LEGIO PATRA NOSTRA

LEGIO PATRA NOSTRA

The following morning Roger Cutting found himself standing before the gates of Fort Saint-Jean.

And for the first time in many weeks, Roger acted upon a decision that was entirely his own.

Roger stood across from the yawning gates of Fort Saint-Jean.

For several minutes, he did nothing.

A Legionnaire stood at ease beside his sentry box, snapping to attention whenever anyone approached, then settling back again when they passed. Roger watched him as though the man guarded the entrance to another world.

Perhaps he did.

The Legionnaire's coat was shabby and worn almost to rags, his pantaloons patched and repaired so many times that little of the original cloth seemed to remain. Yet the képi Blanc upon his head was immaculate, startlingly white against the faded uniform.

Whatever else the Legion allowed to deteriorate, apparently some things were sacred.

Roger looked beyond him to the open gateway.

Everything was gone.

His commission. His regiment. His marriage. His family. His friends. His money.

Even his name, perhaps.

There was nowhere left to go.

London had offered him cold streets and closed doors. Marseille had taken what little money remained. Behind him lay humiliation and disgrace. Ahead stood an organisation notorious for asking few questions of men willing to disappear.

Roger looked once more at the gate.

He could still walk away.

And go where?

That settled it.

He crossed the road.

The sentry saw him coming and straightened. As Roger approached, the man's rifle came down across his body.

"Indiquez l'objet de votre visite?"

Roger stopped.

He understood perhaps three words.

The sentry waited.

Roger desperately assembled what little French he possessed, hoping that confidence might compensate for grammar.

It did not.

"Je veux que la Légion me tapisse le fondement de nouilles."

The sentry stared at him.

Roger stared back.

The Frenchman had heard foreigners murder his language before. Germans, Italians, Spaniards, Russians, Englishmen. He had thought himself beyond surprise.

Apparently not.

One corner of his mouth twitched.

"You want join la Légion?"

Roger felt a small measure of relief.

"We."

The sentry's expression changed.

"Oui?"

"We."

Another pause.

The sentry shook his head in disbelief and rolled his eyes before he nodded solemnly, as though dealing with a particularly slow child.

"Oui."

Roger nodded back.

The sentry turned towards the small wooden speaking hatch beside the gate and slid it open.

"Ce type veut s'engager dans la Légion. C'est un putain d'abruti fini."

Roger caught only Légion.

The sentry turned back and gave him the warmest, most encouraging smile Roger had received in weeks.

Roger returned it and offered several thankyou’s for the guards assistance

Whatever had just been said, he assumed it had been helpful.

A moment later one side of the ancient gate groaned open.

The sentry gestured him through.

Roger stepped forward, then hesitated for the briefest moment beneath the great stone arch.

There would be no money waiting outside. No wife. No regiment prepared to forgive him. No father able to restore the Cutting name. No friend coming to his rescue.

Nothing.

Behind him was a life that no longer existed.

Roger crossed the threshold.

The gate closed.

A corporal waiting inside jerked his head towards the interior of the fort.

"Suivez-moi."

Roger followed.

There was nowhere else to go.