The Praetorians

by Jean Larteguy

  “Now, because they’re frightened, they’re calling in the army to protect them; they’re fawning on us after having insulted us.”

  “Interesting,” said Boisfeuras, “but the days of the Arab Bureaux and the Officers for Native Affairs in big burnouses are over and done with. That was all part of the folklore. Even after the conquest Algeria still had ethnic, religious and tribal structures. In one century we have thrown the whole lot overboard and created, out of these very diverse individualities, what the Communists call a Lumpenproletariat. The war has accelerated this phenomenon, with its resettlement camps, its migrations of population, its mixtures. Islam has fallen into disuse, and with it all sorts of customs earlier than Islam, which were still alive ten years ago in Kabylia. The Maghreb specialists can say what they like. We have levelled the Algerians down and replaced these maybe mouldy structures by others that exist only on paper and have never taken actual shape.

  “We now have in our hands that raw material which the Communists take so long to manufacture, a people of uprooted proletarians. We know their methods. It’s up to us to show that it’s possible to find a solution other than that of Communism for the underdeveloped peoples.

  “But watch out! If we fail, the Communists will be the ones to benefit from our action. We shall only have accelerated the process of putrefaction.

  “In 1958 one doesn’t cross the Rubicon to change a government or a Prime Minister, but for some great project, a demonstration on a world scale.”

  “And the Europeans of Algeria,” said Marindelle, “have no political structures. There have never been political parties in Algeria, nor trade unions, but only financial feudalities. One belonged to Borgeaud, to Blachette, to Jacquier, to Germain, one was just a customer of theirs. Apart from that, a great void, or a negative solidarity against these Arabs who breed like rabbits. You’re right. It’s up to us to skim this fermenting melting-pot.”

  Captain Orsini broke in, his beret pulled down over his nose:

  “Colonel Raspéguy has gone soft! One would think he’s anxious about his promotion. Whatever happens, all that matters is for Algeria to remain French.”

  Boisfeuras stopped rocking in his chair:

  “Whatever we may do, Orsini, Algeria will be independent one day. But we must be the ones that bring about this independent Algeria.”

  Slightly put out, Orsini stared at his boots, which were still caked with the red mud of the jebel:

  “I don’t give a damn if she’s independent or not, but I want her to remain French.”

  He went out rolling his shoulders, still as bad-tempered as ever.

  “How’s General Hellion going to take this?” asked Marindelle. “He’s not such an easy-going chap, you know.”

  Boisfeuras had picked up a knife from the table and was paring his nails.

  “If the lads give in because of him they’re lost. They started out without thinking twice and now they’re in a hell of a mess.”

  * * * *

  Glatigny had joined Bonvillain in the little villa of the antenna of the Ministry of National Defence.

  “I’ve just left Boisfeuras,” said the major. “He can be dangerous on occasion. He’s a fanatic for agitation.”

  “Not really. With his ‘Officers’ Committees’ he’s basically back to our idea of ‘workshops.’”

  “But we haven’t got there yet. General Hellion has rung up Captain Bergasse and told him to come and meet him at the military aerodrome of Maison Blanche. Bergasse will then drive him to the Aletti.

  “At last I’ve been able to get through to Paris. Major Miguelon will be here at eight o’clock. He’ll lend you support.”

  * * * *

  A short, thick-set little man from Orleansville, Captain Bergasse had inherited from his Spanish mother a great volubility, from his father, a small settler, a certain form of truculent humour, and from his long association with Moslems a need to accompany every word with a gesture.

  General Hellion, whom he had come to meet, asked him as he climbed into the car:

  “Well, Bergasse, how goes it?”

  “So-so” (moving his hands); “rather more so than otherwise.”

  “Have you heard what my officers are up to? A plot?”

  “Which plot, sir? I’ve heard of at least twelve!”

  He counted off on his fingers:

  “The students’ plot with Lagaillarde and Adruguez, the Mitidja settlers’ plot, Arcinade’s and Colonel Thomazo’s, the plots of the antenna of the Ministry of National Defence with Chaban-Delmaz, of Soustelle’s Gaullists in the U.S.R.A.F.* and of the former Pétainists, the secret police’s plot, Colonel Puysanges’s and all the plots which the French Algerians make every evening over their anisette for want of something better to talk about. If there’s yet another one, I’m in it—on condition, of course, that it’s aimed at preserving Algeria and Bergasse for France.”

  They had just driven over the Hussein Dey bridge and the musty smell of the Harrach enveloped them.

  Hellion asked:

  “Do you know where my men are likely to be at this time of the evening?”

  “At the Aletti, sir, where you asked me to get you a room. All your officers are waiting for you; the envoys of both divisions.”

  “Envoys, what the hell are you talking about? In that case, stop the car, I’m getting out.”

  “A general wandering about alone in Algiers after the curfew and getting picked up by a patrol, that would be funny!”

  The general sank back in his seat and did not open his mouth again until the car drew up outside the Aletti.

  A sleepy chaouch opened the iron gate and closed it again behind Hellion. Captain Bergasse and his car disappeared.

  The general was alone in the dimly lit lobby. Outside the bar stood a sentry, but unarmed. He was a handsome young sergeant, with a blank expression and hard-set features.

  A fortnight previously Hellion himself had decorated him with the Croix de la Valeur Militaire with palm.

  The general strode into the big bar-room at a pace that was intended to be brisk. But his hindquarters spoilt the effect.

  There was no one in the bar except the group of paratroop officers and warrant officers in battledress. One of them motioned to the barman, who disappeared.

  The general was so short that he had to raise his head to recognize the faces of the men standing there at attention. He thought that Marshal de Lattre, under whose orders he had served a long time, would have admired them with their strong features, close-cropped hair, their skin tanned by the sun, their lean sinewy bodies, their gaze that never wavered.

  He hoisted his ample buttocks on to a bar-stool. In front of him stood a glass of beer and, since he was thirsty, he almost drank it down. But he recovered himself: a general does not accept a drink from his officers in revolt.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, talking through his nose more than ever and sneezing, “you have drawn me into a trap. . . .”

  For a moment he envied the tall men who, at a crucial stage in their career, were at the top of their form. He had caught a cold in the plane and he lacked a good twenty inches to cut an imposing figure.

  “I must remind you that by the terms of military law the most serious crime is mutiny. For the last time I’m giving orders for Captain Boisfeuras to take the plane for Paris and for all of you to rejoin your units which you have left without permission. Consider yourselves under open arrest pending the disciplinary measures that I shan’t fail to take against you.”

  He sneezed again and saw smiles flickering over their faces.

  Philippe Esclavier stepped forward:

  “Sir, I don’t think it will do any good to dramatize this business by referring to officers and warrant officers, who only want to have a word with you, as mutineers.”

  “I’m sticking to the facts, Esclavier. I d
on’t want to hear anything else. The Minister, representing the Government, has given the order. . . .”

  Major Miguelon stood out amongst these soldiers who still smelt of war and who revealed a stubborn air and stern features the better to conceal their uneasiness and indecision. He was a slim, grey-haired man who wore steel-rimmed spectacles and, on the lapel of his uniform, the badge of the École de Guerre.

  He tried to intervene and did so in a shrill voice:

  “There isn’t any government left, sir—there hasn’t been for years!—and the Minister whom I’m representing here——”

  “You’re representing the Minister!”

  “I belong to his department. The Minister, sir, never intended to give that order. In all good faith he was taken by surprise. I spoke to him before coming here, a few hours ago. . . .”

  “Then he must countermand it.”

  “That’s impossible in the present circumstances, but my presence here . . .”

  The little general exploded and reverted to the coarse language of his youthful years when he was commanding a unit of shock troops:

  “You’re beginning to bore the balls off me with your bloody little plots, your secret envoys from a Minister who with one hand signs an order and with the other picks up the telephone to countermand it! What gives us our strength, us soldiers, in this damn balls-up, is discipline. You’re all criminals to call it in question.”

  He was getting thirstier and thirstier and the beer tempted him. He gulped it down:

  “You bloody little gang of heroes, you remind me of my son. . . .”

  Esclavier, who felt the situation was lost if the general started playing on their finer feelings, tried to counter-attack:

  “Your son is on our side at the moment, sir.”

  “Well, what difference does that make? For the last time, Boisfeuras, I order you to take that plane.”

  “No,” said Marindelle.

  “No,” said Esclavier.

  “No,” echoed the other officers and warrant officers one after another.

  “This isn’t a mutiny, it’s a sedition organized by a soviet of officers and soldiers!”

  Boisfeuras’s grating laugh made itself heard:

  “This is the way, sir, while drinking beer and taking a cue from Mao Tse-Tung and the Vietminh, that the officers and N.C.O.s of the two legions, I mean the two parachute divisions, have decided this evening to cross the Rubicon.”

  “If it’s anything like the Harrach it must smell pretty filthy, your Rubicon, and France will never agree to follow you.”

  “It all depends on the leader we suggest,” said Glatigny. “If it was de Gaulle . . .”

  “De Gaulle’s a name which means something to me—a Prime Minister who abandoned power in 1946, leaving France in the lurch after having the nerve to say that all was well. If that’s all you’ve got to offer! Meanwhile I’ll have to take things up with the C.-in-C.”

  “A little later,” Major Miguelon quietly remarked, “after April 26th. It’s easy, without compromising yourself, to cancel that order. Captain Boisfeuras goes sick and is admitted to Maillot hospital. We’ve got some friends there. When he has recovered, after April 26th, he can answer this summons . . . if it is still in effect!”

  A fresh explosion from the little general:

  “Do you think I’m going to climb down?”

  “We’re resolved to go to any lengths,” Marindelle chipped in, “to get things moving, even so far as to make your staff officers responsible for keeping you under surveillance. We have their agreement to do so.”

  “As I see it, I’m your prisoner.”

  “Our guest this evening, sir,” Esclavier replied. “Another beer? We’re sorry, but the barman has gone off with the keys and there isn’t any whisky. Now then, does Boisfeuras remain in Algiers?”

  “No.”

  The general was still trying to struggle, but the less gruff he became and the more he attempted to show his officers valid reasons for obeying him, the more ground he lost. His uneasiness and indecision strengthened the determination of his subordinates. Esclavier said once again:

  “Well, does Boisfeuras remain in Algiers?”

  “He can do as he likes, and you’ll all swing with him.”

  He seized Marindelle by the arm:

  “It will be much simpler to obey, otherwise you’ll be for the high jump. A good soldier chooses this profession because it spares him from having to face problems, and if problems arise, since he has not been trained to solve them, he acts foolishly with deep conviction. And you’d better think twice about Charles de Gaulle, I know him well. He thinks much the same as I do.”

  He turned to the officers, tried to make himself look taller.

  “All the same, gentlemen, I suppose you’re still under my orders as far as operations are concerned. I shan’t go and see the C.-in-C. What’s the number of my room, Esclavier?”

  “A hundred and twenty-four.”

  The general put his beret back on his head and waddled out of the room. But no one noticed he was weeping.

  “It’s as easy as that to topple over an old idol!” lisped Lieutenant Pujol-Veyrier, aghast and at the same time delighted.

  6

  WEEK-END IN ALGIERS

  “That general was no fool,” said Urbain Donadieu. “As I see it, Esclavier, your comrades and yourself embarked on that venture of May 13th to defend not the French of Algeria, nor the Moslems, the most dynamic part of whom were fighting you to achieve their independence, but simply your existence. Let’s use, if you like, a more pompous word: your honour.”

  “For three of us honour had nothing to do with it. After our meeting in the Aletti bar, which ended towards three in the morning, Boisfeuras invited us to have a glass of whisky in his bedroom. Pellegrin was there as well, and I thought he had drunk more than he usually did. Through the wide-open window we could see the harbour packed with boats which were unloading by the light of arc-lamps. For the Moslems and small settlers the war meant hardships, resettlement camps, farms burnt down and vineyards destroyed. For us, tricky and exhausting operations, surrounding the enemy, then closing in to find they had meanwhile disappeared, lives thrown away for nothing. For others, for some others, it meant money.

  “Min served us in silence. That mysterious face with the slanting eyes also reminded us of Indo-China.”

  * * * *

  On account of that face, and the damp salty air wafted up in gusts from the sea, and those boats unloading their trucks, their armoured cars and their ambulances, Glatigny, Esclavier, Marindelle and Boisfeuras, forgetting this room with its bad-taste Juxurious furniture, this smell of antiseptic and polish which is the smell of all big hotels, found themselves back in the Far East. It was the memory of Camp One that came back to them.

  They recalled the final hours of Dien-Bien-Phu, the long march, their escapes, their self-examination sessions and the promise they had made to themselves never to lose another war.

  Suddenly Jacques de Glatigny rose to his feet, glass in hand, and embarked with heavy irony on one of those catch-phrases he used to use in the camp to start off a speech:

  “I’m an aristocrat, the son of an aristocrat, a pupil of the Jesuits and a French officer. I haven’t got a penny left and my country house has fallen to bits in spite of the repairs my wife had done to it.

  “I loved a little Arab girl and I forced her to give away her friends. I don’t want her to have betrayed her comrades for nothing because of me.

  “Whenever I go to Algiers I go and see Aicha. I don’t lay a finger on her; she talks to me about her country, for she is still a Nationalist. I went with her to call on her brother, Captain Mahmoudi, who has been transferred to Paris. He’s still under close arrest in Fort I’Empereur

  “There are times when I find myself siding with Aicha and her brothe
r. I tell myself it’s impossible to hang on to a country against the wish of the people living in it. I see myself then as nothing more than the supporter of an outworn form of colonialism. At other times, when I’m with the settlers with whom I fought in Italy, I find myself siding with them for having developed this land and I feel it’s out of the question to abandon them. They have paid the double price of sweat and blood.

  “There are yet other times when I dream of the two communities coming to some sort of agreement. Aicha said to me the other day: ‘The only possible peace is the peace of the fighters. If I were asked to design a poster to rally the men of the hinterland I would show a paratrooper and a member of the F.L.N., each with his hand on the other’s shoulder but carrying a sub-machine-gun, with the inscription: Together we shall create a new Algeria.’ Of course, we should have to begin by shooting a few fat settlers and big-time Arabs.

  “But what could I do? Hand in my resignation? I’m incapable of any other profession than the army.

  “That was the point I’d reached when I met Bonvillain, at the Ministry of War, and with him I started plotting. I’m grateful to Boisfeuras, whose recall to France has done us a great service by forcing the officers to take a stand.”

  Boisfeuras replied in his rasping voice:

  “Our friend Glatigny, for whom, as I see it, I have served as a bait, has given us his point of view. We should be glad, however, if he would enlighten us further on certain points. Does he believe that General de Gaulle can work towards a French solution in Algeria? We know the general’s suspicious attitude towards the European population—in his eyes, second-class citizens and personal enemies of his—and also towards the Moslems, whom he calls riff-raff. In other words, our friend Glatigny is inviting us to take part in a plot which is aimed at bringing back to power, by force, a man of great standing, maybe, but whom France has dismissed from her memory with a certain feeling of relief.”

  “I don’t see any other solution,” Glatigny replied.