The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  “That’s pretty sound reasoning,” Boisfeuras observed.

  “I’ve bought twelve hundred of these caps.”

  “Who’s going to pay for them?” Boudin moaned, throwing his arms into the air, “the supplies branch will never stand for this!”

  “Don’t worry, Boudin, it’s only a matter of twenty thousand francs. It’s an old stock from the Afrika Corps. I shall be flying out next week with you and Esclavier. Leroy and Orsini will follow us, then the rest of you. I want everyone to be in the Camp des Pins by 15 February.”

  Edouard appeared on the threshold with some bottles of champagne.

  “I should like this regiment which has just come into being in the Brent Bar to be christened properly,” he said. “I was hoping this was going to be a plot to send the Republic sky high. Well, nothing’s perfect, but everything comes in its own good time.”

  “Were you eavesdropping?” Raspéguy asked him.

  “We old Intelligence hands . . .”

  “You’re being very generous for a barman.”

  “I’m also the owner.”

  “Then who’s that puppet who struts about upstairs with his hands behind his back?”

  “A manager, whom I pay.”

  Raspéguy raised his glass:

  “I drink to the great adventure which is beginning here and now. From it there may emerge a new army and a new nation. I drink to our victory, because this time, enough’s enough, we can’t afford any more defeats.”

  PART THREE

  THE RUE DE LA BOMBE

  1

  THE MUTINEERS OF VERSAILLES

  Dressed in filthy old tunics, unshaven and with unkempt hair, Bucelier, Bistenave and Geoffrin were digging into some skewered meat at Manuel’s, a bistro just outside the camp.

  “The rosé is quite good,” said Bistenave, “a little on the strong side, but still quite good. All the same, that’s not a good enough reason for hanging on to Algeria.”

  Bucelier and Geoffrin had not yet got used to Bistenave. He was just as scruffy as any of the other reservists, but he spoke with studied elegance and smoked expensive, cork-tipped cigarettes.

  “To hell with them all anyway,” said Geoffrin, who felt he had to go one better.

  He was the only volunteer and was anxious this short-coming should be overlooked. Bistenave took no notice of him.

  “Still no Raspéguy. He’s been reported in Algiers, and also in les Pins, but so far no one’s laid eyes on him.”

  “This morning,” said Bucelier, “by the cook-house, I heard a sergeant-major whom I’d never seen before shouting his head off; he was young, decked out like a prince and clanking with medals. Must have been one of the ones Raspéguy brought out with him.”

  “And what was this sergeant-major of yours saying?”

  “That the cook-house was filthy, the meat rotten, the wine and vegetables bought at a discount, that the whole thing stank of the black market and pay-offs and that if the men felt like burning down the barracks, he himself would provide them with matches. Then he kicked over a mess-tin of gravy because it was dirty.”

  The information Bistenave had managed to obtain in Algiers on Colonel Raspéguy had been extremely contradictory. Some said he was a lineshooter, a cross between a killer and a film-star, who liked to remind people he was from the working class, which flattered the men, and that he was a sergeant on the reserve in 1939, which pleased the N.C.O.s. Others, who appeared to be better informed, described him as a born leader, with few scruples, a taste for fighting and danger, a sharp mind capable of adapting itself to every situation, to every form of warfare, and backed up by a team of former prisoners from the Vietminh camps.

  Up till now Bistenave had only had to exploit the adversary’s faults to sow disorder all round him and to create what he was pleased to call “anarchy and revolution in the service of peace.” He recalled the reservists’ arrival at the barracks of Versailles. No arrangements had been made to receive them; there were no beds in the rooms, only a few palliasses, some mildewed blankets and that rancid, clinging smell of rifle oil, moth-balls and dish-water. The reservists, who resented being snatched away from their civilian way of life, their wives and their apéritifs, had boiled over with rage. An old quartermaster-sergeant with a fat paunch had confined himself to telling them in that tone of excuse and complicity which cowards readily assume:

  “It’s not my fault, I haven’t been issued with anything else. Personally, I think it’s pretty bad. If it depended on me . . . No, there are no officers here; they’re all at home.”

  Bistenave had summed up the situation:

  “This is a damned insult.”

  He had then thrown a palliasse out of the window; all his comrades had followed his example and in a few minutes, blankets, palliasses, “biscuits,” bolsters and bedsteads lay scattered in the courtyard outside.

  The military police had not dared to intervene and the “mutineers” had gone off to sleep in town.

  No measures were taken against them next day. A doddery, extremely paternal old major had given them a mild telling-off, as though they were children who had raided the pantry.

  Then they had been issued with old uniforms dragged out from an ordnance store which had not been in use since 1945. Boots were in short supply, so they had been allowed to keep the shoes they had been wearing on reporting to the barracks, and their high, pointed forage-caps dated from the 1939 war.

  The food served in the dining-hall at lunchtime had been uneatable: a sort of greyish-coloured stew with a few bits of tainted meat floating in it; the wine had been watered down; the bread was mouldy; and there were not enough mess-tins to go round.

  Bistenave had only had to give the signal and everything was reduced to a shambles; mess-tins, water-bottles, tables and benches were sent flying, while the reservists started chanting: “Down with the war in Algeria.” A few of them had struck up the “International,” but their comrades had not joined in the singing. Singing the “International” in an army barracks reminded them vaguely of the Commune and firing squads at dawn in the ditches of the Château de Vincennes.

  A horrified duty officer had reported to the colonel:

  “They’re going to burn the whole place down, sir; they’ve mutinied and are now parading with a red flag and singing the ‘International.’”

  The colonel was a morose, pessimistic creature who, knowing he would never be promoted to general, delighted in catastrophes.

  “What did I tell you? These youngsters—Communists, all of them. It’s all the fault of that man de Gaulle who brought Thorez back. What can we do about it?”

  “What if you had a word with them?”

  “Are you trying to be funny? Just to be insulted by that rabble? Call the C.R.S., and quickly, before they break everything in sight. This is a job for them.”

  Two C.R.S. trucks had driven up in the afternoon. Wearing steel helmets and armed with submachine-guns, the police had immediately occupied the arms depot which contained nothing but a few rusty old carbines and had then surrounded the building held by the “mutineers.”

  Bistenave had felt that his comrades were losing heart. There was talk of decimation, of Biribi and Tataouine. No one offered any resistance to the C.R.S.

  Composing his voice, the old major had ordered the ring-leaders to step forward. His appearance on the scene had re-assured the “mutineers of Versailles,” as the newspapers already called them. It was hard to imagine this old dodderer taking severe disciplinary measures.

  The reservists were herded into trucks and then transferred on to a train which was halted in the open countryside.

  There were a few juicy, revolutionary scenes in the manner of The Battleship Potemkin, which Bistenave, as a follower of avant-garde films, found much to his liking: women lying down on the railway lines, alarm bells being rung every half-hour,
shouts, scuffles and arrests.

  The sea was rough throughout the crossing and Bistenave himself was sick. Algiers appeared early in the morning, dazzling white, with its terraced houses and modern blocks of flats.

  The reservists were expecting a state of war. They found a port buzzing with activity, a town completely at peace.

  A sentry, whose steel helmet and submachine-gun gave him a certain warlike aspect, was good enough to tell them that there were never any outrages in the daytime but that the previous night, at the Clos Salembier, seven people had been killed and twelve wounded.

  “They all had their throats cut,” he said, and ran his hand across his neck by way of illustration.

  As a “disciplinary measure,” the three hundred mutineers of Versailles were posted to the Camp des Pins with the paratroops of the 10th Colonial Regiment, where, they were assured, “they would be put through it.”

  Bistenave was quickly reassured by the sloppiness and low morale of this unit. He felt that the game was up, that the war in Algeria was as good as lost, if the best troops in the French army were like these flabby, loud-mouthed tramps.

  He was even somewhat dismayed; but the role he had set himself demanded that he should be the sloppiest of the lot and that he should do his utmost to accelerate the process of decomposition. By temperament he was inclined to be a neat and tidy man.

  Without ever thrusting himself forward, without running the risk of a showdown, he had become the real ring-leader of the reservists.

  And while he sipped his rosé wine and munched his skewered mutton, he tried to imagine how he would set about it if he, Bistenave, were entrusted with the task of restoring order to this band of hoodlums. One must sometimes put oneself in one’s adversary’s place to understand him the better.

  At the midday meal the food had already shown considerable improvement; in the evening it was even better. Sergeant-Major Vincenier had been joined by two colour-sergeants; they showed no interest in the men, appeared not to notice them at all and confined themselves to administrative duties.

  Three parachutists and two reservists passed Captain Esclavier and Lieutenant Orsini in the main street of Staouéli. Sheepishly, they saluted them.

  “You needn’t salute,” Esclavier told them in that dry voice of his. “I’m used to returning a soldier’s salute, not an animal’s. Out of the way.”

  On the following day Sergeant-Major Métayer, commonly called Polyphème, made his appearance. He was a legend among the paratroops, like Raspéguy, like Esclavier: an officer of the Légion d’Honneur, mentioned in dispatches seventeen times, wounded four times, he refused to accept a commission. His feats of valour were the talk of every mess, his toughness and love of a scrap were common knowledge.

  Métayer was short and thickset and wore a black patch over one eye. He called the reservists out on parade and less than half of them turned up; he dismissed them all, called them out again, and three-quarters of them appeared. There was a certain amount of muttering in the ranks. He called them out on parade for the third time.

  “I’m in no hurry,” he said.

  When they were all present, he inspected them at his leisure and everyone could see the profound disgust on his face. Then he dismissed them without further ado.

  Next day a further lot of N.C.O.s and three new officers appeared and the camp was soon going full blast. But this activity had no effect on the reservists.

  Bistenave managed to buttonhole Geoffrin as he rushed past him panting.

  “What the hell’s going on?” he asked.

  “Things are moving. We’re being issued with new uniforms, new jumping boots, and weapons. We’re off into the mountains, it seems.”

  “What about us?”

  “Polyphème says that the Old Man . . .”

  “What old man?”

  “Raspéguy is moving heaven and earth in Algiers to get rid of the lot of you; he says the 10th is not a punishment unit. I must be off.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I’ve been waiting a whole year for a new uniform.”

  “Eager beavers, these volunteers,” said Bucelier.

  Three days later the paratroops were newly equipped and their uniforms altered; their moustaches and beards had disappeared; their hair was no more than an inch long; and all of them wore a strange cap which made their faces look leaner and gave them the appearance of young wolves.

  They walked about, shoulders squared and chest thrust out, and had less and less to do with the reservists.

  “Well, how’s it going?” Raspéguy asked Esclavier.

  The colonel had moved into a little villa on the edge of the sea. He never left the house but, with Boudin’s assistance, was busy going through the personal files of every man in his new regiment.

  Esclavier sat down in a wicker armchair. He looked distraught.

  “These eight hundred men of the 10th—recruited from every walk of life, badly officered, badly commanded for over a year, left to their own devices for the last three months, flabby, in poor shape, no reactions; paratroops only from the point of view of brashness and swagger. Get into brawls in cafés, and more often than not get the worst of it. Yesterday evening four of them who were showing off in front of their comrades got themselves thrown out of Manuel’s with a good boot in the ass—and by artillerymen!”

  “Have you got their names?”

  “Yes: Privat, Sapinsky, Mugnier, Verteneuve . . .”

  “And the reservists?”

  “A cigarette in the corner of their mouths, hands in their pockets, they’re looking on at our men getting a move on: a little uneasy all the same.”

  “Do you know who the ringleaders are?”

  “We only know of two at the moment: Bistenave and Geoffrin. Geoffrin is probably a Commie. About Bistenave, we’re not so certain. But according to Polyphème he’s the one who’s leading them on.”

  “What’s his profession?”

  “A priest,” Boudin replied, utterly aghast.

  “What did you say?”

  “Yes, a priest, that’s to say he’s studying for the priesthood. He hasn’t yet finished his training; he’s not yet ordained, I mean. Good family; his father was a quartermaster colonel; yes, he’s the son of Fleur de Nave whom de Lattre pitched out of Indo-China as soon as he landed.”

  “Is the circus show ready for tomorrow?”

  “We’ve set up three loudspeakers. First parade will be on the beach at eight o’clock. Boisfeuras managed to get hold of the records.”

  At six o’clock in the morning Bistenave was awakened with a start by the “Partisan Song” blaring from the loudspeakers:

  Friend, do you hear the black flight of the ravens in the plains

  Friend, do you hear the dull cry of your country in chains . . .

  He shook Bucelier.

  “Listen, tell me it isn’t true . . . the ‘Partisan Song’ . . . here . . .”

  “It sounds very much like it to me,” said Bucelier. “They’ve got a nerve, these Fascists.”

  “They say that Raspéguy commanded some partisans during the war,” said Mougin, “and that Captain Esclavier was tortured by the Germans. So they have every right to adopt the ‘Partisan Song’ themselves.”

  “Not in this war,” Bistenave drily observed.

  The camp had been transformed overnight. A flagpost had been erected in the middle of it, on which fluttered the tricolour and below it a long black pennant with the motto “I dare.”

  “That can’t be denied,” said Bistenave, “he certainly dares.”

  “On your feet, men,” blared a loudspeaker. “In ten minutes all the paratroops parade on the beach in singlet and shorts . . .”

  “What about us?” said Mougin.

  “They’re not going to bother about lepers like us,” Estreville fumed, “we�
��re just left to rot in our filthy tents, in our tattered battledress . . .”

  The “juice” arrived with slices of buttered bread and jam. The juice smelt of coffee, the bread was fresh: yet another innovation.

  “Things have begun to look up since Raspéguy got here,” Torlase observed. “At least there’s something fit to eat.”

  The loudspeakers were playing regional tunes and “Sur les Quais de Paris.”

  At eight o’clock the regiment was drawn up in a hollow square on the beach. The sky was crystal-clear and a smell of iodine and salt was wafted in from the sea which broke in gentle waves of grey and green.

  The reservists formed the fourth corner of the square. Polyphème had simply told them:

  “Stand there—in line, if you can.”

  The warrant-officers were barking away to get their men in position and kept dressing and re-dressing the ranks. The paratroops were soon in perfect line, whereas the reservists looked like a herd of goats that had halted there at random.

  “This can’t go on,” said Bucelier.

  “You’re going to get it, you know,” Bistenave gently remarked.

  “I don’t care. What do we look like? Don’t listen to him, you men.”

  He stepped out of the ranks and tried to draw his comrades up in line.

  “Come on now, straighten up. Pull your stomachs in. You there, shift along a bit; and you, move up . . .”

  Polyphème appeared behind Bucelier:

  “You say, ‘By the right, dress.’ That’s the usual word of command.”

  And Bucelier found himself shouting:

  “By the right, dress.”

  “In every Commie there subconsciously lurks a military man,” Bistenave thought to himself.

  Raspéguy stepped inside the square, followed by Boudin and Esclavier. All three wore their medals hanging from their breast. Bistenave heard the men behind him saying:

  “You see that thing Raspéguy’s wearing just below the others. That’s the star of a Grand Officer of the Légion d’Honneur. He’s the only lieutenant-colonel who’s been given it.”