The Presentation of the White Kepis

By Louis Perez y Cid

We marched in step, singing our section song, "Against the Viet Cong."
The night was pitch black. The parade ground was lit only by the torches carried by the legionnaires. Above us, the citadel was barely visible in the flickering halo of the torches.

An almost perfect silence reigned. There was only our song and the steady pounding of our boots.
We marched straight, heads held high, following the line of flames that marked our path. Everything had been calculated, timed to the second: the distance, the rhythm, the cadence.
The song was to end precisely as we entered the square formed by the "veteran" sections.

And so it did.
In impeccable, tight formation, rehearsed a hundred times, we took our places.

"Watch out!" The snap was sharp.
Bare heads straightened. Chests puffed out. Bellies tucked in. White kepis in their right hands, the section stood motionless.

We were about to receive the white kepi.
From the officers' square, our company commander stepped forward and stood facing us. Our lieutenant presented the section to him.
The captain spoke briefly. Just a few sentences. But they carried the particular weight of words spoken before men who have made their choice.

Then he gave the order.
We donned the white kepi. Not in the spirit of close formation. Not as a parade. Simply with immense pride.
In the eyes of all our peers, we had just entered the Legion family.
At the lieutenant's signal, I stepped forward from the ranks. I advanced. I saluted.

I had been chosen to take the oath on behalf of everyone. “We swear to serve with honor and fidelity.” End of the salute. Right turn. I rejoined the ranks.

The captain then handed the section pennant to the lieutenant.

“Watch out!” The captain saluted. Then he withdrew.

“Right… right!”

“The tune!” The marching band leader started the first bars.

“Forward… march!” And the section marched off again, singing.

It was 1969, at the Montlaur Citadel in Bonifacio, Corsica.
I was a young volunteer recruit. Less than a month of basic training. The white kepi ceremony had just ended. I had just received mine.
I experienced it as an ancient rite. Like an investiture, almost like being knighted.

Yet, this tradition was quite recent. It dated back to 1968.
Before that, there was nothing. The legionnaire simply received his white kepi in his kit and put it on upon order, after a few weeks of training.

Traditions are not static. Some are born one day, almost by chance, then take root. They gradually become the memory of a unit.
This week, fifty-five years later, I am attending another white kepi presentation ceremony.
The legionnaire's code of honor has been added, recited by the section.
This code was created in the early 1980s by General Coulon, then COMLE (Commander of the Foreign Legion).
The addition itself doesn't bother me. What troubles me is the manner.

It's no longer spoken aloud.
It's shouted.
Like in certain Hollywood films where American recruits bellow their oaths under the shouts of an instructor.

The Legion didn't need this.
Traditions can evolve. They must even evolve to remain alive.

But they must never lose their meaning.

Originally, the presentation of the white kepi took place amongst ourselves. Within the barracks.

The Legion family welcomed newcomers and received them into its circle.

A initiation.

Then the ceremony opened up to the outside world. Why not, provided the location held historical significance. At the IILE in Puyloubier, in the Viénot barracks in Aubagne, near the war memorial…
There, the symbol remains.

But I also witnessed the presentation of white kepis in a village square, in the middle of a public military parade.

And there, I felt pain for the Legion. Deep pain.

Because the Legion has always protected something rare: the anonymity of the legionnaire.

But that day, I saw young recruits put on display for a noisy crowd.

Passersby watched it as if it were a municipal event.

Like a market stall.

I imagined myself in their place. Me, a young legionnaire, barely in the Legion.
Exposed there, under distracted gazes, photographed, commented on.
Not welcomed.
Exhibited.

And suddenly I understood. It was no longer a rite, it was a spectacle.

And a rite transformed into a spectacle always becomes a humiliation.
So yes. A disgrace.

And shame, too, on those who, often without realizing it, accepted this for their young legionnaires still in training.
Because that day, I felt humiliated for them.
I only witnessed this kind of spectacle once.

And since then, every invitation to these Hollywood-style white cap ceremonies,

I decline.
Without regret.