The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy

prisoners in motion.
    But a voice now addressed them in French:
    â€œOn your feet! Get up! You’ve got to come and push a Jeep of the Viet-Nam People’s Army.”
    The tone was patient, certain of being obeyed. The words were distinct, the pronunciation surprisingly and at the same time disturbingly perfect. Lacombe struggled to his feet with a sigh and the rest followed suit. Esclavier knew that Lacombe would always be the first to display obedience and eagerness, that he would turn the other flabby, baby-pink cheek to curry favour with the guards. He would be the model prisoner to the point of turning stool-pigeon. He would flatter the Viets to earn a few privileges, but above all because they were now on top and because he always obeyed the stronger side. To excuse his attitude in the eyes of his comrades, he would try to make them believe that he was hoodwinking the gaolers and exploiting them for the common good.
    Esclavier had known this type of man only too well in Mathausen camp. All the inmates there had had their individuality steeped in a bath of quicklime, and all that remained was the bare essentials. Those simplified creatures could then be put into one of three categories: the slaves, the wild ones and what Esclavier with a certain amount of scorn called “the fine souls.” Esclavier had been a wild one because he was anxious to survive. Lacombe’s true character was that of a slave, a “boy” who would not even steal from his master, who would never make a bid for freedom. But he wore the uniform of a French Army captain and he had to be taught how to behave even if it killed him.
    A slim figure wearing a fibre helmet towered over Esclavier and the voice, which by dint of being so precise sounded disembodied, made itself heard again:
    â€œAren’t you going to help your comrades push the Jeep?”
    â€œNo,” Esclavier replied.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œCaptain Philippe Esclavier, of the French Army. What’s yours?”
    â€œI’m an officer of the People’s Army. Why do you refuse to carry out my orders?”
    It was not so much a reproach as the statement of an inexplicable fact. With the painstaking care of a conscientious but circumscribed schoolmaster the Vietminh officer was trying to understand the attitude of the big child lying at his feet. Yet the method had been drummed into him in the training schools of Communist China. First of all he had to analyse, then explain and finally convince. This method was infallible; it was part and parcel of the huge perfect whole which Communism represents. It had succeeded with all the prisoners of Cao-Bang. The Viet bent over Esclavier and with a touch of condescension explained:
    â€œPresident Ho-Chi-Minh has given orders for the People’s Army of Viet-Nam to apply a policy of leniency towards all prisoners led astray by the imperialist capitalists . . .”
    Lescure made as if to wake up and Esclavier took a firmer grip on his belt. The lieutenant did not realize, and perhaps never would, that the French Army had been defeated at Dien-Bien-Phu; if he woke up suddenly he would be capable of strangling the Vietminh.
    The
can-bo
went on:
    â€œYou have been treated well, you will continue to be, but it’s your duty to obey the orders of the Vietnamese people.”
    In curt, ringing tones, imbued with violence, anger and irony, and seething with revolt, Esclavier replied for all to hear:
    â€œWe have been living in the Democratic Republic of Viet-Nam for only a few hours but we are already in a position to appreciate your policy of leniency. Instead of killing us off decently, you’re letting us die from exhaustion and cold. And on top of this, you demand that we should be full of gratitude for good old President Ho and the People’s Army of Viet-Nam.”
    â€œHe’ll get us all killed, the silly bastard,” Lacombe reflected. “It was hard