The echoing call of the bugle cuts through the quiet of the early morning, rousing the legionnaires in their tents. Corporal Sembène’s voice can be heard before the final clear notes of the clairon sound. “Alright, fall in for roll call. No smocks. We’re running this morning.” His French is melodic, pleasing to the ear.
The legionnaires are quiet as they grab their boots and trousers and in a few minutes Third Platoon is assembled before the watchful eyes of Sergeant Müller. The rest of the company is up and moving as well, but as Third Platoon calls the roll and performs some warm-up calisthenics, the other paras are loading up on the company’s small supply of trucks, combat gear in hand. With a raspy roar, the deuce-and-a-halfs roll out of camp, leaving the men of Third Platoon and a handful of the headquarters platoon, including one newly arrived medic, to the drab tent-city.
Sgt. Müller leads the run at a brisk pace along a dusty road that runs past the farms on the outskirts of Portemonte. The men sing as they run the 5km: Contre les Viets, the chant of the 1st REP leads off, followed by Le Boudin, Les Képis Blanc, Aux Legionnaires, and Ich hatte einen kamaraden, the deep voices of the men carrying the melody as their thudding boots beat rhythmically on the dry earth. From fields and farmhouses, workers stare and little children, and the occasional young woman, wave at the legionnaires as they pass. The run includes two leaps over an irrigation ditch – a couple of the paras end up in the dirty water, to the clear amusement of their comrades.
In the infirmary Marcel is left to his own devices – after a hasty introduction to Bazyli, the third medic, he awaits sick call. Only one man arrives, his left wrist in a plaster cast. He introduces himself as Ivo Kovic, a grenadier, and reports that Bestebreurtje gave him until the end of the week before the cast is removed. After checking the man’s fingers for sensation and circulation and learning that the injury came in a fall from the back of the company’s weapons carrier, he bids Kovic well and enters his notations on the Austrian legionnaire’s chart.
Back at camp following the run, sergent Müller addresses the legionnaires as they recover their breath. Third Platoon is responsible for guarding the camp, he explains. There will be a rotation - each section will take its turn: one day policing the camp and performing kitchen patrol, one day of sentry duty, one day of local patrol. Third section draws the first shift as sentries while second will head for the hills outside town – first section draws KP and trash pick-up. Everyone in the platoon secretly believes that his unit has drawn the short stick.
Vidal and Pyotr are sent off with cloth bags and sharpened sticks to pick up trash around the camp – Normand finds himself tapped for scrubbing latrines by sergent Katsourianis. At lunch the replacements find themselves scrubbing trays while the rest of the men jaw and smoke. After lunch, a simple affair prepared by the one remaining cook in camp, Vidal and Pyotr are sent to sweep the officers’ tents while Normand is entrusted to the care of caporal-chef Ivo Kovic, the platoon grenadier – the two men spend the afternoon on the practice range firing dummy grenades from the MAS-49/56 over various obstacles. Kovic wears a cast, an injury from a fall, he explains - the grenadier-chef is a pleasant and patient instructor and soon Normand feels comfortable, if not completely at home with, the rifle grenades that will be his to use in battle.
Marcel orients himself to the infirmary, checking the supplies, Lt. Olivier’s instructions fresh in his mind. Whatever Bestebreurtje’s failings as a human being, the infirmary is a model of efficiency.
The men are released at 1700 from their duties after a final perfunctory formation, where first section learns it will make a patrol on Wednesday, and retire to the mess tent for supper. Marcel finds himself in line behind his three comrades from Blida.
