La Légion

Once upon a time, I read a book entitled, ‘Mouthful of Rocks: Through Africa and Corsica in the French Foreign Legion’ by Christian Jennings.

I had been living abroad at the time of reading and, although I have scant interest in the goings-on of les legionnaires and their funny hats, there are elements of that book that I cannot shake from my psyche.

The story of a young Englishman who, with marginal prospects, turns up half-cut and skint in Boulogne to join la Légion Étrangère, Mouthful of Rocks is the tale of how the dream went badly sour. Rather than the adventure and romance of Beau Geste, young Jennings finds himself in a brutal world with cruel superiors alongside a veritable army of miscreants and mercenaries.

On one particularly memorable occasion, Jennings and his troop were located in a freezing mountainous area during training. However, some infraction of platoon law by one or all of the group resulted in everyone being punished. I can’t remember in which country this incident took place, nor can I remember the exactitude of the infraction. But I remember the punishment.

To atone for their crime(s), all members of Jennings’s platoon were made to fill their mouths with stones before an overnight hike through the mountainous area in sub-zero conditions. I don’t know if you’ve ever packed your mouth with stones (I haven’t) but apparently a by-product of a mouthful of stones coupled with a long hike results in a certain amount of slavers escaping. Add in freezing conditions and those slavers will solidify. In the case of Jennings and his buddies, the over-night hike mumbling around stones resulted in them sporting beards of solid ice by the end.

As I say, I can’t remember what the infraction was but outside of everyone rolling the commandant in a carpet and then battering him with lump hammers, this punishment feels a tad over the top. It is perhaps little wonder that Jennings later went AWOL.

Once upon another time, I was reminded of Jennings’s sorry tale (admittedly it is also quite funny in places) when a certain hairy fool presented with his own mouthful of rocks. However on this occasion, the mouthful of rocks arrived prior to the infraction which, as it turned out, wasn’t an infraction at all.

The story of a young Irish dog who, with marginal prospects, turns up hairy and idiotic one evening with a mouthful of stones, this is the tale of how the dream went badly askance.

On the evening in question and on the verge of dark, I had been out for a pee with the Waff, who, as is usually his way, took his sweet time rummaging around in the undergrowth. Unbeknownst to me at the time too, he was also gathering that mouthful of stones.

I didn’t become aware of the payload until he arrived back at my heels, slavering and grinding his teeth.

“What are you at, you hairy fool?” I might have asked before sinking to my knees to inspect his gueule. I had actually thought there might be something badly wrong with him until he started spitting out stones.

“I’ve seen it all now, Clown. Spit that ship out.”

Waffle duly obliged and we went on our merry way. However this ‘merry way’ lasted as long as it took for Waffle to notice that I hadn’t locked up the hens. Seeing the white hen (Shakira) stepping her way across the yard, the Hound took off in hot pursuit.

A moment later, Shakira was flapping through the sky, buk-buk-bukking in alarm and I was fully of the mind that the dog had to die.

A moment after that, I had caught up with Waffle, who had taken to growling at the other hen (Beyonce) who had flapped up onto the hen house roof.

“Pray tell, Hound, of your nefarious intentions regarding my moderate poultry flock?” I didn’t say in a level tone. Instead, I reached down to cuff his ear and demanded, “What are you at, fool!?” After all, I couldn’t have a carnivore harassing the ladies. Such antics might put them off their laying.

Waffle glanced up at me and then growled again. Shakira clucked, Beyonce buk-bukked and I deigned to cuff the hairy fool for a second time. Next thing I knew, a deer had erupted from behind the hen house and was bounding across the garden, the so-called hairy fool in another hot pursuit.

It was all the more shocking because I hadn’t noticed its silent presence until it moved.

Moments later and with the home invader banished, Waffle was back at my feet, tongue lolling. He never said a word about the brace of cuffs and perhaps that made me feel all the worse.

I hunkered down and took his head in both my hands and ruffled his ears. “How could I have even thought you were barking at the hens?

“Let’s just say those two are for future infractions of platoon law.”

Waffle shook himself loose from my grasp and opened his mouth. A stone dropped out at my feet.

“And we’ll try to refrain from eating stones too, eh.”