The Centurions by Jean Lartéguy

gasbag!
    â€œI had already appreciated your frankness,” the Voice went on. “That frankness of yours will be the first condition of your re-education. During your stay in the Democratic Republic of Viet-Nam you will have time to learn how to conduct a self-examination. You will then realize, I hope, the immensity of your errors, your ignorance, your lack of understanding . . . This time no disciplinary measures will be taken against you. You’ll be taken back to your comrades. You will merely have to tell them about your attempt to escape. We rely on your frankness to give them an absolutely accurate account of what happened.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    â€œInstruction Period” in the Muong-Phan camp. The officer prisoners, seated on tree-stumps, formed a semicircle round a sort of bamboo platform on which the “pedagogue” stood, commenting on the latest news of the Geneva conference. As he spoke in his somewhat over-elegant, over-elaborate French, his eyes kept darting over his audience. A
mah-qui
of the termite world, he was there to hollow out the brains of all these men, to empty them of their substance and then stuff them full of propaganda rubbish.
    â€œThere is immense hope among the people of France . . . The Vietnamese armistice commission has been able to make contact with the democratic elements of your country and to notify your families at last of your fate . . .”
    Then he read out an article in
L’Observateur
, fiercely attacking the intransigent policy of Georges Bidault who was opposed to any concession. The commissar seemed genuinely distressed by the desperate efforts of this warmonger who was trying by every means to obstruct the peace and brotherhood of the masses and, by the same token, the release of the prisoners. But he still had hope; a single individual could never impede the urge of the masses towards progress.
    He concluded his lecture and after folding up
L’Observateur
, with the pointed remark that this was a French paper and by no means a Communist one, he indicated Esclavier who was sitting at the foot of the stand:
    â€œYour comrade, Captain Esclavier, returned to our camp this morning. He will now tell you in his own words the circumstances of his escape and of his recapture.”
    A low murmur rose from the prisoners when Esclavier, with an inscrutable expression on his face, took the commissar’s place on the platform. He spoke in short, clipped phrases, without looking at any of them but only at the sky which was streaked with a few grey clouds.
    â€œChrist, I hope he doesn’t do anything silly,” Raspéguy muttered, leaning over to his neighbour, a fat colonel.
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œSuch as strangling that little bastard who’s forcing him to behave like a clown. He’s one of my men, you know, a real tough nut who’s easily roused.”
    Esclavier described all the circumstances of his escape and his capture. He omitted nothing, neither the women’s friendliness, the juicy vegetable marrow, the smell of the meat grilling over the fire, nor the welcome warmth of the fireside in the Méo hut. As they listened to him, they all felt a profound nostalgia for their lost freedom and dreamt of escaping, even the most timid among them.
    â€œThe only thing I regret,” Esclavier concluded, “is having chosen a bad route. I advise you against the mountain ridges which are held by the Méos and also against the valleys which are held by the Thais.”
    Then he stepped down from the platform with the same inscrutable expression on his face.
    Glatigny leaned over towards Boisfeuras:
    â€œHe got out of that one nicely. He’s given us all a longing to be free. I’m pleasantly surprised.”
    â€œDid you think he was just a big hairy-chested brute?”
    â€œWell, there is that side to him.”
    â€œGet to know him better; try and win his