Honor and Fidelity

Disclaimer: I own neither NCIS or G.I. Joe.

Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is our Country. These words are the bedrock of La Legion Etrangere or the French Foreign Legion. I spent eight years of my life in the Legion. It has only been a few days since I was discharged.

Unlike some I did not leave La Legion under a cloud by deserting. No. I left because a wound sustained by a grenade exploding near my head in the Central African Republic left me with hearing intermittent in my left ear.

In the trackless expanse of civilian life I bought a train ticket to Marseille from Aubagne following my discharge with the few possessions I cared to retain. I really don't have a destination in mind. Where do I go from here, I wonder?

A Legion NCO once said this of Legionnaires who leave the Legion, "They go insane, they go to jail, they die, they become alcoholics or they fight in other people's wars."

I can tell you none of those options appeal to me at all, though I think I am somewhat insane at times. Jail would be worse than war. Alcoholism is a jailer all its own. And fighting other people's wars? No. A mercenary for hire is not what I planned.

Perhaps a better way to answer the question of where to go from here can start where I have been.

Very recently a young woman asked me what I believed in. I told her one thing I believe in is Le Code d'honneur du legionnaire, or the Legionnaire's Code of Honour. Its seven articles were the bedrock of my life for the past eight years.

The first article is this, "Legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honour and fidelity."

Honor et Fidelite, Honor and Fidelity, two words emblazoned on the colors of the Legion. Two words that mark the ethos of the Legionnaire.

Honor and Fidelity. I feel I served my eight years according to those words...for the most part. There is one moment where I felt I failed to live by these words. And it is a moment I must answer for at some stage. I pray it doesn't include me crossing the River Acheron.

Sitting at a waterfront cafe overlooking the docks, with a bottle of Kronenbourg and some steakfrites. And who should I see but that same young woman. A woman who is not what she seems.

Docks of Marseille
Marseille, France
Ziva David and Conrad Hart
09 September 1999, 1152

Conrad Hart looked up from his meal of steak and fries, eyes narrowing as he noticed the young woman heading towards his table. As she approached she asked, in perfect French, "Is this seat taken?"

"What the devil do you want?" Conrad countered, glaring at her.

Ziva David inwardly flinched at the now ex-Legionnaire's hostility, but she continued to look the man in the eye, "Is the seat taken?"

Conrad nodded, though he still glared at the young woman. He stayed silent until she took her seat. Looks like an innocent young woman, would grow up to be a real beauty. But she's as deadly as a scorpion. Best to treat her as such.

"Again, I ask what the devil do you want?" Conrad asked, eyes narrowing in the French sunlight as a waiter arrived.

The waiter turned to Ziva and asked if he could get her anything. The young woman asked for a glass of water. The waiter trundled off to fulfill that order.

"My organization has an offer for you, now that you are no longer in the Legion," Ziva replied simply.

"I am not a mercenary," Conrad countered.

"You were a Legionnaire. Are they not mercenaries?" Ziva asked.

At this Conrad's expression darkened, "Legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honour and fidelity. That is the first section of Le Code d'honneur du legionnaire. That alone should tell you Legionnaires are not mercenaries, mademoiselle."

"You no longer are in the Legion," Ziva intoned, her dark eyes moving to the scarring near Conrad's left ear, "What happens to Legionnaires after they leave the Legion? Is it not said that, 'They go insane, they go to jail, they die, they become alcoholics or they fight in other people's wars'."

Conrad glared at her, "I am sure I have other options, mademoiselle."

"And I am here to offer you another," Ziva replied calmly.

"And I am not a mercenary for hire," Conrad countered, "Though a Legionnaire no longer, I still live by a code, mademoiselle, and I just recited the first part of it."

"You said you are not a Legionnaire," Ziva replied, "So that part of your code is not logical."

"Yes, but I still live by the two words Honneur et Fidelite," Conrad replied.

"Point taken," Ziva replied, "But I do want to ask why you are so hostile towards me?"

"I committed a traitorous act," Conrad replied.

"Thorvald Wulfram was a war criminal," Ziva replied, "You do know of his past, remember? Service on the Eastern Front with 3rd SS Panzer Division, Totenkopf. To include being a company commander during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943."

With a sigh Conrad replied, "I know of his past, and I elected to help you. That time. I thought I made it clear that I would help you on that occasion."

"You did, Monsieur Hart," Ziva replied, "But I thought…"

"You mean whomever you work for thought," Conrad snapped.

"...that you would appreciate some form of employment." Ziva continued, in spite of Conrad's venomous reply.

"I don't need charity. Nor am I a mercenary," Conrad replied.

"So what are your plans," Ziva asked.

"I am currently on what Aborignal peoples of Australia call a walkabout," Conrad replied, "Then I will formulate a plan."

"If you do change your mind, I will be in Marseille for a week more," Ziva replied, before she stood up and left.

As she did so he noticed her walk to another table, where an older fellow wearing glasses and nursing a cup of coffee sat. He saw Ziva go to talk to the man.

Clearly they know each other. Conrad thought as he glanced up from his meal. The old man and Ziva left the cafe. By the man's body language he seems upset with her.

Hôtel du Sud Vieux Port Marseille
Marseille, France
Ziva David, Eli David, and Ari Haswari
09 September 1999, 1233

"Not bad, Zivaleh," Eli David began as they sat down on the sofa in their hotel room, looking over at his daughter, "But you should not have walked straight for me. Mr. Hart made me as a result of your action."

Ziva stiffened, feeling her heart race as Eli mentioned how he got 'made' by Conrad earlier. Made. Intelligence slang for compromised, which is what Conrad had done when she walked over to him.

She glanced over to the easy chair in the room where Ari sat, reading a magazine. Eli waited another moment before speaking, "So what were your impressions of Mr. Hart?"

"Stubborn. Idealistic," Ziva replied, "Driven by some strange blend of warrior pride and Catholic guilt."

"So what do you think motivates him? Money? Ideology?" Eli asked, eyes narrowing.

"Certainly some sort of idealism," Ziva replied.

"See if you cannot use that ideology to help us," Eli replied.

"Yes, abba," Ziva said, "I will do my best."

"Ziva. See if you cannot recruit Mr. Hart to work for us," Eli replied, "Ari will be your back up tomorrow."

My day's walkabout concluded with a cold cognac at a bar along the waterfront, across the street from the hotel I am staying at for now. Trudging upstairs, replaying today's events, I walk into my small room, closing the door behind me and latching it.

Pouring a glass from the bottle of cognac in the freezer I sit on the sofa. Almost nine years ago I flew to Paris intending to join La Legion. This followed an episode of misguided nobility on my part while attending San Diego State University as a Naval ROTC midshipman.

Her name is Brook. Brook Campinelli. Her family moved to Daytona Beach when I was in the 6th Grade. I still remember the first time I ever asked her to dance was in PE class. We got to be good friends from then on, but I didn't ask her to dance again until Homecoming during our Freshman year at high school.

As I down another sip of coganc I remember the summer before our junior year of high school. That phone call where I asked her out on a date two days after I got my driver's license. Then we dated through the rest of high school, and even into college, where we attended San Diego State University on NROTC scholarships.

Brook was on the Marine Corps option, because she wanted to be a JAG officer and the Marines were recruiting at the time. I picked the Navy option, aspiring to follow in my father's footsteps in the US Navy SEALs.

At one point Brook and I discussed getting married, but halfway through junior year at SDSU we broke up. Why? She told me she was too young to get tied down. That maybe we should take a break.

That I could understand, as much as it hurt. But I understood why on some level. That still meant we barely spoke to each other for the rest of junior year. It took me that time and halfway through that summer before I realized I was being a heel. Brook was my friend long before she was my girlfriend. Suffice to say we managed to mend our friendship. But our romantic relationship was over.

His name was Trent Bailey, he was a senior and in the NROTC unit when we were freshmen at SDSU. I didn't like him from the start, the way he looked at Brook. I didn't like it one bit. She thought I was just being jealous. But something told me that guy was rotten. Anyway, after he got commissioned in the Marine Corps he was stationed close to us at Camp Pendleton and started hanging out back at SDSU.

I ask you, have you ever put it all on the line for someone, only to be betrayed? That is how I came to the French Foreign Legion.

I fought Trent Bailey, but it wasn't due to jealousy. Recall my instincts told me that the man was rotten. I had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't treating Brook right. He was always acting all jealous about her. I'd even hear him gaslighting her about fights they'd have. I even had overheard one or two of those fights when I visited her off campus apartment and he happened to be there.

It was one day during our senior year that I learned the depth of abuse Brook was enduring. She told me that he hit her and that it had been going on since a couple months after their first date. When she rolled up her sleeve and showed me the bruises I had enough.

I went to where he and several of his friends were at a bar off campus. I was seeing red that night. I punched him in the mouth after I confronted him about what he'd been doing to Brook. I don't remember much more of that particular evening other than seeing red and hitting him repeatedly. I wanted only one thing. To make him pay for what he did to Brook.

How was I betrayed? Well it's rather simple, really. I got taken in for assault, but Trent declined to press charges. I didn't know until later that there was another plan behind it. I faced a disciplinary hearing at my NROTC unit and expulsion from the university.

It was at my disciplinary hearing where I testified under oath that Brook had been abused. But she stayed silent. She didn't admit anything she told me. I put everything on the line for her only to be betrayed.

To make a long story short I was expelled from the NROTC program and was barred from graduation. Thanks to some professors' intervention they at least allowed me to finish my degree.

I let so many people down. My family, especially because my father had served for thirty three years in the US Navy, Brook, my friends. I couldn't face them after that. I gathered what money I had for a plane ticket to France where I would ultimately join the Legion.

Finishing the glass I decide it is time to sleep. I will walk some more tomorrow and maybe decide on my next course of action.

"Behold the knight,
In solemn black manner.
With a skull on his crest
And blood on his banner."

- From a 15th Century German poem by Garnier von Sustren

Sleep takes me to the edge of a forest, bordering a meadow dotted by poplar trees and summer flowers. I see a dark haired, slim bodied man in the full dress blues of a US Marine Corps officer. The twin silver bars of a US Marine Corps captain adorn his shoulders.

"You," I declare angrily, storming into the field.

"Show some respect to a commissioned officer, Hart," Trent Bailey says as I approach.

"Respect you do not deserve, namely because of the abuse you inflicted on Brook." Fists clenched as I approach.

"I am still an officer of Marines," Bailey says, that infuriating and sadistic smile. The one that makes me want to feed him his teeth.

It is as I approach that I hear the sound of heavy footsteps. The sound of a horse and rider. At the edge of the meadow, silhouetted against the horizon is a knight. Even from this distance I can see the black surcoat and the white skull emblazoned on it.

"You'd better run, Marine," I spit angrily, stopping in my tracks. Every time I dream of this knight and this field whoever I speak to at this field dies. At the hands of this knight.

"Your friend in the tin can doesn't scare me," Trent replies.

"He's no friend of mine."

"Trent Bailey, for abuse of Brook Campinelli, I sentence you to death." The knight levels his lance and then begins to charge. Both us begin to run, but the horse means the knight is catching up and glancing behind me I see Trent Bailey impaled through the back by the knight's lance, blood flowing from the wound and from his mouth.

Running, sprinting through the forest, hearing the knight approaching, gaining ground. Stopping short. A precipice. The knight stops short, covering my retreat.

"Who the devil are you?"

I hear a gravelly voice reply, "Who the devil are you?"

"Hart, Conrad. Caporal-Chef, French Foreign Legion," I declare with what dignity I have left, waiting for the killing blow.

Sitting up in bed. Eyes opening wide, I feel my heart hammering. This is the fifth night in a row that I've had this dream. And every time it's the same. Someone is killed by this Knight of the Skull.

What the devil does that dream mean? Yet another thing to ponder on tomorrow's walkabout. Maybe I should just start pondering it now. There is no way I am going back to sleep…

TBC