The Centurions (37 page)

“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
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th 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-like 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.

“It's disturbing, that sort of experience. I've given a lot of thought to Raspéguy, that bemedalled beast, a perfect tactician, as crafty as a monkey, as publicity-conscious as a film star, yet at the same time with a leaning towards metaphysics. Extremely dangerous for an army. If you asked me my advice, I would never make Raspéguy a general. I would keep him a colonel all his life, with more medals than he could possibly wear. But perhaps if he became a general, that power he has might suddenly vanish. It's happened before. Being promoted to general is a decisive step; you view the game from a different angle . . . So you had Raspéguy to guard your flocks, did you, Colonel?”

Old Colonel Mestreville had then asked the following question:

“What would Napoleon have done with a man like that?”

“He'd have made him a marshal. Napoleon believed in obscure forces, in destiny, in chance. When a colonel was due to be promoted to general, he always used to ask: ‘Is he a lucky man?' In other words, is he in harmony with his destiny? There's no such thing as luck any more, there's only economics and statistics, artificial economics and false statistics, which eliminates Raspéguy and everyone else like him. I can't say I'm sorry; I'm just about reaching the age of statistics.”

 • • • 

When Raspéguy came down from the pass for luncheon, Mestreville had already poured out two more absinthes to clear his brain. He asked his former shepherd:

“Do you know General Meynier?”

A grin came over the paratroop colonel's face and his eyes sparkled with mischief:

“I remember . . . one day in Tonkin, I put on a show for him. It gave him something to think about, I hope.”

“It was just a show, was it?”

“Of course. His sort don't understand anything else.”

“His sort?”

“Yes, all those who only do their fighting on paper, who draw up plans and believe that a battalion strength is eight hundred men, whereas in the line you're lucky if you have half that number; who believe that soldiers can go on for ever, without being conscious of fatigue or despair, that they're nothing but machines with interchangeable gears. Those great strategists were prisoners in
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, but they had been through Staff College. They complacently say: ‘Well done, my boy,' when, on account of the stupidity and laziness of those broken-down old hacks, half of one's battalion has just been wiped out!”

“Isn't that going a bit too far?”

“No. They also tell you, like that Meynier of yours: ‘Leave politics to the generals and the ministers,' whereas with the Viets politics are the concern of all ranks, right down to corporal, right down to private. Communism exists, and there's no getting away from it. We no longer wage the same sort of war as you, colonel. Nowadays it's a mixture of everything, a regular witches' brew . . . of politics and sentiment, the human soul and a man's ass, religion and the best way of cultivating rice, yes, everything, including even the breeding of black pigs. I knew an officer in Cochin-China who, by breeding black pigs, completely restored a situation which all of us regarded as lost. What gives the Communist armies their strength is that with them everyone is concerned with everything and with everyone else and that a mere corporal feels he is in some way responsible for the conduct of the war. Apart from that, the men take everything seriously, obey orders to the letter, and economize without being asked on their rations and munitions because they feel it's their own war they're waging. If ever we're given a war which we look upon as ours, then we'll win it. But away with privilege, away with the sumptuous treatment of cabinet ministers and inspecting generals on the field of battle! Everyone in the shit with the same box of rations! From now on what we need is a truly popular army commanded by leaders of its own choice. Let the victor be honoured and the vanquished thrown out or shot. We don't need staff planning, what we need is victory . . . and don't saddle a whole draft of Saint-Cyr cadets with the name of a defeat, however glorious it may be, even if it bears the name of Dien-Bien-Phu.”

“You're talking like a revolutionary.”

“Our only hope of getting the upper hand, whether in Algeria or elsewhere, is to have a revolutionary army which will wage revolutionary war.”

“Algeria? But that will be settled in no time.”

“No, I don't think so, or else I've understood nothing since I started making war. Have you noticed that in military history no regular army has ever been able to deal with a properly organized guerrilla force? If we use the regular army in Algeria, it can only end in failure. I'd like France to have two armies: one for display, with lovely guns, tanks, little soldiers, fanfares, staffs, distinguished and doddering generals, and dear little regimental officers who would be deeply concerned over their general's bowel movements or their colonel's piles: an army that would be shown for a modest fee on every fairground in the country.