Free The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy

the paratrooper went on, “not to say extremely surprised, that you should have come and joined us.”
    â€œMeaning what?”
    â€œMeaning that you’re not just a G.H.Q. puppet or the duenna of that dear Martine, but also . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œBut also perhaps . . . an officer . . .”
    Esclavier sprang to his feet and went to fetch Lescure who was standing stock-still with a vacant expression in his eyes and his arms swinging loosely by his side.
    With infinite care, not to say gentleness, Esclavier made him lie down and placed a kitbag under his head.
    â€œHe’s raving,” he said. “He’s lucky; he doesn’t realize that the French Army has been beaten by a handful of little yellow dwarfs because of the stupidity and inertia of its leaders. And you yourself must have felt this so strongly, Glatigny, that you abandoned them and came and joined us, ready to commit yourself in our company.”
    Lescure sat up with a start and, stretching out his hand, began burbling:
    â€œHere they come, here they come, all green like caterpillars! They’re swarming all over the place, they’re going to eat us up! Quick, for Christ’s sake—some chickens, some ducks . . . And while you’re about it, why not some partridges, also some thrushes, some pheasants and some hares. We’ve got to let fly with everything we’ve got, to crush the caterpillars which are going to devour the whole wide world!”
    Immediately afterwards he fell asleep and his face was once more the face of the dreamy, immature adolescent who liked Mozart and the symbolist poets. And from the depths of his madness there came to him the opening bars of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Daylight had transformed the absurd, hostile world of the previous night and the smell of hot rice rose in the still morning air. The prisoners, who now numbered thirty or so, were gathered round a basket of woven bamboo full of snow-white rice steaming gently in the sun. Some tea had been poured out for them in empty bully-beef tins, but this was simply an infusion of guava leaves. A few mouthfuls of rice sufficed to appease their hunger now that their stomachs had shrunk so much.
    The
bo-dois
ate the same rice and drank the same tea. They appeared to have forgotten their victory in order to commune together in this elementary rite. The sun rose higher and higher in the pewter-coloured sky, the glare became painful, the heat suffocating. Somewhere in the distance an aircraft dropped a stick of bombs.
    â€œThe war’s still on,” Pinières remarked with satisfaction.
    With his large paw he kept squashing the mosquitoes on his red-tufted chest. He looked at a sentry as though he longed to strangle him; that skinny neck was a temptation . . . The war was still on.
    Unconsciously, the
bo-dois
stiffened and resumed their surly attitude; the morning’s truce had come to an end.
    Lacombe had gone off with a big handful of rice wrapped up in a banana leaf, which he tried to hide. With a nudge of his elbow Esclavier made him drop the rice, which fell in the mud.
    â€œIt’s my rice, after all,” Lacombe began to whine.
    â€œTry and behave yourself in the future.”
    A sentry had angrily advanced on the paratroop captain, lifting his rifle butt to strike him, then he had held back; the slogan of the policy of leniency had deterred him just in time. He now drew the other soldiers’ attention to the spilled rice and jabbered furiously. Esclavier gathered he was saying something about colonialism and the people’s rice.
    Glatigny could not help admiring his comrade for having tried to impose a certain standard of behaviour on the group.
    Then he relapsed into his day-dream and strove to remember: he had been a prisoner for two days, so it was now the 8 th of May. What would Claude be doing back in Paris? She