Esclavier, who chased girls as though they were game but was never in love with them, had tended to agree.
They would tease him and call him a callow youth. They refused to understand, no doubt because they had never known the joy of waking up in the morning next to a beautiful young girl whom one has loved all night.
Raspéguy, who was writing something on the blackboard, reprimanded him like a schoolmaster.
“Since you’re here, Merle, you may as well pay attention.”
Olivier quickly stuffed the letter back in his pocket, as though he was afraid it might be confiscated. He saw Ahmed smile at him and he smiled back.
“What it boils down to is this,” said Raspéguy. “Unless we can get some information, we’ll never lay our hands on the band; the farms and crops will continue to be burnt down, terrorism will go on making life unbearable . . . What we need is a thread which will lead us to this band. This thread is to be found in the town. Give me one end of it and I shall soon follow it up to Si Lahcen.
“You don’t know anything, Mayor? Or you, Caid Djemal, or any of you others? Are you frightened? It’s as bad to fall into the habit of fear as to grow accustomed to being ill.”
Captain Moine was puffing contentedly at a cigarette end. Well might the paratroops swing their shoulders and light fires all over the mountains, they could do no better than those who had been stuck in this sector for months. And they had crept back to P —— hanging their heads. The same boat as Moine’s would take them back to France and they would incur the same reproaches; all the rest was play-acting.
Of course the thread which could lead them to this band existed in the town, but each time one thought one had a firm grip on it, it snapped. All was lost. Meanwhile there was nothing more to do but drink anisette and have a whore sent over from the brothel two or three times a week.
As they filed out of the class-room at the end of the meeting, Merle found himself next to Ahmed. He invited the interpreter to have a drink. The Moslem was a handsome, well-educated man; he looked one straight in the eye and his laughter had the right ring. His paratrooper’s uniform suited him perfectly.
“The difficult thing about this war,” said Ahmed, as he drank his beer, “is to find that guiding thread. I’ve heard some talk, however . . . But then there’s always talk about something or other, we Arabs are incurable gossips!”
Merle, who had been dreaming about Micheline, suddenly sat up.
“Yes, Lieutenant, they say there’s a certain amount of dissension in the Si Lahcen band. It’s only a rumour. Si Lahcen is a Kabyle, his men are not; he treats them brutally . . . he’s got a sharp tongue . . . and his loathing for the French has sent him off his head. They say he himself does all the throat-cutting . . . and the other things to his prisoners.”
“A dozen men belonging to his band are said to have escaped with their arms to a group of mechtas and are anxious to join the French.”
“Shall we follow it up, Ahmed?”
“I’m not sure how reliable this information is. This war is tearing me in two, and I don’t mind admitting it. I could never fire on my co-religionists in spite of the atrocities they’ve committed; but to rally them to our side, if we promise them their lives will be saved and they won’t be molested, I’d like to do that very much.”
“Colonel Raspéguy will promise, and he’ll keep his word.”
Ahmed shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I like you very much, but you’re not at all prudent. What if I was trying to lead you into a trap? In my opinion this information is not very reliable.”
“Where did you get it from?”
“A Mozabite merchant.”
“Could I go and see him?”
“If you really want to; the man seemed so shady to me that I have not even mentioned this to Captain Boisfeuras.”
“Could I see him tonight?”
“We could call on him together, but as it’s best to be on the safe side, take a bodyguard with you to wait outside.”
“How far is it?”
“Right in the town, just a short step from here. Don’t forget that night is on the rebels’ side, and that Si Lahcen has done me the great honour of putting a price on my head. I’ve already escaped two attempts on my life.”
“Very well, then. Come and pick me up at the mess.”
“I’d rather you did not mention this to Caption Boisfeuras. I work with him and it might annoy him. Besides, it’s such a trivial thing! It’s only to satisfy your curiosity. You’ll find me outside the school.”
• • •
Ahmed knocked at the door several times and the Mozabite, blinking his eyes, came and opened it for them. He looked scared stiff:
“I haven’t done anything, gentlemen, I’m a great friend of France.”
“But he also subscribes to the F.L.N.,” said Ahmed, shrugging his shoulders, “put yourself in his place . . . We’re not going to do you any harm, we simply want you to tell the lieutenant what you already told me.”
Ahmed gave him a shove and they went inside.
Bucelier and Bistenave stood on guard outside the shop. The town was utterly silent, the stars shone brightly in a very dark sky. There was a sound of whispering on the other side of the door.
“Bucelier, I don’t like it at all,” Bistenave suddenly exclaimed.
“Got the wind up?”
“No, but I don’t like this war, this sudden return to P —— and Merle sniffing around like a poodle that has found a bone, and Ahmed with that handsome, treacherous face of his.”
“Treachery here, fifty yards from H.Q.? You must be crazy!”
Ten minutes later Merle came out again with Ahmed.
“This looks serious,” he said, “and urgent.”
“I don’t trust that Mozabite, sir. He’s got nothing to gain from this but a lot of trouble. Do think it over.”
“But he’s quite definite about it: eleven men with a machine-gun, ready to come over to us tonight. They’ll defend themselves if they see a large force turn up, they don’t trust us, but they’ll give themselves up to one officer accompanied by no more than a couple of men. The Mozabite confirms what you told me about a split in the Si Lahcen band.
“Why should this Mozabite want to lead me into a trap? If he lied he’ll pay for it dearly; his shop will be burnt down . . .”
“That’s true. But I’m wary all the same. Besides, this group of rebels are sure to have look-outs posted and if they hear trucks approaching they’ll have time to escape. Promises of this kind have often been made and then not kept. In a bulletin ‘thirty dead’ sounds better than thirty won over.
“This is an attempt which has got to be made alone or not at all. I’m all for dropping it. All the same, I’ll go and notify Captain Boisfeuras.”
Merle motioned to Bistenave and Sergeant Bucelier to come nearer.
“Look here, guys. Five miles from here there’s a group of mechtas. We’ve been through there before; at the moment eleven fellaghas from the Si Lahcen band are hiding up there. They want to give themselves up but only to one officer accompanied by a couple of men. They won’t be there after tonight, they’re frightened of being wiped out and they’ve got look-outs posted. If we drive up in trucks, they’ll make off.
“My friend Ahmed here doesn’t think much of this information and believes we’ll find nothing in the mechtas.”
“Ten to one against,” said Ahmed, “which isn’t worth the risk.”
“Can’t you see the three of us coming back with our eleven rebels—the reservists teaching the professional paratroops how to wage war!”
“That,” said Bucelier, “would be great fun.”
In his excitement Merle had seized Bistenave by the shoulders and was shaking him:
“And without firing a shot, Curé. We’ll hop into a Jeep, and if th
ere’s nothing there we’ll be back in an hour. Ahmed, give us enough time to get away before you go and notify Captain Boisfeuras.”
“Aren’t you going to notify Captain Esclavier?” asked Bistenave, whose mouth had gone dry with apprehension.
He dared not openly protest. Bucelier would only repeat that he was afraid. Merle was pawing the ground with impatience:
“Esclavier’s dining with Raspéguy at Colonel Quarterolles’s. When they come out of the house we’ll present arms to them with our eleven rebels, and Quarterolles will have a fit.”
“It’s up to you,” said Ahmed. “I’ll notify Captain Boisfeuras in a couple of hours. If you’re careful there won’t be any danger, but I’m almost certain you won’t find a soul in the mechtas.”
Ahmed sauntered off at an easy pace, but on his way home he ran into Captain Boisfeuras and his Chinaman under the yellow light of a street lamp. The captain gave him a friendly wave; Min put his hand on his revolver and held it there.
The Chinaman uttered a few words in a harsh-sounding tongue, but the captain shrugged his shoulders.
A Jeep drove off. Inch-Allah! The dice had started rolling and God alone knew which side they would turn up.
Lieutenant Merle had to argue at the exit of the town with a sentry who would not let him through, and for a few moments Bistenave hoped that their crazy expedition was going to end in front of the barbed-wire entanglements of the guard-post.
Merle explained that he had orders from Colonel Raspéguy to contact a patrol which was coming in with prisoners and that the matter was urgent.
The sergeant appeared on the scene.
“You’ve taken some prisoners, have you?”
“Yes, eleven.”
“There’s no denying it, sir, you’re doing better than we ever did.”
He helped the sentry to draw back the barrier.
The moon came up and the Jeep, with only its sidelights on, started slithering up the trail.
“I’m going to be married,” said Merle, who was driving. “Yes, to an impossible girl. Got a cigarette, Bistenave? Would you light it for me, please. Thanks.”
“We’re mad, sir.”
“Of course, that’s what’s such fun. Here, what about that cigarette?”
“We should have informed Captain Esclavier all the same,” said Bucelier pensively.
“Look, old boy, Esclavier has done this sort of thing dozens of times and you may be sure he never informed anyone. You’re really getting too regimental. It’s quite simple, there are some men who want to give themselves up and we’re going out to collect them.”
“The night is on their side, sir.”
“The night’s on the side of whoever is out in it, and tonight’s the finest I’ve ever seen. The moonlight seems to have frozen everything round us like snow . . .”
“The mechtas, sir . . .”
Merle switched off the engine.
“Bistenave, you come with me. Bucelier, you stay with the Jeep. I don’t think it’s a trap, but if anything should happen, drive back and inform Captain Esclavier. If I call for you, but only if I call, come and join us. But it’ll be all right, I know; I’ve got a lucky charm in my pocket.
“Off we go, Bistenave. The Mozabite said the first mechta on the left and to knock three times. It’s odd, I can’t hear any dogs barking.”
The dogs had had their throats slit an hour before and their bodies had been thrown into a ditch.
Bucelier saw the lieutenant, followed by the seminarist, clamber up a little ridge. He heard him knock on the door of the mechta with the butt of his revolver; the door opened.
At that moment a burst from a submachine-gun shattered the darkness a few yards away. He felt a jolt and a stab in the shoulder. The Jeep was rolling down the slope, he must have taken the brake off, he couldn’t remember. He switched on the engine. Two, three bursts passed over his head. He switched on the lights. Warm blood was dripping on to his hand and he could feel his left arm going numb. He swerved the car round as he changed gear.
The only thing he knew was that he had to reach the First Company camp as soon as possible, warn Captain Esclavier and get everyone on his feet. If he was quick enough, the lieutenant and Bistenave could still be saved.
As he drove past the guardpost he was nearly fired on.
“What’s up?” asked the sergeant.
“Quick, there’s been some trouble . . . Quick, for God’s sake . . . Raise the barrier. Captain Esclavier . . .”
At that moment he fainted. A glass of water thrown in his face brought him round again. He was in the infirmary, lying on a stretcher. Captain Esclavier was standing in front of him with Dia, the Negro M.O. He saw that his arm had been bandaged.
“Quick, quick . . .”
He heard the throb of the G.M.C. engines and the sound of men running about outside.
“What happened?” Esclavier inquired.
He told him.
“Oh, the silly bastards!” the captain exclaimed in great distress.
Esclavier opened the window and shouted in his ear-splitting voice:
“First Company. Ready to move off.”
“I want to come with you,” said Bucelier.
“He can go,” Dia confirmed. “It’s only a flesh wound. And I’m coming too, because I was extremely fond of Merle.”
Bucelier suddenly realized they were all talking of Lieutenant Merle as though he was dead. He wanted to shout out that it wasn’t true, that it couldn’t be true, because no one had the right to kill Lieutenant Merle.
They found the two bodies stretched out on the ridge in front of the mechtas, with their throats slit, their guts ripped open and their sexual organs stuffed into their mouths. The headlights of the trucks illuminated the ghastly sight.
Second-Lieutenant Azmanian pointed out that the two bodies were turned in the direction of Mecca, like animals sacrificed in some holocaust. He had heard that at one time the Turks used to do the same thing in Armenia. He turned aside to be sick.
The reservists slowly came forward, their weapons in their hands, and formed a silent circle. They did not move but stood riveted by the scene.
Bucelier was trembling from head to foot; he no longer felt any pain in his shoulder.
“Give me your submachine-gun,” he said to Mongins, “I’m going into the mechtas.”
The men murmured:
“We’re all coming with you.”
Captain Esclavier appeared in the centre of the circle and never had the men seen him look so tall and redoubtable. Without a word, he unbuckled his belt and stripped off his equipment and revolver, keeping only his knife in his hand.
“Only the men,” he said in his dry voice. “Don’t touch the women or children, only the men, and only with knives—so that those who’ve got the guts can at least defend themselves.”
“The fellaghas who did the job have gone off,” Dia gently observed. “Those chaps in there don’t amount to much.”
Following Esclavier’s example, the men were taking off their equipment, discarding their rifles, submachine-guns and grenades, keeping only their knives.
Their rage, the thirst for blood and vengeance which had seized them, was so strong that they were almost calm and detached.
They advanced slowly towards the silent mechtas; they felt nothing but a faint fatigue, a sort of strange hunger which drove them forward.
Esclavier broke the door down with a thrust of his shoulder. Not one of the Arabs offered any resistance.
• • •
The sun was rising by the time Raspéguy, who had been notified by Dia, turned up pensively sucking his pipe. Twenty-seven Moslem bodies were lined up together, their throats cut, their heads turned towards the West, in the direction of Rome. Flies were already buzzing around them, sipping the blood.
“What
a filthy business!” he said.
Esclavier sat leaning against the trunk of an olive-tree. He was very pale, his features were drawn, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he had just recovered from a long illness: he was shivering a little and felt icy cold.
Raspéguy came up and approached him gently, as though he was frightened of startling him:
“Philippe . . . Philippe . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s not very pretty, what you’ve done.”
“But for that, they would have massacred the lot, women and children included . . . and I wouldn’t have been able to hold them back.”
“I should have preferred grenades and submachine-guns, and the whole lot wiped out. Knives turn warfare into murder. And here we are doing what they do, soiling our hands like them.
“But perhaps it was necessary and we had to begin somewhere, since we were forced to come down from the heights into the plain and because we’ve been outraged in our manly honour by the mutilation of Merle and Fleur de Nave. It was primitive man, not the soldier, who reacted by subscribing to this holocaust.
“Call the men together, Philippe, I’ve got to talk to them.”
Raspéguy climbed up on to a rock above the bodies. The First Company faced him, a hundred and fifty men shattered by disgust, fear and hatred of war, on the point of mutiny, ready for anything in order to forget what they had just done, and at the same time feeling closer to one another than they had ever felt before, bound together by bloodshed and horror.
Raspéguy started speaking in a low voice, staring down at his boots.
“Gentlemen . . .”
By addressing them as gentlemen he was restoring a little of their lost dignity.
“Gentlemen, you acted in the heat of anger, but myself, this morning I feel cold. After thinking it over carefully, I should have given orders for every grown man in this douar to be shot, and you would have been responsible for their execution. In that respect, the incident is closed.”
He thrust his head forward like a falcon about to take flight and slowly glanced down the ranks in front of him.
The Centurions Page 40