Brothers in Arms
Disclaimer: Same as before…
Le Code de Honneur, its seven articles are the foundation of the Legion. After the fourth week of the arduous four months of basic training at Le Castel we stood in ranks and recited them before we, as one, donned the kepi blanc for the first time.
As I walk along the water's edge at the docks of Marseille I cannot help but think, how does that code apply to me now that I am no longer a Legionnaire. Perhaps the past can hold a clue for how to apply this to the present.
Most of the first article of the code doesn't apply anymore, as I am no longer a Legionnaire in the service of France. But it's core principles, Honnoeur et Fidelite are things I always have believed in. Honor and Fidelity. They seem outmoded in this last year of the twentieth century. But they still resonate for me.
For all the good it's done me, I've chosen to live those two words. Taking the fight to Trent Bailey for the abuse he subjected Brook to, was done in the name of honor and fidelity. Honor demands one protect those that one cares for. Fidelity means standing true to that word. Despite the fact that Trent Bailey is an officer in the Marine Corps he is decidedly not an honorable man, given how he gaslighted Brook and abused her. The mysterious Knight of the Skull from my dreams killing him for his actions was the right thing to do. If it were not illegal for me to do so, I'd gladly send the bastard to Hell! In that respect I commend the knight for his actions.
For all the good it did me I was a loyal and faithful friend and boyfriend. And when I needed Brook's friendship the most, when I needed her to tell the powers that be that she had endured abuse. She sat there mute. Forsaken and disgraced, a man alone. That was my fate. Abandoned by someone who said she was my friend. Who once claimed she loved me. That day I felt I had nothing left.
Leaning against the wall of a cafe I reach into a pocket, pulling an envelope left unopened over the span of eight years. I look over its front, recognizing Brook's delicate and careful penmanship.
For the sixth time in as many days I tuck the letter back into my pocket. I haven't opened it in eight years, and I'm not about to do so now. As I reach into my pocket I feel the corner of an old photograph poke my finger. I ignore it. It is a trip down memory lane I best not take.
Continuing my walk along the harbor I continue to think. How well did I live by the Code of Honor? It's second article says, "Each legionnaire is your brother in arms whatever his nationality, his race or his religion might be. You show him the same close solidarity that links the members of the same family."
Very recently I betrayed that article. Thorvald Wulfram was an old man. Who knew how many years, or more like months, or perhaps weeks or even days, he had left on this planet? And I allowed Ziva to kill him.
After being wounded in Africa I was detailed to the Legion's retirement home at Puyloubier. There I spent some times among les anciens, the elderly veterans of the Legion. One thing about the Legion, for all its austerity and at times harsh discipline, is that it takes care of its own. A Legionnaire is often an orphan to the world. Once he joins he need not return to the world that rejected him in the first place.
Wulfram had nowhere left to go, and Puyloubier was his home. Only one old comrade would visit him occasionally, an elderly Finn named Olavi Koskinen who had served in 5th SS Panzer Division, Wiking during the Second World War. Wulfram was an elderly, broken man. And I allowed Ziva to kill him.
I clearly betrayed that part of our code. At the Gates of St. Peter I must answer for that transgression among others. I can only pray it doesn't condemn me to the icy depths of Lake Cocytus.
As I walk down the street the first line of that part of the code resonates in me. Each legionnaire is your brother in arms regardless of his nationality...
It is the way of La Legion that the legionnaire's first loyalty is certainly not to France, but to La Legion itself. And it is personified by his loyalty to his mates. And I allowed Ziva to kill one of our own, an ancien who at best had a few months left to him.
As far as who this Knight of the Skull is? I haven't the faintest idea. Never once in all the times he has appeared in my dreams has he revealed who the devil he is.
Perhaps he is there to convey me to the River Styx, across the Acheron, for my misdeeds in this life. Legio Patria Nostra, the Legion is Our Homeland. A sacred tenet of our Code of Honor. But Wulfram had the blood of innocent people on his hands. He deserved what Ziva gave him, no doubts about that.
But he was still a legionnaire. And we legionnaires do not betray our own. At the end of my days, am I destined for submergence in the lowest stratum of Hell for my transgression?
Docks of Marseille
Marseille, France
Conrad Hart and Ziva David
10 September 1999, 1148
"I'll tell you, again, mademoiselle," Conrad coldly began, "I know what you want and my answer is no."
"But what will you do now, Conrad?" Ziva replied, "Will you follow that time honored path of ex-legionnaires past? Going insane? Dying? Going to jail? Becoming alcoholic? Fighting others' wars?"
"I. Am. Not. A. Mercenary." Conrad slammed his half empty glass of cognac down onto the table.
"You wouldn't be a mercenary if you worked for my group. You would be well compensated for your work." Ziva replied.
"Mercenary. I'm certain according to Meriam-Webster, or Roget's Thesaurus if you prefer, the definition is 'a soldier for hire'." Conrad glared back.
"You would be a soldier…" Ziva began.
"Pfah!" Conrad spat back, taking a slug of his drink, "Are you going to swear me into your army? A man from a formation that has allowed former Nazis into its ranks?"
"But…" Ziva began.
"Don't try and convince me," Conrad replied, eyes narrowing, "If I were to die in the service of your bosses, you'd deny I even worked for you. I'm through being used!"
"Used...but we don't…" Ziva protested.
"Don't try to lie to me. You're no better than Herr Goebbels in the Second World War!" Conrad replied, "I will not dishonor myself by being little more than a deniable mercenary for your organization."
"Were you already not a mercenary?" Ziva asked, not backing down.
"Each legionnaire is your brother in arms whatever his nationality, his race or his religion might be. You show him the same close solidarity that links the members of the same family." Conrad replied, "That second article of the Legionnaire's Code of Honor alone shows I am no mercenary! Legionnaires historically have had only one loyalty, to one another. And to the Legion itself."
"Yet you helped me kill one of your own," Ziva replied, a smile on her face.
"Herr Wulfram needed to go to the Gates of Saint Peter," Conrad replied, "But for my actions, I too must be judged. But why shall I make it easier to be cast into Caina? Hell's lowest circles are reserved for betrayers."
"Does the Divine Comedy influence how you live, Hart?"
"No, but the Legionnaire Code does." Conrad replied, "And I betrayed it."
"Your code, your personal code, has to say something about loyalty to those who don't deserve it," Ziva replied.
"Yes. A contract with a liar or a fraud is null and void." Conrad replied.
"And you did choose to help me," Ziva replied.
"The man needed to face justice for his crimes during the Holocaust." Conrad countered, "Thus I chose to help you, once. Though God only knows what price I paid for doing so."
"You seem to think you were doing a good thing in helping me," Ziva argued, "So why walk away from the opportunity to do more good?"
"The cost," Conrad replied.
"What cost do you bear, Mr. Hart?" Ziva asked, leaning closer to him.
"Betrayal of the Legionnaire's Code of Honor. Remember the first line of the Second Article, 'Each legionnaire is your brother in arms…'. By letting you kill Wulfram I betrayed a brother in arms. If I were to die right now, it is possible I would be damned to the lowest circle of Hell…" Conrad snapped back.
"Dante," Ziva concluded coolly, "Was many things. A theologian he is not."
"And you are?" Conrad snapped, anger rising in his voice.
"I am not. But we both know, Mr. Hart, without some kind of structure in your life you would go insane." Ziva looked him in the eye.
"Hah! Only to be denied and expended when my use to your group ended...no." Conrad angrily replied, "I am a man of honor. Not a mercenary!"
"As you know, I will remain in Marseille for the rest of the week if you reconsider." Ziva finished her drink before leaving.
A few minutes passed. Conrad picked at his meal and drank liberally of his cognac before ordering a second. As his second came up, he heard the sound of footsteps and he turned to see an old man wearing a black three piece suit walking towards him.
"I see your lovely companion has left," the man replied.
Conrad looked at the old man, raising his cognac, "Bonjour, old friend."
"Trouble with the lady, Hart?" the old man asked as he took his seat.
"She's no lover, my friend," Conrad growled.
"Then who is she?" Olavi Koskinen replied as a server came up to them. After he requested a glass of Kronenbourg he turned back to Conrad
"It's a long story, my friend," Conrad replied.
"I suppose that old Wulfram's obituary might not be entirely accurate?" Koskinen raised an eyebrow.
Conrad nodded, "Her French is quite good. And she claimed, when I first met her, that she was a French university student trying to write her thesis on the Indochina War."
"A smart woman with an eye for history," Koskinen said, "I have to admire her cover."
"She's Israeli. In all likelihood Mossad," Conrad observed, knocking down a bit more of his second cognac.
"I have to admit I am not surprised Wulfram's past caught up to him," Koskinen replied, "And no, Conrad, I am not presuming your role in this. Let us not speak of that anymore."
"She wanted to recruit me to her organization," Conrad admitted.
"I surmised as much," Koskinen replied as his Kronenbourg arrived and he took a pull, "And your response was?"
"No," Conrad replied, "After all our code…"
Koskinen smiled slightly before setting his glass down, "Conrad, I was a legionnaire before the code was written in the 1980s. But we didn't need a code to tell us that our first loyalty was to the Legion."
"And suffice to say…" Conrad began. Koskinen raised a hand.
"I did say I did not wish to talk of this. I am neither your judge nor your confessor. You will need to settle that somehow."
Conrad regarded the elderly Finn for a few moments, "Alright."
Koskinen asked, "So what will you do? Surely the traditional paths for a legionnaire aren't ones you are interested in."
"Not at all," Conrad replied, "Honestly I'm on a personal walkabout to figure out what to do next."
"Don't leave Marseille just yet, Hart," Koskinen smiled, "I think I can make a couple of phone calls…"
Conrad raised an eyebrow, "What kind of calls?"
"Not the sort to put you in a jail cell, my friend. You can be assured of that. But perhaps a place for you to go for a time." Koskinen replied.
The waiter arrived and Conrad reached for the check only for Koskinen to grab it, "Consider the meal on me, my friend."
"My thanks," Conrad replied.
Among Europe, and to a lesser extent, the world's castoffs did I find camaraderie and purpose. Things that I lacked when my life was derailed from my plans nearly nine years ago. I still remember that painful day at San Diego State University. Where someone whom I loved, for all the good that it did me, betrayed me when I put everything on the line for her.
Taking another sip of cognac as memories wash over me like wine from an ancient vintage. Feeling the fire pooling up in my stomach as I think back over the years. The memory of a first and tragic love comes to mind.
In the Legion it is a tradition that one carries a sweetheart's photo inside the kepi blanc. Through all eight years of my time in La Legion I carried Brook's photo with me in my cap. And on every mission when I was at war.
I hold that same laminated photo in my hand, with my own dried blood browning its corners, pulling it from a well-worn leather bound notebook I always carry. How beautiful she looks. That dark brown, almost black hair of hers worn down just slightly past her shoulders. Her clear blue-green eyes shine, pairing well with that warm smile that captured my heart so many years ago when I was younger and more innocent.
I remember our first date when I picked her up from her parents' condo in Daytona Beach Shores before we went for lunch on that summer day on 3 June 1986. After we had our meal we walked along the beach arm in arm with each other.
As I close my eyes I feel the soft summer breeze, Brook's arm hooked around mine as we walk down the sandy shore of our hometown. Hearing the waves crash against the sand. The smell of the sea.
I remember her turning to face me, and my doing the same as her arms gently wrapped around the back of my neck. My own arms go round her waist as our lips meet. My eyes close. My heart races. It's a slow and gentle kiss.
It was the first time I had ever kissed a woman. And it was a day I discovered that to love and be loved in return is the greatest feeling in the world. Something I still believe in.
Yes, that day of my first date with Brook Campinelli, will remain a day I will treasure all of my days. Even if, on 23 June 1989 she would end up breaking my heart with that 'too young to be tied down' piece during our junior year at San Diego State University.
I recall angrily hurling the engagement ring I bought her into the sea. I was angry, broken, dejected. It took me six months before I was able to even speak to her again. We were friends long before we were lovers.
And then I found she had been abused by this new fellow she was seeing. And on an early spring day in 1990 I went to teach Trent Bailey a lesson. Acting upon an ancient sense of right and wrong, like a knight of old charging forward to do battle with an evil foe.
For all the good that it did me I gave of myself freely to Brook. And when she could have testified about the abuse. She denied it. And for that my life was thrown into tatters.
For me, then, the Legion was my refuge. Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is our Homeland. I was determined to make myself the best Legionnaire I could be, so I could put the past behind me. Yet, I too, betrayed.
I allowed Ziva to sneak into Wulfram's room and inject a slow acting poison into his bloodstream. I did not see her do this.
An elderly ex-legionnaire, and former officer in the 3rd SS Panzer Division, Totenkopf. Wulfram maybe had a few weeks or even days left to him. Yet I let Ziva hasten his time to meet God when I disabled the security cameras at Puyloubier.
I may have escaped judgment for that act. But there is always God's judgment that I will face when it is my time. I hope I shall not be condemned…
Sleep that night brings me to the top of a hill. Looking down into a valley shrouded in thick fog. Hearing the beat of a drum, playing a beat to a song of La Legion. Ich Hatt'einen Kamaraden.
"You recognize the tune?" a voice to my right says.
I turn to see Thorvald Wulfram clad in the camouflage pattern of the Indochina War, kepis blanc atop his head. No longer the shriveled, elderly man that I allowed Ziva to kill, he now looks as he did in his prime. Slim and athletic, his blond hair slicked back underneath the kepis blanc, as he appeared in an old photograph in his room.
"I do, Herr Wulfram and I…" I begin.
"Don't even think to apologize, Hart," Wulfram replies, "But I ask, you recognize the tune."
"Ich Hatt'einen Kameraden. An old German lament, which the Legion adopted." I reply.
"It's also know as Der gute Kamerad, the Good Comrade." Wulfram replies in an almost professorial tone.
"They never taught us that," I reply.
"I maybe had a few weeks or months left, at most." Wulfram continued, "But you still allowed Ziva to kill me. Do you know that you've betrayed one of the most sacred tenets of the Legion, that a legionnaire's loyalty is to his brothers in arms."
As the first lyrics of the song plays I see a line of skeletal legionnaires emerge from the fog, wearing the tattered uniforms of the Indochina War, white kepis blanc atop their heads, and weapons shouldered.
"I had a comrade. None better shall you find." the skeletons sing as they march along. More of them march forth from the fog.
"Do you think you could have allowed me those few weeks or months before I face judgment?" Wulfram says with a sigh.
"What allowances did you make for the civilians you had killed in Warsaw when you were with the Waffen-SS?" I reply, "You have crimes you are to answer for at the Gates of Saint Peter."
"As if you did not take justice into your own hands, Hart? Did you not execute many Cobra prisoners…" Wulfram challenges.
The skeletons marching inexorably onward continue to sing, "The drum called us to battle. He marched by my side. At the same pace."
"They were guilty of crimes such as rape and murder." Angrily I clench my fists, "It was simple justice."
"A bullet came flying. Meant for you or me?" More skeletons sang as they advanced along the valley floor.
"So you were judge, jury, and executioner, Hart?" Wulfram snaps back.
"His life from mine it tore. At my feet a piece of gore." The skeletons sing as more emerge from the fog, "As if a part of me."
"Was it better to allow them to live and perpetrate evil? No." I reply, stabbing a finger angrily at his chest.
"Don't lie to me, Hart, you simply followed the maxim of might makes right."
"Big difference between killing those suspected of rape, murder, and human experimentation versus innocent civilians, Thorvald!" Fist clenched.
More of the skeletal legionnaires emerge from the fog, "His hand reached out to me. I must reload my rifle."
And from across the valley, I hear the sound of hoofbeats. Laughing cynically, "You'd best run, Herr Wulfram. For somewhere lurks a knight and every time he appears someone dies."
I turn around to see the knight emerge from the trees behind us. Mounted atop his horse, clad also in the black barded armor with a skull upon it. Leveling his lance he charges forward and before Wulfram or I can even think to run Wulfram is struck down through the back by the knight's lance.
The knight wheels around to face me, staring at me through his visor. From the corner of my eye I see Wulfram rise from the ground. No longer at the prime of his life nor aged to its near end. No. He is but another faceless skeleton and he walks down the hill to join the parade of cadavers marching across the field.
"My friend I cannot ease your pain. In life eternal we shall meet again." Wulfram sings along with the marching ranks of skeletal legionnaires, "And walk once more as one."
"What the devil are you waiting for?" I ask, "Go on and finish me. Is that not what you want?"
The knight raises his lance and in that same gravelly voice says, "Behold the knight. In solemn black manner. With skull on his crest and blood on his banner…" The knight turns around and shepherds the formation of skeletal legionnaires into the fog.
I sit upright in bed, looking at the alarm clock by the bedside. It's three-forty-two in the morning. There is no way I am even attempting to go back to sleep. This dream of ghostly legionnaires is new.
I recognize the German poem, a favorite of mine since high school by Garnier von Sustren. I have long been fascinated by knights and chivalry, ever since my grandmother told me tales of King Arthur and similar folks as a young boy.
Between those tales and stories of my father's days as a member of the US Navy SEALs, I was inspired to pursue that path. But that dream was dashed to pieces by a barfight my senior year of college at San Diego State.
Though both the US Navy and the California legal system disagree, by my own moral code I was in the right. Trent abused someone who could not or would not protect herself. Therefore he deserved to have a stronger man who cared for Brook beat him.
I turn on the clock radio for a bit of music, and oddly enough Edith Piaf's Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien plays in the early morning air.
"So to Hell with the past!" Piaf sings.
Je Ne Regrette Rien. Four words spoken by every legionnaire who has finished his service. It means 'I regret nothing'. It is, however, a lie to a greater or lesser extent for many...
TBC