hadn't heard before. The new recruits were separated into groups by language capability, the majority of which was German, though there were several Poles and others from eastern European countries. They were displaced persons without papers, or those for whom death awaited if they returned to the lands of their birth. Most of them had been either foreign volunteers in the Wehrmacht or from forced labor camps. Once more the Legion proved the ability of its peculiar form of democracy to work. Here, former enemies shared bread and swore to protect each other in battle. Not that there weren't a few difficulties from some die-hard members of the master race, but the Legion had its own method of dealing with them a field pack filled with sand on their backs while they marched the parade ground from dawn to dusk under the lashing tongue of a sergent or caporal. It was not unusual for a strong man to die from this minor form of drill punishment the Etrangeres considered suitable for minor disciplinary infractions.
For Langer it was very familiar. He knew the routine and kept to himself, ignoring the barking of the NCOs. Quickly, efficiently, he set up his bunk area, folded his clothes according to regulations, dressed in the leftover mixture of uniforms from the Vichy stocks and was ready for the inevitable call to ranks. It came before most of the men even had their boots tied.
The next weeks were spent in hectic, continuous spasms of training. Even though most of the men there had been soldiering for years, the Legion treated them as if they knew nothing and everything had to be learned all over again.
1946 was welcomed in by a forced march of fifty kilometers with full field kit. Langer began to develop a personal distaste where Sergent chef Hermann was concerned. The man stayed on his ass constantly and had tried everything to get. Langer to make a mistake, and had failed. Langer thought he knew why. Once again, a woman had caused him problems with his superiors. How was he to know that Hermann had been paying her rent? Besides that, as the old saying goes, there is only one thing that can't be worn out and women have it. He didn't want to keep her only to borrow her for a while.
Whatever gripes Langer had against the sergent chef, he did know his business and the regiment was shaped up in short order. The few squabbles among different races had been laid to rest as the men united in their one single point of agreement : who was going to put a bullet into Sergent chef Hermann and when?
They were sent out for a few patrols against bandit groups who raided convoys from time to time, but there was no serious action. It was while in a jeep coming back from the bazaar at Sidi bel Abbes that he saw a familiar face in the passenger seat of an American truck going in the opposite direction. He didn't really believe it at first. They had passed each other too fast, but there was no way that there could have been two men in the world with the same features. It had been Gustaf Beidemann, the last survivor of his tank crew in Russia. Langer was sure it was him, because not only were the features the same but the face was contorted in one of its most common positions, namely that of stuffing an incredible length of sausage down a gaping maw.
The two and a half ton truck bore the insignia of the 13th DBE and as soon as they had returned to Sidi Slimane, he began to make inquiries as to what unit had moved up that day. He tried to find out through their personnel office and had to resort to a bribe of three bottles of good brandy to get any results. A phone call to the 13th by his personnel sergeant and he had the answer. There was most certainly a Gustaf Beidemann assigned to them. Langer wasn't surprised that Gus had used his real name. The human tank was not one for doing anything as obvious as changing it, but then Gus wasn't wanted for anything by anyone except the military police of the now defunct German Wehrmacht, and no one