The Shaman
First Post
Marcel...[sblock]Capitaine Villiers’ orders arrive in the form of a flashlight in the eyes before sunrise. “Grab your gear,” says a legionnaire, faceless in the dark. “We’re heading back to Blida.” He moves on to Gonzalez, who rouses slowly.
Marcel finds himself back among the rest of his trainees, the men who jumped the day before Sgt. Duval’s section. The paras ply him with questions about the action at the oued as they pile into the back of the deuce-and-a-halfs for the long drive back to the training facility. There is plenty of opportunity to reflect on the events of the previous day before the convoy of trucks jostles into the para base a couple of hours after dark.
The next day is the ceremony. Marcel stands at attention in his khaki parade dress – white kepi, red and green epaulettes de tradition, blue sash and white belt around his midsection, and white gaiters over his polished shoes – as the school’s commanding officer, Commandant Bernelle, pins a pair of silver and gold jump wings over the légionnaire’s right breast pocket. A few words are said about the gallantry of the trainees distinguished themselves in action – legionnaires Marcel Fortier and Pedro Gonzalez are mentioned by name, as are Gustav Berg and Igor Martinez. The ceremony is followed by a quick change into walking-out dress as the paras descend on the bars of Blida.
The rest of the week is spent at Blida – five jumps earn the paratroopers’ wings but another four are required for assignment to a combat unit. There are two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, completed certificate and orders in hand, Marcel is on board a Ju-52 bound for Alger.
There is no time for sightseeing, for relaxing on the beach or sipping an espresso in a café – Marcel’s orders are to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda within 48 hours, but as one of the moniteurs at Blida reminded him, it’s not wise to keep the Legion waiting. Asking around the terminal gets Marcel a lift in a supply truck headed west, and by 1500 he’s standing at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs Marcel to report to Lt. Olivier at the infirmary.
Lieutenant Raoul Olivier is tall and thin with light blond hair – at first look he resembles a stork in fatigues, right down to his long thin nose underneath a pair of gold wire-rimmed spectacles. He welcomes Marcel warmly and arranges for one of the orderlies to show Marcel to his barracks. “Meet me at the mess hall at 1800,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch, “and we’ll discuss your duties then.”
The base is quiet – the regiment is in the field and only the support and administrative functions are present at the moment, along with a small handful of ill or injured paras in the patient ward of the infirmary. Over a hearty meal Lt. Olivier explains that Marcel will spend the next couple of weeks at Zeralda, an orientation period, before being attached to one of the regiment’s six combat companies. Though technically assigned to the medical platoon under command of the regimental surgeon, Dr. Maurice Remy de Fauvres, while in the field Marcel will take his orders from the senior medic assigned to the company’s headquarters platoon, Olivier explains. [color=sienna[/i]“There are only two to four medics per company, Fortier, for over a hundred and forty men,”[/color] he says, sipping his wine. “Most days you will be their doctor, their psychiatrist, and their confidant. You will need to be cool under fire when no one else is. It is a great responsibility.” He smiles. “It’s my job to make you ready for that responsibility. We’ll start in the morning.”
It would take a dour man indeed not to like Lt. Olivier. Professional at all times, he exhibits an easy familiarity that never undermines his military presence. The nurse, Sister Lucie, and the two orderlies, the German, Manfried and the Greek, Konstanopoulous, speak of their regard for the lieutenant. Olivier is true to his word, and Marcel is immersed immediately. There is no busy work in the lieutenant’s world: restocking medical supplies becomes a lesson in maintaining medical field kits, how to predict expected casualties and order in dressings and bandages and plasma so that there is never too much nor too little when needed – taking vital signs becomes an exercise in patient triage and rapid assessment under battlefield conditions. There is time spent preparing a patient for transport by ambulance, by jeep, or even by helicopter – the latter Olivier calls “The most significant technological advance in battlefield medicine since plasma, Fortier” – identifying environmental hazards like bad water or heat-related illnesses, and the maintenance of patient records to insure proper treatment on one end and fitness for duty on the other. Though there are only a handful of patients in the ward, Marcel is required to interact with each one under the lieutenant’s vigilant eye.
The most unusual and perhaps unexpected of Marcel’s duties is assisting Lt. Olivier on his weekly rounds of la puff, the regimental brothel. “The women’s hygiene is of utmost importance in insuring that the paras remain fit for duty,” Olivier explains as he examines the girls for signs of venereal disease, drug use, and normal menstruation. The prostitutes, recognizing Marcel as new to the medical platoon, give him the full force of their ribald humor, challenging his manhood, his stamina, and his proclivities in the rawest terms and a variety of languages, often accompanied by graphic gestures that leave little doubt as to the subject of the joke. “Pay attention, Fortier,” Olivier instructs. “When the men don’t have access to la puff, you’ll need to watch that the local girls aren’t passing a half-dozen diseases around the paras of your company. Keep contraceptives available at all times and make sure they get distributed, and used.”
The weeks at Zeralda pass quickly under médicine-lieutenant’s tutelage. Marcel is greeted one morning after catching the night duty in the ward by Lt. Olivier – he holds a mimeo form in his hand. “Your orders, légionnaire. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving in two hours. Get your equipment and good luck.”[/sblock]Pyotr...[sblock]“Légionnaire Kerenin.”
The arduous ride across the desert leaves everyone in the convoy spent. A hasty bivouac in El Abiodh is established and Pyotr, all of the sous-officiers in his section lying in the makeshift infirmary, looks for a quiet corner to curl up in the train unit’s barracks. An abrupt voice intrudes upon the Russian’s quietude.
“Légionnaire, the capitaine orders you to join up with the patrol headed back to the oued in the morning.” Pyotr looks up at the moniteur – the sergent is one he’s seen around the base at Blida but never learned his name. “You’ll report to Lt. Ben Barka at dawn, to act as a guide and to describe what happened. Do you understand your orders?” Acknowledging the sergent, Pyotr resumes his search for sleep.
A rough hand wakes him before dawn. It’s one of the tirailleurs, an Arab with pocked skin and a brushy mustache. “The sergent said you are coming with us today. We leave in fifteen minutes. We have tinned rations this morning, but we have hot coffee if you would like. I’m Youssef Mehdi.” Without waiting for an answer, the tirailleur turns and heads outside. Gathering up his meager gear, he joins the tirailleurs in the pale pre-dawn light. The rest of the trainee paras are loading up a convoy of deuce-and-a-halfs – Pyotr glimpses Gonzalez boarding one of the trucks for the ride back to Blida. A tap on the shoulder – it’s Youssef with a tin cup of steaming coffee. “The lieutenant would like to see you.”
Lt. Ben Barka wears a quilted jacket over his fatigues to ward off the morning chill. He eyes Pyotr, then says to Youssef, “Find a spare pack and make sure he has field rations for four days. And a djellba.” The lieutenant looks at Pyotr again. “I hope you don’t mind Arab rations, legionnaire. No wine.” From his pocket he withdraws a map. “Senior sergeant Duval marked the location for me, but he offered to send you as a guide as well. My orders are to secure the area. There will some kind of official inquiry.” He folds up the map, stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket. “Youssef will make sure you have supplies for the march.” Lt. Ben Barka turns away, signaling the end of the conversation. Youssef returns a short while later and helps Pyotr fit the rucksack to his shoulders – the Arab also offers the Russian a spare canteen as well.
The tirallieurs tick off the kilometers in quiet conversation, mostly in Arabic. Walking with Youssef, Pyotr learns that most of the men are from the area around Saida, in western Algeria. Some, like the lieutenant and a couple of the sergeants, are veterans from Indochina, the rest more recent recruits. The company lost eight soldats to an ALN ambush a few months ago, and Youssef indicates that the men are eager for an opportunity to exact revenge – unfortunately, the tirailleurs spend most of the time on garrison duties scattered throughout the pieds-noirs towns of their sector, this march being the first time that some in the hundred-twenty strong company have seen each other in almost two months.
The vultures are the first sign that the tirailleurs are getting close to the battlefield.
Hanging suspended in the sky against the late afternoon sun, the great birds climb in broad spirals as they fly for their roosts, the bellies full of fresh meat, their red heads and ivory bills stained with blood. Pyotr sees the low hill where the paras made their stand – a jackal is silhouetted against the sky not far from where the legionnaire dueled the ALN gunners the day before. The Russian overhears the lieutenant speaking to one of the men, and a shot rings out, sending the jackal scurrying. Taking no chances, the lieutenant halts the column and deploys the men for a tactical advance – Pyotr is ordered to stay with Ben Barka toward the rear as the tirailleurs sweep toward the battlefield. A few vultures, a white marabou stork, and a family of jackals provide no contest for the Algerians. Dispatching scouts toward the oued, Lt. Ben Barka orders one of his sergeants to collect weapons and make an accurate count of the dead – Pyotr assists by outlining the ALN movements the day before as the tirailleurs go about their grisly task before the sun sets. The Algerians make camp under a dome of stars in the lee of Hill 162 – Pyotr sleeps in the open, wrapped in a hooded wool djellba like the Arab soldiers, the sound of the jackals yipping and barking away in the darkness.
The roar of a Dakota’s engines shatters the peaceful morning – the transport rushes past disgorging a dozen parachutists in the early morning light. The men in the stick land cleanly in the desert east of the tirailleurs and assemble their gear. Lt. Ben Barka motions to Pyotr to accompany him and together they join the paras. Pyotr listens as the new arrivals make curt introductions to the Muslim lieutenant – a commandant from the 10e Parachute Division general staff, a capitaine from the 2e REP, another capitaine without any unit identification who declines to introduce himself to Ben Barka, a lieutenant in the uniform of the French Air Force, and a sous-lieutenant from the division signals company – the rest are sous-officiers along to assist. Pyotr is introduced and perfunctorily congratulated by the commandant – the REP capitaine, Laperre, is much warmer in his sentiments, shaking Pyotr’s hand with a firm grip, saying, “Your action here is in the finest traditions of the Legion, légionnaire Kerenin. Well done.”
The officers settle in together to discuss their inquiry. The sous-lieutenant is in charge of documenting the scene, and he coordinates the adjudants and sergents responsible for taking photographs and making measurements. Pyotr is asked to walk through the firefight again – the Armée de l'Air officer is especially interested in the Mistrals’ strafing run while the commandant asks few questions as Pyotr provides his narrative. After the second tour is done, Laperre pulls Pyotr aside and again commends him – he nods in the direction of the no-name captain and says quietly, “Deuxieme Bureau. Military intelligence. He may have some questions for you later.”
The work continues through the day, then resumes the following day. Pyotr is interviewed twice, once by the sous-lieutenant, once by the 2e Bureau capitaine – the intelligence officer is most interested in the interrogation of the prisoner on the DZ after the trainees landed. A trip to the paras’ drop zone is discussed and discarded as unnecessary to the inquiry. Late in the afternoon four jeeps arrive – apparently the officers won’t be walking back in the morning.
The fourth day is spent returning to El Abiodh. The tirailleurs carry the recovered weapons – the bodies of the fellaghas are left to the desert. Before the officers leave in the morning, Laperre instructs Pyotr to find him when the tirailleurs get back to El Abiodh – he’ll arrange to get the legionnaire back to either Sidi-bel-Abbès or Blida. The march is uneventful, the Arabs reserved, the sun relentless. The wounded are gone, taken by ambulance to Mecheria for flight to Algiers. Capitaine Laperre is gone too, as are all of the officers and their men – orders have been left with the adjudant of the supply company to get Pyotr back to Blida by land or by air as soon as possible.
Four days later Pyotr steps out of a Dakota on the tarmac of the parachute school at Blida. The Russian’s class has graduated and moved on to their assignments – an orderly in the base commander’s office informs him that he will be able to join another class the following week to complete his final jumps. In the meantime he is assigned to the parachute barn under the watchful eye of the chief rigger, an adjudant-chef named Calvi from the 2ème Régiment de Chasseurs Parachutistes – Pyotr is surprised to discover that Calvi, on detached duty to the school from his parent unit, learned some Russian while stationed in West Germany, and the two spend hours in the barn, Pyotr cleaning, airing, and drying parachutes, the senior warrant officer practicing his atrocious Russian on the legionnaire.
The following week Pyotr is folded into a training class to complete his final four jumps. Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Pyotr sees two familiar faces: Normand Mador and Vidal Gaspard, recently escaped from the Hôpital Maillot in Algiers. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at Oued Baraba has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda, Pyotr and the other legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.
Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. Pyotr recognizes the man’s accent as Magyar as the 1er Bureau officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1er REP,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, légionnaires. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]Normand and Vidal...[sblock]The makeshift infirmary set up in the Service d’Itendence depot in El Abiodh is quiet and dark. An orderly sits in a corner, filling out a chart by the light of a flashlight. Neumann and Dinter are asleep – Lavareaux is talking softly with Capitaine Villiers, pointing to various locations on a map in the captain’s hands, also illuminated by battery-powered torch. Sgt. Duval was rushed into a field surgical theatre set up less than an hour after the surgeon arrived, to remove the bullet that lay somewhere inside his chest – that was four hours ago.
IVs dangle above the wounded legionnaires, replacing blood and plasma left on the hammada during the firefight and pumping in antibiotics to prevent infection. Normand’s wounds were assessed by the nursing sister: the bullet in his calf will need to be removed, but the round that struck under his arm passed through the Latissimus dorsi without striking the thoracodorsal artery or nerve, she tells him – it’s going to hurt to use his arm for awhile, but the prognosis for a full recovery is good.
One of the orderlies gives Vidal a thorough neurological check under the nursing sister’s attentive gaze. There is no apparent loss of function, no sign of intracranial hemorrhage – a head X-ray will be taken in time to be sure, but in the meantime it appears that a painful bump and an acute headache from a moderate concussion are the only immediate concerns.
The sound of trucks outside accompanied by shouted orders intrudes upon the stillness of the infirmary in the early morning. Sometime after everyone was asleep Duval was brought in with the rest of the men and he continues to sleep off the effects of the surgery oblivious to the noise outside. An orderly checks on the legionnaires, bringing water, recording on charts, tapping IV tubes – he says the wounded will be loaded on ambulances for the trip to Mecheria later this morning then flown to Algiers for surgery and recovery.
The ride to Mecheria is nearly as bad as the trip across the desert in the back of the weapons carrier – Dinter vomits repeatedly in the four-stretcher ambulance, and while mercifully he is in a lower berth, the stench is horrendous. Several stops are made to check on the men – concern over Dinter’s fluid loss results in him being moved to the front seat of the ambulance, leaving the odor to Normand, Vidal, and Lavareaux in the back.
The drive takes all day and into the night before the men are removed to a clean hospital ward at the airfield. The night passes without incident and in the morning the six wounded paras are placed aboard a Dakota casevac ship for the flight to Algiers, followed by another ambulance ride along the coast to the Hôpital Maillot. Through the rear windows the legionnaires can see the deep blue arch of the Bay of Algiers on the left, the white colonial facades of the city waterfront on the right, as they travel to the hospital – the contrast with the desolation of the desert landscape could hardly be more striking.
Maillot Hospital is a military hospital, which is another way of saying that it combines the best and worst features of both the martial and healing arts. The nurses are coolly efficient, the doctors brusque, the orderlies indifferent, the sheets clean and rigidly tucked, the food abundant but relentlessly bland. The day after arrival Normand is taken into surgery to debreed his chest wound and remove what prove to be bullet fragments from his calf – the next couple of days are a medicated blur for the big Frenchman. Vidal is treated to several head and neck X-rays and a more thorough neurological assessment – the diagnosis is a concussion, the treatment bed rest.
By the end of the first week both legionnaires are up and around, walking on the grounds, looking out over the bay at the ships coming and going from the port, listening to the seagulls above the thrum of city traffic. The Maillot Hospital sits at the northwest corner of the city, near the community of Bab-el-Oued, a working-class neighborhood of pieds-noirs families. Beyond the rooftops of the “water gate” suburb is the Casbah, home to the majority of the Muslim population of the city – from the hospital it looks like a whitewashed beehive, surrounded by block upon block of French colonial apartments and offices.
Pierre Lavareaux joins Normand and Vidal one afternoon, the Picard still in a wheelchair after his second surgery. He shakes his head as he speaks. “It’s going to take me another two months to get back to Blida at this rate,” he says, the impatience clear in his voice as he looks out toward the Mediterranean. “I talked with a buddy of mine yesterday. There’s another class of trainees about to make their final jumps in a little bit more than a week, then no one will be getting certified for at least two months, or so he’s told.” He studies Normand and Vidal. “If I were you, I’d find a way out of here and back to jump school soon, unless you want to end up in an infantry battalion without your wings.”
The next day Normand and Vidal buttonhole Dr. Orlov as he makes rounds of the ward – he’s the one physician in Maillot who seems to have a current of humanity flowing through him. Orlov listens to their plight, studies their charts, peers in Vidal’s eyes, checks Normand’s scars. “I’ll let you boys in on a little secret,” he says finally. “It sometimes happens that a soldier will report back to duty without proper discharge papers. Usually the soldier is returned to the hospital until the discharge paperwork is straightened out. But every once in awhile,” he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “the discharge is just sent up to the unit instead. It depends on who gets the paperwork.” He leans back and smiles. “It’s a crap shoot, but what do you want? That’s army life. Good luck to you, boys.” He stands up, smiles, and continues his rounds.
It takes a few days to figure out how to get to Blida without orders in hand – eventually it’s decided that the best way is to simply buy a bus ticket. Sneaking out in old U.S. Army fatigues liberated from a basement storeroom, Normand and Vidal catch a taxi to the bus station – they step off the coach in Blida the next day. The guard at the gate looks at them skeptically when they approach but places a call to Capitaine Villiers – surprised by the response, he allows them to report to the captain. Villiers is no less surprised to see them.
“Shouldn’t you boys still be in the hospital? Where are your travel orders, and your discharge papers?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.
“Lost in transit, sir” replies Vidal. “You can check with Dr. Orlov at the hospital, sir,” continues Normand.
“I see.” The captain scrutinizes the duo for more than a minute without saying a word. Normand and Vidal stand at silent attention. “See the quartermaster about new uniforms, and burn those things you’ve got on.” He taps one finger on his desk for a moment. “If there’s no discharge order, you’re done with the paras, legionnaires. Dismissed.” Reporting to the quartermaster as ordered, the pair is outfitted with new smocks and trousers. Normand and Vidal wait as long as possible before returning to Villiers office – the captain is gone, but taped on the door frame is a typed list of the names of the jumpers for the following day, with their names penciled in at the bottom.
Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Normand and Vidal see a familiar face: Pyotr Kerenin. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at Oued Baraba has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda, the three legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.
Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. The 1er Bureau officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1er REP,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, légionnaires. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]
Marcel finds himself back among the rest of his trainees, the men who jumped the day before Sgt. Duval’s section. The paras ply him with questions about the action at the oued as they pile into the back of the deuce-and-a-halfs for the long drive back to the training facility. There is plenty of opportunity to reflect on the events of the previous day before the convoy of trucks jostles into the para base a couple of hours after dark.
The next day is the ceremony. Marcel stands at attention in his khaki parade dress – white kepi, red and green epaulettes de tradition, blue sash and white belt around his midsection, and white gaiters over his polished shoes – as the school’s commanding officer, Commandant Bernelle, pins a pair of silver and gold jump wings over the légionnaire’s right breast pocket. A few words are said about the gallantry of the trainees distinguished themselves in action – legionnaires Marcel Fortier and Pedro Gonzalez are mentioned by name, as are Gustav Berg and Igor Martinez. The ceremony is followed by a quick change into walking-out dress as the paras descend on the bars of Blida.
The rest of the week is spent at Blida – five jumps earn the paratroopers’ wings but another four are required for assignment to a combat unit. There are two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, completed certificate and orders in hand, Marcel is on board a Ju-52 bound for Alger.
There is no time for sightseeing, for relaxing on the beach or sipping an espresso in a café – Marcel’s orders are to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda within 48 hours, but as one of the moniteurs at Blida reminded him, it’s not wise to keep the Legion waiting. Asking around the terminal gets Marcel a lift in a supply truck headed west, and by 1500 he’s standing at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs Marcel to report to Lt. Olivier at the infirmary.
Lieutenant Raoul Olivier is tall and thin with light blond hair – at first look he resembles a stork in fatigues, right down to his long thin nose underneath a pair of gold wire-rimmed spectacles. He welcomes Marcel warmly and arranges for one of the orderlies to show Marcel to his barracks. “Meet me at the mess hall at 1800,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch, “and we’ll discuss your duties then.”
The base is quiet – the regiment is in the field and only the support and administrative functions are present at the moment, along with a small handful of ill or injured paras in the patient ward of the infirmary. Over a hearty meal Lt. Olivier explains that Marcel will spend the next couple of weeks at Zeralda, an orientation period, before being attached to one of the regiment’s six combat companies. Though technically assigned to the medical platoon under command of the regimental surgeon, Dr. Maurice Remy de Fauvres, while in the field Marcel will take his orders from the senior medic assigned to the company’s headquarters platoon, Olivier explains. [color=sienna[/i]“There are only two to four medics per company, Fortier, for over a hundred and forty men,”[/color] he says, sipping his wine. “Most days you will be their doctor, their psychiatrist, and their confidant. You will need to be cool under fire when no one else is. It is a great responsibility.” He smiles. “It’s my job to make you ready for that responsibility. We’ll start in the morning.”
It would take a dour man indeed not to like Lt. Olivier. Professional at all times, he exhibits an easy familiarity that never undermines his military presence. The nurse, Sister Lucie, and the two orderlies, the German, Manfried and the Greek, Konstanopoulous, speak of their regard for the lieutenant. Olivier is true to his word, and Marcel is immersed immediately. There is no busy work in the lieutenant’s world: restocking medical supplies becomes a lesson in maintaining medical field kits, how to predict expected casualties and order in dressings and bandages and plasma so that there is never too much nor too little when needed – taking vital signs becomes an exercise in patient triage and rapid assessment under battlefield conditions. There is time spent preparing a patient for transport by ambulance, by jeep, or even by helicopter – the latter Olivier calls “The most significant technological advance in battlefield medicine since plasma, Fortier” – identifying environmental hazards like bad water or heat-related illnesses, and the maintenance of patient records to insure proper treatment on one end and fitness for duty on the other. Though there are only a handful of patients in the ward, Marcel is required to interact with each one under the lieutenant’s vigilant eye.
The most unusual and perhaps unexpected of Marcel’s duties is assisting Lt. Olivier on his weekly rounds of la puff, the regimental brothel. “The women’s hygiene is of utmost importance in insuring that the paras remain fit for duty,” Olivier explains as he examines the girls for signs of venereal disease, drug use, and normal menstruation. The prostitutes, recognizing Marcel as new to the medical platoon, give him the full force of their ribald humor, challenging his manhood, his stamina, and his proclivities in the rawest terms and a variety of languages, often accompanied by graphic gestures that leave little doubt as to the subject of the joke. “Pay attention, Fortier,” Olivier instructs. “When the men don’t have access to la puff, you’ll need to watch that the local girls aren’t passing a half-dozen diseases around the paras of your company. Keep contraceptives available at all times and make sure they get distributed, and used.”
The weeks at Zeralda pass quickly under médicine-lieutenant’s tutelage. Marcel is greeted one morning after catching the night duty in the ward by Lt. Olivier – he holds a mimeo form in his hand. “Your orders, légionnaire. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving in two hours. Get your equipment and good luck.”[/sblock]Pyotr...[sblock]“Légionnaire Kerenin.”
The arduous ride across the desert leaves everyone in the convoy spent. A hasty bivouac in El Abiodh is established and Pyotr, all of the sous-officiers in his section lying in the makeshift infirmary, looks for a quiet corner to curl up in the train unit’s barracks. An abrupt voice intrudes upon the Russian’s quietude.
“Légionnaire, the capitaine orders you to join up with the patrol headed back to the oued in the morning.” Pyotr looks up at the moniteur – the sergent is one he’s seen around the base at Blida but never learned his name. “You’ll report to Lt. Ben Barka at dawn, to act as a guide and to describe what happened. Do you understand your orders?” Acknowledging the sergent, Pyotr resumes his search for sleep.
A rough hand wakes him before dawn. It’s one of the tirailleurs, an Arab with pocked skin and a brushy mustache. “The sergent said you are coming with us today. We leave in fifteen minutes. We have tinned rations this morning, but we have hot coffee if you would like. I’m Youssef Mehdi.” Without waiting for an answer, the tirailleur turns and heads outside. Gathering up his meager gear, he joins the tirailleurs in the pale pre-dawn light. The rest of the trainee paras are loading up a convoy of deuce-and-a-halfs – Pyotr glimpses Gonzalez boarding one of the trucks for the ride back to Blida. A tap on the shoulder – it’s Youssef with a tin cup of steaming coffee. “The lieutenant would like to see you.”
Lt. Ben Barka wears a quilted jacket over his fatigues to ward off the morning chill. He eyes Pyotr, then says to Youssef, “Find a spare pack and make sure he has field rations for four days. And a djellba.” The lieutenant looks at Pyotr again. “I hope you don’t mind Arab rations, legionnaire. No wine.” From his pocket he withdraws a map. “Senior sergeant Duval marked the location for me, but he offered to send you as a guide as well. My orders are to secure the area. There will some kind of official inquiry.” He folds up the map, stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket. “Youssef will make sure you have supplies for the march.” Lt. Ben Barka turns away, signaling the end of the conversation. Youssef returns a short while later and helps Pyotr fit the rucksack to his shoulders – the Arab also offers the Russian a spare canteen as well.
The tirallieurs tick off the kilometers in quiet conversation, mostly in Arabic. Walking with Youssef, Pyotr learns that most of the men are from the area around Saida, in western Algeria. Some, like the lieutenant and a couple of the sergeants, are veterans from Indochina, the rest more recent recruits. The company lost eight soldats to an ALN ambush a few months ago, and Youssef indicates that the men are eager for an opportunity to exact revenge – unfortunately, the tirailleurs spend most of the time on garrison duties scattered throughout the pieds-noirs towns of their sector, this march being the first time that some in the hundred-twenty strong company have seen each other in almost two months.
The vultures are the first sign that the tirailleurs are getting close to the battlefield.
Hanging suspended in the sky against the late afternoon sun, the great birds climb in broad spirals as they fly for their roosts, the bellies full of fresh meat, their red heads and ivory bills stained with blood. Pyotr sees the low hill where the paras made their stand – a jackal is silhouetted against the sky not far from where the legionnaire dueled the ALN gunners the day before. The Russian overhears the lieutenant speaking to one of the men, and a shot rings out, sending the jackal scurrying. Taking no chances, the lieutenant halts the column and deploys the men for a tactical advance – Pyotr is ordered to stay with Ben Barka toward the rear as the tirailleurs sweep toward the battlefield. A few vultures, a white marabou stork, and a family of jackals provide no contest for the Algerians. Dispatching scouts toward the oued, Lt. Ben Barka orders one of his sergeants to collect weapons and make an accurate count of the dead – Pyotr assists by outlining the ALN movements the day before as the tirailleurs go about their grisly task before the sun sets. The Algerians make camp under a dome of stars in the lee of Hill 162 – Pyotr sleeps in the open, wrapped in a hooded wool djellba like the Arab soldiers, the sound of the jackals yipping and barking away in the darkness.
The roar of a Dakota’s engines shatters the peaceful morning – the transport rushes past disgorging a dozen parachutists in the early morning light. The men in the stick land cleanly in the desert east of the tirailleurs and assemble their gear. Lt. Ben Barka motions to Pyotr to accompany him and together they join the paras. Pyotr listens as the new arrivals make curt introductions to the Muslim lieutenant – a commandant from the 10e Parachute Division general staff, a capitaine from the 2e REP, another capitaine without any unit identification who declines to introduce himself to Ben Barka, a lieutenant in the uniform of the French Air Force, and a sous-lieutenant from the division signals company – the rest are sous-officiers along to assist. Pyotr is introduced and perfunctorily congratulated by the commandant – the REP capitaine, Laperre, is much warmer in his sentiments, shaking Pyotr’s hand with a firm grip, saying, “Your action here is in the finest traditions of the Legion, légionnaire Kerenin. Well done.”
The officers settle in together to discuss their inquiry. The sous-lieutenant is in charge of documenting the scene, and he coordinates the adjudants and sergents responsible for taking photographs and making measurements. Pyotr is asked to walk through the firefight again – the Armée de l'Air officer is especially interested in the Mistrals’ strafing run while the commandant asks few questions as Pyotr provides his narrative. After the second tour is done, Laperre pulls Pyotr aside and again commends him – he nods in the direction of the no-name captain and says quietly, “Deuxieme Bureau. Military intelligence. He may have some questions for you later.”
The work continues through the day, then resumes the following day. Pyotr is interviewed twice, once by the sous-lieutenant, once by the 2e Bureau capitaine – the intelligence officer is most interested in the interrogation of the prisoner on the DZ after the trainees landed. A trip to the paras’ drop zone is discussed and discarded as unnecessary to the inquiry. Late in the afternoon four jeeps arrive – apparently the officers won’t be walking back in the morning.
The fourth day is spent returning to El Abiodh. The tirailleurs carry the recovered weapons – the bodies of the fellaghas are left to the desert. Before the officers leave in the morning, Laperre instructs Pyotr to find him when the tirailleurs get back to El Abiodh – he’ll arrange to get the legionnaire back to either Sidi-bel-Abbès or Blida. The march is uneventful, the Arabs reserved, the sun relentless. The wounded are gone, taken by ambulance to Mecheria for flight to Algiers. Capitaine Laperre is gone too, as are all of the officers and their men – orders have been left with the adjudant of the supply company to get Pyotr back to Blida by land or by air as soon as possible.
Four days later Pyotr steps out of a Dakota on the tarmac of the parachute school at Blida. The Russian’s class has graduated and moved on to their assignments – an orderly in the base commander’s office informs him that he will be able to join another class the following week to complete his final jumps. In the meantime he is assigned to the parachute barn under the watchful eye of the chief rigger, an adjudant-chef named Calvi from the 2ème Régiment de Chasseurs Parachutistes – Pyotr is surprised to discover that Calvi, on detached duty to the school from his parent unit, learned some Russian while stationed in West Germany, and the two spend hours in the barn, Pyotr cleaning, airing, and drying parachutes, the senior warrant officer practicing his atrocious Russian on the legionnaire.
The following week Pyotr is folded into a training class to complete his final four jumps. Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Pyotr sees two familiar faces: Normand Mador and Vidal Gaspard, recently escaped from the Hôpital Maillot in Algiers. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at Oued Baraba has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda, Pyotr and the other legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.
Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. Pyotr recognizes the man’s accent as Magyar as the 1er Bureau officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1er REP,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, légionnaires. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]Normand and Vidal...[sblock]The makeshift infirmary set up in the Service d’Itendence depot in El Abiodh is quiet and dark. An orderly sits in a corner, filling out a chart by the light of a flashlight. Neumann and Dinter are asleep – Lavareaux is talking softly with Capitaine Villiers, pointing to various locations on a map in the captain’s hands, also illuminated by battery-powered torch. Sgt. Duval was rushed into a field surgical theatre set up less than an hour after the surgeon arrived, to remove the bullet that lay somewhere inside his chest – that was four hours ago.
IVs dangle above the wounded legionnaires, replacing blood and plasma left on the hammada during the firefight and pumping in antibiotics to prevent infection. Normand’s wounds were assessed by the nursing sister: the bullet in his calf will need to be removed, but the round that struck under his arm passed through the Latissimus dorsi without striking the thoracodorsal artery or nerve, she tells him – it’s going to hurt to use his arm for awhile, but the prognosis for a full recovery is good.
One of the orderlies gives Vidal a thorough neurological check under the nursing sister’s attentive gaze. There is no apparent loss of function, no sign of intracranial hemorrhage – a head X-ray will be taken in time to be sure, but in the meantime it appears that a painful bump and an acute headache from a moderate concussion are the only immediate concerns.
The sound of trucks outside accompanied by shouted orders intrudes upon the stillness of the infirmary in the early morning. Sometime after everyone was asleep Duval was brought in with the rest of the men and he continues to sleep off the effects of the surgery oblivious to the noise outside. An orderly checks on the legionnaires, bringing water, recording on charts, tapping IV tubes – he says the wounded will be loaded on ambulances for the trip to Mecheria later this morning then flown to Algiers for surgery and recovery.
The ride to Mecheria is nearly as bad as the trip across the desert in the back of the weapons carrier – Dinter vomits repeatedly in the four-stretcher ambulance, and while mercifully he is in a lower berth, the stench is horrendous. Several stops are made to check on the men – concern over Dinter’s fluid loss results in him being moved to the front seat of the ambulance, leaving the odor to Normand, Vidal, and Lavareaux in the back.
The drive takes all day and into the night before the men are removed to a clean hospital ward at the airfield. The night passes without incident and in the morning the six wounded paras are placed aboard a Dakota casevac ship for the flight to Algiers, followed by another ambulance ride along the coast to the Hôpital Maillot. Through the rear windows the legionnaires can see the deep blue arch of the Bay of Algiers on the left, the white colonial facades of the city waterfront on the right, as they travel to the hospital – the contrast with the desolation of the desert landscape could hardly be more striking.
Maillot Hospital is a military hospital, which is another way of saying that it combines the best and worst features of both the martial and healing arts. The nurses are coolly efficient, the doctors brusque, the orderlies indifferent, the sheets clean and rigidly tucked, the food abundant but relentlessly bland. The day after arrival Normand is taken into surgery to debreed his chest wound and remove what prove to be bullet fragments from his calf – the next couple of days are a medicated blur for the big Frenchman. Vidal is treated to several head and neck X-rays and a more thorough neurological assessment – the diagnosis is a concussion, the treatment bed rest.
By the end of the first week both legionnaires are up and around, walking on the grounds, looking out over the bay at the ships coming and going from the port, listening to the seagulls above the thrum of city traffic. The Maillot Hospital sits at the northwest corner of the city, near the community of Bab-el-Oued, a working-class neighborhood of pieds-noirs families. Beyond the rooftops of the “water gate” suburb is the Casbah, home to the majority of the Muslim population of the city – from the hospital it looks like a whitewashed beehive, surrounded by block upon block of French colonial apartments and offices.
Pierre Lavareaux joins Normand and Vidal one afternoon, the Picard still in a wheelchair after his second surgery. He shakes his head as he speaks. “It’s going to take me another two months to get back to Blida at this rate,” he says, the impatience clear in his voice as he looks out toward the Mediterranean. “I talked with a buddy of mine yesterday. There’s another class of trainees about to make their final jumps in a little bit more than a week, then no one will be getting certified for at least two months, or so he’s told.” He studies Normand and Vidal. “If I were you, I’d find a way out of here and back to jump school soon, unless you want to end up in an infantry battalion without your wings.”
The next day Normand and Vidal buttonhole Dr. Orlov as he makes rounds of the ward – he’s the one physician in Maillot who seems to have a current of humanity flowing through him. Orlov listens to their plight, studies their charts, peers in Vidal’s eyes, checks Normand’s scars. “I’ll let you boys in on a little secret,” he says finally. “It sometimes happens that a soldier will report back to duty without proper discharge papers. Usually the soldier is returned to the hospital until the discharge paperwork is straightened out. But every once in awhile,” he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “the discharge is just sent up to the unit instead. It depends on who gets the paperwork.” He leans back and smiles. “It’s a crap shoot, but what do you want? That’s army life. Good luck to you, boys.” He stands up, smiles, and continues his rounds.
It takes a few days to figure out how to get to Blida without orders in hand – eventually it’s decided that the best way is to simply buy a bus ticket. Sneaking out in old U.S. Army fatigues liberated from a basement storeroom, Normand and Vidal catch a taxi to the bus station – they step off the coach in Blida the next day. The guard at the gate looks at them skeptically when they approach but places a call to Capitaine Villiers – surprised by the response, he allows them to report to the captain. Villiers is no less surprised to see them.
“Shouldn’t you boys still be in the hospital? Where are your travel orders, and your discharge papers?” he asks, his eyes narrowed.
“Lost in transit, sir” replies Vidal. “You can check with Dr. Orlov at the hospital, sir,” continues Normand.
“I see.” The captain scrutinizes the duo for more than a minute without saying a word. Normand and Vidal stand at silent attention. “See the quartermaster about new uniforms, and burn those things you’ve got on.” He taps one finger on his desk for a moment. “If there’s no discharge order, you’re done with the paras, legionnaires. Dismissed.” Reporting to the quartermaster as ordered, the pair is outfitted with new smocks and trousers. Normand and Vidal wait as long as possible before returning to Villiers office – the captain is gone, but taped on the door frame is a typed list of the names of the jumpers for the following day, with their names penciled in at the bottom.
Walking into the hanger where the trainees are assembled, Normand and Vidal see a familiar face: Pyotr Kerenin. The legionnaires join a class of colonial paratroopers – the story of the firefight at Oued Baraba has started making the rounds, and there are many curious questions from the other trainees. The conclusion of the legionnaires training includes two low-level jumps – canopies snapping open at 150m – and two night jumps – one at the standard 500m, another at 150m; the landings are simple, boots digging into plowed fields just a few kilometers from the base. Five days later, jump wings pinned above the right breast pockets of their fatigues, completed certificates and orders in hand to report to the 1er Régiment Étranger de Parachutistes in Zeralda, the three legionnaires board a Dakota headed for Algiers. From Maison Blanche Airport the legionnaires catch a lift in a supply truck headed west, and the trio are deposited at the gates of the base of the 1er REP.
The brick walled barracks, mess halls, and rec halls of the First Foreign Parachute Regiment base are arranged around a central parade ground, joined by concrete walkways lined with leafy plane trees. In the foyer is a mural depicting the history of the regiment, starting with the legionnaires’ infantry heritage, progressing to the 1er BEP, including its destruction on Route Coloniale 4 in October 1950 and again at Dien Bien Phu in May 1954, to the subsequent formation of the regiment and its present service in the Maghreb. A clerk in khakis directs the legionnaires to report to a Lt. Jenci at the headquarters building.
Lt. Jenci is a short man with dark hair framing a round Slavic face. The 1er Bureau officer studies their orders, repeating the words under his breath as he reads, then flips through a file on his desk. He takes the paras completed jump certificates, to be placed in the legionnaires’ jackets. “Welcome to the 1er REP,” he says at last. Reaching into another folder on his desk, he pulls out three mimeo sheets. “Your orders, légionnaires. Third Company – report to Capitaine Martini’s headquarters. They’re bivouacked in the town of Portemonte, on the Hauts Plateaux. There’s a truck leaving at 0800 tomorrow. Check in with the quartermaster to draw your equipment. You’ll be in B Barracks for tonight.” He looks at his watch. “You’ve only got a couple of hours before the quartermaster leaves for the day. You’d better get moving.”[/sblock]
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