Read Online The Praetorians by Jean Lartéguy - Free Book Online Page A

saluted.
    â€œReservist Second Lieutenant”—he had stressed the first word—“Yvon Lamazière, reporting for duty, sir.”
    Raspéguy slowly raised his head from the map. He rose to his feet and returned the salute, squaring his shoulders.
    â€œGood morning to you, monsieur.”
    Lamazière was surprised at the great man’s politeness and courtesy; he thought he was going to have to deal with a brute.
    Naugier sighed to himself:
    â€œThe old man’s going to do his act again.”
    The captain had been a victim of it. He was then serving in the colonial artillery; one evening with Raspéguy had made him abandon his guns for the sub-machine-gun and knife of theparatrooper. When he was in a good mood, which sometimes happened, he admitted he had had nothing to grumble about.
    â€œWe’ve just been counting up your losses,” Raspéguy went on. “They’re extremely heavy. The G.O.C. East Constantine will be arriving at any moment.
    â€œTwenty reservists killed, including one second lieutenant, forty wounded, and meanwhile the Government has just announced that the rebellion has been practically quashed. This is going to take some explaining. Do you think you could tell me the reason for these losses?”
    The second lieutenant cleared his throat. He had a broad head, a lightly tanned skin, close-cropped hair, short nails, a forthright expression.
    â€œA chief scout or a Commie,” thought Raspéguy, who was always fascinated by this sort of man.
    In a voice which trembled with suppressed emotion and sometimes grew as shrill as a woman’s or as resentful as that of a schoolboy who has been unjustly punished, the second lieutenant gave a brief account of the engagement and the conditions under which it had taken place, then he added:
    â€œI must admit, sir, that the men were unwilling to fight. They don’t understand this sort of war. They were not able to defend themselves because they had received no training. They were cowardly, but for the last six months they had been footslogging all over the mountains without seeing a soul and their heart wasn’t in it. We haven’t any leaders. The officers who know how to fight and command and win the confidence of their men are all with the paratroops, not with us. The Raspéguys, the Bigeards, the Jean-Pierres and Buchouds are not made for the likes of us. . . . But there are forty thousand of us. We’re the real France, not you. I apologize, sir.”
    Raspéguy then addressed him by the familiar
tu
:
    â€œNow that you’ve started you’d better go on and get it all off your chest. It’s important, my lad.”
    Naugier drew closer. This time the colonel was not putting on an act. His eyes were screwed up into narrow slits, the nostrils of his great beak were quivering.
    With deep feeling Lamazière went on with his story, hanging his head. Every so often he kicked at a twisted stump growing at his feet.
    â€œSecond Lieutenant Barrestac was killed because his men let him down. He was my best friend, the sort of friend you make in an hour and keep for a lifetime. We exchanged books and lent each other money, even when it wasn’t necessary, just for the pleasure of exchanging something more between us, like boys lending their pen-knives or fountain-pens. At Cherchell we had been taught how to behave in every situation, but when three hundred well-armed
fells
spoiling for a fight fall on your neck it’s a bit different. When that happens there must be someone in command; you need to hear a confident voice in which you can trust because it’s the voice of a man who knows how these things are and that it’s never so frightening as you think.
    â€œOur company commander was an old lieutenant whom everyone called Totoche and who used to go drinking with the men. Our colonel was busy wooing the rich settlers. He was approaching retirement and was after a