NOT A PEASANT ARMY......

NOT A PEASANT ARMY….

The men were drained, but they were almost at the staging area. Ahead, officers stood in small groups, peering through telescopes, tracing fingers across maps and studying the ground before them. The legionnaires could not see what held their attention and, by then, they scarcely cared. Packs were already being dropped and rifles stacked as they prepared to make camp.

Around them, the NCOs dashed back and forth, hurling the usual abuse and epithets, urging exhausted men to move faster, stack their rifles properly and get the camp laid out before darkness.

Fires had been lit. Water was already boiling and tins of bully beef were being warmed beside the flames. Woodsmoke drifted low through the camp, mixing with the smell of hot fat, coffee and scorched meat. Beneath it all was the heavier stink of the men themselves: sweat, damp wool, unwashed bodies, leather equipment and boots caked with mud.

Beyond the camp, the jungle had its own smell. Wet earth. Rotting leaves. Crushed vegetation. Something sweet and almost floral hung beneath it, but so did the sour odour of stagnant water and decay. Every breath seemed thick enough to taste.

The heat of the day was fading with the light, giving way to the coolness of the evening. Under other circumstances the relief might have been welcome, but the men's uniforms were soaked through with sweat. As the temperature fell, the wet cloth clung cold against their skin. Before long it was no longer merely uncomfortable. The damp chill seemed to work its way through flesh and settle in the bones.

Thomas made the best of it. He finished his beef and coffee, the smoke from the fire stinging his eyes and clinging to his clothes, rolled himself into his blanket and was asleep almost immediately.

He had no idea how long he had slept when a boot nudged him awake.

“Piquet.”

Thomas opened his eyes to find a legionnaire standing over him.

The camp had gone dark. No moon could be seen through the jungle canopy, which hung above them like a great black umbrella. Only the dull orange glow of dying fires broke the darkness. The air smelled different now. The cooking fires had faded to charcoal and ash, leaving behind the sour reek of wet uniforms, sleeping men and churned earth. Smoke hung between the trees, trapped beneath the canopy.

Thomas grabbed his Gras rifle, ammunition pouch, water bottle and bayonet and followed the man away from the camp.

The legionnaire led him to the edge of the position, pointed into the darkness, then back towards where they stood.

Thomas understood. Patrol to that point and back.

“Deux heures,” the man said quietly.

Then he disappeared into the camp.

Thomas checked his watch.

Two hours.

Away from the fires he began to shiver. His clothes hung wet and heavy from his body. He could smell himself now: old sweat, dirty cloth, leather, gun oil and the rank dampness of jungle vegetation. Every step crushed more leaves and wet grass beneath his boots, releasing sharp green smells into the night. Somewhere nearby there was stagnant water; he could smell the muddy, sour edge of it even though he could not see it.

He walked the length of his picket twice, peering into the darkness.

In the distance he could make out the faint glow of other fires. Behind him, artillerymen were still wrestling guns into position and digging revetments. The sounds carried strangely through the night: the scrape of shovels, the occasional clink of metal, a muttered curse. From time to time a gust of air brought the smell of horses, disturbed earth and burnt powder from somewhere farther along the line.

Thomas stopped and stared as far into the jungle as he could.

The forest seemed to breathe around him. Damp leaves dripped. Insects hummed unseen. The smell of decay was everywhere, rich and ancient, as though the jungle were slowly digesting everything that entered it.

Something moved behind him.

He spun, bringing the Gras to waist height.

“Qui aime les gros seins?”

“J’aime,” came the casual reply with a snicker.

Thomas lowered the rifle.

An officer emerged from the darkness.

A lieutenant of the Marines. He seemed a long way from home.

He looked older than most lieutenants Thomas had known and carried himself differently. There was none of the nervous importance of a young officer determined to remind everyone of his rank and out to impress his betters. This man seemed entirely comfortable within himself.

Thomas snapped to attention.

“Pardon, monsieur.”

The lieutenant waved the apology away.

He reached into his tunic and produced a silver cigarette case. Opening it, he offered one to Thomas before taking another for himself.

Thomas hesitated, then accepted.

The officer struck a match, shielding the flame with one hand, and lit both cigarettes.

For a moment the sulphur of the match cut through the smells of mud and vegetation. Then came the dry, comforting scent of tobacco smoke, oddly civilised in the middle of the jungle.

For a while they stood without speaking, drawing on the tobacco and looking into the darkness.

“You are English, no?”

Thomas turned towards him.

“Oui.”

“I thought so.”

“How could you tell?”

The lieutenant smiled faintly.

“Your French is spoken the way Englishmen believe French ought to be spoken. You speak it with a superior arrogance. You have no ear for the language.”

Thomas laughed quietly.

The officer studied him.

“London?”

“Near enough.”

“Not the East End.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

The lieutenant continued to look at him.

“North of London, perhaps. You speak English with an educated accent, and some of it follows you into your French.”

“You know England?”

“Harrow School. I spent a year there studying rhetoric and languages.”

He turned back towards the darkness beyond the picket.

“It will be hot tomorrow.”

Thomas looked at him.

“The weather?”

The lieutenant gave the faintest smile.

“No.”

He dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath his boot and looked once more towards the enemy positions. The last thread of tobacco smoke curled upward before disappearing into the heavier smell of the jungle.

“Sir,” Thomas said, bordering on familiarity, “why are we here?”

The lieutenant looked at him. He didn’t want to be responsible for spreading rumour or misinformation but after sizing Thomas up he felt confident.

“In general terms, good man?”

Thomas nodded.

“Because England and the others already have their places at the Chinese table, and France has decided she wants one of her own.”

Thomas waited.

“France does not intend to wait for an invitation.”

He paused and looked into the darkness.

“The Red River gives access towards southern China. Trade. Markets. Influence. France intends to open that road.”

He glanced towards the darkness.

“Unfortunately, Tonkin belongs to Annam, and Annam has long acknowledged the Chinese emperor as suzerain. China has no intention of watching us establish ourselves here without resistance.”

“So, we're fighting the Chinese?”

“Officially? No.”

The lieutenant gave a tired smile.

“We are fighting Black Flags, Annamese troops, irregulars and whoever else happens to be shooting at us. I can assure you it may look it, but it is not a peasant army and farmers with pitchforks. Some troops are supplied by China. Some are irregular Annamite soldiers. Some have Chinese officers. Chinese soldiers have crossed the frontier as well.”

Thomas frowned.

“And when we've beaten them?”

The lieutenant gave a short laugh.

“My friend, we have been at this for months.”

He looked towards the dark line of jungle.

“Nam Định. Paper Bridge. Phủ Hoài. Palan. I have been in every one of them.”

His voice had lost its amusement.

“We were here months before the Legion. We have marched through this mud, slept in it, buried men in it and, on occasion, had our backsides thoroughly kicked in it.”

Thomas looked towards the enemy positions.

“Perhaps that's why they brought the Legion.”

The lieutenant glanced at him.

“Perhaps.”

Thomas thought about it.

Or perhaps foreigners dying in some distant jungle was easier to explain in Paris than good Frenchmen dying.

If the Legion won, France had won.

If the Legion failed, foreigners had failed France.

Either way, France remained undefeated.

The lieutenant seemed to read something in his expression.

“Mon ami, never underestimate the men opposite us.” He spoke quietly, but there was a warning in his voice.

Thomas looked at him.

“They may be smaller men than you expect, but they are fast, cunning, and they know this country.” He sighed. “I can assure you, whatever it may look like, this is not an army of farmers carrying pitchforks. Do not mistake them for bandits simply because some have called them pirates. Liu’s men have been trained by Europeans—Americans too, by some accounts.”

His gaze drifted deep into the jungle as he spoke, as though he could see ghosts moving there.

“Some of those fellows learned their trade during the Taiping business.”

He drew a breath, reflecting for a moment.

“More importantly, they believe in what they are doing. That makes them tenacious, and very dangerous.”

He nodded towards the darkness.

“Do not mistake them for frightened peasants who will run simply because Europeans appear carrying rifles. The men waiting for us out there are soldiers. Tough soldiers. Fierce soldiers. They will kill you without hesitation, and many of them are quite prepared to die themselves.”

Thomas looked again towards the unseen enemy.

The lieutenant continued.

“And if we succeed, the river stays open. French merchants move north. Goods move south. Paris announces that civilisation has advanced another hundred miles.”

“That is why men are going to die tomorrow?”

The lieutenant gave him a long look.

“Trade has killed men for less.”

For a moment neither spoke.

The jungle pressed around them, wet, dark and alive. Behind them came the fading smell of woodsmoke and men. Ahead was nothing but damp earth, rotting vegetation and whatever waited beyond the trees.

Then the lieutenant straightened.

“The day will be long. Sleep when you can.”

He nodded.

“Bonne nuit.”

Then he disappeared into the darkness of the encampment.

Thomas watched him go before returning to his picket.