Back to Boot Camp

Entering the doors is always the hardest part

Legionnaire Gaston

I spent 1 month in Paris in an attempt to enjoy my last freedoms and liberties of the bohemian lifestyle before I turn myself into the Legion Etrangere. I took the metro to St. Vincennes where I presented myself at the information point within a vast barracks of the French army. There are a number of recruitment centres for the legion strategically scattered across France. I was greeted by a Chinese Caporal-chef yelling;

“Depeche-toi, empty your bag”.

I threw everything on the concrete and quickly stuffed everything back in, books I never got the chance to read found on the street in the 18^eme arrondissement and some extra clothes I would never use. The only things useful in my possession were the soap, razors, shaving cream, towel and flip-flops to avoid fungal infections in the communal showers.   I arrived smartly dressed as if I was heading for a job in the financial district with a tie, bespoke jacket and Italian shoes. The Caporal-chef escorted me to the traction bar where I would undertake my first physical test within 2 minutes upon arrival.

“So where you from?”, he asked me with his Chinese accent in French.

“I was born in London but spent the last few years in Colombia, South America”, I responded.

“Cali cartel”, the Caporal-chef laughed.

I realized the Colombians had a terrible reputation for drugs and criminality due to personalities such as Pablo Escobar and from then on I emphasized my British side. But it was too late. Caporal-chef was already throwing the cocaine jokes like ‘how much product did I export’, referring to narco-lifestyles and Netflix.

I did around 12 tractions in my tight shirt, tie and shoes. I got whisked away into the office where I began my psychometric test involving shapes and a few numbers – a simple test to filter out the candidates that could be seriously mentally challenged. I finished the test in a couple of minutes and handed my passport to the Chinese Caporal-chef. I succeeded the first phase of pre-selection and he already assigned me my legionnaire identity, Gaston Neil, born 1 month after my real date and now from Liverpool. A fucking scouser.

Word was already out that I came from Colombia so my initial interrogation was set up by a fellow paysano from Latin America.  You’re not expected to know French when you arrive in the legion and therefore, the interviews are set up in your respective language. Given that it’s the legion, there will always be enough Spanish, Russian, Portuguese, Chinese, Nepali and not so many English or German speakers to conduct interviews. I gave a comprehensive overview of the last 20 years of my life in Spanish, the Colombian sergeant asked about what I did in every country from the Balkans, to Japan and India, he took notes and put them straight into the system where it would all be subsequently cross-examined and verified throughout the entire 5 week selection process.

After a couple of hours of interviews I got a piece of paper stamped to start selection at Fort Nogent a couple of miles away. I was ordered to take a bus to the Fort where my life would change dramatically for the next few years.

Fort Nogent

I rang the intercom of the large gates of the Fort, tucked away in the suburbs of Paris. Armed guards waved me inside and was told to take a seat in the waiting room, accompanied by a Tunisien, Russian and American. I started chatting to the Tunisien in Arabic, in an attempt to use my mother tongue before my language went obsolete after such a long time without practice or use. His name was Chahine and he just arrived from Tunisia about a month ago. Then there was Keller, a Russian with German origins, with round glasses like Ghandi from the 1940’s. He looked like a scientist and didn’t seem like he was in top physical form to get through the selection process with his small round belly and soft hands – he told me it was his second attempt to join the legion after he failed the traction bar several months ago. The last guy in the waiting room was Knox, an American from New York State. I asked him why he didn’t join the US army and he simply showed me his tattoos on his hands, face and neck. So the Legion accepts tattoos I inferred.

We got placed into our bedrooms shared by about a dozen or more other guys and asked to wait in a waiting room with some army literature and a TV with a USB plugged in so we could watch movies between different stages of the selection process. There are 3 important exams during the pre-selection process; (1) medical; (2) physical and (3) logic tests. There is a minimum level required by each test and failure of any one of them will result in you being sent home as soon as the results come through.

The physical exercise tests involves performing a minimum of 7 full pull-up bar with the arms straight and the chin above the bar. We were swiftly transferred to an open area where we would conduct the beep test. This involves running back and forwards in time for the sound of the beep that would progressively get faster and faster every minute, every minute equals a different level up to 10 normally. I saw few guys get summarily dismissed including Knox, the American, despite the fact he looked relatively fit and young, he couldn’t cut the mustard with the running and now has to look for alternative employment that accepts tattoos on the neck and hands. Chahine ran with me all the way to level 8 and we took our shower for the next test. The logic and numerical test was conducted on desktop computers with strict examination conditions and vigorously timed piecing shapes and numbers that correspond. Like the beep test, the results were announced a few minutes later so that the Legion could perform a summary medical check on the new recruits.

The first phase of the medical check was the drugs test. I pissed into a cup and promptly handed it to the doctor who added a paper strip to detect the presence of any recreational drugs. It came out negative because I managed to abstain from consumption for the last month and a bit in order to get into the legion. I saw others go home straight away. The tests were followed with eyesight, teeth, hearing and a detailed questionnaire about medical history including psychiatry and sickness within the family. Doctors within the French army hold high ranks such as commandants or colonels and easily have the final say about whether you should stay or go.  The doctor touched my testacles and other parts of my body – he cleared me medically and I was good to go to the selection phase in Aubagne.  

We were ordered to take our 30 second showers and make our beds before the evening review where the chinese caporal-chef would check everything was squared-up and arranged before extinction de feu. The guys were banging on the doors of the douche in order to get their turn into the shower, a big black man opened the shower door in a rage and saw me just in front – he assumed it was me and decided to make me an enemy. His name was Patrick and was one of the few real black Africans among the recruits even though he was Dutch. I got along with him initially as he was one of the few English-speakers among the mafia-groups of Russians, Brasilians and Latinos. He through a punch at me as I walked past him fully-dressed, others got involved to stop the ensuing fight. He said to me;

“You’ll never be a legionnaire, look at you”.

He was gone the next morning to Aubagne – I followed him there two days later.