“You both belong to the same freemasonry, the Companions of the Liberation. You’ll know how to fix things up between the two of you. Even if he leaves the army our dear Philippe Esclavier has nothing to worry about. There’ll always be someone in de Gaulle’s set-up to look after his interests and make him a deputy, a senator, a prefect or a governor.”
When Bucerdon came in Esclavier had drawn himself up on his pillows. A large dressing ran all the way across his chest. He was as pale as on that autumn morning in 1941 when he had landed on the coast of Wales with his bundle, disguised as a Concarneau fisherman in a suit several sizes too big for him. It was to him, Bucerdon, then an instructor captain at the Free French cadet school, that he had reported.
Bucerdon had asked him:
“Why have you come to join General de Gaulle?”
“For personal reasons.”
He had been unable to drag anything more out of him.
The lad was now a man of thirty-seven. Among the red berets he had a reputation for ruthlessness, secretiveness and efficiency. His insolence was notorious, and in all the units they quoted his sayings, which were often ferocious and always biting; his resignation today was becoming almost a matter of national concern.
The colonel lit a cigarette and coughed. He still had the hardest part of his mission to accomplish. Esclavier scrutinized him with his grey eyes, with the cruel and at the same time amused air of a child watching a litter of cats being drowned.
Bucerdon felt extremely hot; he hated the smell of ether and stale soup that clings to hospitals and took out his handkerchief to mop his face:
“Look, Esclavier, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’m fond of you and have the highest regard for you on account of what happened during ‘our’ war, when there was no more than a handful of us. You got yourself talked about a great deal during the battle of Algiers, with Boisfeuras, Glatigny, Marindelle and all the others, then the revolution of the 13th of May made your name known to the general public. You became a sort of live-wire among a group of officers who were already fairly lively. The Minister sent for General le Bigan this morning. He’s frightened your resignation might be interpreted in a tendentious way among the airborne troops, that it might be construed as a sort of protest against the measures taken by the Government in Algeria and within the army. He’s also frightened that the Progressivist and Communist newspapers might seize on this incident and present your departure as a sign of a rift between the army and the régime. People will remember that you are the son of a father who strongly opposed the war in Indo-China and who had part of the University behind him. They are bound to recall that you’re a Companion of the Liberation and one of the officers who had the name of General de Gaulle proclaimed in the Forum. In the interests of everyone the Minister asks you to reconsider your resignation, or else give a reason which will prevent all these false interpretations.”
Esclavier had closed his eyes and clenched his jaws.
“His wound must still be hurting him,” thought Bucerdon, “or maybe something else . . .”
But the captain had quickly recovered:
“Come now, Colonel, it’s not as bad as all that. In your briefcase you’ve got the piece of paper which you have undertaken to get me to sign. Let’s have it.”
Esclavier had that dry, rather mordant, slightly languid voice which his friends imitated whenever they addressed a superior officer on whom they wished to impress the fact that he was no longer one of them.
Bucerdon felt more hurt than annoyed. He opened the briefcase he was holding in his lap and clumsily drew from a red file a sheet of typewritten paper which he handed to the captain.
“To: The Minister of the Armed Forces
“From: Captain Philippe Esclavier, Colonial Infantry
“I have the honour to request that I be granted two years’ leave without pay. As a result of my last wound, the doctors treating me are of the opinion that I shall not be able to resume active service in a fighting unit for the next two years. . . .”
The captain raised his head:
“I’d thought of that excuse, Colonel, for, of course, we both know perfectly well it’s an excuse and nothing else. A bullet in the chest leaves no trace if it doesn’t kill you at once. But to a request of this sort, as you know, I must attach a medical statement with the doctors’ certificates, the opinion of the discharge commission, the decision of the director of the health services . . . and God knows what else. . . . I haven’t an earthly chance of getting all those papers. In two weeks’ time I’ll be up and about and in a month I’ll be able to take part in fresh operations.”
Bucerdon stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, which enabled him to turn his head away.
“I think that in your case I’ll be able . . . er . . . to accelerate . . . all those little administrative formalities.”
“I see: I sign and you take care of my file.”
The colonel handed him a fountain-pen and Esclavier appended his signature.
“What are you going to do?” Bucerdon asked. “Go in for politics?”
The captain gave a gentle laugh.
“Did the Minister tell you to ask me that question? Set his mind at rest. There’s a phrase of Valéry’s: ‘In the most terrible periods of history, tucked away in some corner or other, there is always a man improving his handwriting or stringing pearls.’ I’m going to go away and string pearls in a little village in Upper Provence. An uncle of mine has left me a house with a beautiful garden, my father a small income. . . .”
The colonel was thinking: “That’s typical of him, reciting Valéry while he hands in his resignation!”
Bucerdon was out of his depth and was not quite sure who Valéry was—it reminded him of something about a cemetery.
Esclavier had signed, that was all that was asked of him. The reasons for his decision were his own business and it was better that they should not be known. But no one among the initiates would believe for a single moment that he was leaving the army for reasons of health. Bucerdon thought it might be a good move to hint that there was a woman behind this departure, which would come as no surprise, the captain being well known for his countless sentimental adventures. Those who were too curious by half would try to discover the woman and lose themselves on a false scent; in a few weeks the incident would be forgotten, and so would the captain.
The colonel shook the wounded man’s hand and left the room. An icy wind was blowing in the courtyard and outside galleries. He suddenly felt cold and extremely old.
For the last two months the best officers in the parachute regiments had been getting themselves killed, handing in their resignations or applying for admission to Staff College. What was wrong with them all?
And now here was he himself, Colonel Bucerdon, who was known among the airborne troops as the “Old Woman” and who had spent a year on the staff and in the Minister’s office, ceasing to behave like a soldier and contributing to schemes and stratagems, even taking on a dirty job like the one he had just done. He tried to think of the reasons that had led him to behave in this way: loyalty to a certain traditional conception of the army and the State which, for him, was identified with Charles de Gaulle? Lassitude? The need for comfort? He had a car, a driver, an official apartment!
The colonel asked to be driven to the Brent Bar off the Champs-Elysées. A year earlier he would have invited his driver to come in with him and have a drink; today he left him in his seat. This establishment was frequented by a certain number of Free French veterans, paratroopers, members of the secret services and journalists who came to fish for information in these plankton-rich waters. On the wall there was Colonel Raspéguy’s black pennant with the motto: “I dare.” Raspéguy had dared too much; in a few weeks’ time they were going to put paid to him. And maybe he, Bucerdon, was the one who would be sent to tell his old friend that he had been relieved o
f his command.
The colonel was counting on meeting Villèle and Pasfeuro. Those two were always in the know, and by this time they were sure to have heard about Esclavier’s resignation. He would show them the captain’s letter, then he would slip in the story about the woman and of course ask them to keep it secret. A few hours later it would be known in every editorial department in Paris.
The Minister had expressed his desire; there would therefore be no Esclavier incident. Bucerdon waited an hour for the two journalists, but they did not turn up. In front of his glass of whisky, which the barman Edouard changed each time it was empty, he sat dreaming: the colonel would have given a great deal for a little house in the south, with a garden. He would grow plums, and peaches, and apricots. In the evening, sitting astride a chair, he would listen to the sounds of nightfall, while an old housekeeper bustled about in the kitchen. He would then be able to let the world go hang.
That would be his way of stringing pearls.
* * * *
Colonel Raspéguy, commanding the 10th Colonial Parachute Regiment and the operational sector of Tebessa, heard about Esclavier’s resignation in the course of a meeting at Constantine H.Q.
He merely sucked on his pipe and declared:
“I know my Esclavier. There’s some skirt at the bottom of this. Skirt has always been his weakness. He’ll be back in a few months.”
There was some rather embarrassed laughter from the other colonels and the generals. Only two or three of them could stand Raspéguy. The others reproached him for his uncouthness, his humble background which he enjoyed recalling, his fine Renaissance condottiere head, which was reproduced rather too often in the big illustrated weeklies, and, above all, his success—his “luck,” as they called it—and the way in which he understood this war and won it wherever he happened to be.
Raspéguy threw out his chest. He must not appear to be affected by this setback. They were all waiting for a sign of weakness on his part to throw themselves on him.
The big colonel could not imagine that he would no longer have Esclavier with him, would no longer see that great big mug of his or hear that quick, dry manner he had of putting everyone in his place.
Esclavier used to accompany him whenever he was summoned to Algiers. They would both stride into the offices of G.H.Q., with their collars open and their sleeves rolled up on their sunburnt arms, rolling their shoulders slightly, slim-hipped, their camouflage uniforms clinging to their bodies. Their peaked caps were strangely reminiscent of the German warriors of the Afrika Korps. As they went by, the staff officers would dip their noses into their files and registers so as not to see the war coming in with its clean-cut athletic countenance.
They would stride into the office of the Commander-in-Chief,* that secretive, scheming creature whose heart had shrivelled in the smoke of every kind of opium and incense, amid esoteric rites, Buddhist and masonic initiations. The Commander-in-Chief had a handsome, inscrutable face with silvery hair and he would smile mysteriously at the two paratroopers. But they never knew what was in store for them as they left the office: a fresh promotion or the flattering mention in dispatches which would accompany a suspension of operations. Raspéguy was frightened of being withdrawn from the “chase” and he endowed this word with the same meaning as the Basque or St. Malo corsairs. Esclavier’s gaze made him stand firm whenever he fell into disgrace, and prevented him from begging in the staff offices, or approaching politicians and journalists, to be put back in the saddle. Esclavier, to a certain extent, was his dignity.
* * * *
On returning to his unit, the colonel was overcome with anger. He thumped his table with his fists until his chief of staff, Major Beudin, known as Boudin, a tubby little man with kindly eyes, came running in.
Raspéguy began yelling:
“Listen to me, Boudin. I’m giving you a week’s leave, but not for you to go out on a drunken binge. I want you to get hold of Esclavier, and, even if he’s not completely recovered, you’re to bring him back here to me. I want to know why he did it.”
“A girl, Colonel; you said so yourself.”
“I said so to the others, and the Old Woman is spreading it about, but I simply don’t believe it. He’s not the sort to devote his life to a hundred pounds of female flesh, even if she’s only twenty. What if it’s some bee in his bonnet that he’s got against me personally?”
He had calmed down by this time and was filling his pipe with cigarettes which he broke in two. He had his back turned to fat little Boudin, who cast a glance of envy in his direction.
The colonel was as slim as an adolescent. From the back he could be taken for a twenty-year-old if it were not for those folds round his neck. They were all slim, all adolescent, the Esclaviers, the Glatignys, the Marindelles: dangerous, pitiless and at the same time pitiful. Even Boisfeuras, who was not like them, had found this strange youthfulness in death. But he, Boudin, with his common sense, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his Auvergnat craftiness, was there to protect these fragile soldiers.
He would make quite sure not to find Esclavier.
In Italy an old glass-maker had told him that crystal sometimes catches a disease which makes it break without any reason. That sort of leprosy is contagious. Esclavier had it and he must not be allowed to infect his comrades, the crystal warriors.
Boudin would go and see his mother in the Cantal; he was very fond of his mother and they were proud of him in the village.
* * * *
Esclavier travelled down to the south in short stages, in an old open car which he had bought second-hand. He took with him a few books, two jade statuettes that Glatigny had made him buy in Hong Kong, a Moorish hanging and his revolver, a Lüger he had taken off a kattiba* commander in the Saharan Atlas. That was all that remained of fifteen years of military life, apart from a few memories, a few medals and an immense lassitude.
He took the Auvergne road, passed within twenty kilometres of the village where Boudin was born and thought of turning off to call on the major’s mother. She was an old peasant woman with a fierce face and her hair drawn back under her cap, as he knew from a photograph which his friend had once shown him with that mixture of pride, shame and apprehension that Latins usually assume when showing the pictures of their fiancées. But Esclavier continued on his way. He would have had nothing to say to the swarthy old woman and he would have had to confirm some of the lies which the son had told to make himself out better than he was. Boudin had as much right as anyone else to “give himself airs”; his at least had a certain charm.
Fat little Boudin was at the farm. That very morning he had telephoned Colonel Raspéguy to inform him that, despite all his efforts, he had not managed to get hold of Esclavier.
“Have you looked everywhere?” Raspéguy wanted to know.
“Come, you know me, Colonel!”
“Very well, you can come back now. Did you see his promotion to major has just been published in the Journal Officiel? What a fool he is!”
With a clear conscience Major Boudin had gone off barbel-fishing. He used dried bull’s blood as a bait, which was forbidden by law. But the police had far too much respect for him even to think of suspecting him.
* * * *
More than a thousand kilometres away, in his operational command post at Tebessa, Colonel Raspéguy sat deep in thought. He was amazed to discover that he was actually relieved that Boudin had not been able to find Esclavier, that Glatigny had left him, that Marindelle was still at Divisional H.Q. and that Boisfeuras had been killed.
Soon he would have his general’s stars, he, the little shepherd-boy of Les Aldudes. His ambition was no longer that restless, hungry beast gnawing away inside him. It had been tamed, had grown gentle and had a silky coat.
That gang of hotheads would not have allowed it to rest; and he would have followed them, for he felt they were right however disagreeable it mi
ght seem to the other colonels and generals. And even to himself.
He was called to the telephone. A fresh band had just crossed the barrier on the Algerian-Tunisian frontier, in spite of the barbed-wire entanglement and high-tension wires. The alarm had been given, but most of the band had got through. It was now his move.
His move: to race for days and nights on end over the mountains in pursuit of phantoms that vanished just when you thought you held them fast, to put a further strain on his men, who were at the end of their tether. By means of terror or persuasion, though the result was the same, the fellaghas had won the population over to their side. They were afforded hide-outs, provisions, information. They were waging this revolutionary war which was now being discussed in the headquarters summaries but of which no one on the French side dared to apply the rules.
“The army depends on the people just as a fish depends upon water.” Mao Tse-Tung had written that and Boisfeuras used to repeat it incessantly. The rebels alone depended on the people; they swam in their midst.
Raspéguy began to feel angry with himself.
“Here I am starting to think like Boisfeuras. In the first place why did he go and get himself killed, that fellow? And quite deliberately, I know. There must have been something that didn’t click in his schemes.”
Glatigny, quite naturally, had got a staff appointment. All the generals who watched over this cherub and his boring little wife had persuaded him to come back to his own set. At least Glatigny was still loyal to him and warned him from Paris of all the traps that were being set for him.
As for Esclavier, there was something lacking for him to be a real officer. Too eclectic, indifferent to promotion, not believing in the army but adjusting himself to it because he had not found another way of life which suited him so well. A military adventurer from a good family and with a gift for warfare—that could not be denied—but who had been able to leave the army without feeling the slightest wrench. Therefore, he was no soldier.
The Praetorians Page 2