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strode forward with that masculine assurance that comes from the certainty of never being contradicted. With his stiff moustache, bushy eyebrows, and the tanned complexion of a man who has spent a lot of time outdoors doing very little, this superior officer exuded energy. He sought it, too, and clearly felt it could be distinguished by how fiercely orders were barked on a parade square.
    With an eye accustomed to judging men by the shine on their boots and buttons, the length of their hair, and their ability to stand in line, he surveyed our ranks, and decided:
    ‘We are going to find out who has military aptitude!’
    The test began straight away. We were instructed to put a section through various manoeuvres. Not having the faintest idea how to do this, we were extremely awkward. However, since this test had begun with those who were top so far, after two hours of demonstration the men who had almost failed the written exams finally managed to imitate the false tone that lends power to a command. When it was over, an officer held out a package of scripts to the colonel.
    ‘Here are the essays, sir.’
    ‘Never mind the paperwork, the decision is made!’ replied the perspicacious leader.
    And the next day twenty candidates were named, all carefully chosen from the bottom.
    The decision of this colonel who was such a great connoisseur of men put an end to my ambitions and relegated me to the rank of private, a rank which I resolved – as my own revenge against stupidity – never to change. It was then that I was automatically selected to join the squad of men training to be corporals, a squad where I was forced to remain despite my protests. Luckily I found many of my former fellow students there and we enjoyed our time together when we were not on exercises. This camaraderie was the only benefit I derived from it, for we were never made corporals.
    That is why, after a year of army life, I am still a private. Many people are in the same position, men who would have been able to do better if they had been better employed. I regret nothing, but it should be recorded that it was the army, in the person of one obdurate colonel, which refused my well-meaning offer.
    Searching through my memories I find something that I had forgotten and which, at the time, annoyed me. Today I see it in a different light and regret my anger.
    I had been with the regiment for three weeks when I was summoned to the company office. There I found our old captain, a rather paternal figure, who had a question to ask me.
    ‘What’s the matter, my friend, is something wrong?’
    ‘Not at all, sir,’ I replied in astonishment.
    ‘Really? Quite sure?’
    ‘Absolutely sure!’
    ‘So tell me then, what is the meaning of this letter?’
    I read it:
    ‘ Monsieur le Commandant , I am taking the liberty of writing to you about my grandson, Private Jean Dartemont. I have looked after this boy for a long time and he has always been delicate. I am certain that he could not bear the strain of a campaign. It is very unfortunate that no one is thinking of the health of our children during these sad times, and instead people take advantage of their enthusiasm and their lack of experience. Only people who are strong should be sent to war, and not young people who are too frail and are prey to violent emotions, who will not be of any use at all over there. Everyone should serve the nation according to his abilities and I am sure my grandson, who has been well educated, will be much more help working in an office. I know that the child will not dare to complain, and that is why, given my age and the misfortunes that I have witnessed over the years, I am writing to you, sir, so that in the light of his feeble constitution you may take the necessary steps . . .’
    I shrugged my shoulders, with a grin.
    ‘So?’ demanded the captain.
    ‘A grandmother’s exaggerations. I am really not that weak!’
    ‘And you have no complaints? There is nothing you