The Praetorians (43 page)

“Even more than you think. That girl you mentioned left an hour after you did. That old busybody, Mother Montive, saw her come out in tears. She drove off like a maniac. Then Philippe came looking for you. He wanted to marry you and asked me for my permission.”

Irène sprang out of bed and seized her father by his shirt.

“You're lying! Tell me you're lying!”

“Why should I lie about it?”

Irène Donadieu fell silent for a moment. When she spoke her anger had already evaporated. She summed up the situation in an almost indifferent voice:

“All that remains for me is to return to my shadows, my strange little shadows that drift about Paris.”

 * * * * 

“How can we get out of this?” Colonel Bucerdon asked Esclavier. “You don't want to take proceedings?”

“That's out of the question.”

“You're still in love with this girl?”

“There's no question of that.”

The noise of the traffic in the Boulevard Saint-Germain could be heard as a gentle buzz and inclined one to sleep.

“Listen, Esclavier, this girl deceived you.”

“She also completely distorted the little I told her.”

“This article is extremely damaging to the army and, by the same token, to the régime.”

“I'm well aware of that. But I'm not going to take proceedings.”

“Damn it all, you must find some solution. Usually you're not so lacking in imagination.”

Bucerdon was almost touched. It was the first time he had seen Esclavier disconcerted, ill at ease, his hands on his knees.

“Well, what do we do? We thought of having the paper seized. That would be a clumsy move and would only magnify the whole business.”

Bucerdon scrutinized Esclavier more closely.

“Tell me, have you got used to civilian life, by stringing pearls, as you once so aptly quoted?”

“Not really. I have a feeling that it's now going to be even more difficult.”

“You know, of course, that every journalist in Paris is after you?”

“It's a regular pack; I was able to throw them off by living at Glatigny's.”

“There might be a solution, but watch out, it's a solution which will commit you again for life. I'll have you taken back into the army, you'll leave for Algeria tomorrow, after which I shall make myself responsible for issuing a suitable statement to the Press. There'll be no proceedings against old Donadieu, but I can assure you we're going to keep an eye on him from now on.”

“Is it feasible, Colonel?”

“Since I've suggested it! Where would you like to be posted? To a fighting unit?”

“Wherever Colonel Raspéguy is.”

“Raspéguy made a great hue and cry and applied for a sector. Since he trod on everyone's corns, he was given the rottenest one in the whole of Algeria. Out there, even for him, it's extremely tough, even tougher than in the Sahara. It's at N. Do you know it? We have practically lost all control of it for over two years.”

“I'd like to be posted to N.”

“Think it over. Out there Raspéguy's in it up to his neck, more so than he ever was in the Algerian war. There's this
Moslem commando he has formed, and this embryo of a political party, and his promises, his oaths, his parades and his processions. Perhaps you don't know this, but in Paris the powers that be are tending on the contrary to keep their distance in regard to Algeria and they're rather worried by Raspéguy's behaviour, while always having the highest regard, of course, for his courage and tenacity.

“You'll know how to calm him down and make him understand that General de Gaulle's idea was never integration, but self-determination.”

“What about my documents, sir, my movement order?”

“Once again I'll see to all that. Let's say that you're simply returning from convalescent leave.”

“And the statement to the Press?”

“I'll deal with that, my lad. Tell me, what was that cottage of yours like in Provence?”

 * * * * 

Mme de Glatigny had put the major in a corner of the children's room, separated only by a screen. His uniform was suspended from it on a hanger.

Only three months had gone by since he had left the army, but his few adventures as an unfrocked officer had “broken his morale”—yet another expression of Raspéguy's which he recalled. No, he had not left the army, but had simply been on a disastrous escapade outside his monastery.

One of the Glatigny children—was it the last but one or the third?—appeared round the screen with her great dark eyes, her wide-spaced teeth and little pony-tail.

She whistled:

“Psst.”

“What is it?”

“May I come in? Mother told me you had a lot on your mind and were not to be disturbed.”

“Come in, all the same.”

She jumped up into his lap and rubbed herself against his chest.

“I say, isn't that your photograph in the paper displayed downstairs in the kiosk? What were you doing? Were you dead that day?”

A strange feeling of tenderness swept over the major as he felt this little face smeared with chocolate rub against his cheek.

“This is it,” he said to himself. “I'm getting soft!”

But he did not move the child, who fell asleep in his lap.

It was in this position that Mme de Glatigny found him when she came to tell him he had a visitor, Guitte Goldschmidt.

Philippe realized at once that she herself had telephoned the young girl, and all these little schemes hatched behind his back irritated him.

But with her customary free-and-easy manner, Guitte was already in the room. With her hands on her hips and her feet spread out, she looked at him in amazement.

“Well, I never! I say, Philippe, wouldn't you like us to start having a mass of children?”

“Go to hell.”

But he said it under his breath, for fear of waking the little girl.

 * * * * 

Major de Glatigny went to Orly with his friend who was leaving for Algeria. His new functions at the Présidence de la République kept him extremely busy; the night before, he had got home at midnight and had thought it better not to wake Esclavier.

In the car he told him:

“It's now six months since you left the army, if you count your three months in hospital. You'll find quite a lot of changes, Philippe. Our comrades are more and more against the régime, and, above all, against General de Gaulle in person.

“They all violently reproach his duplicity. As though one can be a politician, or even a war leader, without telling lies! The tours of the messes which I organized didn't go down very well. On one side you had officers standing to attention, on the other General de Gaulle delivering a sermon in a language they didn't understand. No communication between them. Yet I know that the President of the Republic is right in wanting to return to a more classical tradition of the army's rôle. You remember the temptation we had on the
13
th of May? Where would we have been landed if we had followed Boisfeuras! Still, the young
officers, and even some of the older ones, are inclined towards Boisfeuras. Moved by the best sentiments, de Gaulle has committed some blunders. He has appointed plenty of duds in senior posts, overlooking the few senior officers who have any standing or knowledge of warfare, like Raspéguy. In preference to those experienced in revolutionary warfare, he has chosen technicians and bureaucrats, as though the war in Algeria was already over. He has a horror of the army dabbling in politics and wants it to recover its pride.”

Esclavier looked at Glatigny and smiled:

“What's got into you? You're like a barrister pleading for the accused. I'm not accusing anyone!”

“Force of habit, old boy. I can never meet a comrade without feeling the urge to come out with my little plea. The military can see no further than their own noses; they hate the man and I myself know how difficult he can be at times. But they refuse to see the motives that inspire him: a deep-rooted patriotism, a realistic view of the Algerian situation.

“A week ago, during one of those tours of the messes, I saw Marindelle, Orsini and a few other officers of the parachute division. Marindelle took me to task in front of his comrades. I felt that not only were the captains behind him but some majors, colonels and a general as well.

“‘Is it true,' he asked me, ‘that your boss told a colonel whom we all know and who was telling him about Algeria and revolutionary warfare: “There are only two forms of warfare, my friend, static and mobile. I don't know of any other”?'

“Orsini exploded, literally exploded, with anger:

“‘And it's these shop-soiled goods you're trying to unload in every mess! Can't you see how moth-eaten he is, that brass-hat of yours?'

“And tubby little Boudin, proud as punch of his lieutenant-colonel's badges of rank that I got for him:

“‘What we did once can be done again.

“‘Did you see him, that chap, at the time of the
13
th of May? He didn't want any part of it.'

“Now I have never heard any mention of such a pronouncement of General de Gaulle's on revolutionary warfare. But I
couldn't very well have a tiff in public with Orsini. This tour of the messes was aimed at uniting not dividing.

“And, undaunted, General de Gaulle went round saying to them: ‘I recognize every one of you, you're not so very different from the chaps who were at my side in the trenches. . . .' Alas, on the contrary, they're absolutely different. But it's about Raspéguy I wanted to talk to you. He's taking this war too much to heart.”

Esclavier looked at his comrade in amazement:

“What on earth do you mean? You seem to be reproaching a colonel for wanting to fight a war too well, for taking it too much to heart.”

“On September
16
th—that's tomorrow—de Gaulle is going to give a speech. He's going to propose self-determination for Algeria. He doesn't want integration at any price. . . .”

“What difference does it make? It's the army that runs the elections in Algeria. Beforehand, it used to be the big settlers. Still, it's an improvement.”

“Yes, but de Gaulle is in command of the army. It's according to the instructions he'll give to his officers that the Moslems will vote. . . .”

“So what?”

“I'm very fond of Raspéguy: tell him not to lose his head. . . .”

On arriving at the airport, Glatigny put his hand on Philippe's shoulder:

“I'll have to go now, I'm sorry I can't see you to the aircraft. My position is not always easy, but in my heart of hearts I'm certain Charles de Gaulle is right.”

“I know you wouldn't remain with him if you didn't think so. So stop apologizing. It's not treason for an officer to obey the orders of his Head of State.”

“Some people almost seem to think it is. And yet do you know what I'm aiming at? To arrange a meeting between de Gaulle and Raspéguy. But it's extremely difficult.”

“Why?”

“De Gaulle instinctively distrusts people who are not well bred or who have risen from the ranks.

“You weren't too hurt by all that business with the journalist girl?”

Esclavier curtly replied:

“No.”

 * * * * 

Next morning the Ministry of the Armed Forces issued the following statement to the Press:

“Battalion-Commander Philippe Esclavier, who was on convalescent leave at Saint-Gilles-de-Valreyne, as a result of a wound received in the course of an airborne operation in the Sahara, has tonight rejoined his new command in Algeria.

“Beforehand, Major Esclavier made a point of formally denying the remarks which a somewhat unscrupulous journalist saw fit to attribute to him in a weekly journal which for several years has been systematically trying to denigrate the army.

“He considers that there is even no point in taking proceedings, so lacking in foundation are these remarks.”

“Well,” Raspéguy asked Esclavier in his rasping, drawling voice, “have you got rid of that cold in your arse?

“We've got a hell of a lot to do out here. We're up to our necks in blood and shit, but I think we'll get out of it and hold our own.

“Come and meet my new outfit. Apart from Naugier, you're the only paratrooper.

“But what the devil's up, Philippe, you're not going to start blubbing, are you?”

A smell of skewered meat, mingled with that of anis, rose from a terrace protected against grenades with iron grilles. A couple of tattered shoe-blacks were vying with each other for a soldier's boots. Trucks loaded with barbed wire and munitions went bouncing down the pot-holed road: This was N.

Cadet Marcel Mussy, second-in-command to the captain in charge of signals in N sector, was a tall gangling youth—six foot five—who, since his arrival in Algeria, had been nicknamed “Stringbean” and had likewise earned the reputation of being extremely shrewd. Having graduated from the Arts and Crafts School of Aix-en-Provence “with no particular leanings in any direction,” Mussy knew he was destined, on his return from the regiment, to succeed his father in the “Central Heating and All Sanitary Installations” firm which the latter owned on the Vauvenargues road. The young man had a taste for adventure, unexpected encounters, women who were zestful rather than sentimental (“goat-girls, the caprine breed,” as he called them).

His father, a Socialist by tradition and a freemason from snobbery, did not have enough influential connections to prevent his being sent out to North Africa, but had sufficient to enable him to choose his regiment. Thus it was that Marcel Mussy opted for the
108
th Infantry Regiment, because this unit happened to be stationed in N sector. He had been given a glowing description of this peninsula of pines and cork-trees projecting into the sea, but had not been told that it was the worst sector in Algeria and, apart from the coastal strip and a few points in the hinterland, the whole territory was controlled by the rebels.

Cadet Mussy found it difficult to take this war seriously, perhaps because everyone had a share in it and none of the “goat-girls” he knew appeared to be particularly thrilled at receiving letters from an A.F.N. postal sector.

So as to have something to remind him of this adventure, however, he decided to keep a diary. But Mussy, who tended to be somewhat lacking in imagination, soon confined himself to a bare account of the important incidents that occurred in his immediate surroundings or affected the sector. He avoided expatiating on his state of mind, for, though he was curious about everything and a chatterbox who enjoyed the local vin rosé and boar-hunting, he was not sufficiently gifted to describe his twinges of conscience.

Every so often he would send whole sections of this diary to one of his girl-friends, Paule, “the maddest, most beautiful and bewitching of his goat-girls”; this spared him from having to tell her of his sentiments which, though sincere, were not very high-flown. At other times, in that powerful voice which mysteriously emerged from his narrow chest, “Stringbean” would entertain his comrades to certain passages of bravura, such as Colonel Raspéguy's arrival at N, the encirclement of Wadi Eldin, the feast of St. George.

But modesty prevented him from describing the raid he had carried out in rebel territory with the Moslem commando and in which he had earned the Croix de la Valeur Militaire, or the ambush into which he had fallen with eight of his men and of which he had been the sole survivor.

27
July
1959

Today the celebrated paratroop colonel, Pierre-Noël Raspéguy, came to assume command of N sector. We're all wondering why a man of such renown should have agreed to being saddled with such a hornets' nest.

N is the capital and at the same time the only harbour of the peninsula, it's our only means of communication with the outside world. All the roads have been blocked for the last two years. The town, which was once a Phoenician trading counter and Roman colony, is strung out along the edge of the sea. Almost immediately behind it the hills begin, covered in brushwood and cork-trees and rising very swiftly to three thousand feet.

The
108
th Infantry Regiment to which I am attached holds N and its surroundings with two thousand five hundred men, which
in no way prevents the
fells
from shooting up the sub-prefecture, the colonel's command post or, when they have received their ammunition supplies, from letting off a few mortar-shells. The public buildings—church, mosque, town hall—are all surrounded by barbed-wire entanglements and look like prison camps. All the roads are blocked by wire fences and the fishing harbour by chains and concrete pill-boxes.

The former sector commander will not be present at the take-over ceremony; he was killed a fortnight ago while strolling across the street between his command post and the villa which, in his prudent fashion, he had had fitted out like a miniature fortress. A rifle-bullet in the head, and that was the end of Colonel Fourrest.

The
108
th is a regiment of discontented reservists. The officers are mediocre, the food poor, recreation non-existent and the missions frequently dangerous.

Every week a convoy leaves N along the winding mountain roads to supply a certain number of posts or resettlement camps tucked away in the cork forest.

Ambushes, raids, mines are a regular occurrence, resulting sometimes in one or two killed, but more often in wounded.

I am personally responsible for maintaining wireless contact with the convoy and after four months of this I listen to the re-transmission in clear of this little war as calmly as if it was the broadcast of a game of football or a wrestling match.

In reserve there's the
1
st Motorized Legion Battalion. It's an old unit, reliable but unwieldy, which has a reputation for gallantry, discipline and attention to its creature comforts.

The battalion is only used for the toughest assignments. For the rest of the time the legionaries, who are quartered down on the beach, go bathing or boozing, build wooden hutments and lovingly prepare for their two great feasts: Christmas and the anniversary of the battle of Camerone.

I must also mention the presence in this sector of a mounted Spahi regiment. Every year (with the exception of this year) it is paraded through Paris on
14
July. They are magnificent specimens, whether in full dress or in battle order, and the two horsemen in burnouses who mount guard at the entrance to their
quarters at the far end of the town cut a really dashing figure. The cavalry are a world apart; the officers train for horse-shows, organize point-to-points and entertain one another just as though the war did not exist.

The only time the Spahis took part in a raking operation they charged fifty strong, with swords drawn, against a poor wretch armed with a shot-gun.

Lieutenant Mastialin, who witnessed it, asserts that this charge was extremely spirited. Unfortunately, the victim was not a
fellagha
but one of our auxiliaries who had been allowed to keep his shot-gun.

Apart from this, these cavalrymen are very pleasant chaps and when they invite you to their mess they serve whisky and tinned food in fine glassware and china.

After the usual little ceremony—inspection of the troops, saluting the flag, a ritual to which the military tribe still attaches great importance—we were entitled to a drink. Flanked by Lieutenant-Colonel Hanne, who commands the
108
th, and the Spahi colonel Morfaix de Jusseau, Raspéguy was introduced to all the officers one after another.

In camouflage uniform and cap, slim-waisted and broad-shouldered, hook-nosed, with a mobile mouth and close-cropped hair, he was the absolute archetype of those great paratroop colonels, a mixture of
condottiere
, monk and conspirator. His voice is as rough as those little mountain wines, his tone bantering and little short of plain vulgar.

After shaking hands all round, he turned to face us and, sitting on the edge of the table, said:

“Well, now. We're in rather a particular situation here. Everything is run by the rebels. They wander around as they like, attack whenever they feel like it, occupy whole stretches of the country, hold the people in the palms of their hands. So we're nothing more than an occupying garrison installed in a few points in enemy territory. I shall have no reinforcements. I shall have to manage with you, and you alone, but there's got to be a change. That's all.”

Accompanied by the two officers who had come with him, Captain Naugier and Second-Lieutenant Lamazière, he then
proceeded to the troops' dining-hall, called for some of the stew, tasted it, then flung it away, spattering the feet of the cook and the messing officer.

“It's so filthy that even I can't stomach it.”

Then, rolling his shoulders, he strode off.

10
August
1959

Every morning Colonel Raspéguy, in track-suit, his elbows tucked into his sides, unescorted and unarmed, goes for a ten-kilometre run round N.

The soldiers laugh about it, but even so they're impressed by this nerve or indifference. The messing officer has been replaced by young Quartermaster-Sergeant Pieron, who is spending the surplus amassed by his predecessor over the last year, with the result that the men are having fresh food and fish.

The colonel has made a tour of the sector, visiting every post and resettlement camp. In theory, the whole population is assembled in eight camps, the rest of the territory, the big cork forest, being a forbidden zone—that's to say a rebel zone.

At Camp Five, the most lamentable of all—it consists of old tents and huts made of branches—the colonel asked the officer in charge, as he drew his attention to the inmates padding about in their slippers:

“What do they do all day?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“And at night-time? Well, I'll tell you; at night-time they turn into
fellaghas
and come and shoot up your post. . . . I know them: if they didn't do that they'd die of boredom.”

15
August
1959

First operation with the new colonel. Quite a few casualties. A company of the poor old
108
th was heavily engaged as they climbed out of their trucks.

Raspéguy turned up as the dead and wounded were being carried off. He told the others:

“Three of your comrades were killed through lack of physical training. They had all the time in the world to jump down from the truck and take cover in a ditch, but, like you, they
were slow and weighed down by their equipment. I forbid you to get yourselves killed so stupidly. You'll do an hour's physical training every morning.”

Second-Lieutenant Lamazière keeps looking everywhere for rebel prisoners—real ones, he greedily demands! The fate of the poor clods we've surrounded doesn't seem to interest him very much. On the other hand, he is mad about fifteen or so
fells
who were surprised by the legionaries in a sort of rest camp they had set up two kilometres off a disused road. He goes to the prison every day and talks to them for hours in Arabic.

26
August
1959

The Moslem commando has come into being. The fifteen prisoners have filed smartly out of prison and headed for the clothing stores.

I'm not at all sure what Lamazière told them, but I know the commando's motto: “War on Want,” and their pay: eight hundred francs a day. No nonsense in this business about integration, a French Algeria or any of the other slogans still in fashion.

Lamazière has settled with his fifteen chaps under canvas two kilometres outside N, where the mountains seem to join the sea.

In the course of a
chikaia
, which lasted a whole day, the commando elected its leader, a certain Belhanis, to whom Raspéguy on his own authority has given the rank of cadet and the functions of political commissar.

The few Frenchmen who still live in N are anxious and say that, no matter how they're dressed,
fells
always remain
fells
—that's to say, brigands. One fine day, they declare, these chaps will come and slit their throats while they're lying in bed after giving the password to the sentries who guard the European houses.

I would do nothing to prevent them from slitting the throat of the manager of the canning factory, a big fat blubber-lipped Levantine who owns the three cafés in the town, the four grocers' shops and the two coasters and makes us pay through the nose for everything.

I hinted to the naval officer in charge that Bayadian is an arms smuggler. It didn't work, because that sailor has no sense
of humour, always wants proof of everything and considered my remark in bad taste seeing that he enjoys the charms of Bayadian's daughter, who is said to be as hairy as a door-mat.

1
September
1959

Twenty-four years ago today Master Edouard Mussy went to the town hall of Aix and reported the birth of his first-born, Marcel-Julien. In other words, today is my birthday. Master Mussy sent me a money order for twenty-five thousand francs and I stood my pals a round of drinks. I also invited Second-Lieutenant Lamazière, a nice fellow, more of a boy scout than a paratrooper.

The Moslem commando now numbers thirty men divided into three sticks. Lamazière has recruited a whole gang of rowdies who were the terrors of N. Tomorrow night he's off into the forbidden zone. I'm very much afraid he might not come back. His chaps will let him down or slit his throat. I think Belhanis has got an ugly mug.

Before he left us I took Lamazière aside and asked him:

“Do you really believe we can win this war and hang on to Algeria?”

He looked at me in astonishment:

“We can only win this war by promising independence, but independence within a given framework, with guarantees for the Europeans and by maintaining close ties with France. My commando has a double purpose: to wage war on the
fellaghas
with their own methods and on their own ground, but also to train leaders for independence.”

“Out of your ex-rebels and street-Arabs?”

“What were Ben Bella and Krim Belkhacem at the beginning of the rebellion?”

I have a feeling our friend Lamazière is labouring under a strange delusion. I advised him to cling tight to his carbine.

“I'm leaving without any weapon,” he replied.

“You're mad, but why?”

“To show them I trust them.”

There must always be men of this sort in an army to rehabilitate the profession. And what's more, this chap's a reservist.
A good little leader with sturdy legs, a moon-shaped face, forget-me-not-blue eyes, a heart as stout as a portcullis, but who can never stop looking after others and, by the same token, causing disaster.