The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  I cannot believe that all this is true and yet recent wars have shown how pernicious such a state of mind could be and to where it could lead.

  Make haste to reassure me, I beg you, and tell me that our fellow-citizens understand us, support us and protect us as we ourselves are protecting the glory of the Empire.

  If it should be otherwise, if we should have to leave our bleached bones on these desert sands in vain, then beware of the anger of the Legions!

  MARCUS FLAVINUS,

  CENTURION IN THE 2ND COHORT OF THE AUGUSTA LEGION,

  TO HIS COUSIN TERTULLUS IN ROME

  Author’s Note

  I knew them well, the centurions of the wars of Indo-China and Algeria. At one time I was one of their number; then, as a journalist, I became their observer and, on occasion, their confidant.

  I shall always feel attached to those men, even if I should ever disagree with the course they choose to follow, but I feel in no way bound to give a conventional or idealised picture of them.

  This book is first and foremost a novel and the characters in it are imaginary. They might at a pinch, through some feature or incident, recall one or another of my former comrades now famous or dead and forgotten. But there is not one of these characters to whom one could put a name without going astray. On the other hand, the facts, the situations, the scenes of action are almost all taken from real life and I have endeavoured to adhere to the correct dates.

  I dedicate this book to the memory of all the centurions who perished so that Rome might survive.

  JEAN LARTÉGUY

  PART ONE

  CAMP ONE

  1

  CAPTAIN DE GLATIGNY’S SENSE OF MILITARY HONOUR

  Tied up to one another, the prisoners looked like a column of caterpillars on the march. They emerged into a little basin, flanked by their Vietminh guards who kept yelling at them: “Di-di, mau-len . . . Keep going, get a move on!” All of them remembered those bicycle-rickshaws they used to take at Hanoi or Saigon only a few weeks or a few months before. They used to shout at the coolies in the same way: “Mau-len, mau-len . . . Get a move on, you bastard, there’s a pretty little half-caste waiting for me in the Rue Catinat. She’s such a slut that if I’m even ten minutes late she’ll have found someone else. Mau-len, mau-len! Our leave’s over, the battalion’s been alerted, we probably jump tonight. Mau-len, hurry up and get past that bit of garden and that slender beckoning figure in white!”

  The basin looked like any other in this part of the country. The trail emerged from the valley, hemmed in between the mountains and the forest, and came out on to a system of rice-fields fitted one into another like inlaid chequer-work. The geometrical pattern of the little mud embankments seemed to separate the colours: the various shades of deep, deep green which are those of paddy-grass.

  The village in the middle of the basin had been destroyed. All that remained was a few charred piles rising above the tall elephant-grass. The inhabitants had fled into the forest, but even so the Political Committee were using these piles as propaganda hoardings. There was a crudely drawn poster of a Thai couple in national dress, the woman with her flat hat, close-fitting bodice and flowing skirt, the man with his baggy black trousers and short jacket. They were represented giving an enthusiastic welcome to a bo-doi, a victorious soldier of the Democratic Republic of Viet-Nam, with a palm-fibre helmet on his head and a huge yellow star on a red ground pinned to his tunic.

  A bo-doi similar to the one in the poster, but who was walking barefoot and carrying a submachine-gun, gave a signal for the prisoners to halt. They sank down into the tall grass on the edge of the trail; they could not use their arms, which were tied behind them, and squirmed about like fragments of worms.

  A Thai peasant had come out of the bush and sidled up towards the prisoners. The bo-doi exhorted him with sharp little phrases which sounded like slogans. Soon there was a whole group of them, all dressed in black, looking at the captured Frenchmen.

  This spectacle seemed incredible to them and they could not decide what attitude to adopt. Not knowing what to do, they stood silent and motionless, ready to take flight. Perhaps they would suddenly see the “long noses” break their bonds and knock down their guards.

  One of the Thais, by dint of every kind of precaution and expression of courtesy, questioned another bo-doi who had just appeared, armed with a heavy Czech rifle which he held in both hands. Very gently, in the protective tone of an elder brother speaking to a younger, the bo-doi replied, but his false modesty made his triumph seem all the more unbearable to Lieutenant Pinières. He rolled over towards Lieutenant Merle:

  “Don’t you think that Viet’s got the nasty expression of a Jesuit on his way back from the Sunday auto-da-fé? They burnt the witch at Dien-Bien-Phu and he must be telling them all about it. The witch was us.”

  Boisfeuras spoke up in his rasping voice, which to Pinières sounded as self-satisfied as the bo-doi’s:

  “He’s telling them that the Vietnamese people have beaten the imperialists and that they’re now free.”

  The Thai had translated this to his companions. He, in his turn, gave himself airs, assumed a protective manner and lordly demeanour, as though the mere fact of speaking the language of these strange little soldiers, masters of the French, allowed him to participate in their victory.

  The Thais gave one or two delighted cries, but not too loud—a few exclamations and smiles, but which they suppressed—and drew closer to the prisoners to have a better look.

  The bo-doi raised his hand and made a speech.

  “Well, Captain Boisfeuras,” Pinières inquired sourly, “what are they saying now?”

  “The Viet’s talking about President Ho’s policy of leniency and telling them not to ill-treat the prisoners, which had never even crossed their minds. The Viet would willingly incite them to do so if only for the pleasure of holding them back. He’s also telling them that at five o’clock this afternoon the garrison of Dien-Bien-Phu surrendered.”

  “Long live President Ho!” the bo-doi exclaimed at the end of his harangue.

  “Long live President Ho!” the group echoed in the toneless, solemn voice of schoolchildren.

  Night had fallen with no intervening twilight. Swarms of mosquitoes and other insect pests set upon the arms, legs and bare chests of the Frenchmen. The Viets could at least fan themselves with leafy branches.

  By rolling his body forward, which forced his neighbours likewise to shift theirs, Pinières had drawn a little closer to Glatigny who was looking up at the sky and appeared to be lost in thought.

  He was the one they had to thank for being tied up together, for he had fallen foul of the Political Commissar. But none of the twenty men shackled to him held it against him, except perhaps Boisfeuras, who had not, however, ventured an opinion on the subject.

  “I say, sir, where does this fellow Boisfeuras come from, who speaks their lingo?”

  Pinières addressed everyone by the familiar “tu,” except Glatigny, out of deference, and Boisfeuras, to show him his dislike.

  Glatigny seemed to have some difficulty in shaking off his thoughts. He had to make a great effort to reply:

  “I’ve only known him for forty-eight hours. He showed up at the strong-point on the 4th of May, in the evening, and it’s a miracle he got through with his convoy of Pims* laden with ammo and supplies. I’d never heard of him until then.”

  Pinières mumbled something and rubbed his head against a tuft of grass to get rid of the mosquitoes.

  • • •

  Glatigny was anxious to forget the fall of Dien-Bien-Phu, but the events of the last six days, the attacks that had been launched against the strong-point of Marianne II, which he commanded, all these had welded together in a sort of mould so as to form a solid block of weariness and horror.

  The height had been three-quarters surrounded. The Vietminh infantry atta
cked every night and their heavy mortars harassed the position all day. Out of the whole battalion only forty men were left unscathed or lightly wounded. The rest mingled with the mud in the shell-holes.

  During the night Glatigny had made a final wireless contact with Raspéguy, who had just been promoted to lieutenant-colonel; there was no one else replying to signals or issuing orders. He was the one to whom Glatigny had sent his S O S:

  “I’ve no more supplies, sir, no more ammo, and they’re over-running the position where we’re fighting hand to hand.”

  Raspéguy’s voice, slightly grating but still retaining some of the sing-song intonation of the Basque language, reassured him and infused him with warmth, like a glass of wine after a severe strain.

  “Stick it out, man. I’ll try and get something through to you.”

  This was the first time the great paratrooper had addressed him by “tu.” Raspéguy did not take kindly to staff officers or anyone else too closely in touch with the generals, and Glatigny had once been aide-de-camp to the commander-in-chief.

  Dawn had broken once again and for a moment a silhouette had blocked the rectangle of light which marked the entrance to the shelter.

  The silhouette had bent down, then straightened up again. The man in the mud-stained uniform had carefully laid his American carbine down on the table, then taken off the steel helmet which he was wearing on top of his bush hat. He was barefoot and his trousers were rolled up to his knees. When he turned towards Glatigny, the dull light of that rainy morning had brought out the colour of his eyes which were a very pale watery green.

  He had introduced himself:

  “Captain Boisfeuras. I’ve got forty Pims and about thirty cases with me.”

  The two previous convoys had been forced back after trying to cover the three hundred yards which still connected Marianne II to Marianne III by a shapeless communication trench filled with liquid mud which was under fire from the Viets.

  Boisfeuras had taken a piece of paper out of his pocket and checked his list:

  “Two thousand seven hundred hand-grenades, fifteen thousand rounds; but there are no more mortar shells and I had to leave the ration boxes behind at Marianne III.”

  “How did you manage to get through?” asked Glatigny who was not counting on any further assistance.

  “I persuaded my Pims that they had to keep going.”

  Glatigny looked at Boisfeuras more closely. He was rather short, five foot seven at the most, with slim hips and broad shoulders. He had about the same build as a native of the Haute Région: strong and at the same time slender. Without his prominent nose and full lips, he could have been taken for a half-caste; his rather grating voice emphasized this impression.

  “What’s the latest?” Glatigny asked.

  “We’re going to be attacked tomorrow, at nightfall, by 308 Division, the toughest of the lot; that’s why I dumped the ration boxes so as to bring up a little more ammo.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Before coming up with the convoy, I went for a little stroll among the Viets and took a prisoner. He was from the 308th and he told me.”

  “H.Q. never let me know.”

  “I forgot to bring the prisoner back—he was a bit of a nuisance—so they wouldn’t believe me.”

  While he spoke he had wiped his hands on his hat and taken a cigarette out of Glatigny’s packet, which was the last he had left.

  “Got a light? Thanks. Can I move in here?”

  “You’re not going back to H.Q.?”

  “What for? We’re done for there, as we are here. The 308th have been reorganized completely; they’re going to go all out and mop up everything that’s still standing.”

  Glatigny began to feel irritated by the newcomer’s complacency and also by that supercilious glint he could see in his eye. He tried to put him in his place:

  “I suppose it was that prisoner of yours who told you all this as well.”

  “No, but a couple of weeks ago I went through the base area of the 308th and I saw the columns of reinforcements arriving.”

  “So you’re in a position to stroll about among the Viets, are you?”

  “Dressed as a nha-que, I’m more or less unrecognizable and I speak Vietnamese pretty well.”

  “But where have you come from?”

  “From the Chinese border. I was running some guerrilla bands up there. One day I got the order to drop everything and make for Dien-Bien-Phu. It took me a month.”

  A Nung partisan dressed in the same uniform as the captain now came into the strong-point.

  “It’s Min, my batman,” said Boisfeuras. “He was up there with me.”

  He began speaking to him in his language. The Nung shook his head. Then he lowered his eyes, put his carbine down next to his officer’s, took off his equipment and went out.

  “What did you say to him?” asked Glatigny whose curiosity had got the better of his antipathy.

  “I told him to clear out. He’s going to try and get to Luang-Prabang through the Nam-Ou valley.”

  “You could escape as well if you tried . . .”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not going to. I don’t want to miss an experience which might be extremely interesting.”

  “Isn’t it an officer’s duty to try and escape?”

  “I haven’t been captured yet; nor have you. But after tomorrow we’ll both be prisoners . . . or corpses; it’s all in the game.”

  “You could join the guerrillas who are around Dien-Bien-Phu.”

  “There are no guerrillas around Dien-Bien-Phu, or if there are they’re hand in glove with the Viets. There again we failed, like everywhere else . . . because we didn’t wage the right sort of war.”

  “I was still with the C.-in-C. a month ago. He didn’t keep anything hidden from me. I took part in the formation of all those bands, and I never heard about any on the Chinese border.”

  “They didn’t always keep to the border; occasionally they even went across into China. I took my orders direct from Paris, from a service attached to the Présidence du Conseil. No one knew of my existence; like that I could always be disowned if anything happened.”

  “If we’re taken prisoner you’re liable to get it in the neck from the Viets.”

  “They don’t know anything about me. I was operating against the Chinese, not against the Viets. My war, if you like, was less localized than yours. Whether in the West, the East or the Far East, Communism forms a whole, and it’s childish to think that by attacking one of the members of this community you can localize the conflict. A few men in Paris had realized this.”

  “You don’t know me from Adam yet you seem to be trusting me already to the extent of telling me things that I might have preferred not to know.”

  “We’re going to have to live together, Captain de Glatigny, maybe for a long time. I liked your attitude when you learned that it was all up with Dien-Bien-Phu and left the C.-in-C., a man of your class and your tradition, to get yourself dropped here.

  “I interpreted that attitude in a sense which perhaps you had never intended. In my eyes, you had abandoned the moribund establishment to rejoin the soldiers and the common herd, those who do the actual fighting, the foundation-stone of any army.”

  That was how Glatigny made the acquaintance of Boisfeuras who now lay a few feet away from him, a prisoner like himself.

  • • •

  During the night Boisfeuras shifted closer to Glatigny.

  “The age of heroics is over,” he said, “at least the age of cinema heroics. The new armies will have neither regimental standards nor military bands. They will have to be first and foremost efficient. That’s what we’re going to learn and that’s the reason I didn’t try and escape.”

  He held his two hands out to Glatigny, and the latter saw that he had slipped out of his fetters. But he h
ad no reaction; he was even rather bored by Boisfeuras. Everything came to him from a great distance, like an echo.

  Glatigny was lying like a gun dog, his jutting shoulder bearing the weight of his body.

  The crests of the mountains surrounding the basin stood out clearly against the dark background of the night. Clouds drifted across the sky and from time to time the close or distant sound of an aircraft could be heard in the silence.

  He felt no particular urge other than a very remote and very vague desire for warmth. His physical exhaustion was such that he had the impression of being withdrawn from the world, pushed beyond his limits and enabled to contemplate himself from outside. Perhaps this was what Le-Thuong meant by Nirvana.

  At Saigon the Buddhist monk Le-Thuong had tried to initiate him into the mysteries of fasting.

  “The first few days,” he had told him, “you think of nothing but food. However fervent your prayers and your longing for union with God, all your spiritual exercises, all your meditations are tainted by material desires. The liberation of the mind occurs between the eighth and the tenth day. In a few hours it detaches itself from the body. Independent of it, it appears in a startling purity which is made up of lucidity, objectivity and penetrating understanding. Between the thirty-fifth and fortieth day, in the midst of this purity, the urge for food occurs again: this is the final alarm signal given by the organism on the point of exhaustion. Beyond this biological limit, metaphysics cease to exist.”

  Since dawn on 7 May Glatigny had been in this condition. He had the strange feeling of having two separate states of consciousness, one of which was weakening more and more at every moment but still impelled him to give certain orders, make certain gestures, such as tearing off his badges of rank when he had been captured, while the other took refuge in a sort of dull, morose form of contemplation. Until then he had always lived in a world which was concrete, active, friendly or hostile, but logical even in absurdity.