Tonton

by Adolphe Chenevière

There are men who seem born to be soldiers. They have the face, the body, the mind. But there are others who are forced to join the Army, against their head and their heart, because of a careless action, a lost love, or simply because they are the sons of soldiers and must follow family tradition. My friend, Captain Robert, is one of them. I said to him one summer evening, under the huge, old trees in his garden:

"Yes, my friend, you're sensitive. What did you do when you were forced to shoot, to cut someone down with your sword or to kill?"

He smiled a little sadly. His handsome mouth with its blond moustache was almost like a boy's. His blue eyes were dreamy for a moment, then little by little he began to tell me his thoughts, his memories and everything that was brave in his soldier's heart.

"You know we're soldiers in my family. We have a general and two officers who died in battle. I believe that my imagination made me join the Army. I saw war through poetry. I always thought about victory and crowds of people throwing flowers to me. And I loved the brave words of the great captains.

"My father talked to us about these things and told us about the battles he had fought. He made a soldier of a dreamy child. But later, I was so disappointed! I believe the army doctor was right, who said to me one day in Africa: 'If photographs could be taken after a battle, and millions of copies made and shown all over the world, there would be no more war. The people would refuse to be part of it.'

"Africa, yes, I've suffered there. One time, I was sent to the south, six hundred kilometres from Oran to destroy some rebels... We killed nearly all of them, and stole fifteen hundred sheep; in fact, it was a complete success. We also captured their chief's wives and children. A terrible thing happened at that time, in front of my eyes! A woman was running away, followed by a soldier on a horse. She turned around and shot at him. The soldier was furious, and hit her with his sword. I didn't have time to stop it. I got off my horse to pick the woman up.

She was dead, of course.

"I placed the poor body sadly on the sand, and was going to get back on my horse, when I noticed, a few steps away, behind a bush, a little girl five or six years old. I realised at once that she was from the Touareg tribe. I went up to her and she did not seem afraid of me. I took her with me – she did not struggle – and returned slowly to the place where we were to camp for the night. I expected to put her in the care of the women who were our prisoners. But they all refused, saying that she was a disgusting little Touareg, belonging to a tribe which carries bad luck with it and makes only traitors.

"I didn't know what to do. I couldn't just leave the child... I felt the crime had happened because of my mistake, as I'd organised the massacre. I had made an orphan and so must make sure she was cared for. One of the prisoners had said to me (I understand a little of the language of these people) that if I left the little one to these women they would kill her because she was the daughter of a Touareg chief and they hated the spoiled child with her fine clothes. What could I do?

"I had a wide-awake soldier with me, called Michel. I called him and said to him: 'Take care of the little one.' 'Very well, Captain, I'll look after her.' He then kissed the child, made her talk and took her away with him. Two hours later, he'd made a little bed for her out of biscuit boxes which we more often used in the desert for coffins. In the evening Michel put her to bed in it. He named her 'Tonton'. In the morning the bed was put on a donkey, and Tonton followed the soldiers with the baggage under the watchful eye of Michel.

"This lasted for days and weeks. In the evening, wherever we stopped, Tonton was brought into my tent, with the goat which gave her milk and her inseparable friend, a large chameleon, found by Michel.

"You may believe me or not, but it made me happy to see the little one sleeping in her bed during the short nights, when I felt tired of living and had to live with the sadness of seeing my friends die one by one; the constant worry, always attacking or being attacked, for weeks and months.

"I was forced to shoot spies and traitors, put women and children in prison and steal their goats.

"I had to do this without a moment of hesitation under the burning African sun.

"Then what peace, what strange thoughts I had, when at night in my tent, I could watch the little Touareg sleeping in her bed by the side of her chameleon. Crazy, isn't it? But, go there and live like a thief and a murderer and you will see how at times your civilised imagination will try to hide from itself.

"I could have given Tonton to people from her own tribe. We met some rebels, but I kept the little one, forgetting the five months we must walk before getting to safety. She had grown kind and was almost affectionate with me. She ate with the rest, never wanting to sit down, but running from one soldier to another around the table. She was proud, as if she knew she was the daughter of a chief, treating Michel like a lady treats a favourite pet dog.

All this was to have a sad ending. One day I didn't find the chameleon in the bed, though I remembered seeing it there the evening before. I'd even taken it in my hands and kissed it in front of Tonton, who'd just gone to bed. Then I'd given it back to her and gone out. So, I questioned her. She took me by the hand, and leading me to the camp fire, showed me the burnt skeleton of the chameleon, explaining to me that she'd thrown it in the fire, because I had kissed it! And she copied the animal struggling in pain in the fire, and she smiled. I was furious. I took her by the arm, shook her a little, and hit her on the arm.

"From that day she didn't seem to know me. Tonton and I were both angry. However, one morning, as I felt the sun was going to be terribly hot I put a sheet over her bed. Then to make peace, I kissed my little friend. But as soon as we were on the march, she took the sheet off the bed. Michel put it back in place, and she took it off again. In short, Michel had to give in because she wanted to be able to look, under the hot African sun, at the long line of soldiers. I saw this on arriving at the resting place. Then Michel brought her to my tent. She'd not yet fallen asleep, but followed all my movements with her eyes, without a smile.

"She refused to eat and drink and she had burns on her hands. The next day she was ill, with tired eyes and her body burning with fever. When the doctor wanted to give her medicine she refused and shut her teeth together.

"There was still six days' march before arriving at Oran. I wanted to get her to a hospital there, but she died before I could, very suddenly, of fever. She never wanted to see me again. She was buried under some bushes near Geryville, in her little bed. And do you know what we found there?

The burnt skeleton of the poor chameleon, which was the cause of her death. Before leaving the fire, where she had thrown it to burn alive, she picked it out from the red coals, and put it into her bed, and that is why her little fingers were burnt. The doctor could not explain the cause of those burns."

Robert was silent for a moment, then murmured: "Poor little one! I feel so sorry. If I hadn't hit her... who knows?... she would perhaps still be alive... My story is sad, isn't it? Ah, well, it is still the sweetest of my African memories. War is beautiful! Eh?"

And Robert shrugged his shoulders...