The French people took pride in the Legion. They believed it fought for France, thought of itself as French. This was a misconception. It fought for itself. That it was an instrument of French Government policy was incidental. Even the French officers found their loyalties pulled more to the Legion than to their country.
The training lasted for six months. During that time Guido’s short, thickset body filled out. The hard work and the good food brought him to a peak of fitness. He found himself taking pride in this, for like many young men he had never realized his physical capabilities. The Legion had a traditional pride in being able to outmarch any other army on earth, and within a month Guido had completed his first twenty-mile route march, carrying fifty pounds of equipment. He took pride also in his handling of weapons, especially the light machine gun. Its power and mobility pleased him and he found an affinity with it. This was noted by the instructors.
It was a period of mental adjustment. He had always been taciturn and self-contained, and this aspect of his character deepened. He didn’t make friends among the other recruits. He was the only Italian among his intake, and as he struggled to learn French he felt out of place. Early on he had been tested as to whether he could be pushed around. His reaction had been savage and uncompromising. A big Dutchman, mean and hard, had needled him a point too far. Guido got his retaliation in first and the Dutchman took a painful beating. He had not broken discipline. The training NCOs allowed this kind of thing to happen. They wanted to know who could take it.
After that, Guido had been left alone, and the instructors guessed that the Italian might develop into a good Legionnaire. After training, he volunteered for the elite First Paratroop Regiment based at Zéralda, twenty miles west of Algiers. The Algerian war was building into a major confrontation, and naturally the Legion was at the forefront. The 1st R.E.P. was to be the most successful and feared unit in the French army. Guido was assigned to “B” Company. The company sergeant had just returned to active service after nine months at a Viet Minh prisoner-of-war camp. He had been captured at Dien Bien Phu. He was the American, Creasy.
It had been several months before the two men recognized the empathy between them. There was a gap at first — Guido, an untried Legionnaire and Creasy, a decorated veteran of Vietnam and a top sergeant. But there were similarities of character: both taciturn and introspective, shunning normal contact, and intensely private, in an environment where privacy was hard to find.
The first time that Creasy talked to him, apart from issuing orders, was after an action near a town called Palestro. A patrol of French conscripts had been ambushed by the Front Liberation Nationale and many killed. The Legion went after them, and it was the 1st R.E.P. that caught up. “B” Company was dropped to cut off the escape route, and Guido saw action for the first time. He was confused by the noise and movement, but quickly settled down and used his light machine gun to good effect. The FLN unit was wiped out.
That night the company camped in the hills above Palestro, and as Guido ate his field rations Creasy came over and sat beside him and talked a little. It was only the gesture of a company sergeant letting one of his new men know that he had done well in his first action, but Guido had felt good with the contact. He already had a deep respect for Creasy, but this was universal in the Legion. He was known as the complete Legionnaire, an expert with all weapons, and a natural tactician, Guido knew that he had fought for six years in Vietnam and before that had been in the U.S. Marines, for how long nobody knew. His favourite weapons were the grenade and the submachine gun, and he always seemed to carry more grenades and spare magazines than anyone else.
Shortly after Palestro, the company had again been dropped behind a retreating FLN unit. This time the FLN had got away, and again at the evening meal Creasy had brought his rations over to sit with Guido. They talked about small arms and their effectiveness. Guido always carried a pistol and four spare clips. Creasy told him that it was a waste of weight. A pistol was useful only if it had to be concealed. In combat, concealment was unnecessary. The submachine gun, on the other hand, was the perfect weapon for close combat. Creasy told him to forget the pistol and carry more spare magazines for his SMG.
Guido was a willing pupil. Having decided he liked the life, he was determined to succeed, and in Creasy he recognized the perfect teacher. He had been told of the remark made by the legendary Colonel Bigeard after watching Creasy retake a position at Dien Bien Phu: “The most effective soldier I have ever seen.”
So Guido took the advice to heart and modelled himself on his sergeant, and by the time the battle of Algiers started in January ‘57 he had made his mark and had been promoted to Legionnaire first class. A year later he too was an NCO and the friendship between the two men had grown into a recognizable pact. It had been a slow process, for both had long emotional antennae and these probed carefully. They were at first unaware of the process. Few words were exchanged, and these related almost entirely to military subjects, but as Guido’s knowledge increased, the conversations became less teacher-to-pupil dialogues and more discussions between equals. Both noticed also that the silences between them were never oppressive or strained, and it was this that brought the surprising realization to each that he had found a friend.
At that time Colonel Dufour commanded the regiment and as the pace of the war quickened he recognized both the ability of the two men and their friendship. The 1st R.E.P. was constantly in action, and Creasy and Guido were put together with their units whenever possible. They made a formidable partnership and became well-known throughout the Legion,
When it became obvious that de Gaulle was planning a political settlement of the war, the white settlers, the pieds noirs, reacted in fury. They set up barricades in Algiers and defied the army. Many of the professional soldiers were in sympathy, particularly the tough “para” units, who had borne the brunt of the battle.
The gendarmes were ordered to clear the barricades, and two para units, one of which was the Legion’s 1st R.E.P., were ordered up in support. Both units dragged their feet and the gendarmes lost many dead and wounded in the operation. Colonel Dufour was relieved of his command, but instead of being replaced by a politically reliable officer, the high command put Elie Denoix de St. Marc in temporary charge. St. Marc was the epitome of a Legion officer. Tough and idealistic, and uncompromisingly brave, he was worshipped by his men and could have led them anywhere. He chose to lead them into the “generals’ rebellion” of 1961 against de Gaulle, and the 1st R.E.P. became the cornerstone of the generals’ plans. They expected the rest of the Legion to follow suit, but they had miscalculated, and only the 1st R.E.P. under St. Marc was active against the government, even arresting Gambiez, the Army Commander-in-chief.
The rebellion failed, and on the 27th of April, 1961, the twelve-hundred Legionnaires of the 1st R.E.P. dynamited their barracks and fired off all their ammunition into the air. The pieds noirs lined the route and wept as the paras drove out of Zéralda, singing Edith Piaf’s “Je ne regrette rien.”
The regiment was disgraced and disbanded. It had lost three hundred men in the war for France, but de Gaulle was in a vengeful mood. Rank and file were absorbed into other units of the Legion. The officers fled to join the O.A.S., the underground extremist army, or surrendered to stand trial for mutiny. The senior NCOs were discharged — Creasy and Guido among them.
They had done only what they had been taught to do — obey their officers.
* * *
“They kicked you out?” asked Pietro incredulously. “Even though you had only followed orders?”
Guido shrugged. “It was a time of great political passion. At one point we expected to parachute onto Paris itself and arrest de Gaulle. The French people as a whole were horrified, and with good reason. At that time, the Legion’s strength was over thirty thousand men, and nothing could have stopped us if the Legion had acted as a whole.”
He worked silently for a while and then continued.
“It w
as the first time that the French realized what a threat the Legion could be to France itself. That’s why, even today, the bulk of the Legion is based in Corsica and other locations outside mainland France.”
“So what did you do?” asked the boy.
“Creasy and I stuck together. The only training we had was military. I was still wanted by the police here and Creasy had nowhere to go. So we looked for a war and found one in Katanga.”
“Katanga?”
Guido smiled. “I keep forgetting how young you are. Katanga was a province of the Belgian Congo. It’s called Shaba now. When the Belgians pulled out in ‘61, Katanga tried to break away. They’re a different tribe, and they had most of the mineral wealth. A lot of mercenaries went to fight in Katanga.”
They had joined a French ex-para colonel called Trinquier. He knew them from Algeria and was delighted to recruit such experienced men. So they became mercenaries, which wasn’t much change really, except that they missed the Legion. This joint feeling of loss brought them even closer together and their friendship developed into a bond rare between two people of the same sex. Their fighting skills soon became a byword among the other mercenaries. They were so mentally tuned that they moved and fought as a single entity without apparent communication. They were particularly adept at “laundering buildings” — clearing the enemy in an urban situation. They had their own techniques, giving each other cover and moving from room to room or building to building in a rhythm so precise that other mercenaries would stand and watch in admiration. They brought the use of grenade and submachine gun to a fine art.
With the failure of the Katanga secession they joined other mercenaries in the Yemen under Denard, but moved back to the Congo as soon as Tshombe returned from exile. Denard ran the French 6th Commando, and Guido and Creasy fought throughout the messy, convoluted war until Mobuto triumphed. Then, together with hundreds of other mercenaries, they retreated to Bukavu. They ended up in internment in Rwanda under the auspices of the Red Cross. They had to give up their weapons, and for Guido the next five months were a torment. Although they had plenty of room to move about, the fact of restriction brought on his claustrophobia. To keep his mind occupied, Creasy taught him English and had Guido teach him Italian. Guido found the English hard going, but Creasy proved to have a good ear for languages and quickly mastered Italian. They began speaking the language more and more together until, about a year later, they switched to it completely from French.
After five months in Kigali they were repatriated out to Paris. Two weeks in the bars and brothels of Pigalle wiped out the bad memories, and they started to look for work. Mercenaries were not very welcome in black Africa, and anyway they thought a change of location might be stimulating. Apart from his months in the P.O.W. camp, Creasy had liked Indochina, and when they received a tentative approach from a certain Major Harry Owens, U.S. Army (retired), they listened with interest.
The Americans were by now deeply involved in Vietnam and finding the going surprisingly tough. It was becoming apparent that sheer weight of manpower and ordnance might not be enough.
The Central Intelligence Agency naturally had definite ideas on how to win the war and with a huge budget was busily recruiting and training a series of private armies, both in South Vietnam and neighbouring Laos. They needed instructors for Laos, and ex-sergeants of the Legion made excellent instructors. Creasy’s experience in French Vietnam was an added bonus.
So they found themselves in Laos, nominally working as loading supervisors for the CIA front company, “Air America.” This was a charter firm which was supposed to ferry freight around Southeast Asia. In fact, it supplied equipment and food and much else to the CIA’s private armies.
Creasy and Guido spent eighteen months training Meo tribesmen on the Plain of Jars.
As things got worse for the Americans, the CIA responded by setting up “intrusion units.” These were mercenary groups that intruded into North Vietnam and Cambodia to harass the Vietcong supply lines. Creasy and Guido were “promoted” to such a unit, designated on the CIA computer at Langley Field, Virginia, as P.U.X.U.S.P.40. This meant “penetration unit non-American personnel containing 40 men.” The computer considered it to be expendable.
By late 1971, P.U.X.U.S.P.40 had been expended to the tune of thirty of its original members. Creasy and Guido decided to take a long, or perhaps permanent, break. They had done twelve covert missions and picked up several wounds apiece. They had also accumulated a great deal of money — the computer had been generous.
In the meantime, Guido had learned that the Naples police could be persuaded not to look for him if he returned, and that Conti, having prospered, had moved his base to Rome, leaving Naples to a viceroy who had no great memory of events during 1953.
The two mercenaries decided to take a trip to Europe so that Guido could visit his family and check out his property. Then they would take a look around and see what offered itself.
Guido had found his building in Naples in a state of good repair. It was rented out to the Church as a dormitory for unwed mothers — a quaint link with its past. They stayed in Positano with his mother. Elio was in his last term at Rome University, studying economics. Guido’s mother, aging now, gave thanks in the church for her son’s safe return and lit a dozen candles. Such generosity, she knew, would have its reward.
“And that was the end of my mercenary days,” Guido said to the engrossed boy.
“The end? You just stopped?”
“We went to Malta,” answered Guido shortly, “and I got married and came back here,”
Pietro knew that, for the time being, he would learn nothing more. They worked on in silence. In half an hour the first lunch customers would arrive.
Chapter 3
Ettore and his lawyer had lunch at Granelli’s. They sat in the semi privacy of an alcove table and ate prosciutto with melon, followed by vitello tonnato, accompanied by a bottle of vintage Barolo. Slightly too heavy for the veal, but Vico liked it, so that’s what they drank.
They discussed Ettore’s financial problems. Vico was smoothly reassuring. Matters could be arranged. He would personally talk to the bank managers. Ettore must not be pessimistic.
Ettore felt at a disadvantage. He always did with his lawyer. Vico Mansutti was urbane, handsome, immaculately dressed, and cynical. He wore a silk worsted suit with a faint pinstripe, tailored, Ettore knew, by Huntsman’s of Savile Row. His shirt was Swiss cotton voile, his tie Como silk and his shoes Gucci. There was nothing synthetic about Vico — at least on the outside. He wore his hair fashionably long, and a black moustache balanced his lean, tanned face. As they talked his eyes noted every movement in the restaurant, and he would occasionally acknowledge a greeting with a flash of even, white teeth. At thirty-six, two years younger than Ettore, he was acknowledged as the cleverest, best-connected lawyer in Milan.
So his words calmed Ettore but did nothing to dispel his feelings of inferiority.
A waiter drifted by and poured more Barolo, and Ettore moved on to his next problem — Rika. He explained about her obsession over Pinta’s safety and, because Vico was a friend, explained about the social factors. Vico listened with an amused expression on his face.
“Ettore,” he said, smiling at his friend’s doleful look, “I envy you profoundly. The problems you think you have are tiny problems, and the advantages you ignore are real and enormous.”
“Tell me,” said Ettore. “I seem to have misplaced them.”
Vico put down his fork and held up his left hand with fingers spread. “Number one,” he said, putting his right forefinger onto his left thumb. “Your reputation is such that, even owing the banks so much, they will continue to support you until conditions improve.”
“You mean my family’s reputation,” interjected Ettore, “particularly my father’s.”
Vico shrugged. For him it was the same thing. He moved onto the next finger.
“Number two — your house on Lake Como, which you bought eigh
t years ago for eighty million lire, is today worth two hundred fifty million and still appreciating.”
“And mortgaged to the bank for two hundred million,” said Ettore.
Again the shrug; the finger moved on.
“Number three, you have a daughter whose charm and beauty is only matched” — the finger moved again — “by number four — your wife, Rika. Yet you sit there looking as though your pupick dropped off.”
He signalled the waiter, ordered coffee, and turned back to Ettore.
“You must get things into perspective. You have this little problem because you indulge Rika too much. That’s entirely natural. Any man on earth, married to Rika, would do the same — I would.”
He paused to drink some wine and then continued.
“The mistake you made, if I may say so, was allowing Rika to take Pinta out of school after the Carmelita kidnapping.”
“Now wait!” Ettore protested. “I knew nothing about it. I was in New York. When I got back she had already hired the governess. It was a fait accompli.”
Vico smiled. “Yes, well, of course Rika is impulsive, but at the time she made quite a drama of it. Now to send Pinta back to school under the same conditions would be to admit she was wrong.” He raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time Rika admitted that she was wrong?”
Ettore smiled ruefully at the rhetorical question.
“So,” continued Vico, “you must, as the Chinese say, allow Rika to save face.”
“And how,” asked Ettore, “do I accomplish that?”
Vico shrugged. “Hire a bodyguard.”
Ettore became irritated.
“Vico. You are supposed to have a trained logical mind. We’ve just spent half an hour discussing my financial position — or lack of it. One of the reasons for this lunch was to ask you, as my friend and lawyer, and as Rika’s friend, to explain to her the realities of the situation.”
Vico reached forward and patted Ettore’s hand.
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 4
