He was sitting next to Esclavier. All of a sudden he pointed out two smartly dressed men at the next table who were listening closely:
“The two D.S.T.* agents who are shadowing us!”
He stood up, went over and leant his hands on their table:
“Eavesdropping, my dears?”
He overturned the table, with the plates and glasses still on it, then, in a lordly manner, turned to the manager:
“Put these gentlemen’s bill on my account.”
But since he had lost all he possessed at roulette that afternoon it was Bonvillain who had to stump up, with a wry smile on his face. He was furious at having to pay the bill, and still more so at the scene Pellegrin had just provoked.
One morning a top-secret signal came into the operational command post of the regiment from General Hellion, G.O.C. Eastern Algeria, on whom the 10th Regiment depended. It ordered Captain Boisfeuras to report forthwith to Algiers, then to Paris, to put himself at the disposal of the legal authorities as a result of the inquest opened on the death of Lucien Ben Mohadi. General Hellion was a paratrooper; at one time he had commanded the division.
A parachute regiment lives on its own and has few communications with the rest of the world. There is as much tittle-tattle in a unit of this kind as in any convent or college.
The system introduced by Raspéguy obliged the officers to live with their N.C.O.s; there were therefore no secrets within the unit. Everyone knew, for instance, about the affair the colonel had had with a little Spanish girl from Bab-el-Oued or that Major Glatigny had had with an Arab girl. The men belonged to their officers, who in their turn were owned by them. Knowing their leaders’ war records, their qualities and defects, they also knew if they were married, if they had any children, if they got on well with their wives, if they were rich or poor, if their fathers were generals, diplomats or cobblers.
This gang of bohemians, who lived on a few cases of rations, in holes in the ground or in tattered tents, and slogged across country in down-at-heel boots, were proud of their colonel’s handsome mug and of the fact that he was known as the leading paratrooper in France. They would say with pride that Major Jacques de Glatigny was descended from a constable of the king, that Esclavier was a Companion of the Liberation and son of the famous professor, and Boisfeuras a quite exceptional character.
Boisfeuras was part of their “show” and he it was perhaps who held first place in their minds. The captain was not easily approachable, he was even disagreeable and never tried to be popular, but when he strode by in silence, followed by his Nung, the little paratroopers who had not known Indo-China dreamt of fabulous and gory adventures.
Boisfeuras was reputed to be the owner of banks and plantations, they said he was born in Peking, that he had boarded junks, fought in three or four different armies, been tortured by the Japanese, been parachuted into Communist China by the Americans; voices sank to a whisper when they referred to the way he had conducted the battle of Algiers.
He had become the prototype of the soldier of fortune, and all of them wished to be like him.
The regiment was then back at base in Z. The text of the general’s signal was known an hour later in all the companies—more rapidly than usual owing to the fact that it was “secret and confidential.”
Groups began forming everywhere round warrant officers, who in their turn went off to find their platoon commanders or their captains.
Colour-Sergeant Buffier, whose opinion carried great weight, for he was an officer of the Légion d’Honneur and had repeatedly refused to be commissioned, declared:
“If they want Captain Boisfeuras let them come here and get him.”
And he had tapped his Colt with the flat of his hand.
Colonel Raspéguy went off at once to see the general at Sétif; Esclavier went with him, while Glatigny hastened to Algiers to try to get more information.
As a major, and later as a lieutenant-colonel, Hellion had been a great man, even though he stood no higher than a sack of potatoes. He was highly strung, agile and grumpy, and spoke through his nose, snorting all the time. Landing on a mined beach in Provence had cost him an arm and he waddled like a duck, so peppered with shrapnel were his legs. But, on being promoted to general, he had put on weight. The death of his son in Indo-China had not improved matters. He now longed for a quiet life and dreamt of being made an ambassador.
He was fond of Raspéguy—which was rare among the top brass—and Esclavier had been one of his son’s friends. He invited them to lunch.
Just by watching him unfold his napkin, Esclavier realized he was no longer the same man. General Hellion watched the arrival of the hors-d’œuvre with the veiled greed of a fat old ecclesiastic.
They had to wait till the dessert to bring up the subject of Boisfeuras.
Colonel Raspéguy, who had been irritated by the slow service, spoke brusquely and showed little tact:
“Sir, there’s no question of Boisfeuras being hauled before the courts for an order which I gave him and which he merely carried out. Neither my soldiers, nor my officers, nor I myself, would be able to tolerate that.”
The general, who was sipping his brandy, choked and his blotchy face went purple.
“Raspéguy, I’ve received an order signed by the Minister of National Defence which is addressed to Captain Boisfeuras and enjoins him to return to Paris as soon as possible. He is suspected of having wiped out Ben Mohadi, the deputy’s brother. He will be interrogated by an examining magistrate and if there’s anything against him, which I don’t believe, he’ll be brought to trial. I demand that this order be carried out forthwith. As soon as you get back to your unit you will inform me of the captain’s movement order. Tomorrow he’ll take the Air France plane from Maison Blanche. Bloody hell, Raspéguy, if I let him leave, and if the Minister has signed that order, it means your Boisfeuras is in no danger whatsoever! And now I don’t want to hear another word about this business.”
Hellion was as stubborn as a mule; Esclavier dragged the colonel off before he could say anything he might later have regretted.
Raspéguy refused, however, to shake hands with the general, who muttered:
“As difficult as ever. . . .”
Then Hellion went off to have his siesta.
In the car which drove them back Raspéguy declared that he would accompany Boisfeuras to Paris and would report with him before the examining magistrate.
“There’s something about this business I don’t understand,” he said. “You and Glatigny assured me that this time we had a Minister who was on our side and was interested in us paratroops. And here’s the bastard hauling one of my officers up before an examining magistrate for an act committed in wartime on orders from his superiors!”
Esclavier did not understand either. Glatigny still less, and that was why he had gone to Algiers.
* * * *
All the officers of the 10th Regiment were waiting for the colonel’s return. But already the news had reached the two other regiments who had come to support them in the operations at Z. They, too, had sent some officers to get further information.
A few hours later the two parachute divisions had heard all about it.
This phrase was being repeated everywhere, accompanied by a tap of the hand on the speaker’s revolver holster:
“If they want Boisfeuras let them come and get him.”
A united front had been formed round the captain’s name and it was certainly the first time that the paratroopers were all in agreement. They all felt that Algeria was about to be lost, that their sacrifices had been in vain. It was all for nothing that their comrades had been killed and that they themselves had soiled their hands.
Haunted again by the end of Indo-China, they imagined themselves disembarking once more at Marseilles, vanquished, and booed by the crowds.
And this time they would b
e not only vanquished but also guilty! The question of torture would be flung in their faces, and, for having obeyed their civilian and military superiors, they would be hauled into court.
They kept saying to one another:
“The fellaghas who’ve planted bombs and slit women’s and children’s throats will be called to give evidence against us. Christ Almighty, Yacef Saadi may perhaps give Colonel Godard the benefit of the doubt!”
All at once they were choked with the despair they had known after Dien-Bien-Phu and their anger on the day after the battle of Algiers.
At six o’clock in the evening signals began to pour in from all the regiments and the rear bases of Algiers and Constantine, followed shortly afterwards by a telephone call from Major de Glatigny:
“Boisfeuras is only the first of a long list on which the names of about a hundred paratroop officers are written down. This list has been drawn up by a senior officer in the Judge Advocate General’s department who’s in close touch with the progressivist circles in Paris.”
Once the machine was set in motion, it was therefore going to involve other officers after Boisfeuras.
Glatigny asserted that they had exploited the signature of the Minister, who had signed one paper among so many others without reading it. Ever since the resignation of the Gaillard cabinet he had been content to settle all outstanding business in a couple of hours.
“He might at least do his job properly,” muttered Raspéguy, who all the same felt somewhat reassured. “That’s what he’s paid for.”
A little later Marindelle in his turn telephoned from the antenna of the Ministry of National Defence, where Glatigny and Bonvillain had joined him. The plan of action he proposed could result only in a mutiny or a coup d’ état.
Boisfeuras witnessed all this agitation as an onlooker, as though the business did not concern him personally. His ugly mug was beaming at the sight of his comrades coming to grips with contradictions which he had never ceased pointing out to them:
“You can only wage revolutionary war with a revolutionary army, and such an army can only exist in a country which itself is in revolt. Our army has always been commanded by old fogeys who are subject to anachronistic rules and regulations. France is frightened of anything that might rouse her from her slumbers.”
That day he repeatedly warned them:
“If you put Marindelle’s plan into action you’re taking the first step towards lawlessness. Afterwards there’ll be no turning back: either you go into jug or send the whole bloody works sky high!”
“It’s on account of you, all the same,” Pinières pointed out.
“No, it isn’t. If this Mohadi business turns sour I can easily hop it. As you know, I’ve got bolt-holes all over the world. I don’t need much money and yet, if I like, I’ve got substantial sums at my disposal.
“But I’m staying with you, as I stayed with the Vietminh when it was only too easy for me to escape. I want to see. . . . Think it over carefully. If you follow Marindelle I shall be bound to you for ever, which worries me a bit.
“On the other hand, you’ll also have eliminated those contradictions which are preventing you from winning the war in Algeria.”
Boisfeuras could be exasperating when he wanted. He provoked his comrades, made himself as unpleasant as possible, so that their decision should not be influenced by the affection they had for him or by the memory of the hardships they had endured together. He tried to show them that he was not on their side, that he never had been, but also that their paths might perhaps cross, that they would then have to get rid of quite a number of habits and be prepared to be personally responsible for their actions, without referring at every moment to higher authority and regulations.
Pellegrin summed up the situation in a nutshell:
“In other words, no umbrella; therefore we get wet.”
Major Beudin did not agree. He kept shaking his head and saying:
“It’s going too far.”
He turned to Raspéguy:
“And you, Colonel, what’s your opinion?”
The colonel gave Esclavier a searching look:
“Are you in on this, Philippe?”
“Now, yes, I am.”
“Good. Do as you like. Whatever happens I’ll always be behind you. I was prepared to go to jug with Boisfeuras. We’re liable to be more numerous this time; there’ll be enough of us to get up a basket-ball team to play in the prison courtyard.
“No mistakes now, mind; this is the sort of mess when discipline is most needed. Don’t fool yourselves, this time it’s going to be a real show-down.”
All the officers felt that he was not too keen on the idea. They were grateful to him, however, for saying openly and in no uncertain terms what they were secretly thinking and at the same time for giving them proof of his solidarity.
The Marindelle plan was accepted wholesale by many of the officers who if approached individually would have rejected it. By tapping their holsters a little too readily, the officers and warrant officers had committed themselves in front of the men. In such a serious situation they could now no longer indulge in empty bluster.
At nine o’clock in the evening Raspéguy sent the following signal to General Hellion:
“In accordance with your orders, Captain Boisfeuras reported to Algiers, but a group of officers from the division have intercepted him and forbidden him to leave for Paris. The regiment is in a state of unrest and six of my captains have disappeared.”
Similar signals had reached the general’s desk from all the other units in the division, mentioning the unrest and anger in the regiments and reporting the disappearance of officers and even N.C.O.s.
It was then that Hellion decided to leave for Algiers that very evening, so as to see for himself what was going on.
By road, by plane or helicopter, a certain number of officers of the parachute division had already arrived at the Algerian capital. Finding themselves on unauthorized leave they felt as though they were playing truant, and the younger ones did not feel very comfortable when passing a patrol.
Lieutenant Pujol-Veyrier, who had driven over in Esclavier’s jeep, never let him out of his sight. He was an extremely handsome lad, healthy and athletic. He could have played virile “playboy” parts on the screen if he had not been afflicted with a lisp.
Ever since leaving the damp moors of Coetquidan for the division he had made every effort to resemble the captain, copying his manner, trying to be as arrogant as he was and running after girls far more than he wanted to.
In the Boulevard du Télémly the lieutenant raised his finger in the air and pointed out a terrace on top of a block of flats:
“That’s where they live, sir.”
“That’s where who live?”
“The air hostesses. It’s an absolute hen-house! Half of them are flying, the other half waiting to take off. You arrange to meet Odette and it’s Geneviève who turns up instead. We might go up and have a drink.”
“Why not?”
Having no small change for the lift, the two officers climbed the twelve floors on foot.
Esclavier fumed:
“The French in Algeria are a sordid lot. They can’t resist taking a cut on anything they can grab. Making the tenants of a block of flats pay for the lift! Five francs to go up, five to come down again!
“They charge a soldier twice as much for a glass of wine, a tin of sardines or a sausage. . . . And we have to wear our guts out for people like that!”
“But, sir——”
“Are you wondering what we came into Algiers for today? For me it’s simple: there’s a pal of mine by the name of Boisfeuras, and they want to put him in clink; a regiment which I have made my life, and they’re trying to destroy it. I won’t have it.
“There’s only one way left for us to defend ourselves: Marindelle’s sche
me. You see, it’s not because I like the French or Moslem Algerians that I’m fighting, but because we can’t allow ourselves to lose this war. Vanquished, we would be the torturers of Algiers, gangs of Fascists in the pay of the big settlers. As victors, they will leave us in peace.
“We shan’t lose this war in Algeria, but in Paris. If we have to bring the war to Paris it’s too bad for those who force us to do so.”
They rang the doorbell and were welcomed in by a little brunette with mischievous eyes, who moved with the grace and litheness of a cat. . . .
“I say, I don’t know that one,” said Lieutenant Pujol-Veyrier, “she must be a friend of Geneviève’s. Mademoiselle, let me introduce Captain Esclavier.”
A little later, with his nose in a glass of whisky, Esclavier replied to a question the brunette had just asked him:
“What frightens me above all is boredom. This war in Algeria is becoming sheer routine. As it collapses, it gives off a smell of charnel-house and stale cooking. We’ve got to change all that.”
The brunette was very impressed, and the young lieutenant told himself that from time to time one has to talk to women about serious matters. It makes them more receptive.
* * * *
Boisfeuras had joined Marindelle in his office. He sat tilting his chair backwards, while his friend, with feverish gestures, was explaining the situation to Orsini:
“We shan’t win this war unless we have the country behind us and a government that supports us. There’s no point in killing off fellaghas; they rise again from their own ashes. The Moslems have no confidence in the French Algerians, who have never stopped pulling the wool over their eyes, or in the civil administration which has always served the settlers, twisting to their own advantage the liberal laws promulgated in Paris. What’s left of the 1947 decrees?
“The Moslem has always known that the soldier is his only protector. It was the officers of the Arab Bureaux who prevented the settlers from appropriating all their land. But it was the settlers who had these officers dismissed, taking advantage of the defeat of 1870 to replace them with an administration which suited their book, and, later on, by elected candidates whose election they controlled.
The Praetorians Page 13
