A walking blast

“TEN-SHUN!

Heels clap. Hands slap the fatigues. Backs straighten up. Just look ahead to a far and distant horizon of glory. Wait for the orders.

“AT EASE!”

Relax a bit. Spread your legs. Clasp your hands behind your back. Wait.

“Today we shall do an explosive drill.” The Adjudant says. An ‘Adjudant’ is a non-commissioned officer in the French Army. One rank above ‘Sergent-Chef’. Gunnery Sergeant or ‘Chief’ in Anglo-Saxon hierarchies. I’ll call him Chief.

I look around. We’re standing in a large clearing in dilapitaded woods at the military camp of C. Took us two days to drive down from our base in Brittany. Open lorries. In March. A tad chilly.

“Chief, can we lower the flaps? It’s freezing inside the lorry.” (I’m the Corporal. I’m “in charge”.)

“Nope. If the enemy attacks on the road, you need to be able to jump outside. In a rush.”

Enemy? This was the 70’s. The freakin’ R*ssians were out there, but they hadn’t moved much lately. At that time.

“This is a major exercise,” the Chief says, anticipating my unrequested comment. He knows me. “From the minute we leave our base to the minute we are back.”

And an “exercise” it was. Multi-arm maneuvers at one of the largest military camps in the Centre South of France. Infantry (us). The 41^st R.I. (Regiment of Infantry). Plus an armoured regiment. They still call them cavalry. Two Regiments of Marine Infantry. Crazy buggers. (No offence to the Marines), when they would “attack” a position and run out of blanks, they would use their rifle butts. Crazy mothers I tell you.

Now the cavalry? Haughty chaps. Their guns were bigger than ours. Infantry and cavalry don’t go along well. Try climbing a hill with your infantry squad (a dozen men, give or take) right behind a tank. (We still had tanks then). The tank goes up the sand/mud hill, you and your group are taking cover behind. Can’t walk too far behind, no cover. Can’t walk too close behind the tank, what if the 30+ ton contraption slips back? (Note: starting in 1966, the French Army received about 1500 AMX-30 tanks. A handful are still in service. Current tank in the French Army is the Leclerc tank. As of February 2021there were 241 Leclerc tanks left in the French Army. Four mighty Cavalry regiments. By my calculations they should be able to defend a 50 kms front at our border. Did I miss something? (Oh, the production line for the “Leclerc” has been stopped in 2008.)

Back to the clearing. There’s about a dozen or so us. My group, platoon, section whatever. We’re an 81 mm mortar group. Tree 81mm mortars. (See the picture above) Well manned, 81mm mortars are very “efficient”. Three men a piece. A well trained team can shoot 15 shells a minute. We are well trained. After a few months we can shoot just about weapon of any caliber from 9mm to 81mm. Mark my words: a few months. You can’t throw soldiers in combat in a coupla weeks. They become cannon fodder. Ask the R*ssians.

We’re circling around makeshift log tables in the middle of the clearing. Privates are bringing the “serious” ammo boxes to the tables. Lower gently on the ground. Open each box. Put the stuff on separate tables. (Don’t expect a crash course on explosives here. It’s a no-no. I’ll stick to the basics.)

“Now, here, is your basic plastic brick,” the Chief says, lifting a grey “brick”. “Everybody take one brick in your hand. Don’t worry, it’s inert. It won’t blow up in your hand.”

We all gingerly pick a brick each. Look at it. Turn it around. Put it back on the tables when ordered to.

“Now, here’s your detonator. Pick one up.”

We Follow orders. (There will be no further indication about detonators… LOL)

“And this here is your detonating cord.” The Chief shows us a roll of thick black cord. Puts a roll on a separate table. He goes on:

“Each of those three elements are harmless when separated. I can drop the brick on the ground, nothing happens.”

He drops one bl..dy brick on the ground. A few of the group drop on the grass in the clearing. I can’t. I’m the Corporal… (Plus I read the manual last night).

“Get up!!! You morons!” The Chief is a good man. Not one to argue with rank, no-one argues with rank, but he takes care of his men. He does like a joke though. Practical jokes. Like the time he took us into a bunker for gas mask training…

The Chief spends the next half hour explaining the mechanisms. What you do with the detonator. How to check and recheck. The combustion speed of the cord.

“Now everybody split. Five yards away from each other. Plenty of space. Everyone has his own brick? Show me.”

We each dutifully show our grey brick.

“Detonator? Show me.”

We each show our detonator.

“Good. Now everything back on your table. We will now cut a 60 second cord. Everybody has a knife?”

We all show our Opinel Nº9. (I would get one of those on my throat a few weeks later, but that, “Best Beloved”, is another story. (Opinel Nº9 is a traditional, folding, all purpose knife. Very good knife. I still have one.)

“Lighter?”

We all… You know.

“Right,” the Chief says. “Now you will cut one length of cordon to last 60 seconds, give or take. Remember the speed of combustion?”

“YES, SIR.”

“So you know how long a cord you need?”

Obviously the Chief checks. And doesn’t pick the smartest of the group.

“You! How many inches?”

“Er…” Counting on his fingers… Wrong answer.

“You!? Can you count?” Wrong again. I look at the sky… Until D. gives the right answer. “So many inches, you morons. Corporal, did you bring measuring tapes?”

“Yes Sir.” I fish 4-5 measure tapes from my fatigue pockets. Be prepared always..

All start measuring and cutting their cordons. I’m supposed to supervise. I’m the Corporal. If I don’t, the Chief will chew me out. It looks good. The Chief circles around. Nods.

“All right. We’re almost there. Once the three parts are assembled, we’re ready to light up. No! Durand! Not yet. Wait for my order. Before we light up, one last thing. You turn around holding the three pats together. Place the explosive on the ground 5 yards away from the tables. Light up at my command. And WALK. AWAY. Understood?”

“Walk away, Sir?” I ask. But, but, it’s gonna blow up!”

“You walk away Corporal, as do all of you. WALK. You don’t run. You run, you trip. You trip, you get blown up. WALK. AWAY. Never run. On any terrain. That’s the last and Number one rule. That is why you have cut a sixty second cord. Plenty of time to walk away twenty yards to that ditch over there. See?” He points at the ditch. Looks more than twenty yards away… Maybe twenty-one, or twenty -two… Where’s my measuring tape?

“Understood? Now assemble! Turn around. Walk five yards from the tables. Lighter out?” The Chief looks at his watch. “Light up! Now walk away.”

All light up. Walk away. Slowly. The Chief shouts. “Walk. Away. Slowly.”

Meanwhile, I was trying to light my own bl..dy cord. No dice. I grab another lighter from a private before he walks slowly away, shaking inside. No Effing dice.

“Chief. My Effing cordon doesn’t Effing light up!”

Meanwhile the other bricks are “lit”. Cords are slowly burning. Everybody is walking slowly towards the ditch. So close yet so far away! The Chief walks (briskly) towards me. (Never run) Tries to light up the Bloody sh.t of a brick. No triple dice. He puts my brick on another nearby. Tells me:

“Faulty equipment as usual. Must be the cordon. Come on Corporal. Let’s walk to the ditch. Plenty of time.”

And we walk to the ditch. Slowly. Ever so slowly. I can feel the seconds ticking at the back of my head. A dozen bricks lit up. Cords burning. Time ticking. Counting the seconds in my head. Every step I take, another yard away from the blast.

We get to the ditch. Jump in. Counting. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six… All hell breaks loose. Blast! Blast!Blast! The Chief had calculated well. Even factoring extra time to account for lighting malfunction. The Chief turns to me. Claps me on the shoulder and says:

“See Coporal? Plenty of time. Remember: always walk. Don’t run. Of course, if you’re under enemy fire, and you can’t attack which is always the best option, you run for cover. But with this explosive shit? Just walk. Slowly and away. Don’t run. Don’t trip.”

I got the lesson. Which I have applied in many circumstances. No! No more explosives! Everyday stuff. When the going gets tough? Slow down. Think. Think clearly. Make a decision. And if you can? Face the adversary with the best decision. Or just walk away slowly. Just. Never. Run.

With “my men”. c.1977. Yours truly is second from the right. What are we digging? Sorry. Classified.

Corporal and crew thank you for flying Equinoxio’s Tme-space shuttle.

Free Ukraine 🇺🇦