The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  “Are you going to come clean or not?”

  He tried to parry the blow by bluffing:

  “Everyone knows I’ve been arrested by now. My letter-box is blown.”

  “No one knows yet.”

  “What about the woman?” Boisfeuras suddenly asked, turning to Marindelle. “Did you bring her with you?”

  “She won’t talk,” said Marindelle.

  “I’ll take your word for it; after all, you know her better than I do. We’ve got to act quickly, we’ve only twenty-four hours left. Your letter-box, Si Millial?”

  Glatigny tried to intervene. He was surprised and disturbed by this new side to his character that Boisfeuras was revealing.

  “Why not go through his papers and belongings? Perhaps you’ll find the address you need among them.”

  “Leave this to me; I know how to deal with this sort of business. And Si Millial is by no means a beginner; before starting up on his own he had already worked for several intelligence services, it didn’t matter which, provided they were operating against us.”

  He sneered:

  “But I suppose you’re not too keen on what we’ve now got to do, Glatigny. Afraid of getting your hands dirty, perhaps? This man in our clutches is an unexpected stroke of luck. Perhaps he’ll be able to prevent our having to fight in the streets. But it’s no good putting him behind glass, in a shop-window. This is Si Millial, the bomb man. Come on, Marindelle!”

  The power plant suddenly started up again and the lights came back. They dragged Si Millial off in his stockinged feet, still holding up his trousers with his hands.

  In the “schoolroom” stood Min.

  “The address of the letter-box?” Boisfeuras asked once again.

  Si Millial slowly shook his head and Min took a step towards him.

  Marindelle had opened the window and was taking deep breaths of the cool night air. He knew it had to come to this, that this was the ghastly law of the new type of war. But he had to get accustomed to it, to harden himself and shed all those deeply ingrained, out-of-date notions which make for the greatness of Western man but at the same time prevent him from protecting himself.

  “22, Rue de la Bombe,” Boisfeuras eventually informed him. “Marindelle, take a couple of Jeeps and drive like hell. We’ve only an hour left before the curfew ends.”

  The patio began to overflow with prisoners. Some were in pyjamas under their overcoats and, still half asleep, kept rubbing their eyes. Others with a searchlight trained on them, were lined up against a wall with their hands in the air, expecting to be shot at any moment.

  Raspéguy, with a pipe in his mouth, stood leaning over the gallery on the first floor, wondering what he was going to do with this lamentable mob. He longed to escape with his men into the mountains, leave this job to others who were qualified to do it, inhale the damp morning air into his lungs and experience once more the sadness and intense delight of days of victory. Today was only a day of arrests.

  “We’ve got Si Millial, sir,” said Marindelle, as he went past him.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  “A rebel colonel, maybe the chief one.”

  “Good God, where is he?”

  “In Boisfeuras’s office.”

  Raspéguy found Si Millial tied to a bench. Min stood by the side of Boisfeuras’s desk, connecting the field telephone up again.

  The colonel sat down on the bench next to the prisoner and gave him a light-hearted slap on the thigh.

  “So you’re Colonel Si Millial, are you?”

  Si Millial was beginning to lose heart; he felt as though he was being drawn and quartered so as to reveal his innermost secrets. A breach had been made in his courage and he feared it was bound to grow wider.

  He wanted to reply, however, and reassert himself under that label of colonel which was the only thing that was likely to impress these army men. He replied with a certain self-satisfaction.

  “Yes, I’m a colonel, because with us there are no generals!”

  “A good thing too,” Raspéguy replied. “If only we could do without them! What’s your command?”

  “Thousands of men, hundreds of thousands, an entire nation which is up in arms against the oppressor.”

  “I see, just as I’m at the head of the entire French Army. But try and be a little more specific.”

  “I’m the military leader of the Committee of Co-ordination and Execution, our government in other words.”

  Raspéguy gave a whistle of admiration. He turned to Boisfeuras, who was making notes in red pencil on Si Millial’s papers, and asked:

  “What did you get out of him?”

  “He’s a hard nut; he wouldn’t give away a thing. Only an address: 22 Rue de la Bombe. I’ve sent Marindelle over there.”

  Boisfeuras suddenly leapt to his feet in excitement and tapped the papers:

  “There’s the whole plan of the strike in here, Si Millial’s contacts in France, a letter from the Afro-Asiatic Group written on paper with a U.N. heading . . . We caught him just in time!”

  Raspéguy looked at Si Millial with renewed interest.

  “Well, I must say, you’ve got some important connexions!”

  Si Millial was shivering with cold. Raspéguy called for Bucelier:

  “Give him back his coat and his shoes, and let him have a drink of ‘juice.’”

  Si Millial put his clothes on and tied up his shoe-laces.

  “I also know you, Colonel,” he declared, “at least by repute. In their brutality and efficiency, your methods are rather like ours. After Rahlem we wanted to liquidate you, for we considered you infinitely more dangerous than a lot of generals and politicians.”

  Raspéguy bridled and offered Si Millial a cigarette.

  “No, thanks,” he said, “I only smoke American tobacco.”

  Raspéguy sent Bucelier off for a packet of Virginia cigarettes.

  “Philip Morris,” Si Millial specified, “and a box of matches, I forgot my lighter.”

  Boisfeuras had stopped examining the papers. He now knew who Si Millial was; the “colonel” was exaggerating his military rank, a courtesy title bestowed on him by the group of Kabyle chieftains after the Soumman meeting. His political power, however, was considerable, especially outside Algeria.

  He was on intimate terms with several politicians who had played, and perhaps would soon be playing again, an extremely important role. He had numerous acquaintances among intellectual circles in Paris, also among the Catholics, and even among certain figures reputed to be of the “centre,” who represented high finance and heavy industry and who found that the war in Algeria was costing them far too much.

  Si Millial would obviously have to be handed over to the judicial authorities. But at a time when certain sections of public opinion were prepared to come to terms with the F.L.N., a prisoner of such importance would immediately be transferred to Paris where his detention would soon be changed to open arrest; he would then be able to renew all his contacts.

  Si Millial was par excellence a “qualified spokesman.” His charm and moderation, which served to conceal his energy and harsh realism (his papers contained ample proof that he was the instigator of terrorism), made him at this moment the most dangerous man in the whole rebellion; he was the one who would be approached if there was a question of coming to terms.

  Boisfeuras felt that for the moment he held the fate of Algeria in his hands. Destiny was giving him the dice to throw, but he would not have them in his hand much longer.

  In a few hours his prisoner would be taken away from him; he had to act quickly. Si Millial would not talk, would not tell him anything more than he had found in his papers; he decided he would have to disappear.

  Boisfeuras already saw Raspéguy in that attitude which all his officers knew only too well, making a naïf and effective s
how of his charm. A soldier of fortune, he had inherited from the smuggler-peasants of his Basque mountains the taste for extravagant gestures occasionally accompanied by somewhat sordid bargaining. To him Si Millial was a prize which was well worth its ransom of glory, like a Spanish infanta captured by a Barbary pirate. He would surrender his prisoner in exchange for honours and Press publicity and would keep a jealous eye on his state of health.

  Boisfeuras, brought up among realists like the Chinese, was blind to the beauty of a gesture and had no professional ambition. As far as he was concerned, Si Millial was merely part of the over-all picture he had painted for himself of the destiny of France. In the eyes of this émigré Frenchman, Algeria was the ball and chain which kept France fettered to her role of a great power and obliged her to behave with more nobility and generosity than a nation of complacent bourgeois shopkeepers like Switzerland.

  Si Millial was in a position to give France an opportunity of ridding herself of her ball and chain; he could be the man of independence. That was why Boisfeuras decided he would have to die.

  “We’ll have to keep Si Millial’s arrest a secret, sir,” he told Raspéguy. “There’s still quite a lot I want to ask him.”

  “Of course! Of course! Just imagine how the other regiments are going to take this; Bigeard will have a stroke and ‘Prosper’ won’t get over it in a hurry. Give him anything he wants; take good care of him. I’m counting on you.”

  He shook hands with Si Millial and gave him a hearty slap on the back.

  “See you soon; we must have a long talk together some day. There’ll be plenty of time.”

  Raspéguy stalked out, rubbing his hands together.

  “You’ve still got some questions to ask me, Captain Boisfeuras?” Si Millial inquired.

  “No, no more questions.”

  Si Millial then realized that he was going to die. This captain who was looking at him, with his head propped up in his hands, had decided his fate.

  In his place he would have done the same and, for a few moments, he felt a strange respect for him, for, of all these officers, he was the closest to himself. Boisfeuras belonged to his own just and efficient world, just with a justice which thinks nothing of men being slaughtered, women being raped or farms being burnt to the ground. At the same time Si Millial pitied that other self of his, which would continue to live without friends, without women, in the chilly solitude of men who make and unmake history.

  Si Millial suddenly felt utterly weary; he hoped it would be over quickly and painlessly. He regretted all that he had never known, all that was the common lot of other men: jasmine, women’s affection, the laughter of children, the click of checkers in a Moorish café smelling of mint.

  Boisfeuras said something in Chinese to Min—just a few brief words—then turned to Si Millial:

  “Min will show you to your cell. Good-bye, Si Millial.”

  “Good-bye, Captain Boisfeuras. Your nights are going to be very long from now on . . . as mine have been.”

  Min took Si Millial by the arm and escorted him outside. Boisfeuras looked at his watch: seven o’clock in the morning. Marindelle was not yet back: he could sleep for an hour.

  He lay down on a bench and fell sound asleep at once.

  • • •

  Marindelle came back from 22 Rue de la Bombe with one male prisoner and three females: a whore by the name of Fatimah, an old hag, a woman with hennaed hands called Zoullika, and her daughter Aicha. More difficult to handle than an angry cat, this Aicha had insulted, bitten and scratched the soldiers escorting her. Oddly enough, for a Kasbah girl, she was wearing European clothes; her dress was simple, elegant and in good taste; she wore none of that heavy silver jewellery affected by women of the people, but only a small gold wrist-watch.

  The man was Youssef the Knife, with his fingers loaded with heavy rings. An old offender, he had come quietly; but he protested violently when he was separated from Aicha to whom he claimed to be engaged.

  Marindelle had found nothing in the Rue de la Bombe except a few pamphlets, two knives which at a pinch could be considered lethal weapons, and a miniature F.L.N. flag which could be found in every other house in the Kasbah.

  He woke Boisfeuras who was still asleep on his bench.

  “A wild-goose chase,” he said. “At Si Millial’s address I picked up a pimp, his old beldame of a mother, and a couple of tarts. Nothing else. One of the tarts, the youngest, at least has the advantage of being extremely pretty.”

  “Let’s begin with her, then,” said Boisfeuras somewhat wearily.

  A big paratrooper with a moustache dragged Aicha into the office.

  “Captain,” she said to Boisfeuras, “your men have been trying to rape me in the courtyard outside.”

  The paratrooper shrugged his shoulders:

  “She planted her claws in my cheek, so I gave her a good slap. She’s a holy terror, this bird!”

  “Well,” Aicha inquired, “are you going to let me go? I haven’t done anything.”

  Boisfeuras considered her for a moment. The way she had immediately addressed him as “Captain” revealed that she was a well-bred woman who was used to the society of officers.

  He seized her by the arm and took off her wrist-watch.

  “I’ll make you a present of it,” she said scornfully, “but please let me go.”

  Boisfeuras examined the gold watch-case.

  “Since when do little tarts from the Kasbah have Cartier watches?”

  Aicha went scarlet in the face.

  “I found it.”

  “Good heavens,” Marindelle exclaimed, “she was having me on! Bucelier, bring this lady’s fiancé in.”

  Youssef sauntered up to the deck, with a broad grin on his face, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Take your fiancée in your arms,” Marindelle told him, “and give her a kiss.”

  The two captains watched Aicha twist away from him in disgust as the pimp brought his lips to her mouth.

  “That’ll do,” said Boisfeuras.

  Youssef was taken away.

  “Right. Now we’ve had enough of your nonsense. What’s your name?”

  “Aicha.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “22 Rue de la Bombe.”

  “Do you know Si Millial?”

  “Which Si Millial?” she retorted arrogantly, her eyes glinting with hatred, her lips quivering.

  Boisfeuras seized her by the shoulders and started to shake her.

  “Leave me alone,” she screamed, “or I’ll complain to your superior officer, Major Jacques de Glatigny. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Marindelle, go and fetch Glatigny.”

  The major arrived a few minutes later. He still had some lather below one ear; he had been shaving and had just had time to wipe his face. He caught sight of Aicha.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Ask the captain.”

  “I found her in the Rue de la Bombe,” said Marindelle, “at the address of Si Millial’s letter-box. Do you know this bird?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d better deal with her, then,” said Boisfeuras, “she’s a dirty little liar. She was trying to pass herself off as a Kasbah girl.”

  “She’s a third-year medical student,” Glatigny quietly observed. “Aicha, come into my office.”

  “Don’t let her get away with it, Glatigny, I’m certain she knows Si Millial.”

  Aicha followed the major out of the room, after casting a defiant glance at Boisfeuras.

  “I never knew Glatigny had connexions of that sort,” Marindelle observed dreamily.

  Boisfeuras sneered:

  “Now he’s in it up to the neck! None of us will be able to get off until we’re on an equal footing with the fellaghas, as covered with mud and blood as they are. T
hen we shall be able to fight them; and in the process we’ll lose our souls, if we really have souls, so that back in France some jokers can go on airing their views with a clean conscience.

  “Bring that pimp of a Youssef here, Marindelle; I’m certain we’ll be able to talk turkey with him.”

  • • •

  “Sit down, Aicha,” said Glatigny. “I think there must be some mistake; a girl from a big tent doesn’t get involved with a certain class of people. What were you doing in the Kasbah?”

  “I live there; you saw me home there youself. Are you going to torture me to make me confess?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To make me confess that I know Si Millial?”

  “Don’t talk rubbish. I’ll see that you’re escorted home presently . . . as soon as you’ve given me your real address.”

  “22 Rue de la Bombe.”

  Bucelier knocked at the door and came in.

  “The young lady,” he said, “forgot her watch. Seems this little job is worth hundreds of thousands of francs, sir. At least, that’s what Captain Boisfeuras says.”

  He clicked his heels and went out. Glatigny handed the watch back to Aicha who put it back on her wrist.

  “If it hadn’t been for you,” she said, “that Captain Boisfeuras would have stolen it from me.”

  “I very much doubt it. He’s extremely rich, you know, but he’s not interested in money; he prefers to be out here with us. Come along now, Aicha, let’s get this over. Your address?”

  “22 Rue de la Bombe.”

  “I know that a girl like you can’t possibly be involved in all these bomb outrages and terrorism, with a lot of fanatics, pimps and drug-addicts.”

  “Naturally, because a man like you, Major de Glatigny, can’t imagine using a knife or a bomb.”

  “In 1943, in Savoie, I killed a Gestapo colonel, in his bed and with a knife. It was an unpleasant experience, but I did it. Women shouldn’t have any part to play in war.”

  “What about Joan of Arc? If she had known about bombs, she would have used them against the English.”

  Aicha looked lovelier than ever to the major, even more attractive than when he had first met her: a luscious fruit which he would have liked to cut open to quench his thirst. He could not take his eyes off the young breasts which swelled beneath her blouse. He remembered the softness of her skin.