A week of mountain ghosts
I can’t explain it, but this week the Alps have been calling. Not literally (my knees would file a complaint), but in memories. Vivid ones. Boots-in-the-snow, rifle-on-the-shoulder, why-is-it-always-uphill memories.
In 1975 and 1976, I had the honour of serving in the 27BCA, the Bataillon de Chasseurs Alpins in Annecy. If that name rings a bell, it should: the 27th earned its legend on the Plateau des Glières during WW2, in a standoff that still gives French mountain soldiers a certain swagger. I was in a combat section and, never one to sit still (or so I thought), I volunteered to train as a sharpshooter. Yes, I asked to be even more precise about where I’d be lying in the snow. Youth.
We lived in those mountains, summer and winter. At the time, it felt like hardship: frozen fingers, aching shoulders, sleep in short supply, and a sergeant who seemed to believe the word “downhill” had been removed from the dictionary. Funny how that works. Fifty years on, the suffering has been quietly deleted from the archives. What’s left is pride, laughter, and a stack of good memories. Memory is the world’s best editor: it cuts the whining and keeps the highlights.
And now, the twist. I spent days wandering back through those mountains in my head, and then yesterday, out of the blue, the lieutenant who commanded my section at the time got in touch with me through Trombi, the French answer to Friends Reunited. If you don’t believe in thought transmission, perhaps you should reconsider. Either the universe has a sense of timing, or my old lieutenant has a very long-range signal and zero respect for my privacy. I’ll take either.
So I dug out the photos. Some were already on my computer; others I had to scan, which meant dusting off prints that have clearly lived a harder life than I have. Each one comes with a story, and I’ll do my best to tell them properly.
Stay tuned: the photos are on their way. Bring a warm hat and a sense of humour. Chasseurs Alpins, after all, never promised comfort. Only a good view.
Work in progress
⬇️
First things first, learn to march in unison.
Then pretend you cannot ski and get sent with your new friends for a week‘s training in Flaine.
Door-to-Door Service, Alpine Style
A couple of times, the army decided that walking up the mountain was a bit too relaxing for us. So they sent a Puma helicopter instead.
Now, you’d think a helicopter ride to the summit would be the luxury option. And it was, if your idea of luxury is a windowless metal box bouncing through mountain turbulence like a salad in a bag. No view, no warning, just the sensation of the Alps gently shaking you by the collar. Mountain air currents have strong opinions, and the Puma heard every one of them.
Then comes the landing, and by “landing” I mean “hovering at a polite distance while you jump.” Nobody tells you that a few feet of fresh powder looks exactly like solid ground until you’re in it up to the thighs. It’s a feeling you have to get used to, much like cold showers and French bureaucracy.
The photo says it all: a Puma hanging in the air, rotors churning the snow into a blizzard, and one white-clad soldier making a dash for it. Somewhere in that whiteout is the dignity I left behind.
Still, I’ll admit it: arriving at the top of a mountain by helicopter beats the alternative. Chasseurs Alpins did plenty of climbing the hard way, but on those days, we got the express route.
Smiling Under Load
Look at that grin. A man with a heavy rucksack, wool trousers, gaiters and a mountain still to deal with, beaming at the camera like he’s just won the tombola. Scientists are baffled.
The author offers two theories. Either we had finally arrived, or I’d just realised the army-issue cigarettes hadn’t been left behind. Honestly, in 1975 the second explanation carries serious weight. Back then, a pack of rations-issue smokes was a currency, a comfort and a morale-boosting miracle, all in one flimsy cardboard box. Health advice has moved on since. The relief, I suspect, has not.
Behind me, the section is in full break mode: some crouched over their kit, one perched on his pack, a couple of comrades quietly eating whatever the army had decided counted as a snack. Poles planted, rucksacks dumped, nobody in a hurry. That’s the unspoken rule of the mountain: when the order to halt comes, you stop mid-sentence and sit wherever you are, even if “wherever” is a slope.
Note the footwear: gaiters and snowshoes, the unglamorous heroes of the day. Elegant? No. Effective at keeping me out of the powder? Mostly.
Whatever the reason for the smile, it’s a good one. Fifty years later, I’d like to think it was simply the joy of being young, a bit tired, and surrounded by friends in a very beautiful place.
Peaux de Phoque, Hold the Seal
Let’s clear something up: no seals were harmed. “Peaux de phoque” are the climbing skins stuck to the underside of your skis, which grip the snow so you can walk uphill instead of sliding back down to the barracks and an awkward conversation with the sergeant.
The deal is simple. Hours of climbing, each step a small negotiation with gravity. Then the summit, the skins come off with that satisfying rip, and the mountains hand you your payment in full: the view, the silence, and the smug glow of a man who has earned his downhill.
And here I am, scanned from a print that has clearly seen things (note the battle scars on the sky). White camouflage, fur-backed mitts, skis, and a moustache that was, I’m told, regulation in spirit if not in paperwork. I’m giving the camera the look of a man who knows the hard part is over and the fun part is about to begin. Behind me, a valley sleeps under the snow, a few chalets tucked in like afterthoughts.
No lift, no café at the top, no selfie stick. Just a pair of skis, a lot of sweat and a view that no gondola could ever quite match. Fifty years later, I’d still take that deal.
