Don't worry.
You don't trust me?
I got the money.
Let's see the stuff.
Let's see the money.
Money.
This is sugar!
No shit?
Yeah, no shit.
And this...
is gasoline.
Come on,
torch him, man!
Aah!
Oh! Aah!
Mrs. Gaultier,
I'm sorry
this happened
to your family.
We've done
everything we could.
In cases like this,
it is very difficult
to make any kind
of prediction,
so for the next couple of months,
it's going to be touch and go.
Mrs. Gaultier--
The insurance
has expired, I know.
Does he have any other relatives,
anyone else that could possibly help?
No.
Come on, Nicole.
Let's go home.
Lyon.
Lyon.
Lyon.
Lyon!
Lyon!
Ha ha ha.
Aye, Lyon.
Wonder what's in
the goody sack for you today?
Heh heh.
Let's have a look.
There we go.
''Legionnaire
Lyon Gaultier.''
Ooh, yes.
- It's very nice.
- No interest, eh?
OK. Back she goes.
Aah!
Aah!
Yeah, Gaultier.
That's me.
This one's been out
in the sun too long.
She tried to call me
two weeks ago.
Nobody told me.
Why?
This is the Foreign
Legion, Gaultier,
not Club Med.
We're talking about my brother.
He could be dead by now.
And we could be at war
with the bloody wogs tomorrow.
I need your ass here.
Your brother
is not my problem.
Or yours anymore.
You gave up your family
when you joined the Legion.
I never gave up my family.
Never.
Legionnaire, I don't have time
for this shiesse.
I need to see my brother.
You need what
I tell you you need.
And right now I think
you need two weeks hard labor.
You only have six months left
in the Legion, Gaultier.
Don't make it six years.
You're a real asshole.
Is there a problem, sir?
No, no, no, no.
No problem.
Desert fever.
This is your real problem.
Too many weeks
in the hot sun.
Shall we try
sweatbox, sir?
Yes,
this might help.
Just until his
fever breaks.
Cover your head,
legionnaire.
Move!
Your belt.
Come on.
Ugh!
Move!
Your hotel room
is ready.
OK.
Hyah!
Aah!
Ugh!
Aah!
Aah!
Hyah!
Hyah!
Get me a fucking jeep!
There's no sign
of him, sir.
He'll never make it.
If the wogs don't kill him,
then the desert will.
Just in case, head down to the docks
first thing in the morning.
The ocean is his only way
out of the country.
Moustafa, go this way.
Hey!
Get your ass
back down below!
Get down to those
boiler rooms now!
OK.
This ain't no pleasure cruise.
Move your ass!
The letter was
from his sister-in-law.
We are fortunate our intelligence
section makes a habit
of recording
return addresses.
We'll contact the Americans
and ask them to keep her
under surveillance.
Inspector,
this man is a deserter,
a traitor to France,
and a goddamn terrorist.
Adjutant, all I can do
is transmit the warrant.
If the Los Angeles cops
aren't too busy
busting dope dealers,
gang rapists,
and serial killers,
maybe they'll have time
to bring the asshole in.
And if they don't,
tough shit.
If they do not,
maybe I can help.
You stay off
the top deck.
First Mate's orders.
You were told not to come up.
Am I right?
Yeah.
And you told me this ship
was going to Los Angeles.
What difference
does it make?
You ain't got
no green card.
You ain't got no visa.
You ain't getting off
anywhere, Frenchy,
so get your ass below
before somebody reports you,
a deserter,
stowed away on their ship.
You keep stoking my boilers,
or you'll be breaking rocks
in the hot sun.
Now what's it going to be?
It's going to be simple.
Ugh!
Hey, maybe we make a deal.
You've been
so generous to me.
Huh?
America.
Los Angeles information.
Please deposit $2.40.
No, it's my
sister-in-law.
She's waiting for me.
Helene Gaultier.
I don't care if she's
the mayor's sister-in-law.
If I don't hear coins,
this conversation's over.
You got it?
Hey, come on,
get him!
Who you pulling for,
motherfucker?
Kill that fucker!
Come on, goddamn it!
You want another fight?
You sure you don't
want another fight?
You can win.
Get your money.
I ain't