To-Do List

As a corporal, every so often one finds one’s name present in big bold letters on a particularly dreaded sheet of paper posted, almost obnoxiously, behind impenetrable plates of glass inside the entrance to the company.

That nightmarish “Service Régimentaire”, whereby the company assumes the regimental service for an entire week (guard duty, kitchen duty, leaf-collecting duty, the works), rears its ugly head every so often and leaves us legionnaires with two main, pressing questions:

1) Will I – at some stage - have to iron my guard uniform?

2) Is my weekend fucked?

If the two happen to combine (on, say, a Friday) therefore rendering your weekend fucked as you watch – in the most comical of ceremonial uniforms – your fellow legionnaires roll out of regiment in a bus headed for the train station and the start of their weekend, well then you’re just shit out of luck, I guess!

But guard duty and pot scrubbing aren’t the only chores to be delegated out to companies on a regular basis, for each company has its own perpetual service unfolding and recycling down in a small dusty corner of the building here, known simply as “la semaine”.

The Bureau de Semaine is the control centre of any company in the French Armed Forces. Manned by a sergent (or Caporal-Chef) and a corporal, it’s the go-to point for any information whatsoever concerning the daily events, schedule, news, etc of that particular company. Here is where legionnaires scribble their name to go eat at the canteen in the evenings, where they sign-up for a seat on the Friday bus carrying them out of regiment and away to 48 hours of freedom-by-rail. At the semaine is where they’ll discover if they have any post or parcels to collect from the on-base depot, or whether they’ve an appointment with the military hospital in Marseille. Running the show is the Sergent de Semaine, receiving the orders from the company captain or other high-ranking officers/NCOs, but the Caporal de Semaine is the true enforcer, the real glue holding it all together. And today, on my birthday, and during a long weekend where there is literally not a soul lingering within these walls, that gelatinous adhesive substance is me. Oh yeah!

Now typically the corporal’s chores read as follows:

05:30 – Wake up the company by blowing a whistle as loudly as possible through every corridor of the company.
06:00 – Roll call by the sergeant after which I collect the roll call slips for each platoon, extracting the names of those designated for morning chores.

06:30 - Distribute sectors together with cleaning product to the fortunate chosen for the mission ahead.

07:20 – Assemble the sick and brittle for an inspection by the captain to deem them genuine cases for medical consultation that morning.

07:30 – Assemble all the corporals and legionnaires for Corvée Quartier (a circular sweep of the grounds surrounding the company building for any cigarette butts, papers, general rubbish).
07:45 – Company assembly, lead by the sergeant (I kick back in the bureau).

08:00 – Oversee the departure of the various legionnaires for their respective regimental services.

09:30 – Same thing but for the sickies heading off to the infirmary.
11:30 – Off to eat lunch early, in order to hold the fort while the sergeant escorts the company to the canteen.

12:00 – Sergeant escorts the company to the canteen.

12:30 – Chores
13:15 – Corvée Quartier
13:30 – Company assembly
14:00 – Collect the post from the on-base depot.

17:30 -  Early eats encore une fois.
18:00 – Hold the fort while the rest chow down, again.

19:00 – Lock up all the offices.
22:30 – Whistle loudly for lights out.

Of course, this is a TYPICAL day at the semaine. However, granted that the entire regiment has been on a long weekend since Tuesday evening, the schedule has seen some adjustments made. Here’s my current day in this ghost barracks:

Whenever – Wake up.
11:30 –           Collect the lunchtime meal for me and the sergeant, bring it back and eat it together in front of the TV in our company club/bar.

Afternoon – Play some Playstation or write some of my blog.

17:30 –           Food run again.

Evening – Shower, play guitar, sleep, whatever.

Now most of this freedom is down to my particular sergeant not giving a single fuck this entire weekend, but who am I to complain? A reader recently asked for some more detailed insight into a day in the life, the day to day, etc. Well here ya go. Not a word of a lie, you will get to a point in your legion career where the above typifies all that passes between your eyelids opening from slumber and shutting for some more.

You will also get to a point where one more birthday down the drain has about as much impact on your mindset as the weekly elephant polo results from Kathmandu.

Happy Friday folks.

Les Fondamentaux

Not only do some things never change but disappointingly, some things never will. That sentence doesn’t make a lot of sense. I know. Neither does what I’m about to say. Such is life. Confusing. Senseless. Jim was right. People are strange. Take yours truly as a case-in-point.

I consider myself a liberal. I consider myself progressive. I consider myself more left leaning than centre. And yet here I stand, frustrated beyond measure at how uneasy people become at the sight of an assault rifle. The various reactions I’ve encountered while strolling the halls and terminals of Charles de Gaulle airport these past two weeks have been rather uncomfortably illuminating. I don’t know what I was expecting, I suppose. Smoldering looks from sunglasses-sporting supermodels? Young kids waving mini French flags as I trundle by with my team, their mothers wiping away patriotic tears crying “Vive la Légion!”? Whatever I was waiting for, it never came.

Now, I’d already completed this very same mission back in November but there was something more – I don’t know – lucid about proceedings this time round. I could literally feel the edgy stares raining down on me from all directions as our patrols snaked painstakingly through the mountains of luggage and loose flip-flops scattered across the polished faux-marble floors. Young men killing time on their laptops or chatting with friends suddenly shifted awkwardly in their seats, looking both us and our rifles up and down with a sort of affronted intimidation, their eyes posing the frank question “What right do you have to put us at such ill ease?”.

I still don’t know the answer.

Even the little kids remain apprehensive. Sure, some tug at their father’s coattails imploring him to “Regardes les militaires!!”, but in spite of winks, flashed smiles, waves and thumbs up, the kids remain wide-mouthed, leaving said smiles and waves unreturned, languishing in the no mans land of unsupported slow claps and hanging high fives.

Many times throughout the past fortnight I found myself grappling with a boisterous internal monologue, my trembling, mumbling lips occasionally betraying the raging arguments bouncing rabidly around the inside of my skull. Do they not realize that we’re only there to protect them? To look out for them? To usher them out of harm’s way? Apparently not. And the guys – why do they go out of their way to walk directly in front of us, to cut across us during our rounds, to brush off our shoulders as they pass, just softly enough to avoid a confrontation? If only they knew that beneath the beret, underneath the uniform, minus the rifle, I’m just a normal fun-loving guy. I’m just like them……. aren’t I?

Various photos line the walls of the building where we’re lodged during the stint up here. One shows the correct formation for the patrolling team, the team leader to the rear with the two legionnaires out front to the sides, forming a “V” shape. Another shows the correct way to hold one’s rifle. “Patrouille Basse”, as in a patrolling stance with the rifle facing downwards. Personally I found it to be a tad aggressive and so instructed my guys to cross their hands and place them on the butt of the rifle, well away from the trigger. Less confrontational, I figured. But here is where we kick it up a notch, so to speak. It’s not exactly classified information, but information that our superiors would prefer undisclosed all the same.

Of the three men patrolling in an airport surveillance team, only the team leader has a magazine with live ammunition actually engaged in his rifle. The other two members have their mag in the pocket of their combat vests. All three rifles have their arming mechanism blocked by a thin metal wire. In order to send their weapons “hot” (ie. Slot the first round in to the chamber, ready to fire) they would first have to break this seal. It would take no more than a good, hard tug of the arming mechanism to achieve, but still presents a significant obstacle to being capable of engaging an adversary. Some team leaders, rather ironically, demand that their legionnaires slip empty magazines into the rifle to lend the appearance of combat readiness. The reality is that ejecting this mag in order to engage the live one would actually cost more time than simply slotting the live mag directly into the empty space where it goes. But hey, for us dashing silver-tongued Legionnaires it’s all about appearances, right? To hell with logic and tactically astute protocol. Sometimes, you have to laugh. It’s a question of sanity, really.

On a recent free day spent in Paris, I got chatting to a cute Lebanese girl in a bar (as you do!). The conversation was flowing marvelously until the unavoidable topic of my presence/source of employment in France cropped up.  Suddenly the tone shifted, like those guys in their seats at the airport. Why would I voluntarily put myself in that position? Why would I fight for another country in a war that’s not my own? Why why why?

Is it not better, asked I, to have one of those pairs of boots in distant, war ravaged lands filled by someone compassionate, reasonable and open-minded than a trigger-happy, blood thirsty strayed youth? Is it not a clearer commentary that pours from the mouth and finger tips of someone having underwent the transformation and experience of serving in the armed forces than someone watching through the TV or computer screen? The stalemate was evident, the spark long extinguished. We made our polite goodbyes without a number or Facebook exchanged.

Much like how I imagine my goodbyes with the Legion will be made. Lately it has become a daily struggle with such questions. The fatigue is slowly enveloping me. Perhaps it’s typical of someone so close to the end of such a profound and revelatory voyage. Looking back in 3 months time when I step through those gates and rejoin the civilian world, I will undoubtedly consider how we were a decent fit on many levels, the Legion and I. But not the essential ones.

Not the fundamental ones.

Cutthroat Dreams

Once upon a time, I would crane my neck skywards to watch tiny winged specs carve open the vast perfect blue, leaving frothing puffy scars in their wake like a blunt and rusted scalpel tearing through charred flesh. Then, a frothing puffy corporal screaming French blue murder while stinking of blue cheese would rudely interrupt my idyllic gaze and puff would go the daydream. To say that the pain in watching those airplanes fly overhead in the early days of the Legion was excruciating would be far from an exaggeration, however, such was the feeling of isolation, fear, anxiety and homesickness way back then.

Not so now, though. Last week I hopped (nonchalantly, don’t you know, such is the finely-honed nature of my border-crossing swagger these days) on a plane at Dublin airport dragging me back to the Legion for the second last time in my life. In a few months when I’m heading back to the grind after squeezing the last holiday out of my military epilogue, the party will already be well and truly underway. This time, though, seemed rather poignant, as it was the first time that I truly reflected on the metamorphosis my mentality has undergone concerning these relatively frequent 70-minute trips. From initial, fledgling dread, my psyche has gradually evolved so as to treat the end-of-holiday journey from family home to Dublin airport as no more galling than a Monday morning bus-ride to the office. No more pangs of homesickness now as I gape up at planes crossing overhead, nor do highly combustible superiors interrupt such tranquil moments any longer. I’m the corporal now, remember, only with a lot less froth.

This holiday took me by surprise in many ways, not least by the fact that it was spent back in Ireland. Only recently had my entire post-Legion plan been turned on its head as Cupid’s arrow implanted itself deep in my hairy arse cheek and the French ‘Missus du Jour’ presented my with all the apparent reason I required to bid Ireland a permanent “adieu” and settle down in Paris. Ah those French birds! What began as a rather fantastically passionate affair soon washed clean however to show a jealous underbelly proving too hot to handle in the end. A close call in hindsight, but thankfully I hadn’t sacrificed my place in university this coming September or anything crazy like that. Just when you think you’re on the home stretch, eh?

So back to Dublin I’ll eventually go and, apart from returning to my studies, several other rather important issues still need resolving sooner rather than later. The term “house-hunting” has understandably avoided my vernacular these past (almost) 5 years, but the heat is being turned up as my repatriation approaches. The disadvantage of arriving home just in time to start college is the fact that every student and their granny will be hunting for city-centre accommodation in the lead up to kick-off. Through a stroke of good fortune, I have a set of eyes and ears already on the ground, in the form of an Irish girl just moved home having spent the guts of the last decade stateside. Her sister (a very good friend of mine) warned of ramifications if “the 21^st century Odd Couple” actually went through with it (moving in together) but I figure it should be a breeze compared to violent, drunken Russian babies and teeth-grinding Chinamen. A breeze, I tell you…..haha….ha……hmmmm.

Having spent the last (nearly) 5 years outside of Ireland myself, my eligibility for government aid, student grants, etc is entirely null and void. In order to qualify for support, I would have to have been resident in Ireland for at least 3 of the 5 years preceding my entry into 3^rd level education. Many a wily old anarchist urged me to claim residency here the past few years (bank statements have been continuously delivered to me at the home address), yet I fear that may backfire if I ever manage to publish a book on my Legion exploits. How on earth did he stay resident in Ireland while toiling away in Africa, Afghanistan and South America, they might inquire? No, no, above board is how I shall do it and thus looms the daunting reality of having to work my way through a 4-year degree course. In my favour is a vastly extensive network of ex-legionnaires based in Ireland who at the very least might point me in the right direction, with security work being the likely destination. I’m not so sure a blog on bouncing bars and clubs would be too enthralling but the pay might just intrigue me enough. It’ll either be that or working night-security in banks or office blocks. There, with my stack of notes and trusty Macbook, sipping coffee through to the early hours, occasionally flashing my torch around wildly incase anyone’s monitoring my work ethic. How straightforward it all seems.

The there’s the question of a social life of some kind, any kind really. When one emigrates, the challenge of keeping friendships alive and well increases ten-fold. Facebook is all well and good to a point, but there remains a stark difference between maintaining regular contact with someone and simply sending the occasional “poke”. I guess in a refreshing way I’ll find myself returning to a hometown where no more than a dozen close friends await. It feels like an achievement to have retained their love and confidence throughout my French adventure and returning a more rounded, mature grown-up is kind of exciting, I guess. While nobody ever FULLY leaves it behind, I remain confident that my stupid-shit-phase is running on fumes at this stage. Bring on the weddings and baby showers (and Jameson ……… lots of Jameson)!

One difficulty I anticipate with equal relish and horror will be the collision of old hairy ex-legionnaire and young sprightly school leaver in the university lecture hall come September. Any dreams I might have of being the cooler, older, ex-military guy in class will more than likely evaporate on day one as I struggle to compete with tales of post-Leaving Cert excess in Ibiza. “This one time in Afghanistan….” will be mercilessly drowned out by “….and then I puked my ring from the balcony straight in to the pool!!”. Best accept it, I think, and remain discreet down the back of the classroom unless otherwise called upon. I’m sure my ability to dress myself like and adult will already see me sticking out like a sore thumb, no need to lay it on thicker still.

The hypotheses could continue indefinitely. I guess I’m glad to be returning home. I’ve missed being in Dublin, not just visiting her from time to time. I’ve missed morning runs through the city with my headphones in, dodging cyclists and delivery trucks and eating up the pavement on my way to work (college, this time round). I’ve missed being around my family and my little niece in particular. The knowledge that my return is looming unavoidably large now takes the sting out of absentia. I know I’ll be home soon, and as that final flight carves through the perfect blue I’ve no doubt its scar will be stitched shut with seamless grace right behind me. It no longer hurts to watch those planes go by.

Of course seeing them day-in-day-out as I patrol Charles de Gaulle airport like a fucking eejit for the second 3-week stint in little over as many months helps with the desensitization process.