The Expendables
It’s the dark romance of the French Foreign Legion: haunted men from everywhere, fighting anywhere, dying for causes not their own. Legionnaires need war, certainly, and Afghanistan is winding down. But there’s always the hopeless battle against rogue gold miners in French Guiana . . .
One day, in a small group, after struggling for hours through heavy jungle and having lost the way, I realized that the leadership—the Tahitian, a sergeant—was plunging ahead blindly without reason. I stopped and said to Streso, “What’s he doing up there? I know this is wrong. We need to stop, go back, and figure out where we lost the track. And I know we need to get up on that ridge.”
He said, “You’re right, but don’t bother about it.” He gestured for me to follow. It was simplifying. Forget your civilian reflexes. The task does not require a purpose. Do not ask questions, do not make suggestions, do not even think of that. The Legion is our fatherland. We will accept you. We will shelter you. “We’re in the Legion here,” Streso said. “Just go with the sergeant. Come on, man, you don’t have to think it through anymore.”
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