Our collaborator and friend Thierry Jan, like the founder of www.nicepremium.fr Franck Viano, is also an author. Thus, after a first essay titled “Mon oncle Jules”, he wrote a second short story that has just been published by the publishing house Edilivre. With his approval, we offer you an excerpt.
THE SERGEANT PISTACHE!
The soldiers at the barracks had nicknamed him Sergeant Pistache. Why this strange nickname? Neither the old-timers nor, a fortiori, the younger ones knew why. People had always said, when speaking of him: “He’s Sergeant Pistache.”
Even the officers, out of habit, had given him this nickname. The man was the archetype of a petty boss, proud of his power—being able to command a squad of kids and punish them for trifles. He displayed his stripes, turning his sleeves, so that everyone could see them.
The recruits feared him but did not like him. Their respect ended at the service, and once outside the barracks, in civilian clothes, because on leave, they mocked him whenever this sergeant was not in uniform. He couldn’t punish them and waited for the opportunity once inside the barracks to make them pay for their behavior.
One day, Sergeant Pistache found himself stranded with his car. He called a tow truck, as he couldn’t even change a tire himself. He was there, parked along the road, in a deserted spot, with a flat tire, sheltered in his vehicle from the rain. The little chief was grumbling; he was going to be late for roll call.
He, the sergeant, the non-commissioned officer, would be caught at fault, perhaps even punished. He remembered that young recruit who arrived an hour late due to a train problem. He had refused to know any excuse. Today it was him immobilized by a flat tire.
The rain wouldn’t stop, he had smoked to relax and his compartment was smoky, he slightly lowered his window while checking his watch. The sergeant was getting impatient; it had already been over two hours since he had called for help, which hadn’t yet arrived. Lightning streaked the sky, and mechanically he counted the seconds separating them from the thunder’s roar, five seconds, he thought it was fifteen kilometers away.
Sergeant Pistache had a terrible power, but here, it was of no use to him. Still no one, still alone on this deserted and dark road by night. No light in the distance, where he could have gone to seek help.
He picked up his phone and called the barracks, explaining his delay and breakdown. The duty guard put him through to the officer on duty. It was a lieutenant, and he didn’t particularly like this sycophantic and self-important non-commissioned officer. “Alright sergeant, change your wheel, we’re waiting for you.” He hung up without letting the sergeant explain himself. The sergeant wasn’t getting any further ahead; he began to despair when a man knocked on his door.
It was the police, and the officer explained that his lights were out. The sergeant got out of his old car, his battery was dead, total breakdown. The officer saluted him respectfully, being of lower rank than him. Then he offered to tow him and drive him to his barracks. “You weren’t very far, sergeant, less than ten kilometers.”
Sergeant Pistache found himself in the courtyard of the barracks, sheepish and not very proud. The men looked at him mockingly as he disappeared without saying a word.
The lieutenant was amused by the lesson his sergeant had just received. He took the opportunity to give him a moral: “I hope, sergeant, that you have understood that power, real power, is not about using your authority, but it is about serving and understanding those placed under your command.”
Sergeant Pistache became more human, that night spent in the rain made him understand the futility of his stripes and his rank. He had been saved from this shipwreck in the countryside by a simple policeman, and in his anxiety over the flat tire, he had forgotten where he was. He thought then that it was enough to make a phone call to be obeyed. No, the power was not about snapping his fingers and becoming inhumanly rigid, the power was something entirely different and the lieutenant was right.
Today this sergeant still commands the young recruits, and no one knows that he was once nicknamed Sergeant Pistache, he is even well-liked by his men.
Thierry Jan
