Condottiere
LE
To follow on about the “Foyer du Legionnaire” at Camp Raffalli in my time (early to mid eighties).
if the whole regiment was present (or only one company was away “en tournante”) it was quite usual for three articulated lorries full of Kronenbourg to resupply the Foyer every week.
In addition to the beer, the other alcoholic drink it sold was little prepackaged glasses with a plastic lid on top of “pruneaux d’Agen”, which was the closest you could get to spirits in the Foyer.
By the way the word “foyer” originally meant the hearth in a home. The warmest place, where everyone gathered.
There was a big wall mounted chicken rotisserie and they were very popular especially at weekends, when the Foyer was opened for longer hours during the day.
Prices tended to be dirt cheap. A crate of Kronenbourg was 48 Francs or two Francs a bottle. Considering that ten Francs was then roughly equivalent to one Pound Sterling, you got ten litres of beer for less than a fiver!
I remember when a British Caporal Chef was celebrating his fortieth birthday. For that Sunday morning he ordered forty crates of beer and forty roast chickens, then he borrowed a Simca (the equivalent of a Bedford four tonner) from the Motor Pool and we (elements of the Brit Mafia) loaded the beers and chickens and ourselves onto it and set out for the DZ. We ended up at the old Sherman tank wreck with the beers kept cold in the Fiume Secco river. That was a good party.
Pretty much every night in the Foyer, there would be groups of Legionnaires clustered around tables, with crates of beer stacked up and a couple of cartons of “clopes” (fags). It was customary when joining a group to buy a crate, everyone shared. If you were out of cash it was understood that you’d get yours in when you were flush.
Sometimes things would get rowdy, especially at closing time. Much depended on the Regimental Duty (Orderly) Sergeant. in the way he handled the blokes. I remember a disliked braggart American Sergent-Chef, who once swaggered up to our table and legs astance, hands on hips, drawled something derogatory about the assembled Brit Mafia. An old Jock (Scottish) schlouker (not the one I alluded to previously, but one that swore he had met the devil one night on Mururoa Atoll); turned around, looked at the Sergent-Chef and drawls back in his best Glaswegian “John Wayne’ese”: “Get off your horse and drink your milk.” And we all burst out laughing, as he stormed off to call out the “piquet d’incendie” (fire picket) to help turf us out, while in the meantime we dispersed after arranging a post-Appel clandestine drinking RV. As I recall the Sergent-Chef in question later deserted and ended up writing exaggerated stories for an American “mercenary magazine”.
if the whole regiment was present (or only one company was away “en tournante”) it was quite usual for three articulated lorries full of Kronenbourg to resupply the Foyer every week.
In addition to the beer, the other alcoholic drink it sold was little prepackaged glasses with a plastic lid on top of “pruneaux d’Agen”, which was the closest you could get to spirits in the Foyer.
By the way the word “foyer” originally meant the hearth in a home. The warmest place, where everyone gathered.
There was a big wall mounted chicken rotisserie and they were very popular especially at weekends, when the Foyer was opened for longer hours during the day.
Prices tended to be dirt cheap. A crate of Kronenbourg was 48 Francs or two Francs a bottle. Considering that ten Francs was then roughly equivalent to one Pound Sterling, you got ten litres of beer for less than a fiver!
I remember when a British Caporal Chef was celebrating his fortieth birthday. For that Sunday morning he ordered forty crates of beer and forty roast chickens, then he borrowed a Simca (the equivalent of a Bedford four tonner) from the Motor Pool and we (elements of the Brit Mafia) loaded the beers and chickens and ourselves onto it and set out for the DZ. We ended up at the old Sherman tank wreck with the beers kept cold in the Fiume Secco river. That was a good party.
Pretty much every night in the Foyer, there would be groups of Legionnaires clustered around tables, with crates of beer stacked up and a couple of cartons of “clopes” (fags). It was customary when joining a group to buy a crate, everyone shared. If you were out of cash it was understood that you’d get yours in when you were flush.
Sometimes things would get rowdy, especially at closing time. Much depended on the Regimental Duty (Orderly) Sergeant. in the way he handled the blokes. I remember a disliked braggart American Sergent-Chef, who once swaggered up to our table and legs astance, hands on hips, drawled something derogatory about the assembled Brit Mafia. An old Jock (Scottish) schlouker (not the one I alluded to previously, but one that swore he had met the devil one night on Mururoa Atoll); turned around, looked at the Sergent-Chef and drawls back in his best Glaswegian “John Wayne’ese”: “Get off your horse and drink your milk.” And we all burst out laughing, as he stormed off to call out the “piquet d’incendie” (fire picket) to help turf us out, while in the meantime we dispersed after arranging a post-Appel clandestine drinking RV. As I recall the Sergent-Chef in question later deserted and ended up writing exaggerated stories for an American “mercenary magazine”.
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