The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy Page B

organization, the Vietminh intelligence service . . .”
    â€œIt can’t be true. No Méo has ever served any master except his own fantasy and has never been known to betray a guest.”
    Glatigny, who had woken up and heard them whispering together, came over and joined them.
    â€œI’m off,” Esclavier told him. “I’d be grateful if you would look after Lescure for me.”
    â€œCan I come with you?”
    â€œImpossible. There’s only the remotest chance of success, even for one man on his own. Boisfeuras doesn’t think I’ll get away with it, and he may be right.”
    â€œHave you got any provisions?”
    â€œNo.”
    Without a sound Glatigny went and got Lacombe’s kit-bag.
    â€œThis might come in useful. That fat swine won’t ever need it in an attempt to escape.”
    â€œToo heavy,” said Esclavier.
    He only took three tins. Boisfeuras handed him a silver piastre which he carried strapped to his leg by a band of adhesive tape.
    â€œThis is the only currency the Méos recognize. You’ll either get yourself killed or be recaptured. Good luck.”
    Esclavier gave him a tap on the shoulder.
    â€œYou were chasing her yourself, you old bastard, while pretending to defend her virtue. Just like the Viets. That was the best policy perhaps. Take good care of Lescure, Glatigny. He did something I could never have done—fought and showed courage for someone other than himself.”
    Esclavier plunged out into the dark and was instantly soaked by the rain. There was a light flickering in the guard-post hut. The guard-post lay to the north; he would therefore have to move in the opposite direction and take cover in the jungle at once.
    â€œHalt!”
    The voice came out of the rain and the darkness.
    Esclavier replied:
    â€œ
Tou-bi
, prisoner, very bad stomach.”
    This was the password which enabled them to make the most of Vietminh modesty and leave their huts at night, for the “Hygiene Rule,” which was one of the four rules of a soldier in the People’s Army, decreed that “the natural functions had to be performed in private.”
    The sentry let him pass and Esclavier clambered up a slope. He was swallowed up at once in the jungle; the creepers were like tentacles that tried to wrap themselves round him; the thorns were like teeth that tried to tear him to shreds. It was impossible for him to maintain a straight course; there was only one idea in his mind—to keep climbing so as to reach the ridge. Once there, he would be able to take his bearings.
    Every now and then he almost collapsed from exhaustion; his eyelids felt like lead; he was tempted to lie down for a bit and go to sleep and resume his march a little later. But he remembered the window in the Compiègne train, squared his shoulders and pushed on. He was right not to have waited any longer before escaping. He knew how quickly a man can lose his strength in a camp where the work is hard and the food insufficient, and how quickly he can lose his courage in the demoralizing company of grousers who are more or less resigned to their condition as prisoners.
    By daybreak he had reached the ridge and was able to rest. The valley no longer existed; it was lost in the mist. He was in the country of the Méos who live above the level of the clouds.
    In the legendary days of the Jade emperors, the masters of the Ten Thousand Mountains, a dragon had come to China and laid waste the country. It had devoured the armies that were sent out against it and also the warriors clothed in their magic armour. The emperor had then made a promise that anyone who rid him of the dragon would be given his daughter’s hand in marriage and half the kingdom. The big dog Méo had slain the dragon and came to claim his reward. The emperor was unwilling to keep his promise but he also feared the dog’s strength. One of his counsellors had then suggested a