[b]Shusha, Armenia[/b]

He had been two weeks removed from the military world and already, Haroud Abbasian was bored. He was bored when he rode his bicycle to the logging camp in town. He was bored when he took his little sister to the market to pick up groceries: always the same order of stores with the butchery, produce stand, general store, bakery, and liquor store. He was bored when he walked the dog around the same mountain path every day. He was bored when he sat in the yard and watched the birds circle over the valley. He was bored when he read the same books he read when he was in secondary school. What was there to do in Shusha, a logging village far removed from the capital of Stepanakert? No clubs or hobbies. There was a football pitch, but he couldn't find enough people his age to play with - the loggers were mostly the ones too old to be conscripted or had some sort of injury that rendered unto them a medical exemption. Many of them had back injuries, which meant that they could drive trucks filled with logs but couldn't do anything else. They mostly drank at one of the two bars in town, which Haroud often frequented. He frequently thought of going back to the military world to alleviate his boredom. He was still young and fit: he could reenlist. So after work one day he headed to the recruiter's building - a shack in the center of town with posters adorning the sides - and left his contact information for the chain-smoking Sergeant at the counter. The Sergeant simply nodded and said that if they were interested someone would swing by.

And someone did. It was the afternoon of a particularly slow Saturday when Haroud heard a knock at the door. He was home alone, reading the newspaper and listening to the radio. After rising from the sofa and pulling up his sagging pants, Haroud pushed his way through the door to the main hallway and went to open up the red wood front door. In front of him were two military men, a staff car pulled up in the driveway. A third man could be seen smoking a cigarette while leaning on the car, staring at the mountains in front of him. The two men at the door - their insignia identified themselves as a Sergeant First Class and a Major - nodded at the unshaven veteran in front of them. "This is the residence of Haroud K. Abbasian, former Corporal in the Armenian Army?" the Sergeant asked. He spoke with a deeply Azeri accent for some inexplicable reason. The other peculiarity was that he was the only one to wear the characteristic regimental shoulder insignia of the 1st Recruitment Regiment. His left shoulder had the same provincial recruiting battalion - the 5th "Artsakh" Battalion. The rest bore an unfamiliar logo of a hawk perched atop a star with olive branches encircling it, all emblazoned on a shield-shaped patch. At the top was their name: "FOREIGN LEGION." This was a mild shock to Haroud, because he remembered no such organization existing during his service.

"Good afternoon, sirs," Abbasian said as he nodded. Suddenly self-conscious of his rather casual wear, he invited them inside: "Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a new pot and it'd be a crime not to offer it."

The Sergeant nodded and accompanied the Major inside. He was an older man who had tucked his combination cover underneath his arm as he moved through the house, examining the various pictures and paintings that hung on the wall. A short man of curly black hair topped his head, over brown eyes - serious and with tired bags hanging underneath - and a hawkish nose. Abbasian rushed in front of them to turn off the radio and head into the kitchen for the coffee while he instructed the officer and his NCO to sit down. A few seconds later he returned with a tray. The third man from the staff car was still outside, smoking. The NCO politely declined to sit, instead standing stoically by the Major with his arms behind his back and his feet shoulder-width apart. He, too, inspected the family's decorations. He didn't talk much: he left that task up to the Major who was sipping the bitter black coffee out of a white ceramic mug, being careful not to spill it on his immaculately pressed and creased uniform. Abbasian took a seat in the chair next to the sofa, leaning forward and intertwining his fingers in anticipation of what the Major had to say. He certainly hadn't experienced this when he was drafted. It was a cold, impersonally typed letter from the Government Service Agency and a timetable for the local railway station with the 1600 train to Nakhchivan highlighted.

"Mister Abbasian, it has come to our attention that you were chaptered out of the Army at the rank of... Corporal, is that right?" began the Major. His voice was calm yet authoritative: he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yes, sir, that was about three weeks ago after the Battle of Erzurum. I was an artilleryman: a joint fires observer for the self-propelled howitzer battalion attached to the 4th Cavalry."

"We have your records on file, Mister Abbasian," the Major said. He motioned over to the Sergeant First Class who agreed silently. Could he even talk? "We must note that you performed admirably during the battle and showed valor during your participation. The fact that you went above and beyond your duties as an artilleryman were defining factors of your excellence. What say you?"

"Sir?" stuttered Abbasian. He didn't like to talk about Erzurum. He had participated in the convoys into the city after he had called in artillery strikes on the airfield. When the Armenian cavalry unit was shut down on Highway One leading through the city, the 4th was called to flank from the south and relieve pressure. When the 4th's premier combat elements were hit by a Turkish fortification that was locking down a major intersection, the artillery units were called in. Their mobile mortar systems - based on the same Polish armored vehicle chassis as the rest of the APCs - were ordered to dump their artillery guns at the airfield and make space for wounded. What happened next was six hours of intense urban combat as the inexperienced artillerymen thrust their way gingerly through gaps - often found by trial and error - in the Turkish defenses. House-to-house fighting managed to eliminate concentrated defensive buildings and give some leeway for Armenian rescue efforts. Abbasian, despite being a Corporal, was given command of a handful of vehicles after their platoon leader's radio went silent. The Lieutenant hadn't died, they later learned, but his radioman's manpack was taken out by a piece of rebar flying at unfathomable speeds. Abbasian, thinking on his feet, decided that his role in the command vacuum was to take charge and move out.

He convinced the drivers of the vehicles to head towards where the first elements of the 4th's pincer were pinned down at the most dangerous intersection in the city. He personally launched a rocket that took down the entire facade of the Turkish-held building and bought enough time for the soldiers to retrieve wounded personnel and the corpses of those who had died. They ferried them back to the airfield where air assault helicopters full of fresh supplies and troops were landing amidst fire from emplaced 23mm autocannons located to the western hills, far away from the city and camouflaged against the fluttering observer planes and their artillery-bringing red smoke rockets. Thirteen helicopters had taken fire - two were fatal crashes to all onboard while four more crashed and killed only half of the occupants. Those helicopters brought fresh troops and left with casualties. Those who weren't reinforcing the airfield rode [i]desantniki[/i] with the Armenian cavalry units: dozens of them hung onto the sides and sat on the roofs of personnel carriers hurtling throughout the city. Two platoons' worth of disorganized infantrymen had coalesced under Abbasian's makeshift rescue party and had taken up positions to suppress Turkish snipers shooting at the 4th. While he hadn't actually taken any fire, a piece of rock had knocked his helmet askew as a rocket brought down his building's balcony while he talked calmly over the radio. This had taken up the better part of his experience with the battle, and he was eventually relieved by a column of heavy tanks that happened to be on nearby Highway 1.

The sudden arrival of the tankers managed to scare away the rest of the Turkish forces into their battlegroups at the west end of the city, and so the 4th was saved. Abbasian managed to direct the survivors back to the airbase before reporting in to the company commander - Captain Manetas. The undeniably shocked Captain took the troops under his command to replace holes in his element before dismissing Abbasian to the hospital after asking about the dent his helmet. Ostensibly, Captain Manetas wanted Abbasian checked for a concussion - he had none -, but he really just wanted the soldier out of the way to avoid going on another rescue mission. The report had immediately struck Manetas as irresponsible with men and materiel because Abbasian was risking Manetas's equipment to save another element. While it was wonderful that it worked out, his reputation as an officer would have been on the line if Abbasian had killed eighty men. Manetas forgot to write a citation for anything - bravery in combat or discipline for disobeying orders - as he carried on directing his troops in battle and so the incident was officially never reported. Abbasian didn't like to talk about Erzurum, steadfastly assuring curious people that he had stared at the city through a pair of binoculars for the entire time. The event was brought to the Army's attention when an officer heard from an NCO in his platoon that there had been a daring rescue of the trapped 4th personnel. That rumor went all the way up in the weeks following the battle, until a Colonel working for the administration managed to pin down Abbasian as the leader.

"We have been informed of your actions during the battle and were impressed," the Major repeated. "In our after action reports we have decided to offer a few things to you in exchange for something I'll tell you very soon. One of those is a citation for valor and a medal. The other is a battlefield meritorious promotion to First Lieutenant."

Abbasian leaned forward from the sofa, his eyebrows raised and a look of shock in his eyes. This wasn't something that happened often. He had never heard about anything like that in the Armenian military. No training, no orientation, no anything. Were his actions really warranting of such praise? Who had decided to do this? Once again, he asked why. And that was the only word he could utter: "Why?"

"You've demonstrated leadership capabilities and tactical thinking on par with what we expect for officers," the Sergeant First Class finally said. "You managed to rally almost a hundred men to go into extreme danger that they might not return from. If you can get people to follow you to Hell and back, you can do anything. That's what the basis for the promotion was, anyways. Those are skills that would be put to waste as a Corporal. We need people like you."

"Particularly where we come from," the Major continued. He reached into his pocket and withdrew some sort of metal pin before handing it to Abbasian. It was a unit crest like the one adorning Abbasian's dusty uniform currently hanging aloof in the attic. Just like the sleeve insignia, it bore the words "FOREIGN LEGION" and the unique emblem.

"Sir, I've never heard of a Foreign Legion," Abbasian stated with confusion as he turned the device over in his hands. He looked over at the Major. "Is this new?"

"Fairly," the Major replied. "It began as a concept thought up at the commands because of the sheer volume of foreign nationals looking to join the Armenian military for a fast-track to citizenship. Many of them come from Syria and other parts of the Middle East, and I understand that you are at least partly of Syrian descent. You also noted on your enlistment papers that you speak Arabic. Thus we decided to come for you after you put in your information to the recruiter to reenlist. Because of your unique linguistic skills and your service record, we want you to form the officer corps of our new organization. You'd have to teach the recruits Armenian, but also to fight and lead. Because there's a certain societal stigma around foreigners, our mission is to prove ourselves as fierce and elite fighters. If you're a Legionnaire, you are to be respected. Really, the French have been doing this since the 19th century, which is where our idea came from. It's also a way to help assimilate people into our society. From the political perspective, it may be seen as strengthening the fabric of unity for the government. Culturally, it makes sense: we're a mongrel ethnicity of all sorts of groups. We're Persians, Russians, Greek, Mediterranean, and to some extent Turkish. It's not like we're one skin color like the Chinese or Ethiopians. So if someone wants to be Armenian, we'll goddamn let them be Armenian."

"And you can help be the bridge that gets them there, so to speak," the Sergeant First Class clarified. "With your new Lieutenant bars, you're going to be a teacher and a leader. In addition, we've structured the Legion as a rather unconventional place. It's different from the regular Army. It's a place for special tactics and equipment and personnel. It's a lot freer and looser to better give the capabilities for people to grow and fight. A lot less regulated, so to speak."

"Purely off the record, of course," the Major added with a grin. "Can't let the regular Army know we let our officers go clubbing on the weekends and don't immediately fire them for coming into work on Monday unshaven."

The sales pitch was definitely attractive. More money, more responsibility, more freedom, and a way out of what was quickly becoming a menial job driving trucks for the lumber company. The military always felt somehow right to Abbasian: he felt like he had a purpose. Now, despite what he was told, homefront work was meaningless to him. On a conscious level, he understood that they needed lumber for their country. But deep inside he found no joy in serving his country that way. He did find purpose in holding a gun and walking alongside fellow military men. He felt like he belonged. There was a saying that you never really left the military. You just took a break.

"I'll think about it," replied Abbasian as he sipped his coffee. "I have some loose ends I need to tie up before I head off again. Now, where did you say that the Legion's headquarters was?"

"The Legion is officially headquartered at Joint Base Sevan Lake, and we do training operations in the countryside around the area," the Major said.

"Sevan Lake, huh? That's close to here."

"A few hours on the train. Not bad at all. I'm from Stepanakert, myself," the Sergeant stated with a nod. He ran a hand through his curly hair before continuing: "You can easily visit your family and friends here on leave time. If we aren't running operations on the weekends you can ride down here and be back on Monday morning."

"Alright," repeated Abbasian. "I'll let you know. If I give the recruiter a call will it transfer over to you?"

"Yes, it can be sent to my office," the Major affirmed. Then, sensing that the conversation was ending, he stood up. Smoothing the wrinkles on his green jacket, he held out his hand: "Thank you for the coffee, Mister Abbasian."

"Thank you for the offer, sir," Abbasian answered as he shook the Major's hand. It was a firm, confident shake. No amateurism here. "I just need to talk to my family."

"That's not a problem. I'll expect a call sometime this week?"

"Certainly, sir. Alright, take care."

The Major and his NCO left shortly thereafter, getting into the staff car while the third man flicked his cigarette and got into the driver's seat. The engine rumbled to life, and the car backed out of the gravel driveway. A fog had been encroaching into the valley, blanketing the dark green forest with a layer of cool mist. Abbasian stood outside on the railing of his house, watching the car drive away on the winding, snakelike road that hugged the edge of the nearby mountain. A First Lieutenant? It was responsibility. It was a career. It was money. The prospect was attractive, despite what he thought when he got out of the service the first time. But what would his family think? Well, there wasn't really anything stopping him. He was the a young man and his parents would go along with what he did. This stood in stark contrast to his sister, who was still controlled by her somewhat protective mother. And he found that he had no friends in the town: only work acquaintances. He hadn't been out to do anything with them. They had their own circles of friends: fellow conscientious objectors or medical invalids who were deemed unfit for military service. Abbasian found himself as bored and lonely as he'd ever been. There was nothing besides his family to tie him down to Shusha. And after all, he could always come back and visit. It was that thought that finally convinced him: he could go back and do it. He would take the commission and go to train the Foreign Legionnaires. It would be a good experience for him, albeit unexpected. A year ago, when he was first drafted, he expected a quick in and out. They would win the war, and he would go home.

Except life doesn't always work that way.