by Alexis Jenni
‘So, what do you think?’
‘I’ll leave it to you.’
In daylight the post looked like a fort built for tin soldiers made of packed earth, flat stones and pine needles; they had built such castles on holiday or on a wet Thursday afternoon. Now they lived in one. The little fort was constructed from timber, mud and bamboo, and, using concrete ferried up by truck, they had built the blockhouse, where the French slept: a dungeon no bigger than a room. They lived in their floating castle, four valiant knights with their squires and their menials, on a barren ridge commanding a vast expanse of jungle, lush green seen from above, criss-crossed by the brown meanders of the river. The verb ‘command’ is used when a fortress geographically dominates the landscape, but in this case it was faintly laughable. Beneath the trees below a whole division could have passed unseen. Salagnon could always fire a few mortars into the forest. He could.
The days passed, they mounted up; the long, unvarying days spent watching the forest. Army life is composed of long periods of emptiness in which you do nothing but wonder if they will ever end; later the question ceases to matter. Waiting, watching, travelling, it all drags. There is no end in sight. Every day it starts anew. And then time reboots, in the fitful convulsions of an attack, seeming to speed up now, having accumulated reserves. And this, too, drags on: the lack of sleep, the constant vigilance, the hair-trigger reactions; there is no end in sight, except death. Soldiers find it easier returning to civilian life than it is to pass the time, to wait, to sit, to do nothing, motionless, as though floating on their backs while time flows past. They find it easier than others to endure the empty periods. What they miss are the spasms in which the time accrued is abruptly expended, which have no reason to occur after a war.
Every morning they wake up happy, comforted to find that they did not die in the night. They watch the sun emerge from the mists that glide beyond the trees. Salagnon often painted. He had time on his hands. He would sit and try his hand at wash drawing, drawing in ink, landscape; here they all amounted to the same thing, since all the water in the ground and in the air transformed the country into an ink-wash. Sitting in the tall grass or on a rock, he painted the undulating scene, the translucence of the receding hills, the trees thrusting blackly from the clouds. In the late morning the light was harsher; he used less diluted ink. In the courtyard he sketched the Thai soldiers, drawing them from a distance, preserving only their posture. Lying, sitting, crouching, stopping or standing, they could adopt more positions than a European could imagine. A European stands or lies, otherwise he sits; Europeans exhibit a sort of haughty contempt, a disdain for the ground. Thais do not seem to hate the ground they tread, nor fear it; they do not seem to worry; they assume every conceivable position. Sketching them, he learned all the possible positions of a human body. He also tried to sketch the trees, but found none of them pleasing in isolation. Individually most seemed stunted, but taken together they formed a terrifying mass. Like people, like the people here, about whom he knew little. He drew portraits of the four men living with him. He drew rocks.
Moreau was not about to let himself be stifled here, protecting himself from the day by day, from the night by night; so after dark, he would head into the jungle with his Thais. He always talked about his men – the possessive here is delectable; it would have delighted Trambassac, who scattered mini-despots throughout the Haute-Région. Moreau would strap on his kit and, as soon as the rim of the sun grazed the hills, he would set off through the quivering copper of the tall grasses towards the forest which, in the twilight, glistened a deep bottle-green that was almost black. They trooped out in single file with the clatter that fifteen men make as they march, even when they are silent: the breathing, the rustle of fabric, the click of metal, the soft whisper of rubber soles in the dust. They would march away and the sound would fade; they would step into the jungle and within a few metres would disappear among the branches. Listening carefully, it was still possible to hear them, then that also faded. The sun would drop swiftly behind the hills, the jungle would be swallowed by the darkness; no trace would remain of Moreau and his Thais. They had vanished, nothing more could be heard, all that could be hoped was that they would return.
Gascard, for his part, was happy to be stifled here. Drowning is the gentlest death, rumour has it, so people foolishly say, as though anyone has made the attempt. But then again, why not? Especially if it is possible to drown in pastis. Gascard did his utmost; it was gentle. From dusk to dawn, he stank of aniseed, and the day was not long enough for the fumes to evaporate. Salagnon would bawl him out, order him to cut down on his drinking – but not too much, not completely, since Gascard now was like a fish, if taken out of his life-giving pastis he would drown.
The infantry convoy finally arrived one afternoon. They had been expecting it the day before, but there had been a delay; there were always delays, because the trip never went smoothly, the route coloniale is never clear, convoys spend most of their time doing anything other than driving. At first they heard a muffled roar that filed the horizon, then they saw a cloud above the trees, brownish dust, plumes of diesel smoke, moving along the route coloniale on the twisting, turning gravel track, then finally, at the last bend before the hill up to the post, they saw the green trucks jolting along.
‘What a racket! The Viet Minh can hear us coming a mile away. They know where we are, but we don’t.’
The trucks panted as they claimed the hill, if it’s possible to say a truck pants, but these GMC cargo trucks, with their peeling paint, their huge, half-bald tyres, their bodywork dented and sometimes riddled with bullet holes, moved so slowly along the rutted track that they seemed to waddle, coughing hoarsely, their engines spluttering and gasping asthmatically. When they pulled up outside the post it was a relief for everyone that they could finally rest. The men who climbed down were shirtless, staggering, mopping their foreheads; their red eyes drooped, they looked as though they were about to lie down and go to sleep.
‘Two days, it took us. And we have to go back.’
The trucks alternated with half-tracks full of Moroccans. They too climbed down, but said nothing. They crouched by the edge of the road and waited. Their thin, bronzed faces all told the same tale: immense tiredness, tension and a powerful rage that went unstated. Two days to travel fifty kilometres was not unusual on the route coloniale. The Haiphong train goes just as slowly, crawling along the tracks, stopping for repairs and moving off again at walking speed.
Here, machines are a hindrance. A thousand men and women carrying sacks of rice would move faster than twenty trucks in convoy, would cost less, arrive more often and be less vulnerable. The true war machine is man. Communists know this, and Asian communists know it all too well.
‘Unload!’
The capitaine in charge of the goumiers, a colonial soldier hardened by the Moroccan sun and now softened and dampened by the jungles of Indochine, came over to Salagnon, saluted brusquely and stood next to him, hands on his hips, surveying his crippled convoy.
‘If you knew how pissed off I am doing this, Lieutenant, leading my lads to be slaughtered just to deliver a couple of crates to the jungle. To outposts that won’t survive the first serious attack.’ He sighed. ‘I’m not talking about you, but still. Come on, get this stuff unloaded so we can head back.’
‘Can I offer you a drink, Capitaine?’
The capitaine looked at Salagnon, screwing up his eyes, which formed flabby wrinkles, his skin looked like wet cardboard ready to split at the slightest strain.
‘Why not?’
A chain formed to unload the crates. Salagnon led the capitaine to the blockhouse and poured him a pastis only slightly cooler than the temperature outside. It was the best he could do.
‘When I say I’m pissed off, it’s because escorting convoys is the least of our job. We spend most of our time swinging picks and shovels, hauling winches. We’re glorified navvies, building the road we’re travelling on bit by bit. They dig it u
p to stop us getting through. They dig trenches across the road during the night. You never know where they are. The road goes through the jungle and bam! there’s a trench. A neat piece of work, perpendicular to the track, sides perfectly straight, bottom perfectly level, because they’re conscientious people, they’re not savages. So we fill it in. Once it’s been filled in, we set off again. A few kilometres later it’s trees, neatly sawn and laid across the road. So we get out a winch. We clear them away, we set off again. Then there’s another trench. We keep tools in the back of the trucks and we have prisoners to fill the trenches. Captured Viet Minh, dodgy militiamen, suspect peasants from the villages. They all wear the same black pyjamas; they keep their heads down; they never say anything; we take them with us anywhere there’s something to be carried or something to be dug; we tell them what to do, and if it’s not too complicated, they do it. We had a fresh lot, a Viet Minh column captured by a battalion of paratroopers looking for something they still haven’t found. They handed them over to us so we could take them back to the delta. But it’s a pain in the arse. You have to keep a close eye on them. Some of them are crafty bastards, political commissars we’re too fucking stupid to spot; it can be dangerous. So when we came to the first trench, they filled it, but by the third I sensed things were going to end in disaster. Three trenches so close together. I smelled an ambush, and dealing with an ambush when you’ve got prisoners to keep an eye on would be very risky. So I had them climb down into the trench, shot them, then we filled it in. The convoy drove straight over it, problem solved.’ He drained his glass, slammed it on the table. ‘Lighter trucks, fewer hold-ups, and there’s no problem with numbers; the paras don’t even know how many they gave us, and back at base they’ve no idea we were even bringing any prisoners. And it’s not like we’re short of suspects; we don’t know where to put them. The whole of Indochine is full of suspects.’
Salagnon poured another glass. He drank half of it in one gulp, stared into the distance distractedly.
‘Hey, talking of convoys, did you hear the Viet Minh attacked the BMC?’
‘The military brothel?’
‘Yeah, the travelling whorehouse. Now you’ll say, that’s normal. These guys spend months trapped in the jungle with a bunch of Tonkinese officers who aren’t exactly sexy. So, obviously, they’re bound to crack. Then some guy comes up with the idea: “Hey, boys!”’ – he mimicked a Vietnamese accent – ‘“New target, brothel. Set ambush, get sucky-fucky same time.”
‘That would be funny, but that’s not how it went down. The BMC is five trucks full of whores – mostly young Annamese and a couple of French girls – that shuttle between the barracks, with a madam as acting colonel. The trucks are kitted out with little beds, little fancy curtains, you go in one side, get your leg over, come out the other; it’s a sucky-fucky assembly line. A military escort is provided by four trucks of Senegalese soldiers. It’s tough to find guys to escort the BMC. The Moroccans find the whole idea disgusting; they don’t want anything to do with sex, except when they’re on a raid, but in that case they can slit the girl’s throat after or bring her back and marry her. The Annamese are offended, they’re romantics at heart; their idea of fun is holding hands and saying nothing. And besides, seeing their countrywomen in that situation hurts their national pride, which has only existed for about five minutes, so it’s easily wounded. The Legion isn’t interested – they move around in phalanxes, all boys together. Obviously there’s the Colonial Army, but they’re devious bastards, they harass the prostitutes, they kick up a fuss, they can’t really be trusted with providing security. That leaves the Senegalese: they get on well with the whores, give them big smiles, and little Annamese girls aren’t really their thing. So they pile everyone into a bunch of trucks and they tour the jungle garrisons. But this time, things turned nasty. A whole regiment of Viet Minh showed up with enough guns to capture Hanoi.’
‘What? To raid a brothel?’
‘Yep. That was clearly their target. First off, hollow-charge round into the cabs, the drivers were blown to kingdom come; then mortar shells through the slatted sides of the half-tracks riding escort; machine-gun bursts to deal with anyone who jumped down and tried to make a run for it. In a couple of minutes, everyone was dead.’
‘Even the prostitutes?’
‘Especially the prostitutes. When a rescue party arrived, they found the burned-out trucks in the middle of the road and all the bodies laid out along the verge. Arranged them neatly: the Senegalese, their officers, the whores, the brothel madam. They laid them all out the same way, arms by their sides, spaced ten metres apart. They would have had to measure it out, they’re conscientious people, it was absolutely precise. There were a hundred dead, a whole kilometre of corpses. Can you imagine? A kilometre of corpses laid out like they’re asleep, it went on for ever. And around the smouldering trucks, a pile of pink wreckage, knick-knacks, pillows, lingerie, knickers, curtains and special cabins.’
‘Did they… make the most of it before they left?’
‘Sexually, they didn’t do a thing. A doctor examined the girls and he was categorical. But they decapitated the Annamese whores and set their heads on their bellies; it was a terrifying sight. Twenty girls with their throat cut, their heads on their stomachs, their make-up, lipstick still perfect, their eyes open. And planted next to them a brand new Vietnamese flag. It was a sign: we don’t fuck with the Expeditionary Corps. We wage war on them. A whole regiment just to send a message. When the news got out, it sent a chill through every brothel in Indochine from here to Saigon. A lot of the con gái hightailed it back to their villages without even asking for their backpay. The Expeditionary Corps took a hit in the balls.’
They finished their drinks in silence, united by this unbiased observation of the absurdity of the world.
‘The revolutionary war is a war of signs,’ Salagnon said finally.
‘I’m afraid that’s too cerebral for me, Lieutenant. All I see is a country of lunatics. Surviving here is a full-time job. We don’t have time to think, not like the soldiers with cushy jobs, safe in their blockhouses. I’m out there in a truck filling in trenches. Well, thanks for the drink. Your supplies should be unloaded by now. I’ll head off.’
Salagnon watched them drive off down the route coloniale. Never had the term ‘ramshackle’ seemed more appropriate, he thought; they juddered along the stony track in a cacophony of metallic clanks and engine farts. They plodded down the road like a herd of exhausted elephants; and not Hannibal’s warlike elephants, more like superannuated circus elephants dragged out of retirement to do a little haulage, and who would one day lie down by the roadside and never get up.
In the courtyard the Thais were stowing crates of munitions, spare weapons, rolls of barbed wire, a searchlight, everything they would need to survive. The posts could exist only because of the convoys supplying them, and the convoys could exist only because of the road on which they travelled. The Expeditionary Corps is not in the blockhouses; it stretches out along hundreds of kilometres of road; it courses like blood through an infinite number of fragile, slender capillaries, which burst at the slightest injury and bleed out.
The convoy that has just disappeared into the jungle may never reach its destination, or it may arrive, or half of it might make it back. It might be decimated by a volley of mortar shells or bursts of machine-gun fire, whose bullets rip through the cabs like folded paper. The trucks topple and burn, dead drivers slumping over steering wheels; soldiers lying in the road try to fire back, but they can see nothing, then everything stops. When the convoys do arrive, the drivers can barely stand, all they want is to sleep, and yet they drive back all the same.
Each convoy brings with it losses, damage. The Expeditionary Corps slowly grows weaker, losing blood drop by drop. When a road becomes impassable, the posts are relinquished, officially declared abandoned, erased from the High Command map, and those who staffed it are ordered to return. Any way they can. The French zone is shrinking. In
Tonkin it is reduced to the delta, and not even the whole of the delta. All around are outposts, regularly spaced watchtowers attempting to secure the roads. There are numerous watchtowers, each manned by a handful of men who rarely step outside. It is like trying to catch water in a sieve: you try to make the holes smaller so as to lose less water, but of course it doesn’t work.
They made concrete. The convoy had brought enough materials to build four walls. They repaired the little cement mixer found in every outpost – although it may seem unprepossessing, it is the primary tool for ensuring a French presence in Indochine – and set it turning. Gascard, stripped to the waist, stood in front of it, taking upon himself the laborious task of adding the water, sand, cement, raising a cloud of dust that made you grit your teeth. Bare-chested in the blazing sun, he mixed the ingredients until he was covered in a film of white, white streaked with sweat, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing, just grunted now and then from the exertion; one might even have thought he was enjoying it. The concrete was carried in buckets to the timber moulds. Around one of the corner towers they built a small concrete cube equipped with loopholes. Inside they set a huge American machine gun on a tripod. On top they built a sloping roof, using the tiles brought on the trucks.
‘Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?’ said Mariani. ‘This way we can mow them down and still stay dry. Rat-a-tat-tat! We dig trenches and not one of them comes near. They won’t take us on now.’
‘Given the quality of the concrete, it won’t withstand a direct hit,’ said Moreau, who had not lifted a single bucket, but simply watched from a distance.
‘A direct hit with what? The Viets have no artillery. And if they did have Chinese cannons, d’you think they’d lug them through the jungle? You can’t wheel things through the jungle. What do you say, Salagnon?’