We came off the ship in Marseilles after the overnight crossing from Oran. It was June, 1962. I"d shared a cabin with Dieter. We"d spent too much time in the bar drinking Ricard and had slept for a few hours. But we showered, and felt fresh for going ashore.
“Tim, I"m feeling good,” Dieter said as we walked out of the docks to find a taxi. We were well turned out in walking out uniform, medal ribbons on left breast and on the right, the coveted silver parachute wings. Black kepi, the eyes shaded by Ray Bans.
“Me too,” I said.
We"d shaken off the effects of the pastis by the time we reached the station and headed for the platform and the Paris express. More than five years since I"d been out of Algeria.
There was some time to kill before the train departed. We had bowls of black coffee
