Sahara Adventure Series

Teuns Stegmann, the tall South African serving in the French Foreign Legion, looks with narrowed eyes at the movements of the man in front of him. He might have laughed if not for his fatigue and the burning hot Sahara sun above them. Teuns, and the other members of the small patrol, are lying edgeways on the crown of a high dune in the heart of the turbulent world between the Legion’s front post, Dini Salam, and Dutra, the capital of the rebellious Dulac Arabs. “Are you going insane, big guy?” Teuns asks the man, who is executing the strange movements in front of them. “That is how we drink the cold Müncher, South African,” Fritz Mundt, the German, says. He has the reputation of being the strongest man in Africa. “So and so…” He lifts his elbow high in the air, swings his hand smartly, brings it to his mouth, tilts his head back, and pretends to enjoy a beer. He smacks his lips enjoyably, and it looks like he has just swallowed a glass of foamy beer. Then he looks resentfully down at his water flask, removes the cap, and takes two swallows of the lukewarm water. “And, we do it like this,” says Petacci, the little Italian man. He is lying next to Teuns in the hot sand. He makes rotating movements with his fingers. “Spaghetti,” Teuns guesses. “That is correct,” Petacci replies and narrows his eyes. He puts his left hand up, his fingers widened. “Right now, I would offer this precious left hand of mine, and trade it for a scrumptious plate of spaghetti, served to me in one of the back streets of Rome.” “Interesting tour this,” Jack Ritchie, the blonde Englishman, declares. He is lying on his back with his hands on his head and moves his kepi over his eyes to keep the sun out of them. “Very exciting. We have been roaming around here for nearly two weeks and have not even seen a camel yet. How much longer is Catroux going to drag us through the sand?” “Maybe you are in for some excitement soon, Englishman,” Fritz says, drawing lines in the sand with his boot. “In the Sahara, you can never tell.” “There has to be something in the weather to justify this patrolling,” Teuns says. He looks away over the tall sand crowns of the dunes in the direction of the pale blue Atlas Mountains to the south, which are shimmering in the heat. “What could it be?” Podolski, the Pole, asks angrily. “The Arabs are very peaceful right now, like us…” “Like vultures,” Teuns corrects him. “I am more than happy to walk around doing nothing,” Petacci declares. “I would rather walk around here in the desert than be trapped in that fly-infested nest they call Fort Laval. At least a man can freely breathe here...” “Who says there is no excitement?” Podolski asks and looks up at the sky. “Look there.” They all look up, even Jack Ritchie, who reluctantly removes his kepi from his eyes. A heavy vulture slowly glides over them to the south, its wings spread wide and its neck pushed out far to the front. “Maybe he spots a desert rat, which had died of boredom,” Teuns reckons. “Or maybe it sees a beautiful woman, lost in the desert, who right at this very moment is staggering in our direction,” Fritz tries. “Private Stegmann.” It is the voice of Sergeant Catroux, sitting a little way off from the others. He is sitting on the sharp crown of the dune, spying over the land with his binoculars. Teuns rises and saunters over to the sergeant. “Do not tell me we are going to see something, Sergeant,” the South African sleepily says. “In the last two weeks, we have hardly seen as much as a camel spoor.” “Come and look here. Your eyes are strong,” Catroux says. “I cannot make it out.” Teuns crouches down next to the sergeant and takes the binoculars from him. He follows the direction in which Catroux is pointing with his scrawny, swarthy hand. “Do you see that gradually sloping hill to the south?” “I see it, Sergeant. It is very far away. It would be difficult to determine anything from this far off, but it looks like vultures.” “There is something,” Catroux states, “but it is difficult to see. It is nearly just over the crown of the incline…” “Yes, there is something,” Teuns agrees and squints his eyes behind the binoculars. “There are indeed vultures over there, but I cannot make out anything further.” “We have to go and take a look,” Catroux says. “It would be interesting. If we do not see something weird right now, we might die of misery,” Teuns figures. He returns the binoculars to the sergeant, walks to his backpack and rifle, and rejoins the others. “Arabs?” Fritz Mundt asks. There is more life in his blue eyes now. Teuns shrugs. “No, not Arabs, but vultures.” “Sometimes vultures can be more interesting than Arabs,” Podolski reckons. “We have to go and take a look,” Teuns says, picking up his backpack. He swings it over his back, bends down, and retrieves the long Lebel rifle. “Go and take a look? We are on our way back to Laval, and now we have to retrace our steps for kilometers to check out what the vultures have found,” Jack Ritchie complains, squinting his eyes against the sharp sunlight reflected by the sand. “Who knows what we will find there,” Teuns says unenthusiastically and looks at the Englishman. “I do not feel like this nonsense,” Jack says. “We have been wandering around for too long. It is time for us to return.” “We march out in one minute,” Catroux orders, who, in the meantime, had joined the men. Lazy and reluctantly, the men rise from the sand. They stretch and pull down the flaps of the kepis in their necks to keep out the sun. They swing the backpacks over their backs and hang the rifles from their shoulders. The men start walking, but Jack cannot hide his annoyance. “What are we supposed to do if we see something?” he asks Teuns while walking, “We are only six men strong.” “Actually, we are seven,” Teuns replies, “as Fritz Mundt counts as two. Have you forgotten so quickly?” The huge German turns around partially and glares at the South African. He turns around once more and spits into the sand. “And, you count for half a man,” the German retorts amicably, but he knows he sounds stupid, as everybody knows this South African. He has a slim build and broad shoulders. He is quick on his feet, highly intelligent, and a dangerous man with his fists. They all know how many predicaments they have been saved from by Teuns’ sharp brain. They know his incredible and calm courage very well. But, as they shuffle through the burning sand, they are all aware that the tall, blonde man knows no fear. The men lurch up the one dune and down the other side, over and over. Catroux makes them move at a slow pace. This is a hellish spot in the Sahara. Here the dunes are high and sharp, and when you look over them from far away, many crowns seem as sharp as blades. Yet, behind the highest peaks are spots of black shadows, and the slippery sides of the dunes are intact. Not one track can be detected. Only the soft wrinkles in the sand, shaped by the last wind, break the smooth glimmer along the flanks of the massive sand mountains. Every time they reach the top of a dune, the men look away far to the front of them. It is a nearly involuntary reaction, but it is something the desert teaches you if you have been here for an extended period. You develop a sixth sense for the abnormal, the danger, the surprise, and even for death, which can wait around every corner. Right now, there is not much to see, though. The single time when they manage to get the long, sloping dune in sight, they can merely spot a black bundle far to the front. It is a milling bunch of vultures, apparently eating something. When they cross the last dune, and before descending the gradient, climbing out of the deep street underneath the dune, Catroux halts again and takes out his binoculars. He looks with interest at the strange phenomenon on the far-off crown. “I am still unable to make anything out,” he finally says. “There are too many vultures. It is quite clear they are busy with something, and it is not just a dead horse or a camel. There are too many of them.” “Maybe it is a caboodle of Arabs who had died of the thirst,” Petacci offers his opinion. Fritz Mundt looks at him scornfully. “Will you ever learn?” the big German asks. “Where have you heard of Arabs dying in the desert from thirst?” From under his black beard, Petacci blushes at his ignorance and keeps quiet. Nobody else speaks because they stare at the flock of swarming vultures. “Let us move on,” Catroux orders, leading them down the sharp dune, through the dip at the bottom, and up the long slope. Here they find a type of sand plateau, lying sloping like the roof of a house. It is one of the wonders of the Sahara. It is one of those strange interruptions in the row of sharp dunes, following one after another. This gradient is as even as a table-top, but still, it rises until it reaches the blunt crown at the top, where the flock of vultures is scurrying about. The men know that behind this comb, the dune falls nearly completely vertical, down to the never-ending, flat plain where the small oasis, Harba, is situated. “We might as well continue walking up to Harba and go and rest there for a while,” Jack Ritchie suggests, and he says it loudly so Catroux can hear him. At first, Catroux wants to reprimand him but decides to keep quiet. He knows only too well how some men can develop a case of nerves on these stressful and dangerous patrol marches. On these types of ventures through the desert, he has seen men go completely crazy. For this reason, he does not put a lot of emphasis on discipline while on these patrols. He allows the men much more freedom of speech than usually would be the case. He has often wondered what the value of these patrols is. Yet, it is an institution of the Foreign Legion because it is assumed that the Arabs must be constantly monitored. One never knows what treacherous schemes these creatures may have up their sleeve. The men move up the long sandy slope with renewed energy. It is curiosity and a sense of adventure that spur them on. The vultures which are struggling in front of them, shooting up in the air, and then landing again might very well be something to investigate. It can be something thrilling or even dangerous. The danger is the best companion in this lost desert because at least it keeps you going. If you start to lose interest out here in the Sahara, death can be waiting behind the nearest dune.