A Sister Among the Legionnaires
By Louis Perez y Cid
"There are days when the Legion welcomes schoolchildren. There are even rarer days when it welcomes a Dominican nun singing 'To the Legionnaires' on the roads of Puyloubier." Yes, there are encounters that no regulations had foreseen.
So, when Sister Marie du Rosaire, a teacher at the Dominican school in La Celle, near Brignoles, announced her intention to visit the IILE (International Legion Training Institute) with about ten boys (11 years old) and three accompanying mothers, some might have raised an eyebrow. A nun, schoolchildren, and the Foreign Legion—the combination was not a given.
Captain Skolik, director of the IILE, nevertheless granted her this visit without hesitation. It must be said that Sister Marie had a solid passport to enter the Legion family; her father is none other than Colonel Brière, a former member of the Legion and a long-time friend.
A few days before the visit, the colonel called me.
“Will you be able to keep an eye on their walk around the grounds?” I reassured him immediately. Guy Cely, vice-president of our Puyloubier veterans' association, and I would supervise the activity from start to finish. I didn't know Sister Marie personally, but she already belonged to that vast, invisible kinship known as the Legionary family. This creates certain obligations.
On June 16th, around ten o'clock, the small detachment arrived at the Capitaine Danjou estate.
I had the two vehicles parked in front of the association's headquarters. After the drive, a necessity more pressing than any historical considerations immediately became apparent: a bathroom break.
So I invited the ladies to use the association's only restroom, while I suggested the boys do as the warriors of old did, against the surrounding trees.
The children's cries of joy were immediate.
They were immediately followed by Sister Marie's cry of despair, her arms raised to the sky in a gesture that suggested an urgent plea for divine assistance.
The initial contact was a success.
Guy and I then guided the group to the ceramics and bookbinding workshops before leading them to Les Platanes, a legendary spot on the estate. The shade there was generous, a precious quality as the heatwave settled over Provence.
We left them to have lunch and answer the questionnaires Sister Marie had prepared about the IILE and the Legion.
An hour later, we rejoined the group.
While the sister, the mothers, and a few children carried the bags back to the vehicles, we stayed with a few stragglers, busy completing their answers. Or rather, discreetly helping them with their teaching skills.
We were leaning on a long, tiled concrete table, about twenty meters long. An idea came to me. “How about a race on the table?” Two boys immediately shouted enthusiastically. Then, just as they were about to climb up, they sat down abruptly, lowered their heads, and gazed at their shoes with sudden passion.
“What’s going on?” One of them answered me in a low voice:
“The nun’s coming…”
“But come on, we’re just boys here. Go for it!”
“No! No! She’ll see us!” And the two heroes immediately looked away, like surprised conspirators.
Shortly after, we began to walk.
To motivate her troops, Sister Marie had divided the children into two groups with names steeped in history: “Dien Bien Phu” and “Kolwezi.”
One group ran ahead. The other came back behind. Then the first group set off again. An inexhaustible energy. Where an adult seeks shade, a child still seeks an opportunity to run.
The heat was intense. Fortunately, the undergrowth and tall trees regularly offered welcome respites. These breaks also provided opportunities for fascinating discussions and an unexpected activity: drawing Cabé's character for each of us as a dedication.
Guy and I thought we'd already seen a lot in Puyloubier.
I had the two vehicles parked in front of the association's headquarters. After the drive, a necessity more pressing than any historical considerations immediately became apparent: a bathroom break.
So I invited the ladies to use the association's only restroom, while I suggested the boys do as the warriors of old did, against the surrounding trees.
The children's cries of joy were immediate.
They were immediately followed by Sister Marie's cry of despair, her arms raised to the sky in a gesture that suggested an urgent plea for divine assistance.
The initial contact was a success.
Guy and I then guided the group to the ceramics and bookbinding workshops before leading them to Les Platanes, a legendary spot on the estate. The shade there was generous, a precious quality as the heatwave settled over Provence.
We left them to have lunch and answer the questionnaires Sister Marie had prepared about the IILE and the Legion.
An hour later, we rejoined the group.
While the sister, the mothers, and a few children carried the bags back to the vehicles, we stayed with a few stragglers, busy completing their answers. Or rather, discreetly helping them with their teaching skills.
We were leaning on a long, tiled concrete table, about twenty meters long. An idea came to me. “How about a race on the table?” Two boys immediately shouted enthusiastically. Then, just as they were about to climb up, they sat down abruptly, lowered their heads, and gazed at their shoes with sudden passion.
“What’s going on?” One of them answered me in a low voice:
“The nun’s coming…”
“But come on, we’re just boys here. Go for it!”
“No! No! She’ll see us!” And the two heroes immediately looked away, like surprised conspirators.
Shortly after, we began to walk.
To motivate her troops, Sister Marie had divided the children into two groups with names steeped in history: “Dien Bien Phu” and “Kolwezi.”
One group ran ahead. The other came back behind. Then the first group set off again. An inexhaustible energy. Where an adult seeks shade, a child still seeks an opportunity to run.
The heat was intense. Fortunately, the undergrowth and tall trees regularly offered welcome respites. These breaks also provided opportunities for fascinating discussions and an unexpected activity: drawing Cabé's character for each of us as a dedication.
Guy and I thought we'd already seen a lot in Puyloubier.
We were wrong.
For suddenly, around a bend in the path, Legionnaire songs rose up. Not sung by veterans in their white kepis, but by a nun and about ten children.
It was difficult, under those circumstances, not to join in.
The most surprising thing, in fact, was their preference. The song they requested most often was "To the Legionnaires," one of those that the legionnaires themselves sing the least.
The mysteries of childhood are as unfathomable as those of faith.
Among the walkers was also a little girl, less than four years old. Throughout the entire hike, she held Guy's hand, our sweeper. She talked non-stop, commenting on everything that happened back home, Sunday mass, her dislike for vegetables, and asked a thousand questions, but didn't utter a single complaint. Not about the heat. Not about the distance. Not about the effort. Some of the older folks could have recruited her they left immediately.
Then something happened that I couldn't possibly explain. A cicada landed on my shoulder.
Sister Marie seized the opportunity at once. The walk turned into a nature lesson. The children watched the insect intently as she explained its life cycle. It seemed even the cicadas had received their instructions for the day.
When we returned to our starting point, the children gave us a card they had made themselves, covered with their names and a huge thank you.
We will treasure it.
The mothers described the day as wonderful.
We could say the same.
Because while seeing a nun with the Legionnaires isn't commonplace, seeing Legionnaires marching behind a nun singing Legion songs with her schoolchildren is even rarer.
And yet, on this June 16th, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
For suddenly, around a bend in the path, Legionnaire songs rose up. Not sung by veterans in their white kepis, but by a nun and about ten children.
It was difficult, under those circumstances, not to join in.
The most surprising thing, in fact, was their preference. The song they requested most often was "To the Legionnaires," one of those that the legionnaires themselves sing the least.
The mysteries of childhood are as unfathomable as those of faith.
Among the walkers was also a little girl, less than four years old. Throughout the entire hike, she held Guy's hand, our sweeper. She talked non-stop, commenting on everything that happened back home, Sunday mass, her dislike for vegetables, and asked a thousand questions, but didn't utter a single complaint. Not about the heat. Not about the distance. Not about the effort. Some of the older folks could have recruited her they left immediately.
Then something happened that I couldn't possibly explain. A cicada landed on my shoulder.
Sister Marie seized the opportunity at once. The walk turned into a nature lesson. The children watched the insect intently as she explained its life cycle. It seemed even the cicadas had received their instructions for the day.
When we returned to our starting point, the children gave us a card they had made themselves, covered with their names and a huge thank you.
We will treasure it.
The mothers described the day as wonderful.
We could say the same.
Because while seeing a nun with the Legionnaires isn't commonplace, seeing Legionnaires marching behind a nun singing Legion songs with her schoolchildren is even rarer.
And yet, on this June 16th, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.