The Tomb of Abd-el-Hammou
Manolo gazes Raffaele’s drawing.
“This is very good. May I?” He points the drawing in the direction of his field pack.
The legionnaires pass a pleasant half-hour at cards, until Kat orders lights out.
“Reveille at 0430,” the
sergent intones.
The biting cold of the pre-dawn darkness digs deep into the flesh of the Legion paras as they gear up, a mockery of the heat that will come as the sun climbs to zenith. The paras are loaded into trucks once again and after a bouncing ride down a rocky
piste, the company is assembled for a quick inspection and an even briefer sick call – none of the legionnaires fall out, apparently less intimidated by a four-day march in the desert than eight days in prison for malingering. Inspection completed, the company jumps off down a lonely canyon. The rat hunt begins.
The pace of the march is blistering – in contrast to the exaggerated slow steps of the Legion’s parade, the
ratissage is conducted at a near-run, uphill and down, from the chill of the morning through the furnace of the afternoon. This is no mere race across the countryside, however, but rather an exercise in maneuver, the four platoons and the company headquarters performing an intricate dance over the rocky, dusty landscape – advance, support, reserve, the platoons cycle through the motions like
a clockwork orrery.
The
ratissage offers an opportunity to study the platoon commanders in action. Lt. Bloch commands First Platoon – he is the most respected officer in the company after Captain Martini, a
baroudeur who fought in the Resistance as a teen, then enlisted after the war and rose to the rank of
adjudant before being selected to attend the academy in Strasbourg. Bloch’s platoon is a precision machine in action, seemingly a step ahead of the rest of the company. Sgt. Santos, the platoon sergeant temporarily commanding Fourth Platoon pending the arrival of a replacement for the transferred Lt. Gauthier, is another veteran, with twelve years in Indochina as an infantryman and paratrooper – he is efficient, no-nonsense, and expected to be promoted to
adjudant very soon.
The
sous-lieutenants, Binard and Ramadier, command the second and third platoons respectively. Both are St.-Cyrians, one of the six officers selected from each graduating class for posts in the Legion. Binard, known as “BiBi” among the other officers, is an Olympic skier, a member of the French national team – after graduation he served as a staff officer in an Alpine regiment in order to train for the games in Cortina d’Ampezzo this past winter. Following the Olympics he received a transfer to the Legion that, according to the scuttlebutt around the mess, was facilitated by his father, a colonel and Officer of the Legion of Honor, on the General Staff in Paris. Lt. Binard leans heavily on his platoon sergeant, Sgt. Bachman, during action in the field – BiBi is the newest officer to the company, and it shows.
Lt. Ramadier joined Third Company a little more than a year ago, David Nedjar says at the evening meal after their exhausting first day in the
bled.
“He took over the platoon after Lt. Dicommet was rotated back to France,” the Algerian explains as the legionnaires dine on tinned sardines and green beans from their field rations.
“He was as greener than grass, of course,” he continues, his voice dropping a bit,
“but he was willing to listen to Müller and the other sergents, and that’s the difference between a good officer and a bad one, hand to G_d.”
Ramadier is a colonial, Nedjar adds.
“Guyana. His family owns a plantation there.”
The fourth lieutenant in the company is Lt. Degasser, the executive officer. He is something of an unknown quantity, aloof, methodical – it’s rumored that he is being groomed for a position on the General Staff, and his assignment to the Legion paras is simply to validate his credentials before he is promoted and installed behind a desk.
The greatest respect among the legionnaires of the company is reserved for their company commander. He is “Captain Martini” only when protocol dictates, and never, ever just “Martini” – to the paras he is
Le Capitaine, as if he defines the word itself.
“Le Capitaine was an Italian paratrooper,” Silvio Ortu offers with more than a touch of pride, assiduously powdering his boots the second night in the field,
“and joined the Legion after the war.”
“Le Capitaine survived RC4,” Sgt. Katsourianis adds, referring to the battle of
Route Coloniale4 in 1950 from which just twenty-three legionnaires of the 1
e BEP escaped the Vietminh in the gorge at Coc Xa,
“when he was a sergent-chef. He got his commission after and was a lieutenant at Dien Bien Phu – spent seven months as a PW before repatriation.”
The legionnaires resume the rat hunt for a third day. Shortly after breaking camp shots are heard from the head of the column, where Lt. Bloch’s platoon has taken the lead, followed by cheers. The paras hit the dirt, warily eyeing the terracotta hills and the tufts of grey-green vegetation scattered along the slopes. The word passes back down the line – Bloch’s paras bagged a gazelle. One of the company cooks, a German named Stuber, quickly butchers the sleek animal as the paras advance. That night the paras’ soup packets are pooled and chunks of fresh gazelle meat added to make a thin stew – the flavor is strong and sharp, but no one states a preference for another night of tinned salted fish.
Lt. Ramadier calls the platoon together as the stew bubbles and the sun passes below the hills.
“We’re not returning to the trucks tomorrow as planned,” he begins. The legionnaires are quiet – Sgt. Müller’s stern gaze makes it clear that any outward sign of discontent would be unwise and probably unhealthy.
“Based on the intelligence we received from Lt. Ferrand, we’re moving east. There will be a resupply drop in the morning to deliver additional rations.”
The blond lieutenant reaches into a pocket of his smock and withdraws a black case.
“Légionnaire Mador, front and center,” he orders. Normand steps forward and snaps to attention.
“Legionnaire, on behalf of a grateful France, I present you with the Médaille des Blessés Militaires for wounds sustained in action at Oued Baraba.” Lt. Ramadier pins the medal to Normand’s dusty fatigues and offers a smart salute as Müller calls the platoon to attention:
“Fixe!” After the men are dismissed, the platoon sergeant hands Normand the case –
“Put it away someplace safe until we get back,” he advises,
“and stay out of trouble so we can do this right next time.”
Around mid-morning the company is brought to a halt as a tri-motor
AAC.1 Toucan appears overhead – a half-dozen parachutes spill from an open door and are retrieved by a detail from Lt. Binard’s platoon. Canteens are refilled or topped off, ration tins stuffed into packs, then the march is resumed.
The day passes uneventfully – aside from an occasional trail that may or may not be made by wild game, there is no sign of the
fellaghas, nor Arabs. The fourth night in the
bled finds some of the legionnaires restless.
“Putain desert,” Ortu swears for the third time in as many minutes as he removes the laces from his boots to let them air out.
“We climb these worthless hills while the fells are back in town,” he mutters.
“Merde.”
“That SAS officer told the lieutenant that the fells stay clear of the villages here,” Kat replies.
“The Arabs are too scattered and the villages are too small – the fells can’t blend in like they can in the north. We have to follow the springs, like they do.”
“Putain desert,” Ortu repeats, pulling the now-nearly empty can of foot powder from his pack.
The fifth morning finds Third Platoon leading the company’s advance, with Kat’s section at the sharp end of the platoon. The sun is no more than a hand’s width above mountains, still casting long shadows as the paras wind their way along a twisting
oued...
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