The Centurions

by Jean Larteguy

  “Concha, you idle brute, bring in two more glasses. Try and explain yourself more clearly, Pierre.”

  “It’s rather difficult, but that’s what I feel it should be. And then the soldiers who wage that sort of war, which is a good deal harder than yours, ought to believe in something, something worth dying for, and also in their leaders but not in the same way; they must love them, yes, love them deeply, and their love must be returned.”

  “What on earth do you mean, my lad?”

  “The men must have their leaders under their skin; no, I don’t know how to explain it, but there ought to be a sort of close communion in hardship, danger and death. Each time the least of his soldiers is killed, the leader ought to feel he has lost something of himself; it ought to hurt him until he feels like screaming. I don’t believe in human cannon-fodder; I’m even against it, very much against it. A million dead! The bastards! With that lot, we could have conquered the world. I don’t know what Verdun was like. But I’ve read some books, any number of books. I don’t say what I read; that’s my secret. I read and learn on the sly. A man can’t discover everything on his own. Then one fine day the brass goggle with surprise at what I tell them and believe that I’ve thought it all out myself. It was either in Caesar, or else in Clausewitz.”

  “Do you mean to say you read Clausewitz?”

  “On the sly, always on the sly. And I’ve got a captain to explain it to me, a certain Esclavier, who’s very gifted at that sort of thing. We team up together. And then there’s Boudin, a tubby little major who goes in for what they now call logistics, he’s the mother hen of the battalion. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I once saw a two-battalion Legion attack against a Viet position right up north of the delta, where the limestone country begins. I was to support them from the rear with my paratroops and went to see how to set about it.”

  Raspéguy laid the glasses, sugar-bowl and spoons out on the table; a stack of files represented the position to be taken.

  “At the given signal the legionaries emerged from their trenches all at once. They began to advance, in line, step by step, as though a drum was beating out the time, a big copper drum beating out a loud death march under the heavy, overcast sky. Their ears did not hear the drum, it was in their guts that it resounded. The legionaries kept advancing at the same pace, bolt upright, without lengthening or shortening their stride. They did not even turn round when a pal fell beside them, his guts spilling out of his stomach or his head mashed to a pulp. With their submachine-guns under their arms, stopping now and then to fire a well-aimed burst, they went on step by step, a blank expression on their faces. There were quite a lot of Germans among them; they were the ones who set the pace. The Viets were firing as hard as they could, like madmen. I tried to put myself in their place; to make war, you always must put yourself in the other man’s place . . . eat what they eat, sleep with their women and read their books . . . It was death advancing towards them, the icy death that inhabited the tall desperate white men with the straw-coloured hair and tall, strong, sunburnt bodies. The copper drum sounded ever more loudly in their guts. The legionaries reached their lines, impassive as ever, still moving at the same steady pace, firing their well-aimed bursts and hurling hand-grenades with mechanical precision into the trenches.

  “The Viets were seized with panic; they threw down their arms and tried to take flight, but the others bowled them over like rabbits—without hatred, I’m certain; but it was something worse than hatred, this slow, inexorable advance. It was several minutes before the legionaries assumed a human expression, before a little blood came back into their cheeks, before that icy demon left them. Then some of them began to collapse—they had not even realized they had been wounded. It was splendid, that attack, quite overwhelming, but I didn’t like it at all. One battalion out of the two had been wiped out. I could have done the job with ten times fewer men.

  “I wouldn’t have commanded those legionaries for anything in the world. I want men who are full of hope, who want to win because they’re more fit, better trained and craftier, and who aren’t willing to throw away their lives. Yes, I want soldiers who are frightened and who care about living or dying. Mass hysteria is not my line. Maybe that was what Verdun was like?”

  Mestreville lowered his eyes and, from his store of distorted embellished memories as a former fighter, tried to recollect what Verdun had been like.

  No, it wasn’t even that: a heavy human mass, bogged down in the mud and laden like mules, being driven forward—so resigned, so weary and stupefied that it raised no objection.

  “Leave me now,” he said to Raspéguy. “I’ve got to get through all this stuff. There’s a whole mass of forms to fill in. It’s no joke being mayor. We’ll have lunch together. Help yourself to a paper or a book, or go for a walk.”

  Raspéguy got into his car and drove up to the Col d’Ispéguy. Seated on a rock and chewing a blade of grass, he watched the clouds twisting up the valley and being blown away in the wind. A few yards behind him stood the barrier of the Spanish customs post. He had called on the carabineers, doled some cigarettes out to them and invited them to drink from his wine-flask. He felt not the slightest resentment against them for having fired on him the night before. He merely despised them a little for letting themselves be taken in so easily. He was interested in their weapons. The Spaniards were armed with rifles which were not up to much and badly looked after; their equipment was too heavy—he could not imagine them crawling about on all fours with those heavy cartridge belts round their stomachs. Of course, it wasn’t their job to make war; they were there to prevent smuggling, but Raspéguy was inclined to believe that every able-bodied man was born to fight, to bear arms and to use them against others who were also armed.

  Not too keen on their job, these carabineers—Andalusians with olive complexions who could not stand the cold. They should have posted Basques here, but Franco was wary of them. The dream of a Basque nation flashed through the colonel’s mind but, like the clouds in the valley, was soon dispelled.

  A distant tinkling came to his ears, wafted on the rain-laden wind. When he was a shepherd, Pierre-Noel Raspéguy had been able to tell from the sound of their bells to which farm the sheep belonged. The Eskualdarry estate had the deepest-sounding bells and the Irrigoyen the shrillest, “shrill as a dried pea flicked against a crystal glass,” as old Inchauspé, who made them, used to say. The secret had been handed down to him from his father who had inherited it from his grandfather, but he had not had time to divulge it to his son who had gone off to America and never come back. With him had died one of the oldest traditions in the valley. Now the bells all had the same note, and the shepherds, instead of clambering over the mountains, dancing up there, Basques of Spain and of France together, on the frontiers which they refused to recognize, to the sound of the chistou and the tountoun, then soaking themselves in wine, singing and brawling . . . instead of this, the shepherds now came down to Saint-Étienne and went to the cinema. It was even worse with the Spaniards. The Basque nation was being progressively reduced to a vague feeling of nostalgia. Raspéguy had been born on the frontier, of a mother from the Spanish side and a father from the French side. Had it not been for Colonel Mestreville, he would willingly have deserted rather than do his military service.

  Each fresh medal, each promotion had bound him closer and closer to France. But he still retained something of the soldier of fortune who fights for pay and booty. He had become completely French, by free choice, when he had joined de Gaulle in England in July 1940. His country was the Army rather than France; in his mind it was impossible to dissociate the one from the other.

  He was already beginning to miss the army after three days’ leave. He dreamt of the regiment that he was about to command. He would take Esclavier and Boudin with him, of course, but he would also have liked to have by his side such diverse officers as Glatigny and Pinières, Marindelle and Orsini, such i
mprobable ones as Boisfeuras, such tormented ones as Mahmoudi.

  • • •

  Colonel Mestreville did not work on his papers; he sat pondering on the strange destiny of Pierre Raspéguy. He had imagined him as a leader of men, a brawler, a sort of brute who forged ahead and was always lucky. A splendid thoroughbred warrior animal, who liked flaunting his medals in the midst of admiring women who were ready to give him all, and in front of jealous men.

  The colonel was a leading member of the Saint-Cyrienne.*

  During one of their meetings in Paris he had met General Meynier who was just back from Indo-China where he had been second-in-command in Tonkin. General Meynier was not very popular in the army, for he was said to be intelligent and had influential political connexions. He had summed up the war in Indo-China as follows:

  “We’re winning some battles, but we’re losing the war.”

  He was a dry, inhuman little man, with spindly shanks, thin lips, an eyeglass and a scornful voice.

  Mestreville found himself sitting next to him at the banquet which had brought the meeting to a close. Feeling rather apprehensive about the reply he might receive, he had asked:

  “Do you know Major Raspéguy, General? I’m interested in his career. He comes from the village next to mine. At one time he actually worked for me as a shepherd.”

  Meynier had leant back slightly to get a better view of the old colonel whose sheep had once been tended by Raspéguy.

  “So that wolf began his career by leading a flock! I regard Raspéguy as our best unit commander—in action, that’s to say—back at base, it’s rather a different matter. I’m indebted to him for the most astonishing display I’ve ever seen in my life. And what’s more, he didn’t give a damn about me, that was quite clear; but, coming from a Raspéguy, I didn’t mind.

  “Try and picture the Tonkinese delta during the rainy season. The paddy-fields are nothing but mud, slimy mud that clings to the soles of your boots like leeches.

  “I was commanding an operation that had been taking place in that mud for several days. One morning my communications officers brought me a signal from Raspéguy in which he informed me directly, without bothering to go through the usual channels, that he had got a Vietminh battalion of the 320th pinned down in the village of Thu-Mat. He wanted to know if the artillery was in a position to give support and if any aircraft were available. Not a word of explanation.

  “Raspéguy was ten miles forward of his previous night’s position which he had left without informing anyone, but he had the Viets pinned down. I was furious with his improper conduct and lack of discipline yet at the same time delighted that this costly operation had not met with complete failure.

  “I rushed off to Thu-Mat in a helicopter.

  “I found Raspéguy about a mile outside the village, crouching behind an embankment between a couple of W.T. sets. In one hand he held a field telephone, in the other a ball of rice which he was munching.

  “He did not even get to his feet. This wasn’t insolence on his part, it was simply that he was passionately interested in what he was doing; he could not leave his post and lose contact with his men who were fighting a little farther on.

  “‘When am I going to get some artillery support, sir?’ he asked. ‘I’ve kept the Viets on the move all night and they’re now cornered in Thu-Mat.’

  “I was anxious all the same to make him realize that the situation was, to say the least, unusual:

  “‘If you had been good enough to inform me of your movements, I could have brought you up a mobile group last night. As it is, it won’t be here until four o’clock this afternoon.’

  “‘If I had informed you, sir, the Viets would have known about it and pulled out at once. If we wait till four o’clock, the Viets will hold out until nightfall and be in a stronger position.

  “‘We could go in on our own, but it would mean a lot of casualties and I don’t like the idea of that.’

  “‘I’ve got to have that battalion, Raspéguy.’

  “I stayed with him, which was the least I could do. I was the one who wanted the battalion, and he was the one who was going to get it for me. Besides, I had been fascinated by this character for some time, I’d heard a lot of good and a lot of bad about him; I was anxious to see him in action.

  “‘We’ll go in, then,’ said Raspéguy.

  “He pointed out a sort of mound in the middle of the paddy-fields, about eight hundred yards away, between us and the village. It was crowned with a mandarin’s tomb.

  “‘We’ll have a clearer view from that hillock . . . and my radio communications will be better.’

  “We slogged through the mud, getting splashed from time to time by mortar shells, and once or twice some bursts of machinegun fire forced us to take cover behind the embankments.

  “I had almost forgotten what an infantryman’s war was like. Raspéguy reminded me with a vengeance. I was out of breath and stumbled at every step; he did not even look round once to see if I was following.

  “He set up his W.T. behind the tomb, seemed astonished to find me there with him and immediately began moving his men into position.

  “He was holding the microphone in his hand; his whole network worked on the same frequency and, over the heads of his company commanders, he addressed himself directly to his platoon officers. His rasping, captivating, passionate voice was broadcast over all the other microphones and weaved a sort of web round the battalion, with five hundred men caught in its meshes.

  “He began by gently ‘warming up’ his paratroops who were exhausted by a whole night’s march and fighting, as one holds a damp wooden bow over a fire so as not to break it before stretching it. He inspired them with his violence and strength and filled them with hope and zeal for the impending assault. A fanfare of hunting horns sounded in his voice and gave promise of a view-halloo.

  “‘Hallo, Vannier. Give me your exact position, I can’t see you very well . . . Right, got it, next to the little pagoda.

  “‘Now listen. There’s an F.M. facing you in the bamboo hedge. You must have spotted him when we drew his fire.

  “‘Juve, calm down!’

  “He turned to me.

  “‘Juve’s a second-lieutenant; he’s only just joined us—in full regimental fig. He wants to try and play the hero for his first assault and he’ll only get himself wiped out with his whole platoon.

  “‘Now I can’t deprive him of that: an assault. He’ll get off to a quick start and the others won’t just sit back and let him play the hero all by himself. So it’s going to be quite a race. Juve is under Esclavier’s orders. They’re the ones who’ll have the toughest job. Three hundred yards across open country before coming to grips, it won’t be easy.

  “‘Mercat? Mercat’s an old sergeant-major, a staunch fellow. He can last the five hundred yards . . . Don’t forget, Mercat, you’ll pitch your mortar shells into the hedge right opposite Juve’s platoon, then join up with him and stick close. Got that? Right . . . Mercat realizes I’m giving him the tail end.

  “‘Shut up, Esclavier, let me speak. What’s that you say? You’ll wait for the signal like everyone else. You’ve got farther to go than the others? So what? You’ll just have to move a little faster, that’s all.’

  “With each of his men he altered his tone, friendly, severe or ironical; but with Esclavier it was different; he spoke to him with deep affection, something akin to passion or love.

  “Raspéguy turned to me and said.

  “‘Esclavier’s in command of the company which Juve and Mercat belong to—a thoroughbred if ever there was one.’

  “Although your Raspéguy hadn’t given a single conventional order, I felt his battalion was absolutely ready, his companies all in position . . . the men with their muscles flexed, ready to surge forward.

  “Once more he surveyed the terrain with his hooded, falcon-l
ike eyes, called up each of his company commanders to make sure they were under control, then gave the order to attack—‘Go!’—just as the first of Mercat’s mortar shells exploded in the hedge.

  “Raspéguy left me and in his turn started off towards the hedge, followed by a few men from his headquarters, and I can assure you I had to summon up all my courage, all my pride, not to let myself subside into that warm mud. That damn fellow had made me forget I was fifty years old and a general.

  “Within ten minutes the village had been taken and what remained of the Vietminh battalion had scattered and gone to ground in the dug-outs under the thatch huts.

  “The mobile group turned up at four in the afternoon. Raspéguy’s battalion then withdrew, leaving the newcomers to mop up the trenches, like a bone that the sated tiger leaves behind for the jackal to gnaw.

  “The colonel in command of the mobile group jumped at this opportunity and in his report took the kudos for capturing the village.”

  The general drained his glass and pulled a face; the champagne was sweet and tepid and he only liked it extra-dry and well iced:

  “I don’t agree at all with Raspéguy’s method of command. It commits one too deeply. Just because I send a private soldier to his death, I don’t feel I’m first obliged to ask him into the drawing-room for coffee and listen to him talking about his mother or airing his views on the world. Units like the one commanded by your Raspéguy are liable eventually to turn into sort of sects which will no longer fight for a country or an ideal, but only for themselves, just as a monk indulges in his flaggelation in order to attain paradise. You’ve heard tell of the Sacred Battalion of Thebes, in which couples of men in love with each other used to chain themselves together so as to die as one? Mind you, there’s nothing sexually abnormal about Raspeguy’s paratroopers . . . But those chains exist and bind together the privates, N.C.O.s and officers. Raspéguy forged those chains unconsciously, I’m sure. They are made up of the hold he has over his men and of his love for them—and when I say ‘love’ I mean in the broadest, highest, yes, almost mystic, sense of the word. This love reaches its climax at the very moment he deliberately sends his men to their death. Perhaps that’s why he insists that before going into action his troops are clean, shaved, at the top of their form and looking their best.