Play it again Sam

They taught us to march. At the slowest pace of any army on this planet, 88 paces to the minute. Eventually, we got there. It took a swaying, slightly rocking motion, to get it just right. I was practically falling over trying to keep in step, as it was such a slow pace. A consequence, when I returned to the British Army, was that any poor bugger behind me, was constantly thrown out of step. The difference being, that you just got shouted at, or thrown off the drill square, in the British Army. While in the Legion they beat the crap out of you until you got it right.

They also taught us to sing. That, wasn't so easy, for me . For a start, my french, was below basic minimal, I think the exact technical phrase, would be, "fucking non existent". In the end, it developed into mimic, and mime. We were
basically, trained in the same manner, you would teach a parrot to talk.  A corporal would sing a couple of words, or a line of a song, and we would  all sing it back to him. When he was satisfied that we had the right pitch, he would teach us another line, until we could sing each verse. Then, eventually, we would learn the whole song.

Except there were a few, who were, unfortunately, tone deaf. They used to get a punch in the side of the head, if they were discovered. If you were switched on enough. You would just open, and close, your mouth in time with the others,not uttering a sound. This worked fine initially, until it was well apparent, that we should be making a lot more noise, than we actually were. More punches to the head, more volume.

Strange as it may seem, in the early days, the singing used to play havoc with everybody's knees. "March Canard", (Duck marching), was an experience and a half, as anyone who has shared the ignominious shuffling, can tell you. We
would crouch down in a squat position, clasping our hands behind our heads, fingers interlocked, backs straight, chins up. It is very similar to the stress positions, that are used, in some interrogation techniques. Then it was a case of being shoved, and kicked, while we waddled from one end to the other ,of our improvised drill squares, and then back again. Being kept out of sight. Usually, behind the cookhouse, or one of the accommodation blocks. Lest the rest of the Regiment, be an audience to our feeble efforts.

Mistakes in the singing, and marching, however, were not solely confined to the new recruits. I remember well, an occasion during the corporal's course that I was on. When an individual sang at the wrong cadence, of the march.
We had just been on a seven mile run through the town, and along the canal bank. Returning for, hopefully, a hot showe,r and the customary cup of coffee, and piece of bread stick, that was breakfast.

All shapes, and sizes, join the Legion, but in the end, there's virtually, only one size, that fits all . I was a thirty inch waist, aged 27, a true, lean, mean, fighting machine. The diet, and the exercise regime, saw to that. You may have
got your definite meal, at the end of the day, but by God, you'd worked for it, I can tell you.

It was decided by the sergeant chief, that we would sing one his favourite songs. In fact he had taught us the song, only the week before. Unfortunately,  just as we were about to enter the Casserene La Passet front gates, someone started to sing the next verse, all by himself. He was one pace out, normally, every new verse, starts as the left foot strikes the ground. Whether he was tired, or what, who knows. But all hell broke loose, I can tell you.

We were halted before we could pass through the gates, and the Sergeant chief asked for the offender to step out. That, my friends, was a non starter. Nobody in his right mind, was going to admit to that one. We all stood rigid to attention, while they waited, (for about 30 seconds, as even the Sergeant chief, knew it was not going to happen). We were duly about turned, and started the seven mile run, all over again.

There was one slight variation this time, however. When we got to the bridge over the canal, we split in to two groups. One on each side of the canal. At the half way point, we were halted, and ordered left, and right, face . So that
both groups were now facing the water. Did I say water? Well, this is why I can remember the incident so clearly.

It was about by then, 0530 hrs, on the 27 of February, and there was no visible sign of any liquid. Water, or otherwise. There was ice on the canal. Breath, was visible on everyone's lips, when they exhaled. In short gentleman, it was bloody freezing. The frost was thick on the ground, and could easily be mistaken, for snow, it was that thick.

We were informed, that as the guilty party, had not confessed, then we were all, equally guilty. We did, however, have one last chance, to redeem our honour. If the guilty person, would not speak for himself, then another, could name him, and we would all turn around, and return to camp. We had that choice we were told, or, going for a swim before breakfast. Some choice. Only an idiot, would admit to being the culprit, and a fucking idiot, to informing, who the guilty party was.

We were ordered "One pace, forward march", in the direction of the canal. No one spoke .I looked down, none to eagerly, at the opaque ice, some two, to three feet below me, and now two paces away. I could see Woody, on the opposite bank grinning. Like me, he knew, that we'd turn, and run back to camp. Get a bit of a hard time for a couple of days, and that would be the end of it. After all, it was only a fucking song, man. The Sergeant chief's voice, boomed out, once again. "One pace forward march".I hadn't judged the distance accurately at all .

There was no third pace. It was short of a complete pace. If we were ordered forward one more time, it was onto the ice, for sure. He gave the order. I stepped out, and into space, but not for long . I was praying, that it was very thick ice. But, it was not to be, as my feet touched it, they just kept going. The noise from the cracking of the ice, as sixty prospective corporals, of the Legion, went through it, was like a cannon firing. The next thing I knew, was that my balls, were in the back of my throat.

We swam to the opposite sides of the canal, and scrambled out, non too elegantly, on to the frosty bank. The smart, emerald green, track suits, that we had been wearing, now a baggy, sodden mess, that still retained gallons of water. We formed up, and sloshed, and dripped, our way back through the town, to the main gate once more. Behind us, a small river flowed down the slight incline, between the terracotta tiled houses, towards the town square. The Sergeant chief, once again, had our undivided attention.

"Gentlemen", he said."This, is definitely, your very last chance, to redeem your honour. We will once again, attempt to sing, Le Ceil est Bleu. Should this turn in to the horrible debacle, that we have already witnessed this morning,
it will be a return trip, to the canal, where we will keep crossing, until at least one of you, drowns. There upon, honour will most certainly, have been regained".

We entered through the gates in full voice, the marching song, reverberating round the square, as the rest of the regiment, began their march to the cookhouse, for breakfast.The unknown offender lost, somewhere amidst the throng, of the peleton cadre. Full of gusto, but remembering, to mime the words, and  not to fuck up, yet again. Each, full in the knowledge, that he, would be the one  that would drown, should we have to take another swim that day.

On drunken nights, as I smoke a cigarette, and gaze at the sky, I sometimes sing, and one of those songs, will always be,"The Sky is Blue". It's not just a song, it's way of life. Hey, if you hear it, Or maybe you know it, you'll have to admit, it's a fucking great song, man.

Jim Love
GiAjl