The French Art of War

by Alexis Jenni

  Slipping between the stones without disturbing a single one, Vignier suddenly appeared before him. Salagnon started, but the young man reassured him, touching a finger to his forearm, then bringing it to his lips.

  ‘Look, Capitaine,’ he whispered. ‘Along the river, near the bridge.’

  Instinctively, Salagnon reached for his binoculars.

  ‘No,’ Vignier hissed. ‘They might see a reflection. They’re there.’

  Salagnon set down the binoculars and squinted into the light. Wary figures were stepping out of the dense thicket. The shade beneath the trees concealed them until the last moment. They were moving in single file. Donkeys weighed down with crates moved with them. The sound of distant engines reached them from somewhere along the road. A plume of dust moved slowly towards them, making the distinctive thick growl of army trucks. At this point Salagnon, forgetting caution, grabbed the binoculars and jumped to his feet. A jeep leading a convoy of trucks filled with men was moving up the valley, heading straight for the bridge.

  ‘Shit! That fucking idiot Chambol!’

  The first mortar shell, fired from the riverbed, hit the road in front of the jeep. It skidded and came to a halt on the verge. A second shell hit one of the trucks, which burst into flame. The men jumped down, scattered, diving for cover as bullets raked the gravel.

  ‘The fucking idiots! The fucking idiots!’ screamed Salagnon. ‘Let’s go!’

  The trap, which had taken hours to prepare, had been tripped at the wrong moment. Shells exploded on the riverbed; the machine guns hidden between the rocks started to strafe the ground; the air was filled with gunfire and explosions. Hidden by the rocks, Salagnon’s men crawled forwards, and when the men of the katiba began to retreat, they leapt to their feet and attacked. Several donkeys collapsed with a squeal like a siren; the muleteers hesitated, then left them lying on the crates and ran for the shelter of the trees. Shots came from the forest, bursts of rifle fire, and the paras threw themselves to the ground; it was impossible to distinguish between unconscious reflex and the impact of the bullets.

  ‘This is bullshit!’ growled Salagnon. ‘Complete fucking bullshit!’

  He radioed Trambassac and ordered that the valley be cordoned off at both ends to close the trap, the sections to be set down by helicopter at the prearranged points. The paratroopers kept moving from one boulder to the next until they reached the riverbed. For those on the road, things had improved. Warily, they got to their feet. Gunshots rang out in the distance, carefully measured, as though this were a shooting drill. The katiba retreated along the valley and ran into the bases stationed along the ridge. Two helicopters thundered across the sky.

  ‘It seems to be working, more or less, but what a fucking waste.’

  The dry riverbed was littered with bodies of men in the threadbare uniforms of the ALN, which attempted to be a regular army, but did not quite succeed. The wounded lay still, making no sudden movements, staring silently at the armed paratroopers moving between the bodies. Among the men were the donkeys that had collapsed under the weight of the munitions crates; some raised their heads and from their gaping mouths came that distinctive braying wail. All of them had suffered from the terrible injuries inflicted by hollowpoint bullets and fragments of shrapnel, their guts spilled out, their coats were matted with blood. A sergeant moved from one animal to the next with his handgun, crouching down gently, carefully pressing the muzzle to their forehead and firing a single shot, then getting up and moving on when the animal had stopped braying and its limbs had ceased to spasm. One by one he killed the donkeys until eventually silence descended. At every gunshot, the wounded men flinched. The rebels were wearing uniforms and carrying weapons of war. They were rounded up. Those who did not look much like soldiers were taken to one side. They would not come back. Those who had clearly fought with the French army would be considered deserters. Those who were spared were handcuffed and ordered to sit next to paratroopers holding their weapons at their hips. On one of the rebel officers they found maps, papers, forms.

  Vignier was lying on the slope. The bullet had hit him in the forehead, just where skin creases when you frown. He had probably died instantly, struck in mid-air and dead before he hit the ground. Herboteau stood for a moment and stared at him in silence. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket, moistened it with his tongue and cleaned the blood around the perfectly round hole in his skull.

  ‘It’s better like that. This way he died clean.’

  He got to his feet again and carefully put away his handkerchief. He picked up his gun, asked for authorization to follow the katiba, then set off, followed by his men. Upriver, the fighting carried on in the dense woodland.

  Chambol had sprained his ankle when he fell from his jeep. He arrived, hopping and limping. The men from the trucks hobbled back to their vehicles and stood around aimlessly. They were young, with the soft, smooth faces of boys, their baggy, ill-fitting infantry uniforms looked as though they had been stolen from a dressing-up box. They were new recruits, freshly arrived. They had been very scared. Salagnon could not decide whether to clout them or comfort them. They held their weapons awkwardly. On their heads, the steel helmets looked lopsided and too large. The paratroopers dressed in order to fight. It may not seem like much, but it changes everything. When they had all assembled, Salagnon realized that they had scarcely anyone to tell them what to do, save for two sergeants. One of them reeked of alcohol and the other looked exhausted; he had probably been worn down by this country for decades. They were better off hiding in their lookout posts, rather than coming out to be fired on. He caught sight of Chambol, wincing with pain as he put his foot on the ground.

  ‘What the fuck were you doing here?’

  ‘We were going to reinforce one of our posts.’

  ‘Just like that? Some random post in your stupid network?’

  ‘An informant told us that the post was about to be attacked. We were going to lie in wait. That way they would have been met with men who had been forewarned. We thought we could steal a march on them.’

  ‘You believe your informers?’

  ‘He’s an ex-soldier, completely trustworthy.’

  ‘Look around you, look at the bodies of the men we just killed. There are ex-soldiers among them. You can trust no one here. Except my men. You’re a fucking idiot, Chambol.’

  ‘I’ll have you demoted, Salagnon.’

  ‘And if I’m not here to save your skin, what will you do? Hole up in your fucking posts? How long would it take someone to come and get you? Go ahead, have insubordinate paras demoted and the fellagas will cut your balls off in your bed. And your sentries won’t even notice. And from the looks of these no-hopers here – to say nothing of their half-witted officers – they won’t even notice their own balls being cut off until they feel the cold steel.’

  ‘I forbid you…’

  ‘You forbid me nothing, Colonel. And now you can make your own way back. I’ve got better things to do.’

  That night they brought him Ahmed Ben Tobbal. He recognized him by the huge black moustache that had so impressed him before he had started shaving. He still had it, bushy and unruly, on a face that was haggard but more intense. In the gathering darkness there were no more sounds of battle and a little cool air spilled from the sky. Everything smelled of pine resin, of those succulent plants that find relief in exhaling heady perfumes, of hot stones that smelled of flint. The paratroopers began to trudge back, leading prisoners whose hands were bound, guiding the donkeys carrying the crates of munitions and two of their own dead. When the prisoner was brought before the capitaine in his camouflage uniform, a Roman ensign planted in the ground among the dead, his face drawn from thirty-six hours without sleep, Salagnon recognized him and smiled.

  ‘If you’d fallen into my hands, young Victorien, I would not have been kind to you,’ said Ben Tobbal.

  ‘We wouldn’t fall into your hands, Ahmed, not us.’

  ‘These things can happen, Capitaine, th
ey can happen.’

  ‘But it didn’t happen.’

  ‘No. Which means this is the end for me. And pretty quickly, I assume,’ he said and gave a smile that softened all his features as though heaving a sigh of relief, as though he were about to stretch himself and lie down to sleep after a long march, a smile that was intended for no one and one for which he could feel a flicker of comradeship.

  ‘I won’t let him do it.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It’s out of your hands, Capitaine. The only reason your boys didn’t put a bullet in my head is because I was leading the convoy. So they brought me back. I know who you will hand me over to. And even if you let me go, I would be liquidated by the other side. For having lost the katiba, for allowing myself to be captured. That has left me tainted and, for us, there is only one way to be clean again. Haven’t you noticed that in this country the past is cleansed with blood? It is all blood under the bridge, the way you might say water under the bridge. Because water is scarce here, but there is no shortage of blood.’ He laughed at this, then crouched down, a wave of relief surging through him, like a giddiness. ‘So I can see my future clearly. It is short, although I appreciate your kindness in listening to me, young Victorien. Doctor Kaloyannis was very fond of you. He wanted you to marry his daughter. But things changed, I don’t know why. The good doctor became a fearful man; the beautiful Eurydice married a man unworthy of her; I went from being a nurse to being a cut-throat; and you, young Victorien, who used to paint so beautifully, here you are, a proud soldier a few hours, a few days, before my execution. Everything went wrong, and everything will continue to go wrong until everyone has killed everyone. I am not sorry it is the end. Years I have spent criss-crossing the country, slipping through your fingers, meeting people only to kill them, you cannot imagine how tiring it is. I’m not sorry that this is the end.’

  ‘Ben Tobbal, you’re only a prisoner.’

  This made him smile again; crouching on the ground, he looked up at the capitaine bending over him solicitously.

  ‘You remember your friend back in France? He was the only one who ever asked me my surname. For everyone else, a first name was enough to label an Arab. And they address me as tu, not vous, because they say that my language has no formal form of address, although none of those who said so spoke my language; they know a lot about us, les Françaouis. They don’t know a word of Arabic, but they would recognize an Arab anywhere.’

  Herboteau, tight-lipped, stared down at Ben Tobbal, his fingers twitching nervously, as if holding himself back.

  ‘What do we do with him, sir?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the man.

  ‘We evacuate him. We interrogate him. He’s a prisoner.’

  Herboteau sighed.

  ‘That’s the way it is, Lieutenant,’ Salagnon insisted. ‘Having finally fought a battle rather that slitting each other’s throats in dark corners, we are going to follow the laws of war.’

  ‘What laws?’ grumbled Herboteau.

  ‘The laws.’

  He opened his canteen and passed it to the crouching prisoner. Ahmed drank with a long sigh, then wiped his moustache.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘They will come and fetch you.’

  The helicopter set down for a few minutes to collect the wounded, the bodies of the dead, and this one prisoner. Mariani, still wearing sunglasses, although it was dark, stooped under the whirring blades and took the battered leather briefcase, the little accountant’s briefcase that contained all the FLN documents, the forms, the lists, the maps.

  ‘That should be enough,’ he said, watching Ben Tobbal walk towards the helicopter.

  With his hands bound, he found it difficult to climb aboard. He gave Salagnon a little shrug, like a wink, a sign of helplessness, then disappeared inside.

  ‘Take good care,’ said Salagnon.

  ‘No problem,’ said Mariani, patting the briefcase, then he climbed into the helicopter, which took off with a roar.

  A cool breeze came from the hills; the indigo sky darkened. The helicopter rose until it captured a glint of pink, one last ray of sunlight that hovered at that altitude; it banked and headed towards Algiers. The sun continued to sink and, against a sky the colour of violets, they saw a figure fall from the helicopter, wheel in the air to be swallowed by the shadowy hills. The helicopter continued on its appointed route and disappeared into the dark air. The engine faded and was silent.

  ‘Did you know that was going to happen?’ asked Herboteau.

  ‘With Mariani, it was more than likely. Let’s go back.’

  The trucks had come to fetch them, headlights glaring, lighting the rocky desert road. Herboteau’s fingers had ceased to twitch. Cramped in the back of the truck, he could not sleep, even though the others, exhausted, had somehow managed to nod off on the wooden benches. He felt drowsy, but a roiling nausea prevented him from closing his eyes. The truck juddered and jolted and, in the end, he vomited out of the window, while the driver yelled at him, but did not even think to stop.

  ‘Are you sick, Herboteau?’ Salagnon asked when they arrived.

  ‘Yes, sir. But it’s nothing I can’t deal with.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, now get some sleep.’

  They went to sleep. They were worn out from the watching, the marching, the waiting, from the sudden flare of battle that had sparked them into life, making them capable of extraordinary feats that left them panting, dreaming of beaches, cold beer and soft beds. The strain was getting to them. Lit by the dim glow of low-watt bulbs, the corridor in the barracks seemed interminable; they could not see the other end. They dragged their feet, their dusty rubber soles scuffing the thin linoleum, trudging mechanically towards sleep. The returning troops were far from smart: eyes red, uniforms stiff with mud, skin sticky with musky sweat, they trooped towards their barrack room, towards the iron bedsteads where they could curl up in a blanket and not move. And this time most of them had come back alive; they did not have to drag the weight of many dead – only three – while they, their bodies exhausted, their souls washed in too much blood, glittered in the darkness. Things had gone well, overall. They had managed to surprise. They had not been surprised. Most of them had come back alive. Overall. The dim lighting in the barracks made it impossible to tell them apart, it accentuated the ridges of their skulls, painted their faces with deep shadows, traced a rictus around their thin lips; their eyes, sunk in their sockets, reflected nothing, saw nothing. They were tired. They did not like themselves. They held it together by sticking together, by leaning, shoulder to shoulder. They want to sleep, thought Salagnon, only to sleep. I can see them moving through the yellow light aflutter with insects. I can see them dragging their feet, thinking of sleep in the grim barracks corridor, these soldiers who feel strong. They look like the living dead and I am their leader. It is night, the day about to break. We return to the cave and I roll the stone closed behind them. Here we will spend the day. I carry on living when I should not, that is the source of the potent sweat that shrouds me like the mists of the tomb. I was killed in Indochine, shot at point-blank range while eating a chicken’s foot. I should not be here. And yet I go on. We all go on. We should not be here. What we are living, what we are doing, is something no one can rise above, something no one can survive unscathed; and still we go on, a zombie army spreading across the world, sowing destruction. Our thirst assuaged, we return to the grave to spend the day; tomorrow night, scenting blood, we will set out again. How long can this go on? Until we crumble to dust, like the desiccated corpses we find in the desert, which, if we try to move them, become no more than a fistful of sand. The water had to be emptied out, all the water, so we were ordered. The ground had to be dry, so that no fish could survive; all that remains is dust. We did as we were ordered: and at the end of the night we come back to our cave to spend the hours of daylight.

  ‘Bulletproof,’ he said. ‘I’ve tested it. Maybe not at t
en metres, but I’m sure we’ll find out. What I have checked is that it can stop a burst of machine-gun fire at fifty metres. A bullet might get through, but it gives me a chance.’ The driver tapped the piece of sheet metal he had screwed to the car door, and the second piece, like a visor, which covered half the windscreen. ‘I’d like to have bulletproof windows,’ he went on, ‘but I’m not a head of state. You can’t buy bulletproof glass from ordinary glaziers.’

  He had come to fetch Salagnon and his men after two days of ambushes. Salagnon sat in the passenger seat, letting the cool evening breeze pour through the open window. He was caked in sand and dried sweat, which formed white crystals on his face and his faded combat fatigues.

  ‘I’m a coppersmith and I’m very meticulous,’ the driver said, not taking his eyes off the road. He needed to keep an eye out for potholes. The truck jolted. What was called a road around here was a track of crudely compacted stones and gravel that is washed away by the summer storms, collapses without warning, and slithers down into the ravine during the long autumn rains.

  ‘And does it help?’ Salagnon asked distractedly, staring out at the landscape.

  ‘You see, the driver’s seat is a lot more dangerous than the one you’re sitting in.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Statistics, Capitaine. More drivers die than parachute officers. The difference is we die in our seats, slumped over a steering wheel in a burning truck. You die out there, your arms flung wide, a bullet in the forehead, staring at the sky.’

  ‘If we’re lucky,’ Salagnon smiled.

  ‘It’s just an image. But in an ambush, they always aim for the driver – that stops the truck and the whole convoy behind; that way they can casually spray the whole lot with a machine gun. But the one who gets the first bullet is me, the guy behind the wheel. Sometimes, when I’m driving, I can feel my head burning because I’m so exposed.’