Option for the Sword: [Not applicable]

By pedro marangoni

A anti communist Brazilian fighter involved in the Portuguese wars to save Angola and Mozambique from communist takeover in the 1970's, Rhodesia Special Branch, French and Spanish Foreign Legion,and lots of action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071548776

Book preview

All men dream, but not in the same way. Those who dream at night, in the deepest corners of their minds, wake up at dawn to discover that it was all vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they can fight for their open-eyed dreams and make them a reality. That is what I did.

T.E. Lawrence, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

PREFACE

At the beginning of the 1970's, we had two clear and opposing policy options. I chose the one that best represented the way of life I inherited from my ancestors, who helped, with the freedom of democracy, to build a Civilization that gave everyone the opportunity to work, not the forced leveling of beguiling but utopian Socialism. This Civilization had an enemy making a full attack: why wait for it to come to our house, to our country?

Why not fight it wherever you were? With the strength of my youth, I opted for the fight, I opted for the sword ...

Our planet was in the middle of the Cold War, the euphemism for the hot, bloody confrontation between the US and the USSR, hypocritically outsourced and spread out over dozens of seemingly local small wars, and we were living the paradox of watching the US confront and meddle in the internal affairs of its allies. Utopianism, naive optimism, and historical ignorance of other peoples made the Kennedy administration stumble at every step taken in the name of the self-determination of peoples, based on a paternalistic and inconsequential anti-colonialist concept, it being forgotten that the United States was the result of colonial domination. In search of African support in the Cold War, the most powerful nation on earth decided to match forces with allied countries that were anti-communist but still maintaining their colonies in Africa. It financed and instigated barbaric terrorism against the white settlers, especially in Angola, a Portuguese colony where, as in other Portuguese possessions, they had lived in peace and in slow but continuous progress without the predation that characterized other colonialist nations.

The Portuguese, always with his back to Europe, almost thrown overboard by his ever-present and only neighbor, Spain, felt more African than European in his adventurous life, which led him to build an Empire that reached all the way to China. Salazar, a proud ruler with a profound historical idea of Portugal in the world, reacted strongly when confronted with Holden Roberto's UPA massacres in northern Angola, reclaiming the territory in a few months in a remarkable feat of arms, given the distance of the events and the few resources that it had. In Africa, the West and the Iron Curtain faced each other with the visible victory of the USSR, often facilitated by Kennedy's misguided intervention. And the Portuguese colonial war extended over three fronts: Guinea, Angola and Mozambique. Western values were at stake, and it was into this theater of war that I plunged without thinking of political inconsistencies, but only willing to fight the real fight, to destroy the enemy wherever I was and to occupy the ground. To defend my homeland, Brazil, in Africa!

At the age of 23, I was a military pilot and a paratrooper, but would have to learn to fight with my feet on the ground in the infantry if I wanted to survive ... I accepted the challenge, and the years that followed exceeded even my wildest dreams.

From the Brazilian Air Force to infantryman in the French Foreign Legion; from instructor of physical education to head of the militias in the colonial war in Mozambique; from reconnaissance pilot to commander of an Armored Group in the civil war in Angola; from guerrilla to commando trainer in Rhodesia; from information agent in Spain to reactionary writer in Portugal ...

Escaping from ambushes, pursued as a dangerous outcast, I became a legionnaire again, this time on the island of Fuerteventura, off the shore of Spanish Sahara. It was a cycle that ended in eight years of fighting on two continents in eight countries under seven flags.

Table of Contents

PREFACE........................................................2

THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION..........4

MOZAMBIQUE............................................32

RHODESIA—ZAIRE...................................49

ANGOLA........................................................56

IN THE INFORMATION WAR..............189

MOZAMBICAN RESISTANCE..............196

REACTIONARY WRITER!...................220

THE SPANISH FOREIGN LEGION.....229

PHOTOS and MAPS................................242

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CHAPTER I

THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION

Mid 1972, Paris.

Suitcase in my left hand, looking back at Fontenay-sous-Bois as a world to forget. Steady and resolute as always when I feel weak and indecisive, I approach Fort de Nogent, the forbidding and squat Foreign Legion Information Office.

A smile.—Don't be an idiot! The Legion hasn't existed for about twenty years!!

A Legionnaire First Class with his indescribable white cap comes up to me, unaware of the fact that he has not existed for more than twenty years, according to my Air Force colleagues.

— Volunteer?

— Yes.

— Come with me!

The five words are enough to lead me to a German adjutant in charge of recruitment. Your French is regular, your past somewhat less so ... We talked a bit. Ask me about Hitler, he grins broadly, letting his memories wander a bit, settling into his chair.

Some technical questions; I present my absolutely unnecessary documents stored in an envelope with all the personal papers that can identify me. I unwillingly become Pablo Riveira, born in Sant-Anna(?), Brazil, in 1951. Having been born in 1949, I gain two years of life without any effect for me, the adjutant reports with amusement. I couldn't keep my real name.

A double-edged sword: anyone looking for Pedro finds only Pablo, but no one will ask about Pablo in the event of accidents, which are common in the Legion.

A preliminary medical examination; my hair is cut shorter and the beard that had grown aboard the Augustus C while crossing the Atlantic from Brazil two weeks ago is removed. I get a temporary uniform with the buttons apart: it's my first contact with the old sort it out by yourself spirit. A legionnaire is always resourceful, the quartermaster sergeant reports sharply. An electrical wire sometimes ended up satisfactorily doing the job of a thread and needle for me. Yes, I would have to hurry up if I wanted to keep up with the long strides of the old, rude legion ...

A big heavy cloak, a green beret, a tie, and a week later I found myself on a train with my lucky and unlucky colleagues—Greeks, Turks, French, Germans, Portuguese, an American, a Canadian, all on their way from Marseille.

In the heated cabins, the French get together and sing, while the foreigners break up and start to think.

Me, about the experience I'm going to gain from one of the best and hardest infantry courses in the world. The Greek, about the drugs he wants to be freed from; the American, a former detective, who was sent to prison when his business with heroin was discovered but who then escaped; the Turk, about the betrayal of his comrades in the revolution; the Portuguese, about the captain he had killed in Guinea.

Those without history are on their way to it. By long strides, but not always aware of it.

In everyone's pockets, two packages of Gauloises Caporal and thirty francs for the trip. It's Mother Legion taking care of her newborns.

But in the inside of my cloak, I was carrying something else: a small Browning 6.35, loaded. Anybody tries out for something that doesn't exist has to be careful.

Marseille at dawn.

A change of trains, no one talks, numb with sleep and fleeing the cold train station. Fourteen miles ahead, Aubagne, ordered to jump out again and to climb into two waiting military trucks. A few curves through the narrow streets of the village and past the red and green striped sentry box of the sentry of the 1st Foreign Infantry Regiment. Assignment of bunk beds, brief sleep. Dawn. Pure coffee, bread, a sealed tin can of sardines with no opener. Forbidden to carry a knives. Sort this out for yourself ...

SELECTION OF RECRUITS

Tests, more tests. Night watches with helmet and bayonet. Tests of general knowledge in the volunteer's own language. Reflexes, detailed medical exams. Endurance, wake up at 04:45 H, ten-kilometer race in the European winter chill, in full uniform, jacket and boots.

The Greek addict is the first to fall; the American detective is next. The ambulance goes back, picking them up. Keeping me in the front group, the top five. I'm in good shape, it's easy for me, but my companions come to respect my small size more.

An Italian rebels, and is beaten up and arrested. The next morning, already in a prisoner's uniform, he sweeps the aisles of the barracks under armed guard. We continue to be selected, pressured on all sides. If someone has to break, it's better to do it now. Push the bar to the maximum. It rains. Order to the E.V.'s (enlisted volunteers): put on jackets and go outdoors, move a bunch of cobblestones about ten meters to the left. All of Sunday afternoon bound up in this. Sweat under the plastic garments. On the head, freezing rain. Mission completed.

— OK, very good, now redo the whole lot in the original place ...

At lunch, a veteran Portuguese comes over:

— Hey, man, I know you're Brazilian! What are you doing here in this hell? Get out now while you still can!

He is said to have been in the Legion for two years and will now be seconded to Djibouti, in the French area, by the Red Sea. He tells of beatings, murders and suicides; thinks about deserting and invites me to come along. Next Friday, two relatives will pick him up at the Spanish border. He insists, but I play it coy. He disappears, and I have no more news.

The Legion has suffered desertions every day since it was founded, but it is not my turn yet and I have my plans outlined.

Two weeks go by. Graduation. Immaculate, we carry the red mark of those approved to receive military training on our shoulders. Reds, we are now called.

Be hard, look straight ahead. The Lieutenant Colonel personally reads out the test results, the aptitude scores:

— Pablo Riveira!—He comes over and greets me. I was first in the class, fit for skydiver and missile operator ... He wishes me good luck and assures me that I will have an unimpeded career in the hierarchy. That wasn't in my plans, but thank you all the same. Uniforms now tailored, complete backpack on each side, a very heavy canvas bag with the whole outfit. Marching in one column, we are swallowed by the two wide-open gates of the Fred Scamarone ferry boat in the port of Marseille.

Destination: the Island of Corsica.

In the hall where we will spend the night, everybody adjusts his own deck chair. The Arabs, Moroccans or Algerians prudently move away, but not without a look of contempt. The history of rivalry between Arabs and legionnaires is firm and present, and heads often roll through Marseille's poorer quarters.

A head rolls. Literally. Traditions ...

Quiet trip, sleepless night, sun and island appearing in the distance. We bypassed the narrow northern tip and approached Bastia, our destination port.

CORSICA—TRAINING

The warm Mediterranean island that I comfortably imagined, after the European winter, unprecedented for me, greeted me with a cold air and a pale, indifferent blue sky. It was enough that ladders were lowered to get us back into military trucks, heading for the narrow, winding roads of the island, always inland, always higher.

Sitting in the open vehicles, pressed against each other, we suffered from the cold wind, our ears and hands freezing and aching, watching the transparent streams in stone beds, more stones, bushes thinning out. The Greek handed me a piece of chocolate and we tried to talk, vigorously rubbing our hands and stamping on the floor of the vehicle. With his tolerably correct Portuguese, he reminisced about the club he had had in Brazil, years ago, and the warmth of the nights and of the women ... But the cold spoke louder and, like a flock of owls, we walked silently to Corte, home of the Second Foreign Infantry Regiment. I looked around at the snow-capped mountains somewhat apprehensively.

Warm Mediterranean island, I thought sourly ...

Our final destination dominated the landscape. An old fortress, with walls bordering the crest of a small rocky mountain. Enormous houses, long stone stairs, dozens of tunnels and cellars, the famous Cidadelle!

On the main wall, in huge metal letters, the definition of the Legion for the legionnaires: LEGIO PATRIA NOSTRA, Latin for The Legion is Our Homeland.

No further questions, no other languages spoken. Orders are issued in shouted French. Anyone, German, Turkish, Greek, must listen and obey. Sort this out for yourself! We are starting to become the legendary recruits of the Légion Étrangère, the French Foreign Legion ...

Visit to the new home: with our backpack and two canvas bags, weighing about 45 kg, we will come to know the fortress at a fast clip. Nonstop. The courtyard. The huge staircase. Another one. The wall. Some drop from fatigue but are forced to drag on. My legs tremble, I don't slow down. At the end of the walls, the prisons, cubicles 1 m x 1 m by 2 m in length, where the prisoners fit in, always lying down. The latrines, stone slabs cut into the abyss with holes through which the ground could be seen, hundreds of feet below. Pale, sweat-soaked, kicked by the instructors, we finally came to what will be our quarters: 5 x 12 m halls with vaulted ceilings below which bunk beds are lined up. The cleanliness is impeccable. Absolute rigidity is required in the placement of cabinets, where everyone's gear is placed. The piles of clothing must conform to standard size, with fork and campaign knife crossed over the mug ...

They give us the afternoon for preparations and to memorize the individual presentations, written on the cupboards in chalk:

Legionnaire Riveira,

One month of service,

Company Canalez,

Section Bryot,

At your orders, sir ...

Any request, even for smoking, must be made out loud. Failing that, the answer will inevitably be a punch to the stomach or at best dix pompes (ten push-ups).

Dawn at 04:45 H, cleaning of the quarters. With a toothbrush, the cracks between the floor tiles shine; with shoe brushes, the stairs become spotless. Personal cleaning: The use of electric razors is prohibited. Every hair of the beard that is found will be torn out. Every unbuttoned button will be cut off with a knife. No time is wasted. During the first weeks, the semiautomatic rifle is already assembled and disassembled until we recognize all the parts by touch alone. Laundry is washed in the afternoon when time is left over and, while it dries, the owner stands by its side to prevent it from evaporating into the hands of someone more clever.

We sing. Kep Blanc is the main one, our anthem. Old German songs are sung, war songs from World War II (40% of the legionnaires were German and the old ones were former Nazis faithful to the past). We run. With the thin ice that forms on the stone paths crackling under our feet. But we are getting stiff ... The Greek can't take it anymore, thinks only of desertion. Lenaud, a Frenchman from our group, a colleague from day one in Paris, also dreams of escape. Informal conversations begin to strike up in a group of five or six disgruntled recruits.

I forget I exist, I forget the privileges I enjoyed in the Air Force. I forget that I never received orders from non-officers. I do everything angry, blind. Always trying the impossible. It's the only way to move forward. If I stop to think, I can't stand it.

Five members of our section desert and do not respond to the night call, and the alarm is triggered by a bell that quavers nervously in the darkness. They leave behind patrols armed with carbines and accompanied by dogs.

One of the fugitives had broken an arm. They jumped free on the Cidadelle's rear walls, and a Frenchman slipped and rolled over the cliff, narrowly escaping death. They spend five days in the mountains but are captured without resistance, starving and freezing, and are thrown into the sinister prison of the 2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment, a centuries-old collapsed church whose roof has been replaced with barbed wire and, inside, two 14-man cells and eight 1 x 2 x 2 m solitary cells. The tower, with a cross on its top, remains intact. I would look at it many times in the future ...

PRISON

Christmas arrives, and the barracks prepare for it. But the routine is suddenly broken:

– Inspection!

I feel myself becoming pale ...

I had been in Paris and Marseille and the first day in Corsica with other similar inspections three times and I had always managed to lose my Browning 6.35. Believing that there should be no more surprises of this type, I started to wear it under my jacket. The violence was great, even among my colleagues, and it was not in my plans to end up with a knife through my ribs. A firearm kept the bullies at bay, because there was nothing nice about this, being always closed in on myself and a few friends. Now, in the courtyard, under surveillance, I had no way of getting rid of the inconvenient weapon.

My turn comes. I stand at attention. The instructor pats my leg, hits my waist and, feeling a metallic mass, asks me:

— Can of sardines, Riveira? He reaches in and removes the gun with a puzzled whistle, holding it up for all to see.

My only thought was, I'm screwed.

Taken into the presence of my company commander, Captain Canalez, I declare to the interpreter that I had found it in the shelter. They don't believe that! In order to gain time, I pretend I don't understand French. I end up spending the night in a prison, in the Cidadelle. In the morning, another interrogation. I repeat my story. I am sent to the Church of the 2nd REI [Foreign Infantry Regiment] in a closed truck, escorted by a German from Military Police.

I am interrogated by Captain Gyot through Cabo Garcia, a Brazilian raised in Spain. But Garcia speaks only Castilian and French, so I contrive a kind of Portuguese to be too ambiguous for them to understand me. They discuss the case in front of me, without imagining that I understand every word. I continue with my regular story. At night, I am taken up to the Church. They open the gate of the outside wall, we enter and cross the courtyard towards the common quarters. Pushed in, the door is locked behind me.

I am met by a puff of air, hot, sour and rancid. Inside the dark cell, three bunks leaning against each other and, in the small space left over, a latrine and a wood-burning iron stove for heat. Two prisoners are sitting on their beds and another one, who is about fifty, is in front of the stove.

These are three Frenchmen, arrested for theft. The oldest one interrogates me. He is as hostile as the smell that dominates the cell. The other two are more relaxed; one of them, Boubolle, who is as fat as a ball of tallow, is a cook.

After being subjected to inquiries by the old man who was the leader of the cell, I jumped up into a bunk and fell asleep tired.

Dawn, still dark. The door bolt jumps violently.

— Get up!

The M.P.'s enter and in seconds we are dressed, in our shoes and lined up in the courtyard. I begin to learn the routine of the prison. With the old man in front, the other two come out, each with a bucket in his hand. With a gesture, the M.P. orders me to stand in the cold courtyard while closing the cell from the outside. The last M.P. leaves, leaving me alone in the outer enclosure, which is covered by barbed wire.

— Hey you, psst!

I look around looking for whoever is calling out to me. The sound comes from one of the ones in solitary and I look through the small hole in the door. I see another eye!

— Hey friend, you have a cigarettes there?

The answer is negative because I do not smoke and the cigarettes would in any event have to be smuggled into the prison, with anyone caught with them suffering severe punishment. The freezing occupant of the solitary is desolate.

It's Kirkop, the Moroccan, who will become a great ally of mine in everyday life. Trapped in the cubicle for over a hundred days, he is a perfect connoisseur of prison tricks, where he has been a regular customer since he joined the Legion 18 months ago. A former member of the GOLE (Foreign Legion Operational Group), he deserted in Bonifácio, in the south of the island, with two armed colleagues. There had been a furious firefight with search patrols and Kirkop was captured unharmed, after seeing one companion dead and the other one wounded. According to him, he should be in the frightful Penal Section, the Legion's forced labor area, where the prisoner has to continue standing and running in the same place, even to eat; in the Penal Section you never walk.

I ask about my colleagues who have deserted and they say they were transferred, it's not known where to. At the rattle of a bolt, we cut off our forbidden conversation. It's coffee that arrives. Everyone picks up a mug. M.P. First Class Filling, a German, opens Kirkop's cell and puts a can of coffee on the floor. The small, dark Moroccan man had jumped out of bed and presented himself smiling. Filling closes the door in his face, without saying a word. From inside the cell, I hear a cheerful Merci, mon caporal! shouted by the irreverent prisoner.

M.P. Filling seemed to be a good fellow. Fourteen years in the Foreign Legion, he carried strips of four medals, two of which bore the words Indochina and Algeria, where he won them in combat. He had risen through the ranks to the level of Chief Warrant Office, a sort of warrant officer but, with the impulsive genius of most legionnaires, he had attacked a superior, being demoted to Legionnaire 2nd Class, the lowest rank on the ladder! Given his length of service, he couldn't renew his contract, but he preferred to remain in the Legion even after his fall. He already no longer knew how to survive out there.

The other M.P. was called Bandera, a Spaniard as strong as a