The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy

where
you
”—he laid particular emphasis on the “you”—“have been beaten by one of
your
former colonies, will have considerable repercussions in Algeria and will be the blow which will sever the last links between our two countries. Now, Algeria cannot exist apart from France; she has no past, no history, no great men; she has nothing except a different religion from yours. It’s through our religion that we shall be able to start giving Algeria a history and a personality.”
    â€œAnd just so as to be able to say ‘you Frenchmen,’ you prostrate yourself twice a day in prayer which is absolutely meaningless?”
    â€œMore or less, I suppose. But I should have liked, even in this defeat, to be able to say ‘we Frenchmen.’ You people never let me.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œNow it’s too late.”
    Mahmoudi appeared to think the matter over. He had a long narrow head with a determined jaw, a slightly hooked nose and tranquil eyes, and his fringe of black beard trimmed into a point made him look like the popular conception of a Barbary pirate.
    â€œNo, perhaps it isn’t too late, but something will have to be done quickly—unless of course a miracle occurs.”
    â€œYou don’t believe in miracles?”
    â€œIn your schools they made a point of destroying whatever sense of wonder or belief in the impossible I had.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Mahmoudi continued to pray to a God in whom he no longer believed.
    Glatigny also fell into the habit of kneeling down and praying twice a day to his God, but he had faith and this was manifestly clear.
    Lieutenant-Colonel Raspéguy, who felt ill at ease with the senior officers, came and joined them whenever he could. He was only really in his element among the subalterns, captains and N.C.O.s. He always went barefoot—by way of training, he claimed, with a view to further operations. But he never mentioned what sort of operations. He would sit on the edge of a bunk and trace mysterious figures on the earth floor with a sliver of bamboo. Occasionally he would burst out:
    â€œWhy the hell did they have to dump us in this damned basin? Christ Almighty, it’s unthinkable . . .”
    On one occasion Glatigny tried to put forward the High Command theory that Dien-Bien-Phu was the key to the whole of South-East Asia and had been from time immemorial.
    â€œListen,” Raspéguy said to him, “you’re quite right to stand up for your lord and master, but now you’re with us, on our side, and you don’t owe him anything more. Dien-Bien-Phu was a foul-up. The proof of it is, we lost.”
    Sometimes the colonel would go up to Lescure and then turn round to Esclavier and ask:
    â€œHow’s your crackpot? Any better?”
    He regarded his favourite captain with a certain amount of distrust and wondered if he was only looking after the madman the better to prepare his escape, his “midnight flit,” without even letting him know.
    At the time of the surrender Raspéguy had wanted to attempt one last break-out; he had been refused permission. He had then assembled his red berets and told them:
    â€œI’m granting every one of you your liberty. It’s every man for himself from now on. I, Raspéguy, am not prepared to be in command of prisoners.”
    Esclavier was facing him at the time and the colonel had seen that peculiar glint in his eyes:
    â€œSo you’re giving me my liberty, are you? Well, you’ll see if I don’t take advantage of it . . . and all by myself.”
    If he had had a son, he would have wanted him to be like the captain: “as tough as they come,” prickly and unmanageable, with a strong sense of comradeship, and so crammed with medals and feats of arms that if he had not curbed him a little he would have had even more than himself.
    He went up to Esclavier and laid a hand on his