The Praetorians (41 page)

“‘A patrol of paratroopers, hearing the shindy, came rushing over at once.

“‘Then there was more killing, and wounded men shrieking, clasping their bellies or spewing up blood, then dead bodies lying under tarpaulins.

“‘Meskri was carrying the whole organization plan on him. A damn good job it was too! A simple but efficient communication system. A series of hide-outs provided with water and food supplies to last out three months. Rallying points in the middle of the desert. Radio stations, including one at the Zair well, and that's the reason you were caught out. An enormous budget, because One-eyed Abdallah had got his hands on all the funds of the
zaouia
of Sidi Ahmou.

“‘I handed the plan over to Raspéguy. This time he's going to make the rebels come out into the desert. I'm going back to Foum el Zoar for the final battle. The colonel wanted to appoint another company commander so that I could get some rest.

“‘Me get some rest! But how could I find any rest now?'

“Boisfeuras went on drinking, spilling his champagne on my bedclothes.

“‘On my way from La Senia aerodrome,' he said in a different tone of voice, ‘I thought of my ancestor, Huon Boisfeuras, the great
Reiter
who crushed the porcelains of the Summer Palace under his hobnailed boots, and, another time, of the journey I made in the north of China, near Mukden, and the horseman I encountered.

“‘I was driving along a pot-holed road in an old Ford when I saw a Mongol appear in the long grass with his shaggy little pony, his pointed fur hat, his felt boots, his quiver and double-tension bow. It was just like a picture by Chow Mong Foo. There was nothing lacking, neither the faint breeze which bent the grass, nor the streams swollen by the winter snows which bubbled merrily around us, nor, farther on, the bark hut surrounded by goats and children.

“‘Then a convoy of Japanese artillery clattered past, pulled by its trucks and tractors, and the horseman disappeared into the steppes.

“‘Like Huon, like the Japanese, like Si Mellial, like Meskri, we have crushed ancient civilizations underfoot, but we, the
French, have had the hypocrisy to pretend that we were trying to defend them.

“‘Those camels slaughtered in the middle of the dunes!'

“He rose to his feet:

“‘Good-bye, my brother in misfortune. You've got out of the mire, don't go back to it. . . .'

“He gave a little wave and disappeared.

“Two days later Captain Julien Boisfeuras was killed.”

“In what circumstances exactly?” the old
taipan
asked, still with his eyes shut.

“Even for this incident of such recent date there are already several versions.

“Meskri's second-in-command lost his head and ordered all his men to make for the desert—which was exactly what we wanted. He was hoping he would be able to take refuge with them in the Moroccan Sahara, where the F.L.N. had set up a base camp. But since he was short of camels and had no vehicles, he had the idea of borrowing ours.

“The point nearest the frontier was Ilghérem, where the colonel had his command post; up to then one could only get there via Foum el Zoar, where your son was stationed with his company. A large proportion of the vehicles had been parked at the foot of the
ksar
.

“On October
23
rd, at five in the afternoon, the air force informed Captain Boisfeuras that eighty kilometres south of his position, in the middle of the forbidden zone, they had just picked out a fairly big encampment of nomads with their tents, their camels and their flocks. The aircraft had flown over them almost at ground level, but the nomads had made no attempt to take cover. In any case, they appeared to be unarmed.

“Boisfeuras notified Raspéguy by W.T. and, leaving two platoons on guard at Foum, flew out by helicopter with two other platoons to the nomad encampment.

“A hundred well-armed rebels were waiting for him. For they were waiting in order to enable the main band to seize the
ksar
at Foum el Zoar, make off with the vehicles and under cover of darkness drive the two hundred kilometres which separated them from the frontier.

“They were what remained of the deserters of the Camel Corps company. They knew they could expect no mercy, that if they were captured they would be shot, so they were firmly resolved to fight to the death.

“Boisfeuras had brought with him a young reporter from the Army Photographic Service who had asked to accompany him. Convinced it was going to be a simple control operation, he did not think there would be any danger.

“No sooner had the helicopters taken off again than the rebels, drawing their weapons out of the tents, fell on the sixty paratroops.

“The engagement took place at the foot of a dune, among the rearing camels, the tent pickets, the panic-stricken goats. . . .

“The camel men had the advantage of numbers and surprise, but were only armed with muskets, whereas our paratroopers, better trained in hand-to-hand fighting, all carried sub-machine-guns.

“After a few minutes, having lost half their personnel, the rebels decided to withdraw and tried to reach the summit of the dune overlooking the encampment.

“They were hoping, by gaining a little distance, to be able to use their long-range weapons, an F.M. and a heavy machine-gun, pin the paratroops down on the ground and, as soon as night fell, pull out with their camels.

“But, already warned by W.T., the helicopters were on their way back from Ilghérem with a detachment of reinforcements which they landed on the other side of the dune.

“That was when Boisfeuras launched the assault, followed by Min. Bullets were kicking up the sand all round him. The machine-gun, which the camel men had at last managed to set up, fired belt after belt.

“Seeing their captain rush forward, the paratroopers were surprised at first, for he had given no orders to attack. They were busy digging in, dragging their wounded under cover and setting up a grenade-thrower.

“Boisfeuras had considerable standing in their eyes, and the manner in which he had just captured Meskri had endowed
him with the halo of those solitary heroes whose adventures fire the imagination of children and soldiers.

“They hesitated for a moment and then followed him, while the setting sun dyed the dune a glowing pink.

“Boisfeuras was not rushing blindly to his death, that's a false account. For the last time he shammed it. He fell flat, got up again, crept forward with that speed and agility for which he was renowned.

“Having come within a hand's throw of the machine-gun, he calmly tossed over a couple of grenades. At that moment he was hit and toppled over in the sand. But his two grenades had found their target and the machine-gun was silenced.

“The photographer had followed him. Why? Later on he said: ‘Because of the expression on the face of that little captain who, in the dying rays of the sun, went forward all alone to attack a machine-gun without bothering if he was followed or not.' He took the photograph of Julien dying in the sand. Your son, sir, suffered only a few moments, surrounded by his men and with his gun in his hand. In the distance there was a sound of firing. The remnants of the Adrar Camel Corps company were being executed.

“Raspéguy arrived with the reinforcements, but too late. Julien had given up the ghost. The photographer who had crouched down by the captain's side told me he had heard him say, while still propped up on one elbow: ‘Life, what an idiotic dream!' After which he rolled over with a deep sigh of relief.

“My twenty paratroopers will state on oath that they heard him say: ‘Victory is his who dares the most,' which sounds very much like the regimental motto: ‘I dare.'

“The paratroops collected all the enemy weapons, all the corpses, and, as a sort of barbaric homage to their leader, piled them up at their captain's feet. Many of them were in tears.

“That's all I know, sir. I can't tell if Julien really wanted to die; it's quite possible, after all. In any case, he made a success of his death, since, through it, he has become a symbol.”

Esclavier fell silent, then in a strangled voice:

“I envied him and I think I have understood his lesson. For
us, the captains in these wars which we could only lose, the hated defenders of a bourgeois order which indulges in the luxury of a clean conscience while obliging us to protect its privileges, there was nothing left but to die or disappear, for we had ceased being useful and were becoming dangerous.”

Lying beside him on the mat, her body close to his, Irène flung her arm round his shoulder:

“The living are the only ones that count, Philippe, and you're alive and so am I. . . .”

“Maybe you're right, mademoiselle,” old Boisfeuras gently observed. “The Greeks thought the same as you do. But the Chinese believe that it is still more important not to lose face, even while dying. I'm speaking, of course, of the old Chinese, not the Communists—even though there's a lot to be said on this subject.

“Julien didn't lose face and I'm glad of that.”

“In any case,” Esclavier went on, “Raspéguy had his great victory.

“While Boisfeuras lay dying, the rebels captured Foum el Zoar, seized the vehicles and, in the middle of the night, with all their lights extinguished, set off along the track which passes fifteen kilometres from Ilghérem before turning off towards the frontier.

“With his two companies and the remnants of mine he intercepted them out in the desert. He himself was in command.

“The battle lasted until dawn. Three or four rebel groups tried to make for the Moroccan Sahara. Our jeeps hunted them down and destroyed them. The frontier was not clearly defined and I couldn't swear that . . . Yet there was no protest from Morocco. But I think my friend Marindelle might be able to explain the strange reticence of Rabat on that score.”

The waxen-faced old man prepared himself another pipe and for a few moments nothing could be heard but the bubbling of the opium pellet.

Then he said in a high-pitched voice—the voice his son would have had if he had reached the same age:

“I'm now going to read you his letter. It is dated October
22
nd,
1958
, and is post-marked Foum el Zoar.”

His hands vanished once more from the circle of lamplight, then reappeared with a sheet of paper folded in four.

“‘Father,

“‘I feel like quoting Hamlet: “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark . . .'

“‘I'm writing to you from a god-forsaken post in the Sahara: Foum el Zoar. It's a bright clear night, with soothing noises coming up from the plantations: the creaking sound of a
noria
, the cry of a camel, the cooing of turtle-doves.

“‘In the room next door Min is interrogating a prisoner—as the Viets or Communist Chinese used to do. You fill a sock with sand and bring it down over and over again on the head of the chap whose tongue you want to loosen. This treatment leaves no trace, doesn't kill, but I know few men who can bear it for long. A little sergeant of twenty with the face of an archangel is calmly noting down what the prisoner coughs up: lies interspersed with accurate information.

“‘Afterwards, when the prisoner has got everything off his chest, we'll let him rest. Tomorrow I'll confront him with everything he has blurted out.

“‘He will thus learn that he has become a traitor to his cause, to his friends. If he's a man of character he will kill himself, but more often than not he will agree to work with us. This is what will happen in Abdallah's case. One day his own people will execute him, or perhaps we will ourselves, because he will have turned traitor again.

“‘And this will go on as long as the war lasts, as long as the world lasts. . . .

“‘But tonight I've had enough. If I were a Christian or a Buddhist I could contemplate retiring to a monastery. But I'm neither.

“‘I was in Oran yesterday. I called on my old friend Captain Philippe Esclavier. He is seriously wounded and, like me, utterly dejected.

“‘For the last week I've had the same nightmare. I am in a fortified city, the sort that's described in certain far-fetched science-fiction stories. It's a huge place, equipped with all the latest American technical refinements:
3
-D cinemas, erotic clubs where every form of
love-making is practised, and others in which drug-addicts try out all sorts of products, not only that old-fashioned opium of yours, but also sedatives, tranquillizers, stimulants. The museums and libraries are stuffed with treasures, but no one comes any longer to read the old books or to look at the masterpieces except for a few old madmen under police supervision.

“‘For an all-powerful police force reigns over my city. They are informed not only of what the inhabitants do, but of what they think and dream, and they see to it that everyone, at the same time, performs the same gestures, watches the same television programmes, practises the same sports. The city manufactures its own food. It lives in complete autarchy, and the surrounding countryside, since it is useless, lies fallow. I often dream that you are the supreme head of this police force.

“‘The city is protected by a few laboratories in which scientists have perfected weapons of one hundred per cent efficiency, and a handful of guard-posts situated on the confines of the forbidden zone which surrounds it. For the city has many enemies. Emaciated and envious nomads prowl round it. They hate it to the point of venturing into the forbidden zone where they are immediately destroyed.

“‘I'm in command of one of these guard-posts. I have begun to hate the dead city, where nothing happens, and to hate you as well. In one of my dreams I let the nomads through, in another I put myself at the head of them and set fire to the city with my own hands.

“‘For this is my temptation: not to be Boisfeuras any longer, but Meskri, the rebel chief I bumped off the day before yesterday, and to rise in arms against this outworn West and its rotting Byzantiums . . .