The Fear

By Gerard Fritsch

Nineteen year old architect draftsman, Christian Fiset, was called up to do military service, like all other boys of his age. He was skinny and underweight, and military service separated him from his family and friends, his home and work, his city and his country, France. All the conscripts were trained and pushed to the maximum of thier abilities so that they could fight alongside the French Foreign Legion, renowned as fully qualified killers, during the Algerian War for Independence.
Christian keep his diary of the continous nightmares faced by the young conscripts, the strong bonds of friendship that grew between them, and their attemps to save lives of innocent children, children who were being coerced to enter the mine fields that the conscripts were laying. He faced the ordeal of war, and came to realise that choice of action could have dire consequences.
Caught many times in the crossfire of death and destruction, Christian saw the best and the worst of human nature and came to wonder why the Algerian Fellaghas were hated and despised so much by the French settlers who openly admired their own Resistance fighters from the Second World War. The Fellaghas had not only assisted the French, but had made a much valued contribution to the war.
Christian witnessed the dramatic mutiny when the French Army divided and the Generals revolted against de Gaulle. He epitomized the human faces of brutality of war, sorrow, suffering, greed, trust, compassion, fear and heroism. He had no time to grieve the death of his best friend, Joncquet, or any other of the many friends who lost their lives in the war.
Christian returned home to France and civilian life, but did not find the peaceful atmosphere he expected. The terrible noise of war still raged in his head, frightening nightmares pervaded his sleep, so he was faced with another battle, one was extremely difficult to fight, and one that he had to fight alone. He was heartbrokenand emotionally wounded.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gerard Fritsch
• Release date: Feb 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370829910

Book preview

The Fear

A Memoir

By: Gerard Fritsch

Copyright2017.Gerard Fritsch

Self-Published at Smashwords. Any use of the book without the author’s consent is strictly prohibited.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

Author’s Note

The story begins in the army barracks of the 6th Regiment of Pioneers posted in Angers, France.

Chapter 1

Sent to War in Africa

In our company, everyone’s tension had risen dramatically as we were all anxious to know where we were going to serve in Algeria. But before being sent to Africa we were all given three days’ leave to see our family. It would be a long time before we saw them again.

In the meantime, a batch of new conscripts had arrived to take our places in our company. We looked at them with curiosity. They were exactly like we were when we had arrived four months ago and this made us feel superior because we had survived and finished our basic training.

Wait till you meet the Sergeant, Chief Ledru, boys! Maillet said to them, and the whole company of new conscripts looked at us with fear.

Who is he? asked a shy boy who had left his mother just a few days before.

Do not worry son, you will soon know him and you will not forget him. He is the biggest bastard in the company. Just make sure you don’t cross him. Still, we managed to send him to jail for four weeks, you know. Bonnemaison helped us to do it. Maillet proudly exclaimed.

The whole group of new conscripts were petrified when they heard this story and wondered what the future held for them. Then, as quick as we could, we left in the direction of the railway station for our three–days leave.

As usual, my parents were waiting for me at the railway station when I arrived. My father had served the army in the two World Wars. During the Second World War, he was in the French resistance and knew well what war meant. When I was sitting with him he just looked at me intensely and didn’t say much. He already knew, without me saying anything, what I was going to go through and what could happen to me in Algeria.

These three days of rest with my family were wonderful and the weather was still warm and balmy. It was so comfortable and quiet compared to the mad house of the army barracks of Angers. My mother had planned evenings with the family. All my uncles came with their wives and children, and also many friends joined us.

So, when are you leaving for Algeria, you lucky boy? asked one of my cousins.

Going to Africa on holidays… the hot sun… and all this at the expense of the French government. I never had this luck in my time. We just went as occupation forces in Germany, my uncle Bernard added.

It was strange because everyone envied me going there. The amazing part about this war was that the people of France were tired of hearing about it. They no longer took much notice of it and they certainly didn’t know exactly what was going on there. Perhaps it was because the newspapers were not telling them the truth or perhaps, also, because no one knew that Algeria was just a blood bath as, almost every day, coffins of young, dead national servicemen were brought discreetly back to France to be returned to their families. The newspapers had been told by the Government to cover up the truth. All they could tell the public was that we had complete success in our operations and how many dissidents we had killed, but rarely were people in France told what the Arabs had done to us.

No one talked about the fact that we could be wounded or even killed in Algeria. As far as everyone here was concerned, we were just going on holidays at the expense of the French Government and we would be passing our time looking at the young Arab girls.

Keep your eyes off the ‘Fatma’, my boy! my friend, Andre, said.

Fatma is the Arabic name for women.

One afternoon my parents took me to a photography shop to have my photo taken, just in case something dreadful happened to me. Then we all went to the cinema. How wonderful it was to be there in the comfortable theatre chairs, surrounded by my family. All the walls and chairs were covered with red velvet material. A young woman with a basket full of ice cream was wandering around. What an atmosphere. How much I would have liked to have this time last forever and not to have to live in fear like I did in the army, and I wished I would not have to go back to the barracks.

My friend, Andre, had been in Algeria and had finished his military duty a few months before I was called up.

Yes, Christian, it is tough there. I spent over two years sitting in the Djebel, watching a Berber village and going on operation almost every night. We had to transform a farm into a fort, to survive. The worst part was loneliness and boredom, and then at night you never knew what would happen. We were all happy when the sun rose on the horizon. In winter, it was freezing cold in the mountains, and for many months the farm disappeared completely under snow. I didn’t like it at all, so good luck, he said.

Then he shook my hand. This was not something I really wanted to hear, but I had already heard all sorts of stories during the four months of training and it didn’t worry me that much anymore.

On the last night of my leave, my mother surpassed herself by preparing an elaborate dinner for which the Michelin Guide would have given her stars. On top of this, she invited our best friends, Mr. and Mrs. Lechevallier, and their two daughters, Marielyn and Jeanne, to join us for the evening. We had known them for a long time and I had grown up with their daughters. Jeanne, in particular, was beautiful and sweet and I had been in love with her for a long time, and the love I had for her was reciprocated. She was such a smart a girl that she made young boys’ hearts beat fast. Jeanne was 18 years old and a typical example of a Norman girl, with long, blond hair floating around her shoulders, and blue eyes like our Viking ancestors. She was a fine and cultured young lady and her outstanding beauty, of course, attracted many admirers. She always spoke in a soft and enchanting voice, and she seemed to be genuinely interested in what others had to say. I was always completely captivated by her presence and she felt the same about me. We could not say much to each other as her parents were always there but, with our eyes, we said everything. It would have been such a delight to be married to a girl like her.

When she arrived with her parents this particular evening, I was fantasising about kissing her. I managed to sit next to her at the table. We had to be careful as everyone was watching us, particularly her father. It was such an enormous joy to be next to her and looking at her discreetly, even touching her hand which was close to mine, under the table. How much I would have given to be with her far away from her family and to be able to talk to her and, above all, to kiss her.

When the dinner was over, my sister, Marie Noelle, who had just been given a record player for Christmas, put on some music and, as the older people were talking and drinking, we decided to try and practice dancing. The record we were playing was by an American group called ‘The Platters.’ It was beautiful music and we all tried to dance as we had just begun to learn how. Naturally, I made sure I only danced with Jeanne. What strong emotions she stirred in me. Our hands clutched together, moist with tension and excitement as she looked at me. It was a moment I wanted to last forever. I was attracted to her like a magnet to metal.

Would you like to write to me in Algeria, Jeanne? I managed to whisper to her.

Yes, I would. I would love to do that, she replied.

I felt like kissing her when she said it. I looked at her enticing mouth and lips but everyone was watching and her father was a difficult man who kept a hawk–like eye on his daughter. I wished to myself that I could keep the memory of this short moment with Jeanne forever, especially during the two long years which I would have to spend in Algeria. Quickly I slipped a note into her hand, with the address of my company in Algeria written on it. Then, with my arm around her waist, we danced together as long as we could, because I knew that it was going to be a long time before I would see her again. How cruel life is and why is it so difficult when all you want to do is to love someone in complete peace? It was late and it was time for them to go home. The party was over and, to my great distress, my beautiful Jeanne left with her parents. Again, I was on my own and there was nothing I could do about it.

I had to do all I was told to do, and this meant going to Algeria, fighting a war which had nothing to do with me whatsoever, and trying to kill people who had done me no harm. And to top it all off, it meant trying to stop people who just wanted to be free from a foreign oppressor. Two years is a long time to sit in the Atlas Mountains away from your family and not have the chance to win Jeanne’ hand. There were so many who were trying to marry her. I had absolutely no possibility of competing with them, and the only contact I would have with her would be by letters. I recalled the proverb, ‘Far away from the eyes, far away from the heart’. The only comfort I would have would be my army friends as all of us were in the same tragic position and unable to do anything about it.

I watched her and her family get into their car and disappear. I kept my eyes on Jeanne for as long as I could as she looked at me through the back window of her father’s car. How sad it was.

Tuesday 2 p.m. I was ready to go back to the Barracks, just like every other time when I came home on leave. Except this time there was a difference. I was going to a war in Algeria. My mother, in total silence, had filled my little suitcase with clean, spare clothes and tightly packed foods of all sorts. She also gave me the rosary which I got when I had my first communion, and which was supposed to protect me in Algeria. My mother had also washed and pressed my uniform as, once more, I had to leave my white shirt and black trousers behind and put on the khaki clothes which I would be wearing for a long time.

It was time to go and, all dressed up again in my uniform, I left with my parents for the railway station. I had done this many times before when my brother was in the Navy, but now it was my turn. In the car, my mother started to cry. No one could talk or say anything as our throats were too tense with emotion. It made me so sad to see my mother like this again. While driving the car, my father was silent but I knew he was thinking a great deal. My two sisters joined my mother and were also crying. I wished that we had already reached the railway station and that I had already left. It was just so hard to part from my family.

The 6 p.m. train to Lemans had not yet arrived and the railway station hall was full with families and young conscripts, all in the same situation as I was, leaving for Algeria. All the parents were with their sons; the boys were beside their mothers, holding them tight, or sometimes by their fiancés, girlfriends or their wives. A few of my friends who were married were holding babies in their arms. Fathers were giving plenty of advice to their sons.

Above all, John, never ever volunteer for anything, a father was saying to his son.

Stay quietly in your corner and look after yourself, was reiterated by most of the mothers.

Do not forget to write at least twice a week!

All we ask you to do is to come back as soon as you can. Write to us and don’t worry about anything – we will cope well on the farm.

Older brothers gave pieces of advice and hints to their younger brothers. Most of us were trying as hard as we could to put on a good face, so we laughed and sometimes waved to another fellow from our regiment. Mothers, sisters, girlfriends and wives held tightly onto their boys for as long as they could. They knew that they wouldn’t see them again for a long time, or perhaps, even worse – never again. Maybe the next time they saw them, their boys could have been badly wounded.

There were so many people and there was so much tension and sadness in the waiting hall. All my friends were hiding their sadness as best they could by putting on bravado and even by telling jokes to make everyone laugh. Chretien was there with his family and his girlfriend, and so were Joncquet and Briard. Bazo was with his father only, as his mother had died when he was born. All of us were putting on an air of confidence in front of our parents and families but in reality, all of us were feeling insecure about our future. Other boys from different regiments had joined us in the hall and the crowd in the station started to move out as the steam train from Cherbourg pulled in along the platform. The train was already full of servicemen re–joining their barracks. The station master blew his whistle and it was time for all of us conscripts to board the train.

Again– our throats were tight with emotion, but we hid it by joking, laughing and pretending we were ok… till the last minute. Last kisses, more tears, more crying, continual holding and hugging or looking at each other without saying anything. We did not know what to say anymore as we were so upset about going, and also about seeing our own mothers in such a state, most of them having tears running down their faces. The great hall of the railway station was a place of total sadness.

Some of us were waiting till the last minute to board the train but some had already taken over the window spaces, holding the hands of their loved ones standing on the platform. I stayed as long as I could with my mother but there was nothing left to say and our throats were dry with tension. I just wanted to go as quickly as I could and put an end to this heart– wrenching experience. I couldn’t bear to see my mother weeping and to be in such state. I loved her so much. She had seen five of her family go to war and I was number six.

The station master, wearing his white cap and holding his baton in one hand, gave the signal for the engine driver to move on, and as he blew his whistle for the last time, the doors of the wagons had to be closed. But some of us were still on the platform with our loved ones, putting on a brave front up until the last second, laughing and holding them.

Blowing black smoke from its boiler, the train slowly moved out, and it was the last minute for all of us and our families to see each other. One of my friends was running along the side of the train and some others were standing outside on the footsteps of the wagons, holding the doors and waving to their parents until, finally, all the people on the platform disappeared in a cloud of steam and smoke. I will never forget the sight of my parents on the platform and, above all, my mother, a pale and frail figure wrapped in her coat, a scarf on her head and her eyes full of tears. My father was standing behind and holding her, his face sober and expressionless, as he had seen so much suffering in his life. My two sisters were holding my mother in their arms, both weeping like she was.

Us recruits were now all together again, piled up in the narrow passage way of the wagons. The night had already fallen but we were still gazing out of the windows, craving for one last look at our city. Most of us were tearful and sad. Thank God, we were all facing the same situation. We had learned to know each other so well during the four months of training. All of us were sitting on the floor of the passage way, tight against each other like sardines. It was extremely uncomfortable but we were all together like brothers. After a few minutes sitting there, someone passed a bottle of Calvados around and this made the depressing situation change quickly. Almost instantaneously there was conversation, followed by laughter, and soon after that, loud jokes and even some singing from one group. Our morale had recovered and we were together again bound for a new adventure.

Algeria, here we come! yelled Briard. Watch us, Fellaghas! We are coming to meet you. Be ready for us.

Then a general laugh came from everyone.

Chapter 2

Goodbye Angers

15 September 1960. We had re–joined our company in the barracks. We had to prepare ourselves for our departure to North Africa and we were all waiting with impatience to find out where we were going, and when we had to give back all the equipment we had received during our training and were only allowed to keep our outing uniforms. New kits fit for African conditions would be issued to us when we arrived in Algeria.

Everyone was relaxed as the discipline that was fundamental to our training had now completely disappeared. There was no more fear of punishment or cancellation of leave from the barracks, or even of being sent to jail for forgetting to salute an officer. No one cared any longer about our behaviour. But the strangest thing was that our Officers were speaking to us as human beings. The permanent yelling and screaming had disappeared and the officers did not care if we saluted them or not. What an enormous change.

After giving back our equipment to the stores, each of us were given our marching orders, which came in the form of individual official papers telling us where we were to be posted in Africa. Everyone was excited, quickly ripping open their envelopes to find out their destination.

My destination in Algeria is Guelma, which is a city situated in the province of Constantine, yelled Bourget.

Where are you going, Joncquet? I asked my best friend.

Guelma, also. Where is this place? I’ve never heard of it, he replied.

It is next to Constantine, close to the Barrage of the Tunisian border, said Bonnemaison.

Don’t worry about it, boys. I am also going to Guelma. Just follow me everyone. Here we go – direction Guelma! shouted Legrand.

I am going there too, said someone else.

After a few minutes, we found out that almost everybody in our section, including me, was going to the same place in Algeria, Guelma, and also to the same battalion which was called the 37th Battalion of Pioneers. I was happy to find out that Joncquet, Bazo, Vanoli, Chretien, Maillet and many others who had gone through the same dreadful experience as I did during the four months of training, were going with me to the same place in Africa.

Let’s all go to the foyer to see on the map exactly where Guelma is situated, said Legran.

Indeed, in the foyer on one of the walls was pinned a large, coloured map of North Africa, Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. After a brief search on this map, someone pointed to the city of our destination.

Guelma! Here we are boys! Here it is, said Maillet, putting his index finger on the right spot of the map.

Guelma is in the Constantine area, about 70 kilometres from the sea and the harbour of Bone, and about 100 kilometres from the Barrage (an electrified fence) and the Tunisian border, said Bonnemaison, who was reading it from the map.

We were all happy to be leaving the barracks where we had more bad memories than good, and we were all excited about our new posting in Africa.

16 September 1960. In the morning after the last ceremony of the flag, Captain Rivoal, our Commanding Officer, was standing on the steps. He wished us all good luck in our future posting in Algeria. Sergeant Chief Ledru was there also, wearing his full parade uniform with all his medals pinned on it, for the occasion.

He must have had to buy a new uniform after we took our revenge on him, said Bonnemaison, with a smile.

Well, my children, I wish you a good journey and, above all, a safe stay while doing your military duty in Algeria. I hope you perform as well there as you did here during your training. Thank you all, said Ledru.

Very surprisingly, he was smiling as he was saying this. What a changed person. We could barely recognise the sadistic chief whom we had to obey during all those months of training, and who had made our lives so miserable.

I cannot believe it! Did I hear it properly, or not? He called us ‘children’. Something must have gone wrong somewhere! Perhaps he knows he can’t do anything to us now. said Bonnemaison.

He’s lost all his power. He’s like an old wolf that has lost his teeth, someone else said.

The GMC trucks had arrived in the yard of our company and, with great effort we were loaded into them, with all our equipment. Then we were driven to the army depot where we exchanged our equipment for different gear. We were told that we were free until the following morning’s departure. So, with both hands in our pockets, Chretien and I walked to the city of Angers for the last time, passing the guards at the gate without having to produce any papers whatsoever. What a change from the past. It was a world turned upside down.

Annick and her girlfriend, Evelyn, were waiting for Chretien and me, outside the army barracks. They had managed to change their shifts at the hospital in order to spend the evening with us. They did not know that we were going to Algeria the following morning and we did not have the courage to tell them. Both of them were always happy and keen to meet with us when we had some free time from the barracks. We, in turn, enjoyed spending time with them in the city. They were always such a comfort to us and to be with them, even for a short time, was such a delight. After our initial meeting at the ball of the Green Cross, we had developed a steady relationship with them. Annick and Evelyn were both beautiful.

During our training, Chretien and I sometimes left the barracks when we didn’t have signed leave papers. We would jump the high wall, then, when outside, change into civilian clothes in one of the nearby cafés where we knew the owner. After that we would meet Evelyn and Annick for dinner. The four of us went to cinemas, dances, festivals and even to the fireworks in the evening of the 14th of July, sitting on the grass by the river Loire. What a great time we always had and we would have liked each evening to last forever. Of course, each evening did end, as we had to take the girls back to their parents’ homes before 12 o’clock. Then Chretien and I had to run at full speed back to the barracks and jump the wall again, in complete darkness.

But this night was not the same as usual. We did not have to jump the wall to meet them. We just walked to the city. On this occasion, we had invited them to a beautiful dinner in the best restaurant of Angers, situated on the main square. They were waiting for us and they were both smartly dressed, more attractive than ever. It was almost as if they knew of our new posting beforehand. It was during this dinner that we told them about our forth–coming departure.

Tomorrow, Evelyn and Annick, both of us will be leaving with our company for Algeria, we told them.

Upon hearing our news, the girls fell silent. They looked at each other with sadness and they had tears in their eyes. They had grown accustomed to spending the evenings with us after their work in the hospital and they had never thought about us being posted away. They had even made plans for a future life together, after we had finished our military duty. With a regiment of 1,200 men living in the barracks, it was quite difficult to find girlfriends in the city of Angers, so we had been lucky to meet them both. But unfortunately, there was nothing whatsoever we could do to change this current situation, nothing at all. The girls had become quiet and what had started as a happy evening was now like a wake for the dead. We exchanged photos as souvenirs and carefully wrote addresses on a notebook for them. For Evelyn and Annick, it was a much more difficult situation than for many other girls because they were both working as nurses in a hospital that, every day, received many wounded conscripts from Algeria. They had a much better idea than most of what we were going to face.

This night our routine was different and, instead of going to the movies as planned, we walked in silence to the Botanic gardens of the city, holding hands with them. What could we say? There, sitting close to each other on the benches of the park, we just kissed and held hands for a long time without saying anything. They did not want to let us go and so they waited till the last minute before walking with us back to our barracks. They knew they would not see us again for a long time. We tried to comfort them by saying that our stay in Algeria was going to be a short one and that we would be back soon, but it was only to make them optimistic and lift their spirits. Holding them tight by their waists, we walked slowly towards our barracks, stopping from time to time to kiss them, our hands gripping each other’s in the dark street. What a moving moment it was. We hated this long and painful farewell as both of them were so beautiful and so genuine. They insisted on walking us right to the gates of the barracks. Near the main gate, in the dark, were many others couples like us who were embracing their loved ones for the last time Annick and Evelyn, their eyes full of tears, finally let us go. The time had come and after giving us some timely advice, they slowly disappeared down the dark streets of Angers. We watched them until they disappeared from sight, so sad to leave them behind. How many young hearts like ours had been broken because of this senseless war?

Back in our company, the strict military regime had broken down and we walked through total chaos to our dormitory. Most of the fellows had gone to Angers and a considerable number had come back absolutely drunk, trying to forget their sadness by over indulging in the well–known sweet, white wine of Anjou. Some were lying on the floor of the dormitory, having vomited all over the place. So, still fully dressed, Chretien and I lay down on our bunks for the last few hours left of the night.

17 September 1960: Six a.m. We did not need the usual trumpet blast to wake us up as it was impossible to sleep in the chaos that prevailed. Within minutes, the whole company was a beehive of activity and everyone packed their belongings and headed for the trucks. We had no time for breakfast as we were leaving for the railway station without delay. I was happy to be finally leaving the barracks where I had all suffered greatly during preliminary training.

Everyone in the trucks at once! yelled an N.C.O. in the court yard.

Very strange, said Joncquet, They’re not making us walk to the railway station as usual!

No! This time they cannot wait to be rid of us! answered someone. And they’re making sure we do not miss our train to Marseilles.

The train was completely full of conscripts from many different army units and all of them were going in the same direction – the harbour of Marseilles. Sitting next to each other on the floor of the corridor in the wagons, we made ourselves as comfortable as we could because we knew we would have to spend the whole night in the same position till we reached Marseilles.

18 September 1960. It was 6 a.m. and the first rays of sunshine had invaded the passageway of our wagon. We were relieved to know we were coming close to the end of our journey through France. We had passed through Avignon and the train was going through Provence, one of the most beautiful areas in France. It was so different from the harsh weather of Normandy. The climate in Provence was mild and the country looked stunning with all the little villages painted in warm colours and their roofs covered with Roman tiles. Looking at a provincial village which we were passing through, I thought that I would like to jump from the train and settle there instead of being taken to Algeria, like sheep going to the slaughter house.

After going through Salon de Provence the train slowed down. We were only a few kilometres from Marseilles.

I can see Notre Dame de la Guarde, yelled someone, excited at the sight of the cathedral of Marseilles standing proudly on top of a hill and dominating the city.

Unfortunately for us, the train stopped before reaching Marseilles and, for some unknown reason, we were told to get off the train at once. Some huge army trucks were waiting for us at this spot, ready to take us to the transit camp called the ‘Camp Saint Marthe’, where we would have to wait all night to board a ship the following morning.

I know where we are, Christian! Loti said to me. As soon as we are in the camp, you and I will escape this place as quick as we can. We’ll go to dinner with my family – they live in Marseilles. They want to see me once more before leaving, he added.

How do we get there? I asked.

You just have to follow me. I know the place well – I was born here! Loti assured me.

What a camp, said Joncquet, as we arrived in it.

We could not help but agree. It was, perhaps, the largest army camp in France, catering for thousands of servicemen who were waiting for ships to take them to fight wars in the French colonies. The camp was an endless row of army barracks standing next to each other, all of them painted white and each with a huge number painted on it with black paint.

As soon as we left the trucks the fellows started complaining. Echoes of, I am not staying there! could be heard. The Camp Saint Marthe looked more like a grim prison or a concentration camp than a transit place.

Our barrack was number eighty–seven, so we all walked together towards it, loaded with all our belongings. As we came near to it, we heard a terrible noise coming from inside and we discovered, to our great surprise, that we had to share it with a group of hard–core parachutists who were going back to Algeria for the second time. They were wrecking the chains and rigging the wooden bunks so that no one could sleep in them. They made it clear that no one was welcome in this building unless they were a ‘Para’.

This is the welcoming committee of the Camp Saint Marthe, said Bonnemaison.

Well, let’s get out of here now, I whispered quietly to Loti.

There were so many people in this camp that no one knew who was who, and before anyone realised it, we had made our way to the outside world, not by the front gate, as we didn’t have any papers, but by the kitchen. We knew that in every army refectory the kitchen always had a delivery door at the back, to bring food in from the outside world. So as quick as we could in order not to be spotted, we disappeared into the kitchen, crossed it and opened the delivery door at the back. There was no problem doing it. Once outside, Loti knew the place well. He knew which bus to catch on the main street to get to his family quickly. I had come to the realisation that, after this experience in the Camp Saint Marthe, speed was our best friend in the army.

Loti’s family lived in a suburb of Marseilles called Castellane and when we arrived there they were all waiting for us. What a welcome we received. Andre Loti was part of a large Corsican family. His parents and grandparents welcomed us with open arms. Knowing he was coming, they had called all his uncles and cousins to join them. This was a lovely experience for me and, after drinking Anisette with them, I was invited to sit at an immense table loaded with Mediterranean food, under a pergola covered with vines. I was a friend of Loti and, as such, I was received like a son. His mother was emotional and never left his side. The men, who didn’t want to show their emotions, were bombarding us with advice and, above all, his father kept repeating to him, Do not take any risks, Andre. Just wait quietly in your corner and, above all, do not ever volunteer for any mission whatsoever.

It was funny. I had already heard this advice from my own family, over and over again. Loti just smiled and agreed with them. We all laughed and joked the whole evening. What an atmosphere. What a family and how much love there was between them. All too soon it was time for us to leave as we wanted to be back at the camp before midnight. Loti’s mother, sisters and cousins each hugged him and took turns to kiss him, all of them sobbing. This was a sad end to such a beautiful dinner and evening. Loti and I left them as quickly as we could, cutting short the emotion and the sadness. We ran to the bus which took us to the old harbor of Marseilles.

La Canebiere was the main avenue of Marseilles and was lined with shops and people. Amongst these people mingled thousands of army men, killing time, waiting to board their ships for Algeria, like we were. In this crowd, we bumped into three friends from our unit and made our way together towards Camp Saint Marthe. We walked towards the camp by going through smaller, adjacent streets full of prostitutes who were yelling at us, Come on boys – have one on us before you go to Algeria. It’s free for you.

We could not believe it. They were so nice and so concerned, and they wanted to give us what we, at our age, were all looking for. It was their way to show us their love.

That night, similar to the night before on the train, we slept on the broken bunks amongst a troop of parachutists, all roaring drunk and, unfortunately for us, some of them had vomited all over the empty bottles that covered the floor of the room.

18 September 1960. The sun was up in the sky. It had been a difficult night to get through. The ‘Paras’ had left early in the morning, upturning the bunks and throwing their leftover food all over the dormitory before they departed.

We were all anxious to leave this place as soon as we could. The whole Company was up and ready to go to the wharf. Holding our personal belongings, we tried, in this chaos, to have an aluminium container of watery coffee and a piece of bread. Once more, long files of GMC trucks had arrived in the main yard of the camp and were ready to carry their load of conscripts to the wharf. Meanwhile, the enormous mass of khaki clad conscripts were standing in the main courtyard, all of them loaded with bags, suitcases and boxes to take to Algeria. The Officers in charge of the camp had appeared and were surrounded by their watch dogs. Each of the Warrant Officers held a board on which thousands of names were written. The huge gates of the camp were closed, and the guards on duty made sure that no one would escape and desert to Spain, only a few kilometres away. Some officers were blowing their whistles and the N.C.O. started to yell out names. All of them were trying to create some order amongst this herd of frightened sheep.

The camp officials grouped thirty or more men together, and then pushed them into one of the waiting trucks. It was with great difficulty that my group of friends managed to avoid being split up. We had to stick together to survive this odyssey. When finally loaded, the long endless columns of trucks crossed Marseilles in the direction of the main wharf, near the cathedral. At the wharf, ships were tied from one end to the other. Truckload after truckload, thousands upon thousands of army personnel from different army groups were unloaded and then boarded on different ships going to various parts of Africa. The whole wharf, right to the warehouse, was full of noisy and exuberant soldiers, all eager to leave as soon as they could. Gangplanks were completely full and blocked by the mass of khaki uniformed men carrying bags and equipment, as they boarded the ships. Discreetly, but with their machine guns at the ready, gendarmes made their appearance on the wharf, watching the loading of the ships, just in case some conscripts tried to desert the army.

I don’t think there is much difference between us conscripts and the convicts they used to send to Devil’s Island, said Loti.

No, you can see how they’re treating us! They are so scared of deserters. They just want to make sure all of us go to the killing fields and no one escapes it, added someone.

Holding our army bags full of spare clothes, our suitcases, plus our army equipment, we managed to force our way on to the gangplank up to the deck, which was occupied by hundreds of long chairs, already taken by those who had arrived before us. These conscripts were already writing letters to their loved ones.

Another good night is coming, said some–one in the group.

The loading of the ship was finally completed and each deck was absolutely choked with thousands of passengers. There was no room to move whatsoever. It was just like it had been on the train, the night before last. A long, sinister horn blew, indicating that we were finally going. The ropes holding us to the wharf were released and two harbour tugs came to drag us to the open sea. We were finally on our way to the war.

Conscripts forced their way to the side of the ship which headed out, following the jetty in the harbour. They were trying, till the last minute, to spot a loved one, for hundreds of people had lined up along the outer jetty for a last farewell. As the ship passed by, everyone waved frantically to anyone that they had spotted on the jetty. It was euphoria, but it was the last farewell for a long time for some of us, and, for some unlucky ones, the last good bye.

As we reached the open sea, the two tugs cast off their ropes and our ship started to move at full speed towards the high seas. The people standing on the jetty had disappeared from our sight and the city of Marseilles was also disappearing, along with the mountains of Provence and Notre Dame de la Guarde, the cathedral standing on top of the mountains. As this all slowly disappeared on the horizon, everyone who was still looking became silent, and even anxious. Some became so emotional that tears ran down their cheeks.

Soon the French coast disappeared completely and everyone on the deck started organising themselves for the rest of the day and the coming night. In our group, we were considering what to do when Joncquet, who had disappeared for a while inside the ship, came back with a surprise.

Good news! said Joncquet, I have found a sailor on the ship who is willing to rent us his cabin for the night. How about that?

How much? someone asked.

Nine thousand Francs! But there are only four berths, and we are six! Joncquet replied.

No worries. Anything is better than spending the night here on the floor. We will make two extra beds with blankets on the cabin floor, we assured him.

The cabin was fantastic, with a toilet and a shower, and it was all we needed to spend the night comfortably. We would reach Algeria the following morning.

During the night, it was warm and we had great fun on the ship. On the deck, most of the fellows were completely drunk. The boat bounced on the waves as the sea became rough. And so, on the top deck, the drunks started vomiting. Bazo was so drunk that he could not find our cabin again and spent the night on the deck.

We did not sleep all night, but just rested. We were too anxious about where we were going to go the next day. It was, for all of us, a great adventure and we felt like the crusaders who had done the same trip as we were doing on the Mediterranean Sea, to combat the infidels in the holy land.

At four in the morning, the boat seemed to stop its progress and just bob slowly along on the waves. Some of us tried to see if we could spot the African coast through the porthole of the cabin, but it was still too dark and there was nothing to see on the horizon. We were all very curious and were waiting to see Africa for the first time.

There it is! yelled someone.

Just in front of the ship, you could start to distinguish a darker line on the horizon. We all got up and pushed each other in order to see it. A wider, darker line appeared on the horizon. It was our first look at the North African coast. We were going to arrive there soon so everyone got dressed quickly and went up on deck to watch the coast line, which was growing larger on the horizon. Everyone was talking about their future adventure and others were wondering what would happen to them there. We had been hearing tales about the war in Algeria since we were thirteen years old, and now we were finally facing it. No one on the deck would have, in their wildest dreams, imagined that they would be going to Africa to fight, like their older brothers had. We were so badly informed about what to expect that we made jokes about it, and each of us thought that if anything bad happened, it would be to someone else, not us.

Some warrant offices appeared on the deck, coming from their cabins and trying to make themselves decent after their drinking orgy the night before.

Come on everyone! Move to your own units now and get yourselves ready for landing! yelled an Adjutant.

The coast was now close and we could see some of the lights of the city and also the crane, standing tall, on the harbour. The sea had become calm as we approached the harbour, so the ship had stopped rocking from one side to the other.

Can you hear something? said Bonnemaison, to our group.

No! We can’t, answered some fellows from our platoon.

Well, I can hear the Fellaghas firing their guns in the Atlas Mountains, replied Bonnemaison.

We were all so glad to have Bonnemaison in our group; he had such an endless sense of humour.

We could now clearly distinguish the whole city of Bone, the harbour installations in particular, and the city behind the tall cranes. We also had our first view of the Atlas Mountains which we had heard so much about, including terrible stories about what happened there. Bone was a busy city because of the harbour. From there, all sorts of products, but especially iron ore and wines, were exported to France. We had read about Bone.

It was a typical French colonial city, with the usual large boulevard down the middle, lined with trees and three storied buildings all along, and with arcades at the street level, specially designed for the shops. In the middle of this wide avenue was, as always, a kiosk to entertain people with music, at weekends.

Everyone was sitting on their small suitcases which held their most precious possessions, photos of loved ones, pencils, paper, books, cameras, food from home, envelopes and stamps, and the like. All of the men on the deck became quiet and everyone would have been thinking the same. How long am I going to be here before I see my family again? And my country? What exactly am I going to do here in this foreign land?

Arriving on the Wharf of Bones

At last the ship was tied to the wharf and the gang plank was lowered, ready for disembarkment. There was no way to desert or to try to escape the ordeal which was in front of us. Our ship