Passage to Marseille Page #2

those grim determined faces.

Especially that gunner, the man

you spoke to just before the takeoff.

I can't get him out of my mind.

I feel I've seen him somewhere before.

Matrac. He impressed you?

I've never seen a stronger face

or a stranger one.

Not a fellow to take liberties with,

I should say.

No.

I could tell you a story about him.

I've never told anyone.

- Would you care to hear it?

- By all means, Captain.

For the moment, I'll have to ask you

to keep it off the record,

as you journalists say.

It's for your private ear.

Later, I think it might be told.

This is the story of a little group

of whom Matrac was one.

For many years, they suffered every pain,

humiliation and indignity

that men can have heaped upon them.

I chanced to meet these...

Well, but let that come in its place.

To begin,

I'll have to take you far away from here.

The outbreak of the war brought orders

for my return to France

from service in New Caledonia.

I was forced to take passage

on the Ville de Nancy,

bound for Marseille

with a cargo of nickel ore.

The Ville de Nancy was

one of those venerable tramps,

which wallow across the backwaters

of the world year after year.

She wore the customary coat

of rust-streaked black paint.

We had a good Breton skipper,

Captain Malo,

who knew his way around the seven seas

as a blind man knows his own room.

Also, two decent mates

who idolized their captain.

The companionship of such men did much

to keep the tedium of the long,

slow voyage from being too oppressive.

And sometimes there were songs of home

from the fo'c'sle.

Our crew was made up of hardbitten,

salty old-timers,

who may have been

no better than they should be,

but were French to a man.

For stokers and coal passers,

we had the scum of the Earth,

mongrel dregs

from every port in the tropics,

dominated by a chief engineer

cut to the same pattern.

As there were but three cabin passengers,

we all messed at the Captain's table.

The seat of honor was filled very amply

by a Major Duval

of the Infanterie Coloniale.

He was a dominating,

narrow-minded martinet,

who had proved his courage

in the last war

and had learned nothing since.

With him was his aide, Lieutenant Lenoir.

He hung on Duval's every word,

a typical yes man.

These, the first and second mates

and the chief engineer,

made up our official family.

Oh, yes, there was one other.

A treacherous youth, Jourdain by name,

who proved to be the wireless officer.

Latest bulletin, sir.

"A day of comparative quiet was enjoyed

on the Maginot Line.

"From the German fortification

across the river,

"the Nazi radio broadcast an appeal

to the French soldiers

"to lay down their arms

and refuse to spill their blood

"in a useless fight

for the decadent democracies.

"Some martial music was also broadcast

by the Nazis

"and the loyal French soldiers

are understood to have booed."

What kind of a war is this?

Soldiers say boo? Soldiers of France?

I am a soldier. I fight you. I say boo?

And listening to music. Is this war?

- I can...

- Or is it a band concert?

- Kindly allow the Commandant to speak.

- I beg your pardon.

I can tell you what kind of a war.

The Germans are afraid.

- They're afraid of our Maginot Line.

- Brilliant, mon Commandant.

- The whole truth in a nutshell.

- That's right.

They know that no power on Earth

can break through it.

What are we going to do,

sit there indefinitely?

Yes, we'll sit there indefinitely

and even longer if that is necessary.

That is what soldiers are for,

to hold the line.

I say the Maginot Line is invincible.

I say the Siegfried Line is invincible.

And what is that but stalemate?

Where does it get us?

Freycinet, I think I'm going to like you.

Victory comes with endurance.

It came the last time,

and it'll come again

to the army that outlasts its opponent,

the army that holds its lines

five minutes longer.

And that army will be the French Army,

because its officers will make it hold,

because they'll hold their men in place

by means of cast-iron discipline.

And what if

the Maginot Line is outflanked?

Forgive me, sir, but I've always

understood that in a democracy,

even a soldier has the right to think.

Discipline is more essential

than thought to a combat officer.

An army is not a debating society.

Its thinking is done for them by experts.

I trust the Captain does not

believe himself wiser

than Marshal Ptain and the general staff.

The British have a general staff,

and it seems to feel as I do.

Our allies have no such blind faith

in the Maginot Line.

That is because they did not build it.

They're jealous of French genius.

A nation of shopkeepers.

They wanted to sell us the cement.

Very well said, mon Commandant.

No, do not mention the British.

The word offends me.

The British will fight.

Oh, yes. To the last drop of French blood.

Only last week the Commandant said

exactly the same thing.

Only last month

the same words were invented

in the office of Herr Doktor Goebbels

in Berlin.

- Are you accusing me of disloyalty?

- Or is it me you accuse, sir?

Please, let's not accuse anyone,

neither our traveling companions,

nor our allies.

Very well, I accept your apology.

You ask for my opinions, mark my words,

time always proves I'm right.

This was the atmosphere

in which I was destined

to make a voyage

halfway around the globe.

By the time we'd reached Panama,

the world we'd known was falling apart.

The Maginot Line was outflanked.

The invincible French Army

was on the run.

Events were happening

with alarming swiftness.

"Maginot line flanked."

Fault of our allies, sir.

British, the Belgians.

What did I tell you?

They let our line get flanked.

France can curse the day she let herself

get mixed up with foreign alliances.

- Sir?

- No.

Passing through the Panama Canal,

the Ville de Nancy set her helm

for Marseille.

Two days out of Coln,

the wireless buzzed continuously.

The air was full of the news

of torpedoings and hostile raiders.

Ahoy, the bridge. Submarine!

- Where away?

- Thirty degrees starboard, sir.

Sound the alarm.

- What do you see?

- Some sort of suspicious craft.

Can't be sure.

- Man the guns.

- Aye, sir.

- Hold the fire.

- Aye, sir.

We'll have a torpedo

in our belly any minute.

- Hold your fire.

- Hold your fire.

Well, it's no sub.

It's a craft of some sort, isn't it?

- A boat?

- Or a canoe.

See there.

That's a man.

He's alive.

Probably survivors

from some torpedoed ship.

Hard starboard.

- Hard starboard.

- Hard starboard.

Slowly.

Stop. Lower a boat.

Let go of the grapple lashings.

Hurry.

Faster, faster.

Hurry.

Easy with them, men.

Pretty far gone.

I needed that.

We've been without food for 20 days.

Without water for five.

Then I won't plague you

with questions right now.

Put these men in the aft house.

- Set up the extra cots.

- Aye, sir.

- Open up that door.

- Come on. Easy now.

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