The Praetorians (40 page)

He plunged a needle into a little pot and began toasting the pellet of opium over the flame.

“My relationship with Julien was not that of a father with his son, it was rather the peevish connection between two old accomplices. We sometimes used to perform certain actions for the sole purpose of surprising each other.

“Would you like some tea, mademoiselle?

“You don't seem to like the smell of opium. The first few times it's always nauseating, then it becomes the idea one forms of a haven well sheltered from the storm, a refuge in the mountains when the wind sends the snow whirling round, a comfortable home after a hard and savage campaign.

“I want first of all to set your minds at rest. The loss of my son did not cause me the great distress or heart-break that fathers or mothers are supposed to suffer in such circumstances.

“Is opium the reason? I simply found the incident disagreeable, not to say exasperating.

“I received a copy of Julien's posthumous citation. Nothing could be more inaccurate, I should think, than a document like that.”

The slender hands, with their pronounced blue veins, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared in the lamplight with a sheet of paper which the old man began to read out loud in his high-pitched voice.

“‘Captain Julien Boisfeuras,
10
th Colonial Parachute Regiment. A legendary soldier who, for almost twenty years, fought incessantly in every theatre of war, always volunteering for the most dangerous missions.

“‘On October
23
rd, with forces extremely inferior in number, he attacked a large enemy formation which he routed, personally killing the leader who commanded it.

“‘A hero of the Burma campaign, the Indo-China maquis, the Algerian war, he met in the dunes of Ilghérem (Sahara) the glorious death which was in keeping with his past.

“‘This citation is accompanied by the posthumous award of the Croix d'Officier de la Légion d'Honneur and the Croix de la Valeur Militaire with palm.'

 * * * * 

“Idiotic, isn't it?

“I should like to know the exact circumstances of Julien's death, Captain Esclavier. They might help to explain the strange letter I received from him a few days before he was killed. You were then seriously wounded, I believe. You had just been operated on and your life was still in danger. My son, who seems to have been very fond of you, mentioned your wound; he even seemed extremely upset by it—at least as much as he could be, for he was always somewhat indifferent, or else secretive.

“A few weeks after his death all sorts of proposals were made to me, each more ridiculous than the other. It was suggested that I, Boisfeuras, who was known as the rottenest old
taipan
in the Mud Bank City,
*
I who had nothing French about me apart from my passport, should preside over the Association of Parents of Paratroopers Killed in Algeria, attend the Mass said in memory of Captain Thingummybob or Lieutenant So-and-So, and even revive the flame at the Arc de Triomphe! It's a wonder I wasn't offered a political career based on my son's corpse.

“Even beyond the grave Julien managed to find a means of surprising me; he had played this last trick on me: making me the father of an official hero.

“I'm ready to hear your story, Captain—or rather, Major—for I learnt from the papers about your resignation and at the same time your promotion.

“You will do me the honour, with this young lady, of being my guests at luncheon. My
bep
has prepared the big Chinese meal which is customarily offered in the Far East to honour
the soul of the dead. I shall even make the effort of getting up and dressing, which I haven't done for some time.

“If you observe the ritual of death you can then go and visit my son's tomb. He's buried in the cemetery in Grasse. Min will take you there.

“I wanted to have the tombstone engraved with the last words attributed to Julien: ‘Victory is his who dares the most.' But they sounded rather suspect to me. So I merely had inscribed: ‘Julien Boisfeuras, born in Peking,
17
March
1919
, killed
23
October
1958
, at Ilghérem, the Sahara.' I was violently reproved for not saying: ‘He died for France.' But it was for himself he died, for his dreams and for a France he dreamed about and which has nothing in common with this fretful country of ours, whose ambitions and high-mindedness shrink at the same time as her territory. Julien dead for a France like this? Never! But let's not carp at my son any longer. I'd rather hear about his death.”

The old man inhaled his pipe in one draw. Then, with his head on the leather pillow, lying perfectly still, with his eyes closed, he waited.

“At the end of October,” Esclavier began, “we were confronted with a tricky situation in the M'Zil Valley.

“We had to deal with a rebel, Meskri, a graduate of the Vietminh indoctrination schools who had assimilated all he had been taught, which is more than could be said for us.

“He wasn't a Communist. The papers found on his body prove he wasn't. But, like us, he found it necessary to use certain methods.

“With my company I fell into a trap he had set for me near the Zair well, and I was wounded. The arrest of an influential marabout had raised against us the whole population of the string of oases in which the rebellion had taken firm root for a year, unknown to the local authorities—in this case, the officers for Saharan Affairs.

“Our technique was restricted to stirring up the ant-heap so as to force the thousand armed men whom we believed to be dispersed among the hide-outs, shelters and tents of the nomads to come out into the desert, which would enable us to destroy them.

“Our colonel, Raspéguy . . .”

Old Boisfeuras shifted his head on his pillow:

“I received a very nice letter from him, the only one that moved me. He thanked me personally because Julien, he said, ‘had got him out of the shit.' He identified me with him. And yet I don't think he had understood Julien either. . . . But please go on.”

“Our colonel was in a difficult position. He was being accused of using certain methods and at the same time not getting the job done, of having too many casualties and of using his men too sparingly. In Algiers the High Command was bent on breaking him, and G.H.Q. in Paris, which had no difficulty in modelling its attitude on that of the Head of State, was all set to take action on the downfall of this young colonel who had risen from the ranks and not been to any military academy.

“Luckily, to protect Raspéguy, we had our friend Jacques de Glatigny at the Elysée. He had everything that was required: tradition, birth and breeding. At a pinch the régime could reproach him for having helped it to seize power, but Glatigny had succeeded in being forgiven for this service.

“Urgent, confidential, secret and top-secret signals were piling up on the colonel's deal table.

“Now, so long as Meskri was not unearthed and eliminated, so long as he held the rebels in his grip of iron, they would never come out of their holes.

“Captain Marindelle was acting temporarily as our intelligence officer, but he belonged to Divisional Headquarters. He was recalled to Algiers. Yet another dirty trick on Raspéguy! He was informed that the helicopters could not remain at his disposal indefinitely.

“It was then he asked Captain Boisfeuras to deal with Meskri. Like many of us in Algeria, your son had sometimes been obliged to do certain jobs which until recently were within the province of the policeman and not the army officer.

“As long as Julien believed that our action would lead to a positive victory, that we could urge the Algerians towards a form of independence from which France would not be excluded, he accepted these tasks. But after the
13
th of May he had realized
that we were on the wrong tack. He therefore applied to fall into line and to take command of a company.

 * * * * 

“I was operated on at Ilghérem, because I couldn't be moved, and was then transferred to hospital in Oran.

“Ten days later I was already much better; Captain Boisfeuras came to see me, bringing fruit, champagne, cigars, cigarettes and even some flowers—Min, who came with him, had both arms fully laden.

“‘I've put paid to Meskri,' he told me all of a sudden. ‘I didn't want to be mixed up in that sort of business any longer, but out of friendship for Raspéguy I agreed. The old man was up against it. It's odd, but in that soldier seasoned in revolutionary warfare and all its snares there still remains a foundation of superstition which comes from his Basque mountains. In front of me, in a fit of temper against a white father, he broke the rosary he had been given at his first communion and flung it down at the feet of the priest, a poor wretch who had forgotten that God was never a collaborator. You had been seriously wounded and you know how fond he is of you. The regiment had just suffered heavy losses without much to show for it. Raspéguy was not far from attributing all this bad luck to his act of sacrilege.

“‘I couldn't bear the idea of a gang of vermin getting the better of such a man . . . and then it was preying on his mind so much, that silly business about the rosary! So, Philippe, I once again resumed what I had sworn never to do again.'

“Julien uncorked a bottle of champagne with a nervous gesture and spilt some of it, although you must know better than anyone, sir, the fantastic dexterity of your son, the dexterity of a cat which can turn somersaults in a china shop without breaking a single cup.

“A nurse came to give me an injection. She gave a shriek at the sight of the champagne and, above all, the cigarettes, which I had been strictly forbidden. Julien sent her packing with a coarse remark, which was likewise not his usual manner. He despised women, but always showed the greatest courtesy towards them. After which he told me how he had caught Meskri.

“‘I knew,' he went on, ‘that when Meskri was working as a driver at the Annexe of Foum el Zoar he often used to call on a shopkeeper, a certain Abderahmane. He was even said to be engaged to his daughter, but Meskri was certainly not the sort of man to saddle himself with a woman in the middle of a war. He had simply made this a pretext for his countless visits.

“‘In the middle of the night I burst in on Abderahmane. Min dealt with him somewhat forcefully, and two hours later we got our hands on a cache full of arms and mines.

“‘Nothing had been seen of Meskri for a week, but his orders arrived every day. Someone came and slipped a piece of paper under a stone at the entrance to one of the plantations, either during the day or at night, no one knew which.

“‘I sat up to watch with my Nung. We both hid behind a wall. At daybreak a Negro from the palm-grove, leading a blind donkey, came and deposited the piece of paper. It was an order to members of the A.L.N. not to leave their hide-outs at any price and to await further instructions. This Negro couldn't read, but he led us to a small grocer's shop frequented by the drivers of the big trucks that transport the oil men's equipment.

“‘A truck had arrived at Foum el Zoar on the previous day, coming from Tiradent, and had left again that very morning for the south. It was loaded with prefab huts.

“‘From a helicopter we spotted it on the track and then landed right in front of it. The driver knew nothing, but he copped it from us and so did his mechanic. The latter admitted that on each trip he called on Basram, a former captain in the levies, to collect messages or instructions. Basram was an important figure; he had been Vice-President of the Public Safety Committee of the Sahara; he was the friend and adviser of General Murcelles and no one could doubt his loyalty to France.

“‘But I took a risk: I arrested the old captain. He did not talk, but one of his servants proved more forthcoming: Meskri was his son!

“‘Our luck was in. While we were smashing down the walls with picks and throwing grenades into the wells, I saw a figure dash out of the house. I fired at its legs. The figure toppled over. I first of all thought it was a woman rushing off to give the alarm
or warn a fugitive. But under the veil there was Meskri. He had no weapon on him. My bullet had shattered his kneecap.

“‘Meskri was a good-looking chap of thirty-two or thirty-three, with a fine, intelligent face. His wound was hurting him like hell, but he still had the nerve to give me the sharp edge of his tongue. Imitating the Vietnamese accent, he said:

“‘“Well, Capting Boisfeuras, you velly happy now? You're idiots. You wipe out Si Mellial or even me, lbn Basram, otherwise known as Belaid, alias Meskri. We were the sort of men who could endow the Algerian nation with a structure akin to yours. But you come to terms with a series of poor wretches who'll take your place until they themselves are swept away by ignorant, vainglorious Young Turks, who'll have the wool pulled over their eyes by everyone, the Russians as well as the Americans. Give me something to drink!”

“‘I handed him my water-bottle. Then he asked for a cigarette, which I lit for him.

“‘“There's something else I want to tell you, Captain. My father is still loyal to France, or rather to the army. But he understood what I was trying to do, and to avoid having this plantation ruled one day by a sot like Sheik Sidi Ahmou he agreed to help me.”'

“Boisfeuras knocked back three glasses of the warm champagne, one after another:

“‘Suddenly, you know, I felt I'd had enough. All this muck was rising in my gorge, and also our May
13
th setback. But while Meskri, with diabolical ingenuity, was holding out the spittoon for me and in any case was telling me the truth—at least his version of the truth—a dozen of his men, coming from one of the neighbouring houses, were climbing the plantation walls to come and rescue their chief.

“‘I just had time to throw myself flat on the floor. With my first bullet I put an end to Meskri, solely on account of Raspéguy, because I felt quite sure at that moment that the young
fellagha
chief would get away with it again. I didn't give a damn about dying, maybe I even hoped I would die.