarious it if it wasn’t in such serious circumstances. One evening as we were returning from exercises out in the field, I was diligently directing the driver of my armored personnel carrier into his parking space when I felt an abrupt push in the back. Turning around to confront the idiot in question, I found myself slowly being run over by a second APC, one being “guided” into its own parking space right on top of me. The initial shock having passed, I steamed around to the front of the vehicle like a demon, ready to dismantle the runt in question. However upon seeing that it was a French kid - a decent bloke with good potential – I cooled the jets a tad and took him aside for a clear, calm(ish) explanation of exactly how royally he fucked up in nearly squishing me to a pulp. The poor fella looked traumatized to be fair, and so I left it at that. If the message has gotten through, then why prolong the macho drama?

Another budding student wasn’t so lucky, though.

Almost getting run-over is one thing. Accidents can happen anywhere, certainly in a dimly lit car-park after a long day. Never during a live explosives exercise, however. N.E.V.E.R.!

Lesson No. 1: Be careful when squeezing a pyrotechnic trigger, as the small expulsion of gas where the end of the trigger meets the fuse leading to the detonator already placed inside the primary charge can damage one’s hand. Basically, watch how you hold the fucking thing, delicately, not with an entire fat fist gripped around the trigger. Advice scattered over deaf ears for a certain Polish recruit. Only for the lieutenant’s intervention would he have otherwise burned a hole in the palm of his hand. Luckily we corporals were on hand later in the day to ensure he’d never ever make the same mistake twice.

A simple strategy, really. Have EVERY other trainee drop into the push-up position and perform simultaneous push-ups while screaming out “MERCI” in between each one. Meanwhile, the culprit in question had, in front of him, 24 more pyro triggers and 1-meter-long fuses (no explosive charge at the end of the fuse, of course) to help him correctly learn the procedure for squeezing the trigger. Needless to say the other guys were hoarse from yelling “Merci” and sweating a bucket load. I honestly couldn’t tell you if it sank in. I honestly couldn’t care less. Afghanistan’s over. My contract too, nearly. Phew!

2013 holds not a single overseas deployment for the guys from my company. 2014 promises travel and adventure galore. I smell a dangling carrot. Some of the guys have caught the whiff. Others remain in hope or denial of better things to come. That’s the thing with the Legion, no one can ever say if the future really will be brighter. The light at the end of the tunnel grows stronger as the tunnel itself grows longer. So what do you do? Leap out throw a dimly-lit but ready-to-hand emergency exit off to the side, of course.

In preparing for this course, in the guise of instructor, I admit to not having done much…….well, preparation. With that said, the material came back to me quite quickly. I had my pangs of guilt, recognition of half-heartedness, hypocrisy at having previously promised to be a good example, work diligently and to the best of my capabilities on the final day. It turned out to be a lot harder than we thought, us corporals.

Time to hold our hands up and say “Fuck it! – Not long left now!”.

When Worlds Collide

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 10^th May 1986 to Mark Ogilvie, born on 9^th 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!

Deck the Hollow-Points

When it comes to decorating Christmas trees, how much is too much?

As the Santa season gradually made its way to the forefront of our thoughts here at regiment, the battered old baubles and straggled strands of tinsel have been unearthed from the basement as malnourished needleless trees were hastily crammed into cleaning buckets filled with scorched earth in a belated, vain attempt at festiveness. Sorry, but as much as I’d like (which is not very much, to be honest), Christmas has just never felt like Christmas here in the Legion.

This Christmas was my fifth in the French Foreign Legion, my last. Incidentally it was only my second at my own regiment, the first three having been spent in basic training, Djibouti and Afghanistan respectively. Last year was a breath of fresh air, a Christmas day spent with friends in Paris having exited the regiment earlier that morning. Christmas 2012, however, felt more like an obstacle to be overcome on the path to freedom than any real celebration. One last masquerade to endure. Legio Patria Nostra? Chacun son truc.

General Saint Chamas – Commandant de la Légion Étrangère – recently visited the regiment on the beginning of his tour of all the Legion regiments undertaken over the Christmas period. Obliged to don our parade uniforms (albeit parade combats, as opposed to parade dress uniform) for a freezing cold morning assembly, the dreaded order boomed over the PA system:

“Récipionnaires, gagnez vos emplacements”

A collective (if somewhat muffled) groan rumbled through the assembled ranks. The sheer volume of men marching toward the general was nothing short of astounding. Almost 30 legionnaires – rank and file through NCOs and on to officers – lined up before Big Daddy Legion, chests puffed out waiting for that all-important medal to be pinned on.

Medals like the three – THREE – I and every other French soldier serving in Afghanistan were awarded. Six months, three medals. A tad excessive if you ask me, certainly considering that one of those three medals is only a recent addition to the mix, meaning that soldiers deployed to Afghanistan prior to my own foray were not awarded NATO’s Non-Article 5 medal. I don’t know why – something to do with the period in which they were deployed (this might help) - but in general, I couldn’t give a shit. Sure, a medal is a nice acknowledgement of a tour of duty, but THREE medals for one 6-month tour. It stinks a bit too much of prissy little bitches-on-high looking for shiny objects to fill in the blank spaces on their uniforms. Typical.

The medals being handed out on this particular morning were of a different variety, however. La croix de la valeur militaire is a medal awarded for feats of exceptional bravery or to those who have exceeded their duties in extremely challenging circumstances. Guys shot and wounded on patrol, guys rushing to the aid and evacuation of those shot and wounded on patrol. Deserved, no doubt. But then the awards moved down the line to those who “heard shots fired when on guard duty, and reported it to their supervisors”. Seriously? Or what about he who “came under fire on patrol and took cover accordingly”. A medal? For that? For succumbing to a reflex honed within the first month of basic training? Bizarrely, my grumblings were easily drowned out amongst the grumbling of non-recipients wondering where their medal was.

“If they get one, then we should too. We were all over there doing that same shit!” hissed one colleague.

The point, it appeared, had been successfully (and spectacularly) missed.

The criteria for awarding these medals should be tightened, instead of dishing them out like candy. The weight of 3 medals hanging off one’s chest after one single overseas mission is already disproportionately burdensome. Do we really need another? Officers with quotas to fill, boxes to tick, left-over shrapnel carved into something shiny needing a new home.  Terms like “veteran” and “war hero” start getting bandied about when, in reality, the majority of us did our job, nothing more. To almost indiscriminately toss out supplementary medals such as the Croix de la Valeur Militaire is to insult and deflate the recognition owed to those select few who truly deserve it.

So angry was I after the ridiculously long-winded ceremony that I had a good mind to pack up my medals and ship them off to someone more deserving, say the teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary School.

Sometimes the hypocrisy and self-serving politics of this army can be overwhelming. But then so too can the pinning of a shiny new medal on your chest.

Go figure.