COUNTERINSURGENCY COMPOUND
Daniel Foyte, being a retired gunnery sergeant, knew a great deal about marksmanship and precious little about diplomacy. At the moment he was caught with one foot in each world, attempting to convince Sergeant Major Bawoyeu of the institutional wisdom of the United States Marine Corps. He assessed a couple of the Chadians’ targets and collected his thoughts. Turning to his African colleague, he said, “I’m not worried about where they’re hitting right now. We can move the group to point of aim by adjusting the sights. I’d rather see better groups before we start worrying about that. After all, trigger control is a lot more important than sights.”
The sergeant major seemed unconvinced. “It is not necessary to aim so carefully when a rifle fires automatically.”
Foyte ground his molars in silent frustration. When he finally spoke, he managed a civil tone. “Mon adjutant, that is the difference between probability theory and marksmanship.” He picked up a G3 and hefted it for emphasis. “Even with a fairly heavy rifle, controlling the recoil on full auto is almost impossible. It wastes ammunition. I recommend that we have a policy of semiautomatic fire only. In fact, I would suggest having the armorers insert a pin through the receiver making full auto impossible.”
Bawoyeu shrugged eloquently. Clearly he did not care to dispute with so senior an advisor, but equally clearly the close-cropped American was more concerned with theories than reality.
Foyte turned away, stalking the firing line and stopping occasionally to assess his team’s instruction technique. He listened as Boscombe and Johnson tackled a problem shooter.
“Keep the stock firm against your shoulder,” Bosco said to the soldier. “Don’t grab the fore end with your left hand; just let it rest there. Otherwise you’ll get lateral dispersion.”
He looked at Johnson. “How do you say that?”
J. J. grinned at his partner. “Vous obtiendrez la dispersion latérale.”
Breezy furrowed his brow. “Really? It’s a lot like English.”
“Mon ami, English is about forty percent French.”
“G’won. Is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not!”
Johnson slowly shook his head in bemusement. “Dude, you are so behind. Haven’t you ever heard of the Norman Conquest?”
“Norman who?”
J. J. threw up his hands in frustration. He wondered if he weren’t being sandbagged but decided to press on.
“Look, it’s like this. About … oh, 950 years ago there were these guys, the Normans. Okay? Their leader was a dude named William. He was like the Duke of Normandy. You have heard of Normandy?”
Bosco nodded gravely. “Damn straight. Omaha Beach and The Big Red One.”
“Right! Except, well, not exactly. The Conquest was like D-Day in reverse. From France to England instead of the other way around. Anyway, William decided that he should rule England, so he took his guys and whupped up on the Anglo-Saxons. Their leader was named Harold, and he checked into an arrow at a place called Hastings.”
Bosco scratched his head. “When did you say this was?”
“Man, aren’t you listening? I said, like 1066.”
“Oh. Right. Nine hunnerd an’ fifty years ago.” He frowned in concentration. “So what’s that got to do with forty percent French?”
“Bosco, the Normans were French. They spoke a kind of French, which is Latin based, instead of the Germanic lingo like Harold. They, you know, took their language with them to England.”
“So why’d this Harold dude and his guys start talking French?”
Somewhere far back in the recesses of his cranium, J. J. Johnson badly wanted to scream.
“Because they were frigging conquered, that’s why! Besides, like I said, Harold was KIA. So William turned England into a Norman kind of government. Over a few centuries a lot of French words became English.”
“Well that’s pretty gnarly.”
Jeremy Johnson had no response to that observation.
N’DJAMENA
To say that the home team won decisively would have been gross understatement. Chad: eleven. America: three.
The SSI clients had laid out a soccer field one hundred meters long by fifty meters wide, with markings scratched in the packed dirt. The Americans had trouble getting their brains around the game’s extreme flexibility, with teams composed anything from seven to eleven players. Since SSI could only field six willing warriors—they steadfastly refused to allow Martha Whitney on the team—the locals convinced two Foreign Legionnaires into an ad-hoc alliance. The Americans and “French,” actually an Algerian and a Spaniard, elected J. J. Johnson team captain on the basis of his previous Legion service.
Johnson had his linguistic hands full, shouting directions alternately in English and French. At one point, with the score at four-zip, he had to deliver an earnest lecture to Bosco who in frustration had picked up the ball and drop-kicked it into the Chadian net from inside the penalty line.
The Spaniard was drafted as SSI goalie, and Caporal Moratinos did tolerably well considering that four of the opposition goals were scored on free kicks or penalties.
That concluded the first forty-five-minute period. Since it was painfully obvious that the Western Allies were not going to narrow the gap, a near unanimous decision was reached: cancel the second half and get on with the barbecue.
Johnson shook hands with Sergeant Kawlabi, captain of the Specialty Battalion team. They were briefly joined by Sergeant Major Bawoyeu who had served as head referee aided by two Legionnaires. Any concern about his impartiality had dissipated within minutes of the starting whistle—clearly the Chadians required no such assistance in achieving a decisive victory.
Bawoyeu was all toothy bonhomie. “Your team did well, considering how little the men have played,” he offered graciously.
“Thank you, Adjutant,” Johnson replied. “But I doubt that many of them are ready for a rematch.”
Johnson turned toward the sidelines and saw Brezyinski sitting on the ground. Chris Nissen was tending a serious bruise on the paratrooper’s left knee. “What do you think, Doc? He gonna live?”
Nissen glanced up at Johnson. “Well, like we say at Bragg. I may not be the best doctor around, but I reckon I’m the best practicing without a license. It’s going to swell if I don’t pack some ice on it right away.”
“What happened, Breeze?”
Brezyinski waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, that big ape tripped me.” He indicated a husky six-foot soldier who glanced in their direction and failed utterly to conceal a smile.
“I’d think you Eighty-second guys would know all about falling down. What do you call it? The parachute landing roll?”
Breezy grunted. “Fall. But you ever try to do a PLF with six goons crowding all around you?”
“Well, consider the big picture. It’s in a good cause. After all, we’ve been lording it over these guys, basically showing them how little they know. It’s only fair that they get to show us something.”
Breezy gave an exaggerated grimace. “Easy for you to say, dude. Your picture—my knee!”
While Nissen helped the ambulatory casualty to the sidelines, Johnson was approached by his newfound Legion friends, all of whom understood the significance of the obscure date 27 April 1832. They found that they had heard of some of the same people, which was not surprising. Though La Legion contained troops from seventeen nations, with only eight thousand men, there was bound to be some overlap.
Standing nearby, Bosco observed the Legionnaires—current and past—bonding with one another. They recounted the training and the only way out: climbing the rock, ringing the bell to announce they had enough, but not before spending twenty-four hours in jail before release.
“Unwavering solidarity—leave no one behind!” chanted Caporal Moratinos.
Johnson seemed almost sentimental. “I remember what Caporal Chef Calmy said, ‘Les épreuves et les tribulations sont normaux dans la vie—la douleur est facultative. Pour éviter de souffrir, vous apprenez simplement à vous conformer.’”
“Which means?” Bosco spoke nothing but English.
“Trials and tribulations are normal in life—suffering is optional. To avoid suffering, you merely learn to conform.”
“It’s still the same,” the Spaniard offered. “Hours and hours of absurd detail: cleaning and ironing; pleats within a millimeter of specifications.”
Once they had satisfied one another with arcane gestures and slogans, the men fell into an easy comradeship cemented by off-key rendering of the patient, almost ponderous marching song:
Tiens, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin, voilà du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorrains,
Pour les Belges, y en a plus …
“What’s that?” Bosco asked.
Johnson interrupted the songfest just long enough to explain. “It’s the Legion’s most famous song, “Le Boudin.” It means ‘blood sausage’ and says something about almost everybody: Alsatians, Swiss, Lorraines, even Belgians.” He thought a moment. “Especially Belgians. Not very complimentary, actually.”
Bosco munched a sandwich that he assumed was pork, never considering that he was the guest of a passel of Muslims. Johnson reckoned it was lamb or goat, but decided not to educate his benighted friend. “Sounds way too slow for a march,” Bosco declared.
“Well, in the Legion we take our time with those things.”
Bosco espied Martha Whitney approaching and decided to make himself scarce. His departure allowed him to resume his Pro Patria discussion.
Corporal Moratinos regarded the other Americans. “You probably do not have the kind of morale like La Legion,” he ventured. “That is, the sense of unity.”
“Oh, we have good morale,” Johnson replied. “Our company’s president is a really fine man, a retired admiral. He really takes care of his people.”
The Spaniard absorbed that sentiment, then asked, “What do you make of the French firm? It has several ex-Legionnaires.”
Johnson cocked his head. “What firm is that?”
Moratinos seemed surprised. “You have not heard of Groupe FGN? It’s probably the biggest security contractor in the country.”
“No, not a word. What do they do?”
The Legionnaire rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “What don’t they do?” He looked left and right, as if confirming the need for secrecy. “Come let’s take a short walk, mon ami. You should know about a man named Marcel Hurtubise.”