by Théo Varlet
“Yes, lieutenant. Should I send a cyclist to the artillery, for the cannon?”
Renard stared at him in amazement. The artillery! It was a long way away! But the worthy Cipriani wasn’t joking. The true situation escaped him, that was all. There was no point in disillusioning him.
“No need,” Renard said, simply. “We have a wheelwright in the company to improvise a wheel, and a few former artillerymen to get the piece into working condition if it’s needed. Get on with it right way. Check that the truck has fuel in its tank too. There’s stock of cans in the storehouse.”
The sergeant hastened away. Duranton, who was waiting for him to leave, came over to the officer.
“Lieutenant, I still don’t have any new supplies. The men have already had bully beef all day yesterday. I don’t know what to give them.”
“Do you have potatoes?”
“Yes—as many as we need.”
“Well, make fries then. And for fresh meat, take the horses that we brought yesterday. Two of them are practically ponies; there’s no reason they can’t be slaughtered, if you have a butcher available.”
“I was a butcher myself in civvy street. I’ll get on with it. I’ll make a stew—they’ll be licking their chops.”
The major and the aviator arrived, having already downed a morning whisky. On being told that the bike had not returned, Thévenard mocked the anxieties of the two officers. “He’ll be having a party, your lascar—he’ll have done the same as his colleagues and found a pretty girl to spend time with...”
The aviator thought that it was a simple matter of a breakdown. He agreed, nevertheless, that if there was no sign of the man in another half an hour, he would go in search of him in the airplane,
As the officers strolled around in the square in front of the office, watched by the buzzing crowd of poilus who were hoping for the promised exhibition of the Machine and for the departure for Valencia, the acoustic screen of the tower and kitchens prevented them from hearing two distant gunshots to the north and the sputter of the approaching motorcycle. There were, in consequence, only the sentries on duty in the guard-posts when the motorcyclist arrived, rolling awkwardly. He dismounted in order to cross the plank bridge over the Seille, and it was then seen that his rear tire was flat.
Someone called out to him jovially: “What’s new, Vidal? Everything okay over there?”
He was scowling, downcast and exhausted, however; scarcely responding to the questions he pushed his machine along. “You can talk! I’ve been out in the cold all night…and that’s not good for a chap. Is there still juice at the cookhouse?”
Finally alerted to his arrival by rumor and the general movement of curiosity, the two lieutenants, the major and the aviator collared him as soon as he arrived in the square. He was only given time to drink a mug of coffee and immobilize his machine on its stand. As soon as he mentioned revolver shots and arrows in the tire, Renard shut him up and took him into the office, with the Genera Staff, to hear the rest.
His report was as brutal as a cudgel-blow.
A magneto breakdown had stopped him half way to Valencia in the dark. Having succeeded in repairing it, at two o’clock or thereabouts, he had lost his way in the brushwood, in spite of the fires lit on the tower, which showed him the location of Port-sur-Seille but not that of Valencia. At daybreak, he had reached the ramparts of the city, but it was impossible to get in; the breach in the gates had been sealed with the aid of faggots and padding; the battlements were garnished with archers and arbalesters. Arrows had been fired at him, and one had punctured his rear tire. He had fired revolver shots, and had made his engine roar, which had frightened the horses. Of Corporal Venette and his men, no trace. He concluded: “That’s your lot, Lieutenant. I can’t say any more.”
Renard was the first to break the consternated silence that welcomed this news.
“Damn it! A dirty shame! My men must have been murdered. The Spaniards have had another go, and finding them drunk...”
“You’re going too fast,” said the major. “They’re merely prisoners...”
“Provided that we have the Emir’s reinforcements this morning...” De Lanselles hazarded.
“We can’t wait for them,” Renard replied. “Whether they’re here or not, we need to attack the Spaniards within two hours, as soon as we’ve had breakfast.”
They went out to organize the expedition. Sniffing the bad news, the men pressing around the vicinity of the office had already stopped envying their mates who had stayed in Valencia. When Renard asked for volunteers to go and rescue them, however, they all offered themselves without hesitation. Half of the contingent got ready to set out on campaign. The aviator placed two cases of fifty grenades in his cockpit. The wheelwright, having found an old wheel that was usable, fitted it to the 75mm cannon. To haul it, they still had two horses—Duranton had already killed and butchered the other two—but the major advised hitching the piece to the truck, which could also carry a machine-gun and a trench-mortar, and his plan was adopted.
All the preparations had been completed before ten o’clock, and it only remained to eat the soup when a rumor started and spread, and the shout went up from the guard-posts: “It’s the lads! They’re coming back!”
But “the lads” were only two in number: Nénesse and Ali, mounted on a pack-mule, with no other weapon than a scimitar, and both ragged, dirty and in distress—undoubtedly escapees.
Leaving the poilus perplexed by this disquieting arrival, Renard dragged the two men away. “Well?” he demanded, as soon as the office door was closed. “You let yourselves be taken by surprise?”
“Oh, Lieutenant!” Nénesse exclaimed. “You’re spot on! You could say that they put one over on us, the filthy monkeys. As you can see, I think the sidi and me are the only ones who were able to dodge the nutcracker, and we had to slip away and leave our mates in the shit!”
“Go on, tell me everything.”
“Well, this is how it as, Lieutenant. I have to tell you that after the attack, we found a nice enough little eatery where they had everything necessary to ring the bell good and proper: peppered wine, ham, fruit, cheese, etcetera, etcetera. Not to mention what the other lads brought by the by. We even had a dozen old tarts to serve us. We didn’t speak the same language, them and us, but we finished up understanding one another quite well all the same...”
“Good—get on with it!”
“Okay. In the end, you understand, with the heat, the dust-up, hunger, thirst…in brief, after a certain time, everyone was pissed out of their heads and didn’t know what was going on any more. Some had already gone to sleep, others were having it away with the tarts, others having a laugh at some old mole who wanted Venette to give her a good time.”
“What! Venette? He wasn’t at his post, then?”
“Can’t have been, since I remember that he finally arrived, with Sauvage and Peltier. He came to tear us off a strip, but we soon took care of that with a nice mug of cider. In brief, after that I went out to have a slash and noticed that it was pitch dark outside. There was no one in the streets but dogs. Have to admit that I was as drunk as the mates. Then I went back in to have a nap in a corner, and I’d no sooner lain down than I dozed off, just like that.
“I don’t know how long I’d been out when I suddenly woke up trussed up like a sausage. At first I thought it was the mates having a joke. Then I started shouting: ‘Get up, Moors!’ to make a joke about the sidis—but I hadn’t yet shut my trap when I got a crack of a whip on the head and saw stars. ‘Fuck,’ I said to myself, ‘that hurt. Either I’m nuts, or chances are we’ve been done over by the locals.’ Then, it was a matter of shutting up, curling up and pretending to be out for the count while keeping an eye on what was happening.
“The only light was a miserable candle, and I saw shadows in some sort of priestly get-up strutting around as if they were at mass. All the mates were in the same state as me, and at least half the Africans were bleeding like stuck pigs with t
heir throats cut. The priests were going through our stuff and gathering up all our weapons. There were even some of them reciting prayers over them and blessing them.
“When all that was finished, they picked us up and carried us into the yard, then along corridors, down stairways and through tunnels, until we finally arrived in a sort of big cellar, well-lit but with the air of an assize court or a gym. There was a raised counter with another beneath it and two to the sides, with a big table in front, all filled with black and white monks, and on the other side and in the middle of the room all sorts of machines and gadgets like those acrobats use in the circus. Me, I was thinking in pessimistic terms, and I could see that some kind of reckless judgment was about to be passed. You can imagine that that sobered me up double quick, and I began to look out for anything that might be useful for me and the mates.
“I’d been put with the remaining sidis, so I was separated from the other poilus, who’d been put with the chicks, although the poor lads were scarcely thinking of having fun, any more than the girls, who were mewling so much that the junior priests were oblige to roll up their scarves to make gags. We were untied, but civilians with swords in their fists were keeping us under close guard, and there was nothing to be done, for the moment, except try to turn into a gust of wind.
“Immediately afterwards, the fellow at the counters started jabbering away to the ones who had brought us. That went on and on—they were all rolling fearful eyes and pointing at us, waving their arms. Then the one who seemed to be the president—the others called him Tarte-au-Ragout—called for silence, and the bastard started by having all the girls dragged by the hair to attach them by the feet to wooden crosses of some sort, while the other monks rooted around in their clothes, doubtless looking to see what their numbers were.19 In the meantime, they gathered around the big table where our weapons and the things they’d fished out of our kitbags had been piled up.
“You should have seen the gaping mouths of all those guys passing everything in detailed review and recoiling from the pictures of naked women they they’d found in Little Charlot’s wallet. Others were trying to read newspapers while passing their fingers over them, but it was obvious that they couldn’t make head nor tail of them. One of them got hold of a Browning, which he was turning every which way. I said to myself: ‘That fellow will do himself an injury before long.’ No sooner had I thought so than the idiot put the end of the barrel to his eye and bang—the gun went off a splattered his brains all over the floor! Talk about a fuss! The one called Tarte-au-ragout stood up behind his counter, cursing and chewing out the monk, who was no more than dead meat.
“Then the guards surrounded us more tightly, and they looked as if they were going to finish us off. It was a near thing, but the old guy stopped them and started jabbering away to his acolytes again, and they went back to examining our stuff, but without touching anything and blessing them all the time. Only there was a little fat chap who seemed more excited than the rest, and they all started arguing nineteen to the dozen. Me, I jogged Ali’s elbow—he was beside me—and whispered in Arbi: ‘Look out, old son –this could be the time to make ourselves scarce!’
“The little fat chap was shouting even louder, and waving his arms around like crazy to persuade the others, and then, suddenly, would you believe that he picks up a grenade from the table to give it a closer look, and bangs it down hard on the table? Bloody hell! That put paid to him and no mistake—not to mention the others! It wasn’t a time to stand on ceremony. I yelled: ‘Every man for himself!’ and snatched the cabbage-chopper from one of the civvies, who was busy shitting himself. I headed for the exit without looking to see if anyone was following me.
“I was racing through the corridors when I heard galloping at my heels. I turned round to settle the hash of whoever was following me, but I recognized Ali! ‘Shift your butt,’ I said to him, ‘and let’s move.’ Talk about a business! We climbed stairs, we knocked over two monks who tried to bar our way, and finally arrived in a courtyard the opened on to the street. There, we fell upon some soldiers who were chatting, and took to their heels when they saw us. We grabbed a mule that they’d left behind, and it was off to Port-sur-Seille at top speed!
“But Lieutenant, as for the mates who stayed behind, I don’t think there’s anything we can do for them, for the swine must have skewered them after the last grenade went up!”
V. The Pernod Alliance
There was no longer any need to hurry. Since it was no longer a question of rescuing, but of avenging the mates, and for exacting that vengeance to the full, it was better to act in concert with the Emir’s forces.
As soon as the escapee had finished his story, therefore, a cyclist was sent to the Moorish camp with a message for the monk, briefly relating the misfortune that had overtaken the twelve Frenchmen and the nineteen Moors, and asking him to hurry the Emir along.
Renard feared the effect that the drama might have on the troops, for the order given to Nénesse to keep his mouth shut did not prevent him from talking, and even Ali’s gestures were only too eloquent. He therefore saw the cyclist return with unconcealed satisfaction, after half an hour, announcing that the Emir and his retinue were close behind. He had met them some ten kilometers away.
“I recognized the red-haired priest, the new chaplain. I gave him the piece of paper. He read it, gave me a sign that everything was okay. I saluted him and came back. They aren’t moving quickly, they’ve got a whole Arab camp with them. They won’t be here for another hour, at least.”
A fortunate diversion! Enough to occupy the men and prevent them from dwelling on the drama in Valencia. In order to impress their new ally, it was appropriate to welcome him with great ceremony. They had time to arrange things, but only just.
“Quickly, Etcheverry—everyone outside and in battle-dress. Kit out the half of the contingent that’s going to stay here. Tell the sergeants and the corporals to make the men hurry up. At the trot, as if for a review...”
Cipriani went into top gear. He was everywhere at once. He was the one who unearthed six tricolor flags, organized the parade, had the trumpets polished and the trench-mortars loaded. It was thanks to him that they were ready. Taking advantage of the circumstances to stimulate the zeal of that loyal watchdog, whose services had probably never been as valuable as they would be in the new period that was beginning, Renard entrusted him with the role of standard-bearer and, under the pretext that he had just assembled the company in ten minutes—a record—promoted him to adjutant on the spot.
A tear that he tried in vain to retain rolled down the brave soldier’s wrinkled cheek. “This is the best day of my life,” he stammered, incapable of thanking his leader in more fitting terms—and, in honor of his new rank, he put on white gloves and the beautiful belt of an English officer, from which a sporran was dangling, into which he fitted the shaft of his gold-fringed flag. With the cannon’s bayonet-guard he took up his position to the right of the General Staff grouped outside the presbytery, in front of the company formed up in the sun-drenched square—which comprised Renard, the major, Etcheverry, de Lanselles and Dupuy, in blue horizons and helmets, the Englishman in khaki, plus Nénesse, wearing for the first time the sphinx-like insignia of a sergeant-interpreter, clean-shaven and wearing the aviator’s boots.
The hoofbeats of the numerous cavalry troop drew closer, mingled with neighing and the guttural bellowing of dromedaries. A makeshift orchestra struck up, comprised of tambourines, drums, fifes and cornets. Green standards and multicolored pennants appeared. And on a gesture from Renard and his “Ten’shun! Pre…sent arms!” the sergeants and the bayonets immobilized themselves, glittering.
The two trumpets sounded, the mortars thundered three times, and in the resplendent glory of his damascene armor the Emir surged forth, holding back his gold-clad palfrey. In the first rank of his officers, sparkling with precious metals and gems, the monk made a dark patch with his dark brown robe. Behind them, the horsemen’s lances bristled con
fusedly.
On a word from the monk, the Emir shouted an order, which brought the cortege to a halt. He got down from his horse and advanced toward Renard, who stepped forward to meet him, his hand extended. But the Emir nobly gave him the accolade. The orchestra stopped playing, and in the religious silence of the two armies, the French leader addressed the Moorish chief in his best Latin.
“Noble warrior, valiant prince by whose side I shall be glad to fight, our friend Geronimo, here present, must have told you that we have come from our distant land with the sole aim...” The expression of his idea became too difficult, however, and he had recourse to the interpreted Nénesse, who set about—God alone knows how!—translating the rest, which he pronounced in French, into Arabic: “…With the sole aim of defending progress and civilization, apart from any partisan spirit, and to bringing about the triumph over obscurantism of liberty of thought...”
He went on in the same style for five minutes, but the Emir listened distractedly. De Lanselles’ monocle, which caught the sunlight as his head moved, was darting fascinating flashes at him and his neighbors, who were commenting on the prodigy between themselves and baptizing Monocard “Eye of the Sun.” Discreetly, the monk recalled the Emir’s attention, and he replied to Renard’s speech in Latin.
With a few Oriental flourishes, he declared that he accepted the alliance. They were friends already; his cavalrymen, welcomed fraternally by the Gauls, had fought and perished with them. They would avenge them together. As a warrant of his trust he had come with a small escort of five hundred warriors—the bulk of the army would follow tomorrow—and, as a pledge of friendship and gratitude for the magnificent gifts brought by the monk, he had brought a few modest presents, which he begged the Gallic chiefs to accept.