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Chapter 6 - FRENCH CONNECTION
A
free man in Paris with almost
$10,000 American, Paszkowski
enjoyed many of the pleasures
available in the capital
of lights. Under an assumed
name, different from the
one in his false passport,
he checked into a hotel
in the suburb of Vincennes
and took the metro downtown
to shop. He equipped himself
with the basic necessities,
clothes and a suit from
LayFayette department store
and wandered the boulevards
near the Seine pondering
his next move. In a large
city like Paris, he wasn't
afraid of bumping into any
Polish agents or anyone
else who knew him. He enjoyed
a vibrant life in Montmarte,
Montparnesse and the Latin
Quarter for several weeks.
One
evening as he strolled down
a little street near the
Place Pigale, a young woman
approached him and spoke
to him in French, which
Paszkowski didn't understand.
Suddenly, he felt a blow
to the base of his neck
from behind. His legs buckled
and he fell to his knees.
The
young woman practically
fell over him in her haste
to empty his pockets. He
tried to push her away,
but felt an iron grip pushing
on his neck from behind,
effectively pinning him
to the ground. Paszkowski
struggled to rise to his
feet to no avail, so he
quickly changed tactics
and kicked out, connecting
with the woman and knocking
her off her feet.
Now
he could concentrate on
the vise gripping the back
of his neck. Using all his
strength, he pushed up and
threw himself backwards
against the wall of the
adjacent house. The man
holding him loosened his
hold but somehow retained
his grip. Paszkowski took
a step forward and again
smashed back into the wall.
He heard the man's head
hit the wall and felt his
attacker finally let go
of his neck. Hearing him
hit the sidewalk, he quickly
turned around. Now in the
grip of a violent anger,
he kicked the fallen man
repeatedly. Both muggers
lay unconscious on the sidewalk,
their blood splattering
the wall.
Paszkowski
beat a hasty retreat when
he saw a police car heading
in his direction. He wasn't
fast enough. Two police
officers jumped out and
grabbed him, throwing him
to the ground and handcuffing
him. Picking him up like
a sack of flour, they tossed
him inside their car. An
ambulance siren could be
heard closing in, rushing
to pick up the two attackers.
Obviously, someone had witnessed
the incident from a window
overlooking the street and
had called the police and
an ambulance.
At
the police station, Paszkowski
sat quietly on a chair in
the small room they took
him to for questioning and
watched a chubby gendarme
writing out a report. "You
know monsieur, the charges
against you are serious.
Very serious," he repeated
in German, looking at Paszkowski
through his small glasses.
"Aggravated assault against
two citizens of France."
Paszkowski
in the meantime was trying
to present the best case
for his own defence by explaining
he had only acted to protect
himself. He knew that his
Swedish papers would be
less than useless when he
saw another uniformed policeman
return from checking his
fingerprints. They now knew
he was wanted by Interpol.
The
constable who had been questioning
Paszkowski read the report
and began to sweat. His
face reddened to a point
at which Paszkowski thought
he would explode. He started
swearing in French, tore
up the few pages he had
written, and left the room
for half an hour. When he
returned, he spoke in a
different tone of voice.
"As
you know, monsieur, you
beat up those two badly.
Very badly," he repeated.
"No judge in France is going
to believe you were attacked
by those two miserable people.
They are half your size."
He giggled. "You'll be charged
with aggravated assault
or even attempted murder.
You'll have to do at least
five years, then be extradited
to West Germany to serve
the rest of your sentence
there." He shook his jowled
cheeks, "Vraiment, c'est
domage, such a young man
spending all this time in
jail." He almost looked
as if he felt genuinely
sorry for Paszkowski.
"But,
there is a chance for you.
One chance, monsieur. The
Foreign Legion. You can
join our Foreign Legion
and all your sins will be
forgiven. It is like doing
penance, you understand?"
*
* * * *
"The
Legion is our homeland,"
says the Foreign Legion
motto in Latin. It immediately
reminds recruits where a
legionnaire's first loyalty
must always be. It is a
statement of reality. Every
recruit knows when they
enlist that they have signed
away nationality, identity
and their past for at least
five years. The severity
of the discipline and training
- the trademark of the corps
- is based upon a code that
the `good' soldier is one
who has been trained and
conditioned to die if necessary
without reservation. The
second edict is that his
first loyalty is to his
regiment.
The
army, composed of foreign
mercenaries, was founded
by King Louis-Philippe of
France in 1831 to conquer
Algeria and control French
colonial possessions across
Africa. During 163 years,
the Legion has fought on
almost every continent and
major war from the Equator
to the Arctic Circle, in
Indo-China and Central America.
Legionnaires have perished
in such dramatic circumstances
that their corps became
a legend. It has been romanticized
by novelists and film-makers,
who picture it as a haven
for criminals, forlorn lovers,
and unhappy nobles serving
under assumed names and
presented as the embodiment
of heroism.
The
Legion experience starts
at Aubagne near Marseilles
on the southern coast of
France. Each year thousands
of volunteers show up to
enlist. They come to change
their lives; to enjoy adventures
on foreign soil; for the
promise of automatic French
citizenship following five
years of service; and for
myriad other reasons. The
Legion has volunteers from
more than 100 countries
among its 8,500 officers
and men. In recent years,
East Europeans have been
the largest group of recruits.
Americans are rare. The
Legion picks only the most
physically fit, those with
high IQ scores, or those
with special skills. Drug
addicts fail the entry physical,
which includes a 3 kilometre
run in less than 12 minutes.
Those wanted for murder
are told they cannot hide,
because Interpol films parades
and grabs the fugitives.
British soccer hooligans
are welcomed for their toughness.
There
are liars aplenty in the
Legion - married men pretending
to be single, criminals
with aliases and many others.
French nationals are legally
barred from serving, except
as officers, but in fact
make up 40% of the force.
Volunteers need not show
any proof of identity. To
promote equality, all newcomers
are given a false name and
nationality when they sign
on. After five years, one
can take back their real
identity.
In
the 1990s, the world's premier
fighting force, with more
than a century of iron discipline
and excellence, is assuming
a new role. It is in Bosnia
and Somalia peacekeeping
rather than killing rebels
from Mexico to the Gulf
of Tonkin. Their survival
training allows legionnaires
to breeze through jungle
and desert conditions. During
the Gulf War, its members
marvelled at the portable
flush toilets brought in
by helicopter for American
troops while they had only
a shovel to dig holes in
the sand. They also envied
the sophisticated high-tech
U.S. battle gear although,
Legionnaires insist that
when technology fails and
supply planes can't land
they are much better trained
to survive under the most
difficult circumstances.
*
* * * *
That
fat s.o.b. was so right.
They could put me in jail
for a long time and there
would be no second chance
to escape. If I joined the
Legion though, I could skip
out at the earliest opportunity.
It shouldn't be too difficult.
"Okay, I'll join your Foreign
Legion." The fat guy almost
jumped with joy. He gave
me a paper to sign saying
I had `voluntarily' joined
the force, and told me to
wait. Someone brought me
coffee and a cigarette.
An
hour or so later, two soldiers
from the Foreign Legion
arrived. One of them picked
up a computer print-out
saying I was wanted by Interpol,
tore it into pieces and
threw it in the garbage.
They told me to follow them
and we left in a military
jeep. We drove to the Foreign
Legion base in east Paris.
The base was located in
an old fort surrounded by
high protective walls and
was tightly guarded.
Once
inside, they took me for
a bath. I stuck my money
into my undershorts, which
turned out to be a good
idea as they took away all
my things and gave me battle
dress and boots. Next, I
was given a really short
haircut and a military doctor
examined me. Then I was
fed supper and finally shown
to a bed.
The
following morning, I was
questioned by a German officer.
I told him my life story
in German - there were many
Germans in the Legion -
and he wrote everything
down, asking further questions.
He told me that any person
that joined the Foreign
Legion and is wanted by
a law enforcement agency
in any country, is given
a false identity, a new
name, which was to be used
from then on. My real name
would be a secret; even
my immediate superior wouldn't
know it. The name I was
given, Adam Piotrowski,
was typically Polish. A
new chapter in my life started
with this nice-sounding
name. `Welcome to my life,
Adam,' I thought to myself.
The German officer again
stressed that I was not
to reveal my real name to
anyone. I signed another
document further `volunteering'
to spend five years with
the Foreign Legion and was
sent on my way.
The
Foreign Legion is truly
international. There were
Canadians, Americans, Belgians,
West Germans, Austrians
(even though Austria would
put its nationals in jail
for belonging to the Foreign
Legion), Australians, Yugoslavs,
Spaniards and many others.
There were some from almost
every country in the world.
However, I never saw any
people of colour or Arabs.
Many Legionnaires had their
criminal pasts written clearly
on their faces.
Drills
were done every day from
morning to night. The corporal
would shout commands in
French, even though hardly
anyone understood him. We
just kept on marching, marching
all the time. It seemed
to me no other army marched
so much as the Foreign Legion.
It
also seemed no other army
fed its soldiers so well
as the Foreign Legion. The
food was varied and delicious
with wine or beer served
at meal times.
Soon
after I joined, they moved
us from the base near Paris
to Aubagne, south of France
near Marseilles. The actual
selection took place there
and endless interviews were
conducted by officers who
called themselves the `Gestapo'.
They were checking our physical
condition. We were kept
jogging all day, panting
with our tongues hanging
out, swimming, jumping and
crawling. Exhausted by such
a physically taxing routine,
we were called by the `Gestapo'
to answer another set of
endless questions.
I
remember one day I was questioned
by a German in that language,
by a Yugoslav in Russian
and then by a Polish interviewer
in Polish. We were also
constantly checked by doctors
and all kinds of medical
tests were run.
As
the selection process continued,
every other day another
recruit would disappear.
Rumour had it in camp that
anyone who failed any of
the tests would get his
own clothes back and a train
ticket to any destination
he wanted. They would drive
him to the train station,
give him some money and
he could wave `Adieu' as
his career in the Foreign
Legion ended. Even if the
recruit was wanted by Interpol
and/or a police force in
any country in the world,
he was never handed over
to them. If he was considered
unfit to serve in the Legion,
they would simply let him
go free. I prayed that they
would find cause to reject
me too, but no such luck,
I passed all their tests.
All
too soon, they transferred
us to a place called Castelnaudary,
near Toulouse in southwest
France. Those who reached
there - a huge Foreign Legion
base - automatically became
full-fledged members of
the Legion. We were given
full military equipment,
as well as a bed, locker
and name tags to be sewn
into our uniforms. My Belgian
friend, who spoke French
and German, translated for
me.
Unfortunately,
the gruelling exercises
continued. Jogging, swimming
and now target shooting
as well. The workout continued
from early morning till
night. The training methods
were sometimes brutal. If
you couldn't swim, the corporal
would make you stand beside
a five-metre deep swimming
pool, order you to turn
around and with a powerful
kick in the ass, launch
you into the water. It was
your problem to stay afloat.
If it appeared you were
really drowning, somebody
would get you out and the
whole exercise would start
again. This continued until
you learned how to swim.
If
you were afraid to jump
out of the plane during
parachute training, another
well-placed kick would make
you fly like a bird. The
Foreign Legion wasted no
time getting its recruits
whipped into shape. There
were no invitations to participate,
no gradual introductions.
Inexperienced soldiers were
immediately thrown into
the most difficult of military
training.
Words
would have been useless
anyway, as we hadn't been
taught any French up to
this point. Comments, orders
and drills were memorized.
When we heard a certain
sound, we reacted accordingly.
I learned to sing most of
the hymn of the Foreign
Legion without understanding
a word of it. Apparently,
French was taught at a later
stage of training.
A
typical day went something
like this: an early morning
wake up call; put on a sweat
suit and sneakers; jog for
six miles across town to
the swimming pool; 30 minutes
of swimming; jog back to
the base. That would be
the best time for me to
escape. I was becoming desperate
to leave the Legion as soon
as possible because I had
learned from a corporal
that I was to be sent to
a parachute unit stationed
on Corsica. That meant I
would most likely end up
at Chad fighting Colonel
Gadhafi's troops on an African
desert. I didn't like that
idea one bit!
A
group of men shuffled briskly
along the main street of
the still sleepy little
town. The morning sun increased
the sweat the recruits wiped
from their foreheads. The
corporal shouted a command
to sing; an anaemic chant
followed, only to die out
after a few moments. The
men appeared exhausted and
the group thinned out as
they proceeded. Paszkowski,
in the middle of the pack,
watched for an opportunity
to slip away. He touched
the back of his boxer shorts
to make sure his "treasure"
was there - the money he
had hidden when he joined
the Legion. He always had
his money on him, just in
case. One Englishman seemed
to be lagging behind the
group and Paszkowski kept
a close eye on the two corporals,
one of which was at the
front of the group, while
the other brought up the
rear.
The
Englishman slowed down even
more and appeared shaky.
The corporal who was at
the rear assisted him and
they started to fall far
behind. Paszkowski slowed
his pace and let the others
overtake him. For a period,
he found himself jogging
all alone, the main group
far ahead of him and the
ailing Englishman and corporal
well behind him and now
hidden around a corner.
Without thinking twice,
Paszkowski dashed into the
entrance gate of a building
and found his way through
a maze of backyards. He
jumped a six foot high wall
right into the middle of
some irritated chickens.
Several fences later, he
found himself on the outskirts
of town where he hid in
the bushes.
He
spent the day hidden, reflecting
on his short-lived career
in the Foreign Legion. "Long
enough to put on my resume,"
he chuckled to himself.
Well concealed in the thick
bushes, he could hear the
sirens of the Police Militaire
in the distance looking
for him. All city exits
had been blocked, streets
were patrolled, and cars
were stopped to check documents.
The Legion wasn't going
to let one of its prize
catches escape easily.
As
night fell, the sirens fell
silent. Under cover of darkness,
Paszkowski moved south through
the fields, striking out
for the city of Narbonne.
He passed through a small
village and paused there
to take some clothes from
a clothesline. He knew he
must change out of his easily
recognized military uniform.
At
daybreak, he found himself
on a highway and hitched
a ride to Narbonne, where
he caught a train to Marseilles.
The charms of Cote d'Azur
were so tempting that he
decided he needed a rest,
some sun and a change of
clothes. He registered in
a cheap hotel using a German
name, bought a suitcase
and some clothes, and hit
the world famous beaches
for a well-deserved break.
The
late afternoon sun cast
long, golden shadows on
the blue waves. The breeze
brought relief from the
heat. Paszkowski sat in
a cafe by the sea, sipping
his beer lazily. His eyes
rested far out on the horizon.
A white sail was a romantic
addition to a perfect moment
in time. Beside the tranquil
waters of the Mediterranean,
framed by a sapphire sky
and beaches bronzed by the
sun, he for once let his
guard down. He watched the
flickering reflections on
the water through heavily
lidded eyes.
Suddenly,
he felt a gaze fixed on
him. Now on the alert, he
cautiously looked around.
In the half-empty cafe,
there were a group of young
people noisily discussing
something, a couple who
had eyes only for each other,
an elderly lady with a young
girl, and directly across
from where he was sitting
an attractive middle-aged
woman, who watched him closely
over her glass of white
wine. Now that she had his
attention, she sent him
an invitation with a warm
smile. "Not bad," Paszkowski
thought to himself and slowly
smiled back at her. She
looked like a tourist. Paszkowski
could see travel brochures
on her table as well as
a familiar brand of German
cigarettes. Encouraged by
two radiant smiles, he picked
up his beer and walked over
to her table.
"Sprechen
Sie Deutsch?" he asked.
"Ja,"
the woman replied. Obviously
very pleased she had met
someone who spoke German,
she soon burst into an erratic
monologue, complaining about
the food, the staff at her
hotel being unable to speak
German, the high price of
everything, and so on. Finally
getting a word in edgewise,
Paszkowski introduced himself
as a Belgian businessman
on a short vacation. The
woman was charmed with his
stories about the French
and their idiosyncrasies.
Instant
companions, they left together
to have dinner at her hotel.
He spent the night in her
room and the romance sizzled.
He moved into her room at
the hotel and they spent
the following days swimming
in the sea and sun-bathing
on the crowded beaches of
the Cote d'Azur.
Paszkowski
brushed aside his nagging
thoughts of what to do with
his life, enjoying his vacation
immensely. A week later,
the German woman announced
she was leaving for home.
His fun was coming to an
end. After an elaborate
and passionate good-bye
and promises to write, Paszkowski
found himself literally
on the beach. His finances
had shrunk considerably
and the free ride at his
friend's hotel was over.
It was time to make a move.
Greta was a nice woman,
a bored tourist ready for
a summer adventure. It was
pleasant to stay at her
hotel, but I couldn't go
on living on the beach after
she left. Now wanted by
three different agencies:
Polish Intelligence, German
Interpol and the French
Foreign Legion, I could
no longer move freely in
Western Europe. The best
solution would be to move
away from Europe completely,
somewhere across the ocean.
I would never go to Australia,
too far and too hot. I wasn't
keen on the USA either.
Canada seemed like a good
choice. I could still remember
the stories I used to read
as a child about the breath-taking
beauty of maple leaf country.
Immense distances and friendly
people. Definitely, Canada
would be a great place to
go and make a straight living.
One detail remained: how
to get there?
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