The Legion Unvarnished

The White Kepi of My Childhood

By Christian Morisot
“As a young boy, every year on July 14th, I would sit with my father in front of the television to watch our army march by. From this annual event, I have kept, hidden deep in my memory, the vivid image of that splendid avenue where the band of the Republican Guard, with all its brass and drums, led the military schools, the infantrymen, the light infantry, the colonial infantry, and, once they had passed, a great, impressive emptiness would settle in, an august silence would fill the air…

Then, in good years, for there were bad years, the well-rehearsed notes of the famous Legion refrain, “Le Boudin” (The Sausage), could be heard in the distance. At that moment, everyone would raise their heads and look towards the “immense Arch.” It was the Legion arriving. There it was, majestic in its Impeccable in its bearing, imperturbable in its demeanor.

First came the sapper-pioneers, bearded and dressed in tawny, carrying a lumberjack's axe on their shoulder, preceding the prestigious drum major who hurled his staff, the symbol of his office, upwards and set the cadence before the roaring band; the drums beat with such vivacity, precision, and dexterity that the sticks seemed to disappear in the rapidity of the movements, the buglers whirled their instruments, reflecting, with the helicons, coppery sunlight, the high-pitched cry of the fifes seemed to want to pierce the heavens.

A legionnaire carried a bell-shaped instrument, adorned with horsehair plumes, which, strangely, seemed to produce no sound, but how beautiful it was. cadence, setting the rhythm.

Next came the flag, bedecked with gold and its folds covered in glory. An emblem laden with inscriptions, ribbons, decorations, and lanyards, it preceded, with its austere guard, the companies that marched past in perfect alignment. The legionnaires, wearing their white kepis, advanced at the Legion step, that slow pace which gives the feeling that nothing can stop the advancing mass. They cut a proud figure, these men with their impenetrable faces, wearing green epaulettes with red fringe, their waists cinched by their blue flannel belts.

In the stands, no one moved. I didn't miss a single moment of the event; I, too, wanted to "be a legionnaire." So, invariably, a great emotion overwhelmed me when, suddenly, an enormous acclamation erupted from all sides. A great clamor rose from the crowd; people shouted: “Long live the Legion!” Later, I learned that this magnificent unit had left graves everywhere, on every continent, where its members lay buried.

I also discovered, with delight, that there were poets among them: Alan Seeger, Pascal Bonetti, Arthur Nicolet, and many others, including Captain de Borelli, who, in Tonkin in 1855, composed a magnificent poem in memory of the men of his company. A true institution, it had its own magazine, Képi Blanc, its “Invalides” where it shelters its own, whom it never abandons, its works, its songs, its intimate folklore, its museum, its paintings, its musicians, its artists. Its legacy is immense.

But above all, it has its heroes, who were there for every hardship, always present on the battlefields when a merciless fight raged, and who died for the noblest and most beautiful causes. For France, they shed their blood, sacrificed their lives.

Finally, I discovered the war memorial of this unique unit. In the cult of remembrance, at the heart of the headquarters, four bronze legionnaires stand guard around a globe: “The Legion to its Dead.” I can only bow before these generous foreigners who died for a country that was not their own, but which, in their eyes, represented a land of liberty.

How could I not have been one of them, not have been the legionnaire I am proud to have been and still am through my association?
I, too, have become one of those [too well-trained by disillusionment and suffering not to have made their lives an accessory not given away for nothing, however dearly one might sell them…]