The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  No, on second thoughts, he would have gone over to the other side just the same, to avenge a number of other injustices, to remind the French that the Algerian also was entitled to be treated with respect.

  Two bursts from a F.M. and the explosion of three grenades interrupted his soliloquy. Si Lahcen slipped the Military Medal into his pocket and ran out of the cave. A platoon of Frenchmen approaching up the crevice had been well and truly engaged.

  The group leader, Mahmoud, motioned Si Lahcen to come forward and showed him, a hundred yards farther down, the bodies of two paratroopers, pathetic little mounds of camouflage cloth, and, a little farther on, the wounded W.T. operator with his set attached to his back; he was signalling to his comrades who had taken cover behind some rocks.

  “Just watch, Si Lahcen,” said Mahmoud, “like hunting game . . .” A paratrooper had rushed forward and was trying to drag the W.T. operator back, while his comrades opened up with all they had got to give him covering fire. The group leader calmly took aim. Hit full in the head, the lizard collapsed on top of his comrade.

  “Would you like the next one?” asked Mahmoud.

  Si Lahcen took up a rifle and finished off the W.T. operator. Then he turned back towards the cave. Information had just come in that on his right flank the paratroops were beginning in creep forward and were now holding the ridge overlooking the open ground.

  Ibrahim came and joined him in the cave. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he lit a cigarette, then drew his watch out of his waistcoat pocket; it was a big silver hunter which had been given him by his boss, a settler on the outskirts of P ——. He was quite fond of him but destiny had willed that the roumi should be inside the farmhouse with his wife and children when it was set on fire. He put the watch carefully back in his pocket.

  “Ten o’clock in the morning, Si Lahcen, and it won’t be dark till ten o’clock at night; it’s going to be a long wait. They will have all the time in the world to send for their aircraft and perhaps some artillery as well.”

  “We could have made for the heights and then dispersed, but only at dawn and you arrived too late.”

  Si Lahcen sent for his five group leaders and told them his plan:

  “We shall hang on until nightfall, then attempt a break-out at the weakest point of the ‘enemy lines’ and make for the river-bed.” For technical words or expressions, Si Lahcen invariably used French and he took a certain pleasure in displaying his military knowledge in front of his subordinates. “We’re cut off from the mountains . . . Anyone attempting to surrender will be shot out of hand; the wounded will have to be abandoned. We may be attacked from the air, so dig in more deeply, and be quick about it . . .”

  The group leaders started to embark on one of those endless discussions during which no problem is ever solved but which provides an excuse for killing time and exchanging cigarettes, noble thoughts and, occasionally, insults.

  Three mortar shells landed in front of the cave, putting an end to the chikaia. There was a scream from a man who had been wounded. The group leaders rushed back to their men who were firing like lunatics; their bullets whined and ricocheted off the bare rocks.

  Another company was now doubling across the open ground under the spasmodic and therefore rather ineffective fire of the rebel automatic weapons. Si Lahcen gave orders for the mortar to fire, but the shells fell well beyond.

  From the top of the peak the long files of soldiers looked like columns of clumsy, stubborn ants as they stumbled over the obstacles or vanished behind them and reappeared again. The Tyrolean rucksack which the paratroopers wore on their backs gave them enormous thoraces and spindly little legs.

  Lying flat on his stomach outside the cave, Si Lahcen kept them under observation. The leading sections presently arrived at the foot of the peak and disappeared from view.

  A reconnaissance plane appeared in the sky, little bigger than a fly and insistently buzzing like a fly. It turned and, growing larger, became a bird of prey whose savage shadow swept the rocks. In spite of his orders, the moujahidines fired at it, thereby giving away their positions. The aircraft appeared to be hit, it dipped one wing and swooped down towards the plain with the slow, graceful movement of a wounded sea bird.

  A few minutes later two fighter planes roared over the ridge. On their first run they dropped some bombs which burst with an ear-shattering explosion, causing a hail of stones but no damage. On the second run they fired rockets and four men crouching in a hole were killed. One of them was seen to leap into the air, his back broken, like a wild rabbit that has just received a full charge of buck-shot.

  Lahcen knew they would come in again and machine-gun at a low altitude. Only this time the aircraft would be vulnerable to F.M. and rifle fire.

  One of the planes roared over the cave, firing all its guns. Burning-hot shell-cases rained down round Si Lahcen who was still lying prone at the entrance.

  Then there was silence. Si Lahcen crept forward under cover of the rocks and inspected his positions. The machine-gunning had killed two of his men and two others were seriously wounded. The casualties had been hit in the stomach and there was no chance of their surviving. That at least was the opinion of Mokri, the medical officer of the band, who had studied two years at the Algiers Faculty.

  For the whole of that day the two wounded men never stopped moaning and crying out for water; there was no morphine to give them. They were disturbing the morale of the band and suffering pointlessly, since they would have to be left behind in any case.

  Si Lahcen drew his revolver, a Lüger, the one which the administrator of P —— used to keep on his bedside table, and deliberately, without the slightest emotion, put the two men out of their misery. One of them just had time to curse him before his brains were blown out.

  The lull lasted an hour, then the position was pounded by the 81-calibre mortars. After a few bracketing shots they began to find their range. One of the F.M.s and its crew of three was wiped out.

  Ibrahim drew his watch out of his pocket. It was only half past one in the afternoon.

  • • •

  Raspéguy was crouching cross-legged by the side of his transmitter, munching some stale bread spread with the army-ration meat-paste which tasted as though it was made of sawdust and shavings. In front of him was a large-scale map in a plastic cover on which he made a number of marks in red and blue pencil as each of his companies reported their position.

  Major de Glatigny, who had just been with the mortars, came and sat down beside him.

  “It doesn’t look so bad,” said Raspéguy. “We’re closing in on them and the lads are sticking it out. What are the casualties?”

  “Four dead and seven wounded. The dead are all in Esclavier’s unit.”

  “What did they get up to this time?”

  “Bucelier’s group advanced along a defile almost right up to the rebel position. They thought they would be able to take it on their own and pushed ahead contrary to orders. Pinières, who went to their rescue, got a splinter in his arm but he refuses to be evacuated.”

  “Can he manage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then its up to him.”

  “Merle’s death was a great blow to him. He was engaged to be married to his sister and I think this death has put an end to the whole using.”

  With a gesture of his hand Raspéguy indicated that all this was of no importance and belonged to the past. His only interest now was the rebel band which was caught in the net but was going to do its utmost to escape.

  The colonel bent over his map again. The shadow of his cap concealed the whole of the top of his face.

  “Glatigny!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You are Si Lahcen, you’re surrounded with a hundred or so men on a peak, with hardly any food supplies, water or ammunition. What would you do?”

  “I shouldn’t let myself be pi
nned down on the peak. In my opinion, Si Lahcen will wait till it’s dark and then attempt to break out towards the river-bed and the valley.”

  “That’s right, that’s exactly what he’d do. But in which direction?”

  “On his left flank. That’s the easiest for him.”

  “No, along the ridge on his right, so that his men won’t have too much ground to cover before coming up against our force and trying to dislodge them. His last chance is a swift, fierce hand-to-hand engagement.”

  Raspéguy unhooked his receiver and called up:

  “Blue Authority from Passavant.”

  “Blue Authority listening.”

  “Well, Esclavier?”

  “I had some difficulty getting Bucelier away. They were under fire but they refused to withdraw and abandon the bodies of their four comrades.”

  “The band is ours; you’ll have it tonight; get ready.”

  A W.T. operator approached at the double.

  “A signal from P ——, sir, yes, from Colonel Quarterolles, it’s urgent.”

  “Everything’s urgent with him. Bring your set up here.”

  The operator lugged the “300” up to Raspéguy, who took up the earphones but held them out at arm’s length, for Quarterolles at the other end was screaming as though he was being flayed alive:

  “Send me the helicopter at once so that I can reach your position.”

  “The helicopter’s being used exclusively for transporting the wounded, Colonel, and we’ve already got quite a number of wounded.”

  “This is an order.”

  “If you’re so keen to get here, you can walk. That’s all. Out.”

  And Raspéguy rang off, ordering the operator to cease all communication with P ——. Then he turned to Glatigny.

  “Men have been killed and more are going to be killed because of that fellow Quarterolles, and now he wants to come swanking up here in a helicopter, give a pat on the back to our boys who’ve been stewing in the sun for hours, who’ve had no time to eat, who’ve got no more water in their bottles, and ask them in a fatherly fashion: ‘How goes it, old boy?’ when he himself has just left the lunch-table with a pint of beer inside him.”

  “He’s still the garrison commander, sir. It’s a serious business questioning the hierarchy of the army. In this particular case you’re probably right! But at other times, at most times . . .”

  “Jacques” (this was the first time that Raspéguy had used his Christian name, admitting him into his military family like Esclavier and Boudin), “don’t you think I realize the danger? But if we want to win this war we have to shed all sorts of conventions. We are all responsible men and we stick together. What Esclavier and Boisfeuras did, which is condemned by every army regulation, has enabled us to get our hands on this band today. I don’t like massacres and I don’t like torture, but I feel it’s you, myself, all of us, who slit those throats at Rahlem and who made Ahmed and his little friends at P —— talk.”

  “And God, sir?”

  “Tonight Esclavier and his reservists will fight it out on equal terms with Si Lahcen’s fellaghas. In this fight they’ll settle their account with God or their conscience. Tonight they’ll be making their confession to death. And we’ll only intervene if they can’t manage by themselves; but I know they’ll hold out.”

  Raspéguy leant back against a rock and Glatigny had the impression he was withdrawing into himself, searching through his gory, painful and glorious memories for the strength to carry on with his war.

  But Raspéguy was actually dreaming of a dark, stagnant lake, bristling with dead branches and reeds, streaked with slow-moving fish and exuding a slimy miasma. He lowered himself gently into these waters, tensing his stomach, contracting his nostrils, struggling against his fear and disgust.

  The wireless began to crackle:

  “Amarante calling Violettes. Send us up some more grenades; we’re running short.”

  The hunt was on again, and the explosion of bombs and rockets echoed and re-echoed in the depths of the valleys.

  Glatigny sat with his head in his hands, recalling the Méo highlands.

  • • •

  Night fell without a sound; there was no more firing. It seemed as though the men had forgotten their quarrel and were taking advantage of this peace and quiet to gather, friend and foe together, round a camp-fire where, relieved of their burden of anger, courage and criminal actions, they could confide in one another and talk about their homes, the ample, welcoming bodies of their wives, their barns full of crops, sheep roasting over glowing embers and the cries of children.

  But all round the peak, oblivious of the magic of the night, the wireless transmitters with their little orange lights were crackling louder than crickets.

  “Passavant from Blue: they’re advancing on us now.”

  It was Esclavier’s voice. Glatigny and Raspéguy remained glued to the W.T.

  Esclavier had posted his men half way up the crevice, at the point where it began to open out. They did not form an unbroken line, but were scattered in twos and threes, crouching in holes or behind the rocks. They were staggered in depth over a distance of more than two hundred yards. Down in the river-bed Pinières’s company stood in reserve.

  It was pitch black, the moon was not due to rise for another hour.

  A few pebbles had been dislodged, which had alerted the advance posts, and immediately afterwards the fellaghas were on top of them, yelling like madmen. The whole defile had been set ablaze, the F.M.s firing long devastating bursts, the grenades exploding with a dull thud. The mortars, meanwhile, lobbed over tracer shells which spun slowly over the gorges and ridges, transforming them into a stage décor.

  Bucelier found himself next to a machine-gun. It had just jammed and the gunner was having difficulty inserting a fresh magazine. He pushed him aside to take his place and was crushed by a body bearing down on him, a body draped in a tattered jellaba. He felt a violent jolt in all his muscles, while a blaze of light pierced and shattered the surrounding darkness.

  “They’ve got me, like Bistenave,” Bucelier reflected.

  But he felt nothing, while his head remained enveloped in the sweat-stained jellaba.

  Then he heard some shouts, some words of command, the thundering voice of Lieutenant Pinières. Some submachine-guns were firing in short, sharp, angry bursts. He heard Santucci shout out:

  “But where the hell is Bucelier?”

  He was suddenly moved to tears because they were talking about him as though he was still alive. Stupidly, he thought:

  “It’s good to have friends and not be dead in the midst of strangers, as in a car accident.”

  The body on top of him was still soft and warm, but did not move and smelt of vomit and urine. He called out and was astonished to hear the strange voice which was his own:

  “Here, here. It’s me, Bucelier.”

  The fellagha’s body was dragged off him and the sergeant looked up to see some stars shining indifferently in the sky, and then the faces of his comrades above him. Hands were feeling his body, but without hurting him, unbuttoning his camouflage blouse and loosening his belt.

  “But there’s nothing wrong with you at all,” Esclavier told him.

  The captain helped him out of his hole. Bucelier was covered in blood but he was not wounded. Whereupon he burst into a loud guffaw, a nervous explosion which ended up in a sort of hiccup. Esclavier put his arm round his shoulder and held him against him, like a lost child who has just been found again.

  “You’re lucky, you know, Bucelier. The fellagha who pounced on you was mashed to a jelly by a grenade thrown by one of his own friends. You’d better get down to the river-bed; the medical orderly will give you something to drink and if you think you can manage, you can come back afterwards. It’s not over yet.”

  “Did they break through, sir?�
�

  “No, but they’re bound to try again. They lost thirty men in the process, though.”

  “And us?”

  “A few.”

  Bucelier never forgot that display of affection, when Esclavier put his arm round his shoulder.

  A quarter of an hour later the fellaghas attempted a second break-through. This time it was Pinières’s company that bore the brunt. But Si Lahcen’s men failed to come to grips, and the moon which had risen illuminated the gorge and the confused fighting that ensued.

  As the fellaghas broke off the engagement, the lieutenant caught sight of a short figure behind them silhouetted against the sky; he was firing on the runaways with a submachine-gun to try and rally them.

  Pinières picked up his carbine and, standing up, with legs apart, carefully took aim and fired one, two, three shots.

  Si Lahcen fell to his knees and dropped his weapon, then rolled a few yards down the slope and his hands, which had been clenched, slowly opened. Pinières searched him and drew the Military Medal out of his pocket. In his wallet there was also his pension card and his last mention in Indo-China.

  “There’s something wrong about this war,” Pinières said to Esclavier.

  A few fellaghas who were well dug in still put up some resistance but at dawn they were dislodged from their positions. Five or six of them surrendered, the rest preferred to die.

  The regiment withdrew from the mountains towards P ——, bringing its dead back with it. Information had already reached the town about the death of Si Lahcen and the destruction of his band; the population knew that it had been a tough, relentless fight and that everyone had acquitted himself well.

  As the paratroops filed past, some old chibanis, whose sons had probably been killed by them up in the hills, waved to them; on their grey jellabas they were wearing all their medals. It was not the enemy they were greeting but simply those who had had God on their side that day.

  Next morning a religious and military ceremony was held in honour of the twelve men of the 10th Colonial Parachute Regiment who had been killed in the recent battle. Seven of them were reservists.