The French Foreign Legion is often presented as a school of discipline, courage, and self-improvement. It is also, more discreetly, a school of the French language.

In these pages, our comrade Wolf recounts, with humor and unflinching clarity, how a military commitment became an improbable linguistic adventure for him. Having set out with no language skills, tossed about by accents, awkwardness, and sometimes absurd situations, he discovered French not in books, but through daily effort, the demands of command, and the camaraderie of arms.
This account is neither an academic lesson nor a pedagogical treatise. It is a lived experience, where the perfect word is imposed by necessity, where action often precedes speech, and where language is forged in action, sometimes at the cost of a well-placed burst of speed.

Through delightful anecdotes and service memories, the author pays tribute to this unique aspect of the Legion: its ability to transform men from other cultures into soldiers capable of thinking, writing, and commanding in French. A text that is at once funny, informative, and profoundly Legionnaire.

Louis Perez y Cid

By our comrade Wolf Zinc (Lieutenant Colonel)

“A few years ago, the commanding officer of the 4th Foreign Regiment gave me a tour of his regiment. He proudly showed me the language booths and explained ‘binomage,’ a word that doesn’t exist in any dictionary: ‘the practice of pairing a non-French-speaking legionnaire with a French-speaking one.’” I then recall my linguistic journey, or how someone hopeless at languages ​​could achieve a 15/20 in philosophy and a 14/20 in French on their baccalaureate exam in Strasbourg in 1969, and then, on the EMIA entrance exam in 1970, a 16/20 in written expression, the highest mark in the class.

1955 Mainz (Germany): I left high school after a third year that wouldn't go down in history. My French teacher believed that "some never learn this language, and others even later." I was in the latter category.

1960 Strasbourg: I ​​enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. My learning of Voltaire's language began immediately. The officer of the week called roll. Answers like "present, yesterday, yes, ja" flew thick and fast, all met with a smack on the backside. Finally, a veteran answered "present, Corporal" and escaped punishment. I, in turn, announce "Present, Corporal First Class" and protect my backside. I've got it all figured out!

The next day, another officer on duty calls us, starting from the end: "ZINK." "Present, Corporal First Class." A burst of speed. That day, the officer on duty was a sergeant!

1960 Saïda (Algeria): I'm undergoing basic training at the 4th Company of Training Center No. 2 of the 1st Foreign Regiment. The language of instruction is German. In its great wisdom, the command decides we should speak French. It publishes a booklet containing, alongside a drawing, essential words like "kepi" or "beer box." At the same time, one hour a day will be devoted to learning French. The section leaders, being the only French speakers at the time, are in charge of the classes.

However, my section leader is an Italian warrant officer. Here's one of his phonetic spelling lessons: "Za z'ette oun pantaléone! Qu'est que ze za?" "Z'ette oun pantaléone." Then it's Gaston's turn, our only French speaker. "C'est un pantalon, mon adjudant." "Connarrrrrrrrrrrd, yo te dis que z'ette oun pantaléone." The session ends when our Parisian lad perfectly imitates the adjutant's Italian accent.

1963 Bonifacio: It's the last day of the NCO platoon. I'm proud to have come out on top. Everything falls apart when I slap the hand of an NCO who's getting a little too forward for my physical safety. I'm immediately thrown in the brig. By way of explanation, the unit commander tells me: "I don't like people like you. You're going back to prison."

After 30 days of strict confinement, even though I had only received 15, I was dismissed from the training course and sent to Algeria. I landed at the 4th Motorized Company of the 2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment. I was still a corporal and still couldn't write a single sentence in French.

1963 Djenane ed Dar: Captain Guignon, the company commander, intercepted a legionnaire as he was waking up, carrying breakfast to Sergeant Major B, the unit's administrative head. The Captain took charge of it. An hour later, B was taken to Colomb Béchar for confinement.

I was then thrust into the company office to fill the ranks. With a Hungarian corporal and a German legionnaire, we made a fine team.

I was tasked with typing Captain Guignon's reports on an antediluvian typewriter—one of the finest writers in the unit the French army. I type day and often night until the document is free of French grammar and spelling mistakes. At this pace, I learn quickly…

1979 Djibouti (Republic of Djibouti): I obtain the 3rd-level military certificate in German. For me, it is obviously a certificate in French.

Let's draw a conclusion. If our non-French-speaking non-commissioned officers obtain very good grades in national training courses, there are essentially two reasons for this:
First, they prefer action to words. I remember impressing my superiors and comrades in 1967 at the Strasbourg Military Academy by applying in full, for a close-order drill session with rifles, the method taught by Corporal Regas Val in 1961 at Aïn el Hadjar.

Second, they use only the right word. You don't put a bullet, but a cartridge in a magazine. To illustrate my point, let me tell you one last anecdote. In 1966, for the Weapons Proficiency Certificate No. 1 exam in Djibouti, pedagogy being the latest innovation of the French army, it was necessary to capture the students' interest at each training session. Sergeant T, a dark-haired, stocky Spaniard, as hairy as a monkey, with piercing black eyes, addressed six terrified conscripts thus: "An ambush is something terrrrible!" And suiting the action to the word: "First, you slit the throat, then you shoot!"