The Centurions

Read The Centurions for Free Online Page B

Book: Read The Centurions for Free Online
Authors: Jean Lartéguy
up the increasingly steep path.
    The sun emerged out of the morning mist; the forest was silent, dense and dark, like one of those dead calm lakes in the crater of a volcano.
    Glatigny now began to understand why Boisfeuras had not tried to escape, why he wanted the “experience.” In his present plight Boisfeuras was the one who kept crossing his mind and not his superiors or his comrades. Like him he wanted to be able to speak Vietnamese, to lean across towards these soldiers and these coolies and ask them various questions:
    â€œWhy do you belong to the Vietminh? Are you married? Do you know who the prophet Marx is? Are you happy? What do you hope to get out of it?”
    He had recovered his curiosity, he was no longer a prisoner.
    Glatigny had reached the top of the hill. Through the trees he could now see the Dien-Bien-Phu basin and, a little to one side, under the eye of a sentry, a small group of figures: the survivors of the strong-point. Boisfeuras was asleep in the ferns; Merle and Pinières were arguing together somewhat heatedly. Pinières was always inclined to be quick-tempered. They called out to him. Boisfeuras woke up and squatted down on his haunches like a
nha-que
.
    But the
bo-doi
urged Glatigny on with the butt of his rifle. A short youngish man in a clean uniform stood in front of one of the shelters. He motioned him to come inside. The shelter was comfortable for a change; there was no mud. In the cool shadows, at a child-size table, the officer caught sight of another short young man exactly like the first. He was smoking a cigarette; the packet on the table was almost full. Glatigny longed for a smoke.
    â€œSit down,” said the young man, speaking in the accent of the French Lycée at Hanoi.
    But there was no chair. With his foot Glatigny turned over a heavy American steel helmet which happened to be lying there and sat down on it, making himself as comfortable as he could.
    â€œYour name?”
    â€œGlatigny.”
    The young man entered this in a sort of account book.
    â€œChristian name?”
    â€œJacques.”
    â€œRank?”
    â€œCaptain.”
    â€œUnit?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The Viet laid his ball-point pen down on the table, and took a deep puff at his cigarette. He looked ever so slightly disconcerted.
    â€œPresident Ho-Chi-Minh” (he pronounced the “ch” soft, as the French do) “has given orders that all combatants and the civilian population should be lenient” (he laid great stress on this word) “towards prisoners of war. Have you been badly treated?”
    Glatigny got up and showed him his fettered wrists. The young man raised his eyebrows in surprise and gave a discreet order. The first little man appeared from behind a bivouac of brightly coloured parachute material. He knelt down behind the captain and his nimble fingers undid the complicated knots. All at once the blood rushed back into his paralysed forearms. The pain was unbearable: Glatigny felt like swearing out loud, but the people in front of him were so well behaved that he controlled himself.
    The interrogation went on:
    â€œYou were captured at Marianne II. You were in command of the strong-point. How many men did you have with you?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œAre you thirsty?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen you must be hungry. You’ll be given something to eat presently.”
    â€œI don’t feel hungry either.”
    â€œIs there anything you need?”
    If he had been offered a cigarette, Glatigny would not have been able to refuse, but the Vietminh did not do so.
    â€œI feel sleepy,” the captain suddenly said.
    â€œI can understand that. It was a tough fight. Our soldiers are smaller and less strong than yours, but they fought with more spirit than you did because they’re willing to lay down their lives for their country.
    â€œYou’re now a prisoner of war and it’s your duty to

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