Chapter 1

Some history:

United Republic of Tanzania (Swahili: Jamhuri ya Muungano wa Tanzania), is a country in East Africa in the African Great Lakes region.

Human settlement in what is now Tanzania began around 8,000 B.C., when hunter-gatherers settled along the Gregory Rift south of the Olduvai Gorge.

The Uganda–Tanzania war (usually referred to in Uganda as the Liberation War) was fought between Uganda and Tanzania in 1978–1979, and led to the overthrow of Idi Amin’s regime. Idi Amin’s forces included thousands of troops sent by Muammar Gaddafi, and some Palestinian support.

The Tanzanian Army acquired Soviet BM Katyusha rocket launchers (known in Uganda as saba saba), which they started to fire on targets in Uganda. The Ugandan Army retreated steadily after that. Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi sent 2,500 more troops to aid Amin, equipped with T-54 and T-55 tanks, BTR APCs, BM-21 Grad MRLs artillery, MiG-21s, and a Tu-22 bomber.

As usual, it seems the FFL (French Foreign Legion) was always late to attend the party, but party we did.

In 1979 a new strategy was to be used, a combination of land and air attack at the same time. What a wonderful idea.

1,000 of our land and air troops were landed in the main coastal city of Dar es Salaam which served as the country’s political capital. The supplies for the land troops were formidable while the Para went ‘light’. (3 days of supplies, 5 litres extra of water, 500 rounds, 4 bang-bangs with a hope and a prayer too.)

The previous campaign between the countries had already lasted a might longer than anyone had imagined, then they called us in. We 300, a Para Force of the FFL and 7 units of regular Legionnaires (100 per unit), were successful by first taking the Entebbe airfield after some fighting, and then taking Kampala itself on 10 April 1979. Few Ugandan or Libyan units gave us some resistance there, then we did mop up until the end of May. As far as we were now concerned, the fighting was over for us.

It was for me too, my ‘second tour’ had ended with me taking a bullet where the ‘sun don’t shine’ and we all had a fine laugh about it until it never healed right and my new start in my 6th year with the Legion and now finally as ‘Para’ was over at the 7th. (You need 5 years as a regular Legionnaire even before you can try to get in to Para), in fact, the wound I got was healing so poorly the FFL suggested that an early retirement would be in order, and asked if I have anything or anywhere I wanted to go in mind.

One of the benefits in lasting long enough in the Legion was you were assured of a new name and a new start. I knew that, but never imagined it would be happening to me so soon.

The remainder of that summer I tried to heal. My exit interview was in Paris. The office was in a section in the city that had those famous cobblestone walkways, small stanchions that held lengths of chain with openings to enter a shop, Bistro or an Inn. No cars, horses or mules, mind you, just walkers.

Off in the distance you could see the Eiffel Tower. That part of the city was way lower than where we were staying at. At night from there, you could see the little light at the tower’s top. At times, it was lost though in a backdrop of stars shining in the nights’ sky. In many ways, it was good to be back as a civilian, in others, old memories had been brought to the surface, things I would rather forget.

My story:

I told Marcel where I absolutely did not want to go. He laughed, saying since it was not in France or within a French possession, then chances were good it would not be a location he would even consider to send me to. I had some R&R time due and he would need a few weeks anyhow to arrange everything for me, a job, new name and papers that I would need in France.

Paris was a spot some chose to retire in, not me though. Nice, way down south on the coast, seemed more appealing. Even in the Fall the weather should still be warm but most people on Holiday would be gone. That suited me fine, those nude beaches there had no bearing on my thinking.

Marcel handed me a few brochures of Paris, Nice and Biarritz, saying that he ‘would take care of me’. Yeah right, I had heard that before. Memories of the past came back. I was a fool to believe it when she said it though. I wanted to believe her.

It is strange how things happen. My life back home might have appeared over to me but now a new life was found, a new ‘family’ was also found with the Legion. Was it easy? Hell no! For almost 5 years, I was the lowest of the low. A ‘Legionnaire’ was ranked just below that of a rock. When my first Tour (5 years) ended that rock was left behind. They started talking training and re-enlistment. What I did not realize at the time was this was by their choice not by mine.

Being selected to Para was a career only 1 out of 5 could have. They could also have said fatal casualties in an engagement were 1 out of 5 too. Oh well!

A few days later I got a bit of news on my career. Strange news; although, at the time, I did not realize the implications. I was not a ‘crip’, not many obvious marks or scars and I was ‘too’ young to be considered for a pension as a way of life.

Marcel said to ‘trust him’! That really got me to worry. The last time someone had told me that was before the judge ... Aw, you don’t really want to hear that. Let’s just say those were not words endearing to my heart and mind.

He also told me to take the next few weeks and try to look more like a ‘civi’ rather than some FFL castoff. ‘What did he mean by that’ I asked myself’? That bothered me more than my bleeding butt. I went back and asked him “What did you mean by saying to look more like a ‘civi’ Marcel”?

He shook his head, reached up a might to my shoulders and marched over to a looking glass on the far wall. “Notice anything that stands out?”

Before me was an image a might like hundreds of others I had seen these last few years. “Yup, a lean, mean fighting machine. Just a little haggard and starting to put on a few pounds here and there.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Look closer Mon Ami.”

I squinted, stepped up closer and looked again. “All I see is someone who used to be me but now knows the score.”

“Unless I set you up in Marseilles, on a dock or some boat crew, you’ll last less than an hour before you kill someone just for looking cross at you. You are not ‘going to a battle, there is no ‘rest’ for an ex-Para and you need to start learning to ‘adjust’ to regulars. Do I need to lay out a few scenarios for you or can you see the difference in your Para life versus what you need to become in a new one?”

I took a look once again at myself. Saw what I had become yet did not then realize what I saw before me. I heard him say that I would understand more later.

He sent me off to some cabin outside the city. I was liking it immediately. I was not very comfortable in the city. At the cabin I was introduced to an older couple, ‘no names today’, I was told. There I would stay to rest, heal up and to learn. Each day I faced the image before me. In time, I began to see things that I had not been able to see before.

I told the couple that. “Yes, but what you see of yourself is only a small part of what ‘others’ will. You must learn to not stand out, to blend in and not make people think you are about to snap their necks off if they say things you do not wish to hear.”

“What?”

“You are not French. You are not like those who you will meet. You do things now by instinct, without thinking. You have learned to react even before you give thought. You have been taught how to survive. Now there is much you will need to ‘un-learn’. It took time for you to become what you are. Now you have been given an opportunity to become someone else, someone you were not before. It will not be easy.”

I left there without many answers and a lot of questions. I again saw Marcel. “So are you ready to ‘start anew?”

I looked at him and said, “No!”

“Ha! Then this trip has had some success. You were one of a few. Trained to kill, not think, not to feel emotion, and to endure the pain and suffering that most others would cause them to give up and quit. Now we ask you to change all that and be more like the 99% who could not do what you did. We ask you to think, to feel and look to yourself rather than the man next to you. It will be difficult. It will take time. Most importantly, you still do not know what you need to do.”

For almost six months I struggled with trying to find out just what being a ‘civi’ meant. I must have been getting better at it because one day that I reported in to Marcel, he told me that “it was time!”

“Time for what?”

“Time for ‘Jean Paul Marceau’, you, to begin his life as a ‘Frenchman’!”

He handed me a suitcase, some papers, money and instructions to find the room I would be staying in. Following ‘orders’ was something I could easily do. If I had a better idea of what was ahead of me though, I would have chosen some other ‘prize door’.

The saying about a ‘Lamb and a Lion’ did not even begin to describe what I would be going through. My easy choice was the warm Southern Coast of France. Of course the nude beaches there had nothing to do with my selection.

In the style of almost every government on the planet, what I wanted had about as much influence as an ant did on a picnic. I looked at the papers Marcel had given me and the address of where I would be living, at least until I got settled.

123 Rue d’ Vin Rouen, France. It was just about as far North as you could get and still be in France. It was the capital of Normandy. With well over 100,000 population, tons of sea trade and so close to Belgium, Germany and England mixed cultures were quite common. I should fit right in. My job was a sort of Handy Andy at the Chateau. It was undergoing extensive renovations and the need for a ‘local’ to watch over all those foreigners working there was falling into the hands of, you guessed it, yours truly. Someone in Paris was having a good laugh.

Notre-Dame and the home of Joan d’Arc might be the most visited spots in the city, but with the new EU work rules, tradesmen from all over were going here to work. Having me, a non-Frenchman watching over them was like the fox being in charge of the hen house.

The fact that I spoke French, German, even some Arabic, English and interfaced with so many EU cultures gave me the perfect cover for a few lapses of my ‘French’ background now and then.

I had a room, like in a private B & B. The lady who ran the place seemed to be expecting me. My ‘Boss’ too, seemed overjoyed to finally have a French citizen with which to commiserate with. The FFL if nothing else seemed to settle us in exactly the right spot. In my case, it was unusual to consider work for someone my age. I was not even 25.