Mon Legionnaire

If you find our hamlet on Google Maps you will notice, if you are anything like me, that when you browse the surrounding area there is a fairly significant facility of some sort at the very top of the hill that separates us from the city of Nimes. Upon closer inspection (and thanks to the quality of the satellite images and the French Military’s apparent disregard for any level of secrecy), you can see in some detail that it is a military base.

After dispensing with the requisite jokes at the expense of the French Military, I came to realize that there is actually quite a significant military presence in this area. In addition to the large outpost on top of the hill, there is a French Foreign Legion barracks in town and there is also an Air Force base just north of us. On any given weekday one has no trouble remembering the presence of these installations as the rattle of automatic weapons crackling off the 17th century stone walls is interrupted only by the thump-thump-thump of ordinance as the gunners take their target practice in vast firing ranges carved into the garrigues atop the plateau across the river from us, sending a tangible jolt through chest and window pane alike.

More frequent, however, are the flyboys – those French Top Guns in their delta wing Mirage fighter jets who dance across the Provencal sky at least two or three days a week. These modern-day flying aces stay at a high altitude, begging you to strain your eyes and your neck to catch a tiny flash of sun off of a wing before you can identify the source of the slow and lingering roar.

There are, however, exceptions. One clear morning I dashed outside and was able to spot two jets at altitude engaged in what looked like either a mock dogfight or some serious multi-million Euro showboating. It was an entertaining spectacle until I realized I was standing on our patio, staring at the sky, half dressed.

Of greater note, however, is Henri. Nearly every day when we first arrived last summer, and less frequently but still regularly now, an older, swept-wing fighter would roar over the house at a few thousand feet at best. Only the faint whine of the engine would provide a second or two of forewarning before the deafening thunder would shake house and soul and he’d be gone. He was always heading East to West when we saw him in the morning and West to East in the afternoon.

This strange linear pattern, so at odds with the regular pairs of jets we’d see at other times, convinced me that this clearly was a rogue operator. Some French Monsieur on his way to pick up a perfect baguette or to meet an acquaintance for an afternoon Pastis or, perhaps, a more amorous motive. We would see Henri from various places, when we were out in the vineyards picking grapes or on the bike in some village or another. But it was always the same pattern. Occasionally I would try to catch a glimpse under the canopy for, if I had, I am sure I would have seen an older Bonhomme, with a leather flight helmet and goggles, of course. His crisp white silk scarf would strike a dashing contrast to his dark elaborate moustache as old French music blared from his cockpit sound system.

I tried desperately to get a picture but no matter how closely I laid the camera, lens cap off, auto settings engaged, I was never quick enough and by the time I had viewfinder to eye all I saw was an empty sky. But, each time, as I stared after the fast-fading specter, I’m certain that I heard the haunting strains of Edith Piaf, hanging in the laden Provencal air.