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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2836188" data-attributes="member: 26473">The thirty-seven legionnaires of Third Platoon, 3rd Company, 1st REP disembark the two castors. The three sections form up on the sous-officiers – a legionnaire from Sgt. Szabo’s section is sent to each man with a jerry can of water, topping off canteens. Marcel circulates among the paras in their leopard-pattern camoflage – conversations are muted, some in French, more in German, as the men adjust pack straps, retie boot laces, and check weapons. A couple of the khaki-clad conscripts talk with paras in Sgt. Altmeier’s section – Marcel overhears one of the French conscripts offer, “…a carton of Troupes for one pack of Gitanes.”Pyotr looks around the small outpost. A blockhouse made of cement bricks adjoins a small watchtower – the building looks like it could hold an infantry platoon, but there appears to be only a dozen or so soldats stationed here at the moment. A couple of men are visible on the roof of the tower – a vintage fusil-mitrailleur 24-29 machine gun noses over the edge, pointed at the oued beyond the legionnaires. The parapet is lined with sandbags, and the front door of the outpost is similarly secured with a sandbagged firing pit. Above the door is a crudely-lettered carboard sign that reads, “Gare de Lyon.” A half-track is parked alongside the building, next to a large water trailer – the latter is also protected by sandbags. Lt. Ramadier, with his radioman at his side, is talking to a lanky sergent over by the entrance to the blockhouse. The idling trucks make it impossible to hear the conversation.Low barren hills, baked brick red by the relentless sun, surround the outpost – on one hill a faint track follows a ridgeline to a high point. Taking a quick glance through Ekaterina’s scope, Pyotr can make out a small wall of native rock at the top of a spur – an observation post, with a sun-hatted head peering down at the legionnaires.The first section gathers around Sgt. Katsourianis as Pyotr approaches. Silvio Ortu hefts his machine gun onto a brawny shoulder – “Yeah, another putain low-level jump,” the tirailleur replies to the Ukranian. Kat glances at Ortu, then at the big steel chronograph on his wrist, and finally up at the sun burning in the clear blue sky. “It’s not too late to join the infantry,” the Greek sergent opines.</blockquote>

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