Hoosier in the FFL #8- The Farm
Tony gets into the Legion, meets his Basic Training cadre, and learns about the Legion's brutal discipline.
"In the Foreign Legion, you don't just serve; you are reborn."- Jean Lartéguy
New Instructors
Two weeks into our time in Castel, the second allotment of men arrived from Aubagne, bringing reception to full strength of fifty recruits. Our section leader, Sergent-Chef Zayas, a Basque Spaniard, had returned from leave to take command. A Turkish and a French sergeant also joined our section as instructors.
Raissac
Each training company in Castel has its own farm. We set off to ours: Raissac. Before boarding the trucks, the cadre told us that those who finished their breakfast faster than the rest would have a chance to use the phones in the mess hall foyer. I inhaled my breakfast and dashed to the phone, taking the opportunity to call home for the first time. Despite the time difference, I got through and told my parents that I was okay. I was in the Legion. I warned them that I'd unlikely be able to call again anytime soon. As I put the phone back on its hook, I suddenly felt far from home.
The next four weeks would be our first real challenge in basic training. Its purpose was to weed out anyone deemed unfit for the Legion. The Legion would only present us with our Képi Blanc after completing The Farm.
The drive through the countryside offered a welcome change of scenery. After about two hours, we arrived at Raissac, which stood alone in the middle of a large open field, flanked by several steep hills with a long tree-lined drive leading up to it. In normal circumstances, it would have been picturesque.
Although our instructors told us that our destination was The Farm, it had never occurred to me that this was literally the case. There was nothing military about the place at all. It looked precisely like any of the dozen other farmhouses we had passed. Mainly because it was complete with cattle sheds, a watering hole, and other typically French farm buildings. Looking out at the nearby hills, I noticed a series of well-worn paths with which I would become intimately acquainted during my time here. As the truck rumbled up the long driveway, I thought, "Okay, four weeks. One day at a time."
The farmhouse was a split-level building. The left-hand side provided accommodation for the training staff in the form of a traditional stone-built farmhouse, which again looked no different from a regular home. It included a separate dining area and living space that was well furnished with couches and chairs arranged around a TV in a large fireplace. The center and right-hand side of the building consisted of a large eating area, kitchen, a classroom, accommodations, washrooms, and showers for Legionnaires in training.
Accommodations
Our sleeping area at the far end of the building consisted of two large, open rooms with double bunks and small metal lockers. Our classroom was between our living area and the kitchen, with desks, stools, and a large blackboard. We spent our first night cleaning the kitchen, classroom, and sleeping areas and arranging our individual lockers and kit.
Cadre
The two training caporals joined us at the farm. Both men were paratroopers from 2e REP. They had drawn this assignment to prepare for their sergent's course. The smaller of the two caporals was a French Portuguese man. He had a rat face. He seemed mean, and I immediately felt I needed to avoid him. Caporal Cel Tradat, a Romanian, was built like a boxer, complete with a broken nose. As an ex-Romanian military, he came across as fair and capable.
Together, the men would implement the NCO's orders. Our responses to the cadre were limited to "Oui, caporal" or "Non, caporal." They imposed a strict routine involving being outside for appel or rassemblement, easily a dozen times an hour. With each bellowed call to form up, the entire fifty-man section dropped whatever it was doing and raced to line up outside our living area, facing our accommodation block. Here, we assumed the push-up position while waiting for stragglers to arrive.
Someone was always caught by the rassemblement, busy on the toilet or away from the farmhouse on some assigned task. When nobody could continue doing push-ups, we assumed stress positions, normally crouching with knees bent, backs braced against the farm wall, arms held straight out before us until everyone was present. That exercise was hell on the thighs.
Kitchen Duty
The cadre tacked the next day's orders to a board mounted on the wall. The caporals read them out each evening to ensure we understood exactly what they expected. The board established cleaning details also. Each day, the cadre selected three Legionnaires for kitchen duty. Two would prepare food, and the third would serve the NCOs their meals. The NCOs carefully measured all the food. Stealing in any form was a serious offense. After our first meal, an NCO caught a Russian recruit in the kitchen with his pilfered yogurt container. The cadre made us watch while he ate an entire carton of yogurt stored in the kitchen refrigerator without pause. The offender threw up several times during the exercise.
A Collective
Any error, collective or individual, resulted in a shared punishment. We were only as good as our weakest member. So, those who were stronger had better help the less capable. But those who were stronger and more capable soon lost patience with the guys, making our days much harder. It was only a short time before a clear hierarchy of ability became evident within our group.
That first morning in the classroom, the cadre divided the section into three smaller instructional groups, each with its own sergeant. Our head NCO briefed us on what we would be required to do over the next four weeks, both as a section and as individuals.
Immersed in our routine, we rose at 0600 hours or early for the appel outside. Jumping out of our sleeping bags (which we slept in on our bed mattresses) each morning without time to get dressed, we formed up outside in our underwear. April mornings were still cold, and push-ups, while half-naked in single-digit temperatures in the rain, waiting for the last man to appear, quickly wore our collective patience thin.
On our first morning at "O-dark thirty," all fifty men in our section were rousted from the barracks. Our instructors took us on a brutally paced run. The point of the mad dash demonstrated that whatever shape we thought we were in wasn't Legionnaire shape.
At least once a week, we practiced hand-to-hand combat in a sawdust pit in front of the barracks, learning the overhead throw, rear takedown, and counters against a rear stranglehold. Outfitted with lacrosse helmets and pugil sticks, we paired off and thrashed each other until our urine ran red and sawdust stuck to our sweaty skin like feathers to tar.
Our instructors showed no sympathy for the ill or injured. Any Legionnaire who asked to go on sick call was ordered to crawl on his belly across several hundred meters of dirt, gouging raw sores on his thighs and forearms. The cadre explained that if you're sick enough to do that, then you're sick enough for sick call. Most of us gritted out whatever ailed us, gobbling aspirin like jellybeans.
The Legion's basic training revealed the inner man. Hunger, exhaustion, and stress quickly stripped away any facade. Legion boot camp was intended to build tough, indomitable soldiers who were physically and psychologically hard.
The Drunk Caporal
One evening during the first week, one of the caporals came back from town piss drunk. With the other NCOs looking on, he paraded us and began with what he called les tests abdominaux, giving each man a violent punch in the solar plexus. Then he inspected us. The caporal punished improperly polished boots or other minor infractions with fists to the belly or slaps to the head.
Then the caporal made us play "helicopter." He had us jumping up and down, flailing our arms while we made whirlybird noises. Any recruit who failed to show sufficient enthusiasm got battered with a broken broomstick.
To help us get back to sleep, the caporal introduced us to the piton, a hill outside the farmhouse. The piton provided a two-hundred-meter run up a forty-five-degree grade. After fifty meters, we levered ourselves by grabbing tree trunks and clawing at roots. Coming back down was even worse. With the corporals screaming, "Action!" A controlled descent was impossible. I could feel the end of my leather boots, called rangers, prying off my toenails. When we finally reached the bottom, we were turned around and sent up to do it again.
Deserters
The strict routine brought the expected result. During our first week, another Brit, an Australian, and a New Zealander from the latest group who joined us disappeared at the next morning's appel. Once again, the realization that they had deserted struck me as odd. The caporals' reactions were minimal. They passed the information on to the duty sergent, who advised Sergent-Chef Zayas. The Sergent-Chef told the company CO (Commanding Officer) back in Castel. Other than that, we never discussed the desertions.
Ultimately, no one wants a deserter in their ranks. I often wondered where the guys went, with no money, transport, ID, or civilian clothes, wandering the French countryside in green seventies-era tracksuits. It seemed like the Anglophones were constantly deserting. I wondered who would be next.
Daily Schedule
Dismissed from morning appel, we shaved, put on sports attire, and formed up for the morning parade. We were then presented to the day's duty sergent. We ate a minimal amount of breakfast, which was a quick affair. We then split into three groups, depending on our individual athletic abilities. On day two, we went for a long run, followed by push-ups and sit-ups, and finished with a rope climb in the cattle sheds. After the morning's physical fitness, the cadre gave us time to shower and change into our combat uniform for the day's training.
Binômes
At 1000 hours, we ate casse-croûte (light meal), generally a baguette sandwich. It didn't matter—we appreciated any food we could get. For classroom work and training purposes, we were broken down into binômes, or groups of two. This tradition dates back to the Roman Legions, whereby two soldiers were designated to guard each other's backs in battle.
We spent hours learning French vocabulary in and out of the classroom. The rules were that those who spoke the language were to make sure that everyone else understood what was being said by the cadre. My French was coming along well enough, so I had an easier time. I did my best to help Jock and O'Brien. They were keen to learn as it became apparent that those falling behind were often assigned cleaning details or kitchen duties.
A large part of our training was classroom-based. We soon dreaded the long hours in class and our favorite nemesis, Schmidt, our least favorite teacher. He was less patient and quicker to dole out punishment, preferring an open-handed hard slap to the head or a hard knee to the gut.
During classroom instruction at The Farm, once ass hit seat, it took a superhuman effort to stay awake. After nodding off, I was spared the piton, but my nodding head was palmed like a baseball and dunked in a bucket of ice-cold water.
First March
The next morning, having missed our evening meal, we were starving. We filed into the kitchen, hoping for a good thick baguette with butter and jam. Breakfast consisted of only one-half quart (quarter-liter canteen cup) of watery instant coffee. Maybe the Legion thought that the quickest way to learn how to soldier without food or water was to soldier without food or water.
"Marching is a way of life in the Legion," Sergent-Chef Schmidt announced. "Today, we will start with your introductory hike to get you and your feet accustomed to the marching traditions of the Legion."
Our equipment was not the best: the Foreign Legion, the stepdaughter of the Armee de Terre (Land Force), had no qualms with sending her soldiers off on dangerous missions with substandard equipment. During basic training, we were kitted out with equipment initially destined for the dumpster but thought quite good enough for a group of foreign volunteers. We were still wearing heavy steel helmets when other Western armies wore Kevlar. Our steel canteens leaked, and our sleeping bags were Algerian war rejects. Modern camouflage uniforms were considered an unnecessary flamboyance, and our combat fatigues were straight olive drab.
The first half hour was brisk and invigorating. The view of the French countryside was splendid. My rucksack sat firmly on my shoulders. I looked forward to five more bracing years in the Legion. Then, the pace began to get painfully fast.
Schmidt stormed ahead across rough terrain and up the steep, hilly grades. My thighs screamed in protest. Over the next two hours, each step produced blisters on different parts of my heels, soles, and toes while my rucksack grew heavier, gnawing into my shoulders. During our ten-minute break, I lay sprawled on the dirt, willing my feet to heal. My only comfort was my ration of dark, bitter Belgian chocolate, which I nibbled every fifteen minutes. That day, I learned a brutal truth: You only earn the Képi Blanc if you fill your boots with blood at least once.
Hunger
Hunger was my constant companion. The combination of physical fitness, long hours in the classroom, and the seemingly endless push-ups took a toll on everyone. We gauged the passage of the day in relation to mealtimes. The expectation that the next meal gave us the drive or strength to keep going. Not only was food appreciated, but for some, meal times were the only break when they could relax. The calories burned far exceeded those we consumed, placing extra strain on our already overburdened minds and bodies. For some, this would be a defining factor in success or failure.
We were too hungry to see how exhausted we were. Food became our abiding obsession. Scrounging a few extra calories became a part-time passion, including trying to smuggle food from the mess hall. I sometimes bloated myself with water to quell the hunger pangs. At least the water kept my stomach from growing so ferociously.
I learned that hunger advances in three stages: in stage one, a man's appetite tells him he is ready to eat his next meal. In stage two, hunger informed his every thought and motion. In stage three, a man is starving to death, and his mind suppresses thoughts of food to the point of indifference.
Legionnaires in training remained perpetually in stage two, which caused a kind of hallucinatory hunger. We dived into the garbage cans after the NCOs' meals to devour with smacking lips any morsel of food we found.
Apéro
The apéro is a French slang term for an aperitif, which precedes each meal. However, this did not include an alcoholic beverage, as the name suggests. Instead, it was a cocktail of chin-ups, push-ups, sit-ups, and a 20-foot rope climb using only our arms. The actual climb was all about technique and upper-body strength. It wasn't long before some of us were suffering from tennis elbow. Complaining about the pain didn't help. The caporals who oversaw the apéro didn't couldn't have cared less.
Afterward, the cadre marched us to the kitchen for a meager ration of food- edible but insufficient. The caporals habitually offered extra helpings to those they thought had earned it during the day's training. While this caused some animosity, even the most grudging had to acknowledge that it was generally those who were doing well in the physical fitness end of things that got the reward. It was an incentive to try harder.
FAMAS
Finally, the NCOs introduced us to the FAMAS 5.56mm assault rifle. By studying overhead projector diagrams, we learned the weapons components' names and the breakdown of the reassembly procedures while simultaneously identifying each piece out loud in French. At first, the FAMAS seemed peculiar to me. It was small and quite different from the American M-16 I had learned about in Army ROTC, but in time, I came to appreciate how sturdy and trustworthy the FAMAS was.
Singing
The weapons training was something I took to eagerly; another cornerstone of training gave me nothing but frustration: the numerous Legion marching songs. With many just struggling with simple French, like the words for knife and fork, memorizing an entire song by heart and then singing it correctly in tune as a group was one of the toughest assignments we've faced. My brief previous exposure to military life had been an entirely different experience.
Marching songs are an essential Legion tradition. Throughout its history, regiments have marched into battle singing. Most songs tell the stories of former campaigns and battles. Although I respected the Legion's history, I wouldn't say I liked the singing as it was utterly alien to my concept of what soldiering should be.
"Le Boudin," the first of the many songs we had to learn, was composed in 1863 when the Legion was about to embark on the campaign in Mexico. The king of Belgium intervened to dissuade his subjects from enlisting. The Legion's Chef de Musique, expressed the general disgust at what was seen as Belgian cowardice by composing "Le Boudin," which became the Legion's official marching song. Literally, it means "Blood Sausage," which is military slang for the bedroll for departing Legionnaires carried on top of their knapsacks.
Les chants had a special significance in the Legion. They tell of death, hardship, suffering, and leaving a homeland, hoping to return after five years. Some are old Wehrmacht songs sing in German like “Oh, du schoner Westerwald." Many are for sweethearts left behind — "Eugenie," "Monica," and "Veronica." The subliminal message is that a glorious death is a passport to eternal life and happiness, not unlike the seventy-two virgins waiting in paradise for the fundamentalist Muslims who die in jihad.
Death and Sacrifice
The Legion differs from other standing armies. Joining the British or U.S. Army involves swords and salutes on the parade ground. Our inaugural ceremony in Aubagne left no doubt about how the Legion felt about us being martyred for France. We swore in at the Legion's tomblike headquarters in front of its most sacred shrine: the wooden prosthetic hand of Captaine Jean Danjou, who died at Camerone, Mexico, in 1863- around the roped-off hand-shrine hung placards inscribed minutely with the names of the dead – all 35,000 of them, dating back to the Legion's inception in 1831. The message was clear: Sacrifice was essential, and you will never be forgotten. The room reeked of heroic death.
Of course, death-loving nihilism was not the sole motivation. As with any military, camaraderie, adventure, danger, and the desire to prove oneself all play a part. Most Legion recruits were sentimental by nature, seeking a romantic solution by sacrificing themselves to the masculine fantasy of the Legion.
Elite fighting forces are a serious attraction to young men. And the Legion, unlike many armies, fought a lot. To bored young men, death and elitism is a heady cocktail. Since the late 1960s, the Legion has fought with distinction in Chad in 1969-71, in Zaire in 1978, and been a peacekeeping force in Lebanon since the early 1980s. During the First Gulf War in 1990-91, they protected the flank of the coalition forces, receiving light casualties. In 1992, they were back in old Indochina, Cambodia, and Somalia. In 1993, they served in Bosnia; in 1994, they served in Rwanda. In this century, they have served again in the Ivory Coast in 2003, Chad in 2008, and spent more than a decade in Afghanistan. In 2013-14, they helped to rid Mali of the politicized Islamic extremists that took control of Timbuktu – a return to their romantic desert roots.
Ex-Legionnaires are touchy about their motivation for enlisting. They naturally distrust anyone who hasn't had their experiences. To outsiders, it looks a little strange. All that discipline and marching – and then ending up dead. That they are men who love fighting is only half the story. Even the desire to prove oneself as manly and tough cannot account for the continued fascination for this army of foreign mercenaries who celebrate not victory but an honorable death. Either way, death and adventure were close to the heart of the Legion's attraction.
This fatalistic attitude remained true throughout my entire five years in the Legion.