just the sun reflecting off his helicopter pilot style glasses. He grabbed my wrists and started to hand cuff me . This was not the response I had hoped for. I had heard that French jails were not the best in the world. My short trip in his Inspector Cloussea style, Citroen police van, had been most unpleasant. If it hadn't been for the fact, that I knew it was a police vehicle, I could have easily mistaken i,t for a farmer's pig van. Although it had been claustrophobic, (to say the least), it had also been very dark. I could smell, but not see, the slimy sticky mess, that I had put my hand on, when I had groped my way along the hard wooden seat in the back. On arrival at the police station, I was hustled through the back .Then, still hand cuffed, pushed into an empty cell. The door slammed shut, behind me. After twenty minutes or so, my friendly cop returned, (that's friendly, only because he hadn't beaten me up). He was holding out in front of him, one of their police hand held radio's. He Put it up to my ear. I could hear an English sounding voice. Apparently, he had understood me, when I was telling him that I was a deserter. Where it had got confusing, was that I had being doing most of the talking, and he the head nodding. He had only understood one word in every twelve. I had