Sahara Adventure Series

There are only seven of them. Only seven soldiers in this infinity of the Sahara. They are wearing blue jackets and the white kepis of the French Foreign Legion. Present here is Sergeant Catroux, the diminutive, grey Frenchman with his lively blue eyes and the brash little mustache. Fritz Mundt, the huge German, the biggest and strongest soldier in the French Foreign Legion. Teuns Stegmann, the blonde South African, is broad-shouldered but very agile, like an athlete. Jack Ritchie was the Englishman his family had branded the black sheep. Podolski, the Pole, had joined the Legion only to get away from his fat wife and her constant nagging. Petacci, the Italian, who had fled his country of birth because of his radical views, and Jorgensen, the big, clumsy Norwegian, always looks as if he is dreaming of the cool fjords of his country. Their boots crunch through the sand as they move in a northerly direction, and their water flasks flap against their sweaty backs. Podolski, the brave Pole, who has already seen so much bloodshed in the desert, yawns and says. “I wish something would happen. Even a vulture attacking us will do so that I can kill it with my bayonet. This walking is driving me crazy!” “You are in a good mood, you big old Pole,” says Teuns Stegmann while looking back at Podolski. “If you have that much energy, why do not you run to Fort Laval before us?” “He is off his rocker,” growls Jorgensen. “Who in his right mind will look for trouble in this heat?” “It is only big talk,” Petacci, the Italian, cuts in. Podolski ignores the others and turns to Fritz Mundt. “What do you say, big guy? You are one of the men who is always looking for action. These patrols through the sand drive me insane.” Fritz Mundt does not answer him but puts his forefinger in his mouth to wet it, then sticks it up in the air like a man pointing at the sky. “Looks like the big guy is also losing his marbles,” Teuns teases. “He is sucking his finger like a baby.” “Wait, I think he is getting ready to risk another one of his predictions,” Jack Ritchie mocks. “After all, he is the big oracle of the desert!” They look at the big German apprehensively because he is usually so outspoken and ready to react with his quick temper. But, then, he would not say something but would not hesitate to use his fists if provoked. Now, he turns his head, looks up into the sky, and scans the horizon with his eyes drawn into slits. “There is a big wind coming,” Fritz Mundt says softly. “Wind!” Teuns Stegmann guffaws, and everybody starts laughing. “The only wind right now in this desert is the wind coming out of your big mouth!” “I am telling you there is a wind coming. You cannot feel it right now, but I can sense it in the air and do not like it. I think Podolski’s wish might be granted by getting some action.” Without another word, the German leaves the line and hastens himself over to Sergeant Catroux, who walks in front of them with his head bowed. “I think Fritz has gone soft in the head,” says Jorgensen from behind, but Petacci interrupts him. “He knows this desert like the palm of his hand. He is never wrong with his predictions.” “Well, it looks like Field Marshall Rommel has at least one admirer in the French Foreign Legion,” Podolski teases Petacci. Then they cease talking to try and hear what Fritz Mundt is saying to Catroux, but they are unable to. Catroux suddenly halts his small patrol and gazes over to the west, where the mighty Atlas Mountain rises blue and massive out of the desert, with its peaks reaching heaven. He takes out his binoculars and scans the area while the other men, except for Fritz, sit in the hot sand, thankful for the break to rest their tired legs. Catroux puts his binoculars back in the bag, and then he also wets his finger and holds it up in the air, just like Mundt did. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaims. “It is true. A wind is coming, but it is difficult to feel at this stage.” Mon DieuJust then, a small whirlwind comes dancing past them over the sand, which cools their burning cheeks for that split second. The men look at one another quickly because they know what that means. “Look there, mon Sergent,” Fritz tells Catroux, pointing his finger into the sky. mon SergentCatroux looks up and sees tiny, black specks in the sky, so high up that it is nearly invisible to the n***d eye. The specks are moving eastwards. “They will not be flying that high up if it were not for strong air currents, mon Sergent,” Fritz Mundt remarks. mon Sergent“That is true,” Catroux concurs. “Vultures know when to get themselves to safety.” The other men are also looking up into the sky, eyes squinted against the sun’s glare, and subconsciously, their breathing becomes deeper and uneven in apprehension. “And look over there, mon Sergent,” says Fritz Mundt, pointing at the sun. Catroux looks and realizes that the Sahara sun is looking quite different today. It is not the same fiery ball as always, but more like a copper coin that had been polished. It becomes unnecessary to look because now others can feel it too. mon SergentSuddenly it is like standing in an airless void that is as hot as an oven. Sweat breaks out over their bodies, breathing becomes difficult, and it feels as if their heads can explode from the pressure. “Sandstorm coming, mes amis,” says Catroux, and those four words of the sergeant fill the men with a nameless dread. mes amis“Still ready for action, Podolski?” asks Petacci, and a world of meaning is locked behind his dark eyes. Podolski only looks at the horizon and does not reply because he would rather march a thousand miles through the desert than encounter one of the Sahara’s sandstorms. “What are we going to do?” asks the ever-practical Jorgensen. “We are still about eighty miles from Fort Laval, and if that storm catches us here in the open, we are in a world of trouble.” The men know that is the truth because any man who has ever experienced one of the Sahara’s sandstorms before can tell you how the wind can drive the sand and small stones horizontally against your body, so much so that it can tear the clothes from your body and rip the skin off your face and hands. The sand can penetrate your facial cavities, and if you are not careful, it can smother you. This type of storm can last up to three days, and if you are unlucky enough that it finds you in the open of the desert, it forces the moisture out of your body and can drive you insane with thirst. They have seen victims of sandstorms before and know how the sand can even carve away a man’s eyelids so that the eyes are sitting open, bare, and terrible in their sockets. They know this, which is why they are looking at one another in fear, only to look again towards the horizon where everything still seems so calm and silent. It is deceptive because these desert storms can appear from behind a dune or on the open plains within seconds. “What shall we do?” Jorgensen complains. “There is not even a stone we can hide behind.” “You just turn your back to the storm till you have no back anymore,” Teuns Stegmann suggests. “By the time your back is gone, you will be finished anyway.” “Your skin is so tough that even a desert storm will not be able to kill you, Jorgie,” says Jack Ritchie. They talk flippantly, not because the situation calls for being lighthearted, but out of fear, because they have seen how a storm like this had exposed a massive rock out of the sand in one night. This rock was under the ground, and suddenly that one night, it appeared when the wind had calved away all the sand and laid it bare. Catroux sits on the sand and takes a map out of a long, cylindrical container. A whirlwind tugs at the map in his hands, and with his finger, he traces the area on the map, desperately looking for a hiding place against the coming storm. Fritz Mundt peers curiously over Catroux’s shoulder to look at the map. Fort Laval, eighty miles away from them, is out of their reach, and so is Wadi Dinar, seventy-two miles to the east. The Bihar- highlands, with their strange rock formations, hundred miles to the southeast, is out of the question, as also the Harba oasis, seventy miles in a westerly direction. “Very festive,” says Catroux in the end, but he cannot hide that he is upset. “We have an hour at most before the storm hits us, and the nearest shelter is seventy miles away. Do you think we will be able to reach the oasis at Harba within an hour, mes amis?” mes amisThe men only laugh uncomfortably and look at one another without speaking. In an instant, Teuns Stegmann is on his feet and shouts. “Look there, mon Sergent! It is on its way!” mon SergentThe other men jump up quickly as a light wind, like the wind of a fan, touches their hot faces, but they hardly notice because the Atlas Mountains, still visible five minutes ago, have disappeared! There is no sign of the mountain anymore because a red curtain hangs between it and the men. It moves to shiver, bow, and sway, with dust and sand curling upwards towards the sky. Another gust of wind blows over the men and plays with their leg pants. The pressure increases, and the desert becomes even hotter. The men’s eyes are shiny and big, and they try to swallow their fear through parched throats. “We should go and hide behind the nearest high dune!” Petacci calls out in alarm. “We cannot stay out here in the open.” Catroux looks at Petacci in sympathy, nearly like a father would look at an ignorant little child. Fritz Mundt curbs his enthusiasm. “Have you never heard how mother Sahara can shift the highest dunes within hours, Italian? Or do you feel like being buried beneath a dune.” “But, but…” Petacci stammers. “Do not break your head about this, Petacci,” says Podolski with his eyes fixed on the approaching storm, “because within an hour or so, you will not have to make plans anymore. You have about an hour to repent your sins and gloat over your past good deeds.” “But we cannot just stand here and do nothing!” Petacci shouts and Catroux sees a hysteria behind the man’s eyes. Everybody’s attention is riveted on the approaching storm. The wind that had reached them ahead of the storm is swirling and whistling around them, fluttering the backs of their kepi’s and then letting off again. While he is watching this terrible vision that is rolling towards them, Sergeant Catroux is at first so stunned that he can hardly move. The dust curled like dragon tongues upwards, and the sky turned ugly reddish-grey. It is as if a horrible force is sucking the very crust of the earth into the atmosphere.