by Alexis Jenni
The two young men silently went back to work, their heads bowed, too embarrassed to look at each other. By the time they raised their heads again, the uncle had disappeared.
It all happened early one morning. The officers were racing around, suddenly anxious, packing their belongings ready for the off. Some disappeared. A convoy of trucks arrived to evacuate the camp. The tents had been struck and were loaded into the trucks. They had to clamber aboard and drive down to the Val de Saône train. They were being sent to help the war effort.
The lads witnessed a strange argument between their leaders. The topic was the details of loading the trucks and their position in the convoy. It seemed important to them whether they were to lead or bring up the rear, and the spirited argument led to abruptly raised voices and angry gesticulations; but all remained ambiguous as to their reasons for wanting to be in one position rather than another. They were adamant, yet they provided no rationale. Lined up along the roadside, the boys waited, their kitbags at their feet, laughing to hear such pettifogging, such hierarchical importance being applied to the ramshackle trucks parked along the dirt track.
The uncle tensely insisted on riding in the last truck with a hand-picked group he had taken aside. Others grumbled, one in particular, an officer of the same rank with whom he did not get on. He, too, wanted to be in the last truck, to be the ‘file closer’, as he put it. He repeated this phrase several times with particular emphasis; to him it seemed argument enough, a sufficiently important and military phrase, to carry the decision, and he designated the lead truck as the uncle’s.
Salagnon was standing, waiting, as the uncle passed, close enough to brush against him, and as he passed he mumbled: ‘Stay with me and only get aboard if I say so.’
The argument continued and the other officer conceded. Furiously, he took the leading truck and with exaggerated gestures gave the signal to set off. ‘Maintain visual contact!’ he yelled from the head of the convoy, half hanging out of the door, standing stiff as a tank commander. Salagnon climbed aboard and, at the last moment, Hennequin came to join him. He squeezed in next to him and sat down, laughing.
‘They’re fucking crazy. It’s like the army of San Theodoros in the Tintin comics: three hundred generals and five corporals. Give them an officer’s stripe and straight away they start putting on airs, preening and pouting like a couple of old biddies outside a door, waving each other in, because they’re too polite to go first.’
When the uncle climbed into the cab and spotted Hennequin, he was about to say something; he half opened his mouth, but the convoy was already under way. The trucks set off with a clatter of suspension springs and the roar of powerful engines. As they juddered along, the recruits clung to the slatted sides of the truck; they drove through the forest, heading for the road to Mâcon.
The rutted track, strewn with rocks and branches, made for heavy going. Spaces opened up between the trucks, the convoy leader was soon out of sight and, before they emerged from the forest, the three vehicles bringing up the rear turned on to a narrow track that rose steeply towards the very ridges they were supposedly heading away from.
Hanging on to the truck, they jolted along. Hennequin seemed concerned. His wide eyes flickered from face to face and saw not a glimmer of surprise. He struggled to his feet, banged on the glass partition. The driver continued while the uncle turned and glanced at him coldly. Hennequin began to panic, tried to jump out and had to be restrained. They grabbed him by his arms, his neck, his shoulders, and forcibly sat him down again. Salagnon had no idea what was going on, but it all seemed so straightforward that he just behaved like everyone else. He helped hold down Hennequin, who was thrashing about and yelling. No one could make out what he was saying as he was drooling.
The uncle tapped on the window and signalled for them to blindfold him, which they did using a scout’s scarf. ‘Not my eyes, not my eyes!’ Hennequin spluttered painfully. ‘I promise I won’t say anything. Let me go, I got in the wrong truck, that’s all. It’s not a crime, taking the wrong truck. I won’t say anything, but don’t blindfold me, I can’t stand it! Let me see! I won’t say a word, ever.’
He sweated and sobbed, he stank. The other lads held him at arm’s length, reluctant to get too close. His thrashing subsided, his cries became whimpers. The truck pulled to a halt and the uncle climbed into the back.
‘Let me go,’ said Hennequin softly. ‘Take off the blindfold. I can’t bear it.’
‘You weren’t supposed to be here.’
‘I swear I won’t say anything. Just take off the blindfold.’
‘Knowing will only put you at risk. The German police break men’s bodies the same way you would break a nut, to get at the secrets inside. It’s much better for you if you don’t see.’
At that moment, Hennequin pissed himself, and did worse. The stench was too much, they left him by the roadside, trussed just tightly enough to make sure it would take some time to wriggle free. The truck moved off again, the other lads carefully avoiding the wet patch left by the boy they had thrown out.
The trucks dropped them off at a spot where the track became a dirt trail that wound through the trees, and headed back empty, safeguarded by bureaucratic tricks too complicated to explain here, but which served well enough at the time.
They cut through the forest, moving in a straight line, heading for the maquis. They had been climbing for a long time when a glimpse of sky finally appeared between the trunks, the slope became less steep, the walk less strenuous, until eventually they reached level ground. They emerged into a sprawling, upland meadow ringed with beech trees. The sparse ground rang with their footsteps; the rock beneath the grass rose up in huge mossy crags to which clung strong, squat beeches, deformed by the mountain climate.
They stopped, pouring with sweat, set down their kitbags and slumped on to the grass with exaggerated groans and loud sighs. Waiting for them in the middle of the meadow, a thin, wiry young man stood leaning on a walking stick. He wore a colonial chèche around his neck, and the pale blue kepi of the French Camel Corps pushed back on his head; he wore his revolver in a leather holster strapped to his chest, making it look not regulation-issue, but once again a weapon for killing. He was known as ‘mon Colonel’. For most of the young men, this was the first French army officer they had seen who did not look like a rural policeman, a quartermaster or a scout leader; he looked more like the officers who manned road blocks, the impeccably dressed Kommandanturs, or the terrifying officers scouring the country roads in caterpillar trucks. He was like a German, a modern warrior, with just a touch of French flair that put fire in their bellies. Even standing alone, he filled the mountain pasture; the breathless boys, full of silent admiration, smiled, and one by one they stood to attention as he approached them.
He moved towards them with an easy gait, saluted the officers, addressing them as ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Capitaine’, according to their age. He sized up the lads and gave each a curt nod. He gave a welcome speech, and although no one could remember the details, the overall message was: ‘You are here. This is the moment. You are in exactly the right place at precisely the right time.’ He reassured them and gave them space to dream; he was both tradition and an adventure, they knew that with him things would be dangerous, but they would never be bored.
They set up camp. A derelict grain store served as their headquarters. They restored a crumbling ruin, repairing the roof of thin stone slates, made bivouacs using green tarpaulins and saplings cut from the forest. The weather was sunny and cool, the work invigorating and pleasurable. They set up stores, a camp kitchen, a water supply, everything they would need to live for some time, far from everything, cut off from everyone.
Amid the scattering of rocks and the sturdy trees, the grass seemed to grow before their very eyes, pale stalks rippling in the breeze. A multitude of yellow flowers glistered in the sun; from certain angles they looked like a vast, golden platter reflecting its rays. On the first night they lit campfires, stayed
up late, laughed heartily and fell asleep where they lay.
The following day it rained. The sun rose grudgingly and was so well hidden behind the bank of cloud it was impossible to say just where it was. Youthful enthusiasm, like cardboard, becomes limp when wet. Exhausted, chilled to the bone, poorly sheltered by their makeshift camp, the young men found themselves plagued by doubts. Silently, they watched raindrops trickle from their tents. Wisps of fog stole across the meadow, gradually engulfing it.
The Colonel did the rounds of the camp, carrying his gnarled boxwood cane, a coiled spring of hard wood whose power he controlled. The rain did not seem to make him wet, it streamed over him like light. He shone even more brightly. His features closely mirrored his bone structure, rivulets of water followed the folds of his skin, tracing a map that exposed its rocky contours. He was, in everything, the quintessence. He wore his Saharan chèche carelessly knotted around his throat, his pale blue kepi tilted at a rakish angle, his regulation-issue pistol hung over his chest, and he moved from one bivouac to the next, knocking his cane against the saplings, bringing downpours in his wake that left him unscathed. During the rains his effortless fortitude was a blessing. He gathered the boys inside the big ruin with the patched-up roof. The floor was covered with straw. A large man known as ‘Cook’ handed out loaves of bread to be divided into eight, tins of sardines to be shared between two (this was the first of countless tins of sardines Salagnon was to open) and, for each of them, a steaming carafe of real coffee. They drank it with relish and some surprise, since it was neither dishwater nor coffee substitute, but real coffee from Africa, aromatic and scalding hot. This, however, would be the only time they got to drink real coffee in the maquis – to celebrate their arrival, or to ward off the effects of the rain.
* * *
They were trained, with the sole purpose of waging war. An infantry officer who had escaped from Germany taught them to use firearms. His uniform permanently buttoned, his face clean-shaven, his hair cropped to within a millimetre of his skull, nothing about his appearance betrayed the fact that he had spent two years hiding in the woods, except for the way he moved, stepping without ever cracking a branch, rustling a leaf, without touching the ground.
When he gave lessons, the lads sat in a circle on the grass, their eyes shining. He brought out a few wooden crates painted military green and placed them in the centre of the circle, opened them slowly and took out the weapons.
The first object he unveiled was disappointing; something about the shape made it seem innocuous. ‘The FM 24/29,’ he said. ‘The fusil mitrailleur – the standard light machine gun of the French Army.’ Their eyes glazed over. They disliked the term ‘gun’, even more so the word ‘light’, while the adjective ‘French’ made them sceptical. The gun seemed fragile, the magazine looked as though it had been accidentally inserted back to front. It did not have the stark, austere gravity of the German machine guns they had seen on every street corner, with their perforated muzzles ready to growl, their inexhaustible cartridge belts, the ergonomic metal grips that looked nothing like the preposterous wooden butts that made these guns seem childish. The small box magazine could not possibly contain many bullets. Surely the purpose of a machine gun was the ability to fire continuously?
‘Don’t be fooled,’ the officer smiled. Nothing had been said, but he could read their thoughts. ‘This weapon is the weapon of the war that we are going to wage. It can be carried. It can be shoulder-mounted. It takes only two men to operate: one to scan for targets and load the magazine, one to fire. See this little forked rest under the barrel? You can place it on a flat surface to take aim, making it possible to accurately fire high-calibre bullets from considerable distance. The clip holds twenty-five rounds, which can be fired one by one or in bursts. You think the magazine is too small? That you’ll empty it in ten seconds flat? Ten seconds is a long time when you are shooting; in ten seconds you can gun down a whole platoon and get away. The trick is never to stay in the same position; it gives the enemy time to think, the opportunity to counter-attack. You wipe out a platoon in a few seconds, then get the fuck out. The FM 24/29 is the ideal weapon if you need to get in and out quickly, the perfect weapon for an infantry on the move, an infantry that is tactical but deadly. The strongest in the group carries it on his shoulder; the magazines are shared out among the rest of the unit. When it comes to weapons, size isn’t everything, lads. Besides, the Germans have the big guns. We have only men, so we’ll wage an infantry war. They dominate the terrain? We’ll be the rain and the rivers they cannot control. We’ll be the tide that eats away, the waves that break against a cliff; the cliff can do nothing since it cannot move, and eventually it crumbles.’
He raised an open palm and they all stared; he opened and closed it several times.
‘You will form close-knit units as swift and deft as hands. Each man is a finger, independent but inseparable. Hands can surreptitiously slip into unseen places, they close into a fist to strike, then open again to become nimble hands that flutter and vanish. We will fight with our fists.’
He gestured as he said the word, his powerful hands clenching to become hammers then opening again, harmless, munificent. The young men watched enthralled. He could hold them spellbound, could teach without seeming like a ridiculous old fogey on a parade ground. Two years in the maquis had made him lean, honed his every movement, and he communicated through physical images that one wanted to experience.
He demonstrated the Garand semi-automatic rifles, several cases of which they had just received with plenty of ammunition. And the grenades, which were dangerous to use, since the shrapnel travelled further than it was possible to throw them if they were thrown like stones; the young men had to unlearn the simple throwing action they had learned as boys, and learn to stretch their arms behind them before throwing. He showed them plastic explosives, as soft as modelling clay to the touch, but explosive if handled roughly. They learned to field-strip and reassemble the Sten gun, constructed from tubes and rods and capable of withstanding any amount of abuse and continuing to fire. They practised shooting in a small valley ringed with bushes that deadened the noise, firing at straw targets already riddled with bullets.
Salagnon discovered that he was an excellent marksman. Lying on his belly on a bed of dead leaves, the rifle pressed to his cheek, the far-off target in his sights, he had only to picture the line extending to the target in order to hit it. It never failed: a slight contraction of his abdominal muscles, an image of the straight line, and he hit his target; all in an instant. He was thrilled to find he was a naturally good shot and beamed as he handed back the rifle. ‘Accuracy is good,’ the instructor said, ‘but it’s no way to wage a war.’ And he handed the rifle to the next man, without paying him any further heed. It took Salagnon a moment to understand. In combat there is no time to lie down, to aim, to fire; more importantly, in battle the target hides, aims and returns fire. You have to shoot as best you can. Sheer luck and blind fear are the determining factors. At this thought, he felt the urge to sketch. Whenever Salagnon was restless, his fingers prickled with the urge to draw. The atmosphere in the maquis, as they dreamed of war in the springtime, made his fingers twitch constantly. He groped around him, found some paper. That night they had received a consignment of crates containing ammunition and explosives. Planes flew overhead; they had set a line of small fires in the darkness; as the roar of the engines faded, white parachutes blossomed against the inky sky. They had been forced to search for the supplies tangled in the branches, unravel and fold the parachutes, stow the crates in the rebuilt ruin and extinguish the fires; only then could they breathe a sigh of relief as they heard the crickets in the tall grass begin to chirrup.
While opening one of the ammunition crates, Salagnon froze when he saw a slip of brown paper. His fingers trembled and he felt his mouth water. The magazines were stored in grey cardboard boxes, and the boxes were packed in a fibrous paper, as soft as suede. He unwrapped the packages, careful not to tear
anything, opening out each sheet, smoothing it, cutting along the folds, until he had a wad of sheets two hand-spans wide, the perfect size. Roseval and Brioude, who were on packing duty with him, watched his obsessive care. They had hastily unpacked the boxes of bullets, ripping the paper and setting it aside as kindling.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Brioude asked finally.
‘Making a sketchbook. For drawing.’
They laughed.
‘This is hardly the time or the place to be drawing. Me, I left my pencils and copybooks back at school. I don’t even want to think about that shit any more. It’s over. What are you planning to draw?’
‘You.’
‘Us?’ They laughed even harder. Then stopped. ‘Us?’
Salagnon got started. In a metal box he had a stash of Conté pencils of varying hardness. Now, finally, he took them out and sharpened them with a penknife. He shaved only as much graphite as was necessary to produce a point. Roseval and Brioude struck a heroic stance: standing in three-quarter profile, one fist on his hip, Brioude rested his elbow on the shoulder of Roseval, who adopted a classic pose, one foot forward, his weight resting on the other leg. Salagnon sketched them quickly, working happily. The pencils left soft lines on the thick wrapping paper. When he was done, he showed them the drawing and their jaws dropped. From the soft clay of the paper burst out two granite statues. They were instantly recognizable and the comic gallantry of their pose had been stripped away to reveal two heroes, brothers in arms, neither mocking nor mocked, striding forwards, building a future.
‘Do another,’ Brioude said. ‘One each.’
They unpacked the remaining crates without damaging the paper. Salagnon stitched some of the sheets into a sketchbook with covers made of stiff cardboard he took from a box of food rations sent from America; the rest of the paper he left loose, to give away.