Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2356338" data-attributes="member: 26473">Burhan waves a hand dismissively. “Some officers talk like grandmothers.” He seems content to let the subject rest as he settles back and gazes at the scenery passing by.____The road twists through the steep mountains and deep gorges of the Massif de l’Ouarsenis, the rocky slopes mantled with grey-green shrubs and scattered cork trees, the canyons filled with dense growth of oaks and firs. After several hours the truck enters a broad, rolling plain, les Hauts Plateaux, bordered by mountains to the north and the south – stands of thick brush give way to sparse grasslands and the occasional reedy marsh. The winding roads turn to long straight-aways and the truck makes good time, passing through pieds-noir towns surrounded by tidy farms and orchards, each with its Muslim village négre, separated from one another by vast open spaces.The truck passes through checkpoints manned by bored soldats or gendarmes – at one outpost however the men are clearly on edge, and as the legionnaires and the drivers take on water the soldiers report that the FLN killed an inspector from the police judiciaire last night in nearby Saida, slashing his throat so deeply that his head was nearly severed from the body. After driving through the city the truck heads south, the bulk of the Saharan Tell rising as they reach the far side of the plateau, until late in the day green and white road sign appears: “PORTEMONTE 55km.”The truck pulls into Portemonte shortly after sunset. From the vantage of the bed the town itself looks like most of the colonial villages in Algeria – headlights illumine white-washed houses with red tile roofs and wrought iron accents, fronted by arcades facing on dusty macadam streets. The truck passes through the town and stops near what appears to be a soccer pitch – two dozen tents and a half-dozen vehicles are situated beyond the far goal. The truck stops at a sentry post manned by two legionnaire paras, submachine guns slung at their sides – one steps around to the rear of the truck and shines his flashlight inside. “Burhan!” he says with a smirk. “Tired of wiping rappelé arses already?” The Turk gives a small shrug but says nothing. The legionnaire slaps the rear of the truck with his hand and the driver pulls away, leaving the two sentries illuminated by the red glow of the tail-lights. Finally with a loud squeal the truck rolls to a stop and the legionnaires gather their gear and hop over the tailgate. Another legionnaire is waiting. He is short, with red hair and freckles – on his sleeve are the three green bars of a caporal-chef. The driver hands him a mail satchel, and the legionnaire motions toward the end of a row of tents that can be seen by the glow of the headlights. “The mess tent is on the end. Park there and we’ll arrange bunks for you for tonight.”He turns back to the newly arrived legionnaires. He grins at Burhan. “Couldn’t stay away, could you, Pamuk?” he says warmly. Burhan nods again, the same slight smile. “Follow me,” continues the sous-officier. “Le Capitaine is up.”The caporal-chef leads the legionnaires to one of the tents nearby – tied above the flap is a small cardboard sign that reads “PC” in block letters. Inside a propane lantern burns brightly, suspended from a roof pole. There are two desks arranged facing the center of the room from opposite sides of the tent. Behind one of the desks sits a legionnaire writing on a tablet, the three gold bands of a capitaine on his shoulders. His face is youthful, but a spider’s web of deep creases mark the corners of his eyes and his black hair and pencil mustache are flecked with gray. His skin is deeply tanned save for two jagged white scars on his right forearm, scars that partially obscure a faded tattoo of a lightning bolt over a pale blue shield.“Attention!” barks the caporal-chef as the legionnaires enter. The capitaine looks up from his paperwork, expressionless, as the legionnaires snap to attention. “Mon capitaine, the replacements have arrived.” He hands over the satchel to the officer, who replies, “Thank you, Gaston. Would you find sergent Müller for me?” The sous-officier breaks off a sharp salute and disappears through the flap. “At ease, légionnaires.”The captain opens the satchel and removes several folders – he spends a moment glancing at the contents as the legionnaires wait. At last he looks up at Burhan, a twinkle in his eye. “Welcome back, légionnaire Pamuk. What did you think of the school at Arzew?”“Too many rappelés, sir,” Burhan replies solemnly.The capitaine’s head tilts slightly to the side. “So you broke a captain’s arm?” he asks.“He lead his men into our ambush, sir, so we ambushed them.” Burhan answers, impassive. “He fell and broke his arm from surprise.”Faint hints of a smile can be seen at the corners of the capitaine’s mouth. “Well, the centre is supposed to provide realistic training for the reservists. Did you see lieutenant Gauthier while you were there?”“Yes, sir. He sends his regards, sir,” Burhan replies with a slight nod.The capitaine's attention turns to the others. “Welcome to the 1st REP, légionnaires. I understand you had an interesting training exercise.” He looks closely at each of the replacements.</blockquote>

Verification