The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy Page A

shoulder.
    â€œPhilippe, don’t be a damned fool. The war’s not over yet, not by a long shot, and I’ll be needing you.”
    â€œIt’s every man for himself, sir, you said so yourself.”
    â€œWe’ll have a go at it together later on, when we’re ready, when everything’s right for it.”
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    On the third morning—while the prisoners were still at Muong-Phan—it began to rain. Water began to drip through the thatch on to their bunks.
    Lacombe woke up and remarked that he was hungry. Then, turning round, he noticed that Esclavier’s place was empty. He felt there was something wrong and opened the haversack in which he had hidden six tins of baked beans. There were three missing. He woke up the others.
    â€œSomeone’s stolen my rations; I’d put them aside . . . for all of us . . . just in case. Esclavier must have taken them; he’s run out on us.”
    â€œPipe down,” Boisfeuras quietly said. “He’s decided to try his luck. We’ll keep his absence concealed as long as we can.”
    Glatigny had come up to them:
    â€œHe didn’t take all the tins?”
    â€œAlmost all,” said Lacombe, whose flabby cheeks were quivering.
    â€œHe didn’t want to load himself down. Yet I advised him to take the whole haversack.”
    â€œBut. . . .”
    â€œDidn’t you say you put those tins aside for all of us? Well, one of us needed them particularly badly . . .”
    Pinières was furious. He turned to Merle:
    â€œEsclavier might have let us know; we could have gone with him. But you know what he’s like: absolutely unco-operative, always does things on his own and trusts no one but himself.”
    Mahmoudi, sitting cross-legged on his bunk, did not budge. He did not even try to get out of the way of the water dripping down on to his neck. Lescure was quietly singing a strange little ditty about a garden in the rain and a boy and a girl who loved each other but did not realize it.
    The storm had broken in the middle of the night and it had suddenly turned as black as pitch, while the thunder rolled round the valley like a salvo of artillery. Two or three flashes of lightning ripped across the sky. Esclavier had leaped to his feet and crept up to Boisfeuras’s bunk.
    â€œBoisfeuras!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m off.”
    â€œYou’re mad.”
    â€œI can’t stand it any longer. This storm, you see, there was a storm like this during my journey from Compiègne to Mathausen. There was a moment when I could have jumped out of the train through a badly fastened window in the carriage, but I waited in the hope of a more favourable opportunity.”
    â€œYou’re a damned fool. Can I help you in any way?”
    â€œThis is my plan: if I head due south I can reach the Méo village above Bam-Ou-Tio in a couple of nights. I once had a look round that part of the country, and the Méos were always friendly. They’re related to Tou-Bi, the head man of Xieng-Kouang. They’ll give me a guide. By following the crests of the mountains I’ll be able to reach the Nam-Bac valley in a fortnight or so and that’s where the operational base of the Crèvecœur column should be. If it isn’t there, I’ll push on to Muong-Sai. The Méos between the Na-Mou and Muong-Sai are all on our side.”
    â€œThey’re not, they’re against us.”
    â€œYou’re wrong. Last February they evacuated all the survivors of the 6 th Laotian Light Infantry, including the wounded, right through the 308 Division lines. The Viets may hold the valleys, but the Méos hold the heights.”
    â€œThat was in February. Since then the Viets have overrun the highlands and conscripted the Méos. Your plan’s feasible, but there are the Viets to reckon with, the whole Vietminh world, Vietminh