Sahara Adventure Series

3. THE SCARLET RIDERS-2

The wind that has come up behind them from the side lifts up the flaps of their kepi’s and blows them back over their heads. Only the cool wind that blows off from the Atlas Mountains can bring a little refreshment after a day of intense heat.

The men pick up the step of the march, but they do not care because their hearts well up at the sight of the oasis, the green palm trees, the thoughts of wonderfully fresh, cool water, the promise of rest in the shade and the memories of grilled goat meat, that old El Abbas always dish up to the men of the Legion.

The old Arab always treats the Legion men like princes when they get to the oasis. He is still of the old school and has not been influenced yet by Arab nationalism. He is one who of the few that still believes that France must be protected and that these semi-wild tribes cannot tarnish the leadership of Western civilization.

Yes, old El Abbas is a friend of the Legion. Many men, who have visited El Wadak before, remember loads of fresh food, wonderful cold milk that comes in a kalbas and the cool Arabic wine that is not as sour as you find elsewhere. They also think of the dancing Arab girls with veils, brown arms, wiggling stomachs, and long, glistening black hair that sways around their hips.

These memories make most of them forget about the strange incident they have just witnessed on the plateau. They yearn in spirit for the luxuries of El Wadak, and in their mind’s eyes, they see the friendly face of El Abbas, the proud old man with the deep lines on his aristocratic face and the white goatee that moves a little when he laughs.

Fritz Mundt rubs his hands and says in broken French. “Tonight, we are going to have a ball, white men. Tonight we are going to forget all our sorrows of the Sahara! What do you say, Teuns Stegmann?”

* * *

“Tonight we can sleep well again, old chap,” says Teuns, but his words have no real excitement, and he looks down while speaking.

“You are naturally only interested in the dancing girls, Fritz Mundt!” mocks Jack Ritchie.

“And you are only interested in the dates and the goat meat, you pig!” He looks at Jack contemptuously.

The men laugh softly but also in a careful way. Although D’Arlan is not so strict while marching through the desert, he does not allow his men to become rowdy when nearing an Arab settlement or town. Everything has to be perfect, and they are not allowed to speak.

While the men still laugh surreptitiously over Jack and Fritz’s spate, they suddenly become quiet. There is no discernable, specific reason for it, merely an instinct that has developed within these desert warriors over time. It is as if they all feel that this is a time they have to be quiet and pay attention.

They all notice that D’Arlan is slowing his pace and is staring intently at the oasis. At this stage, they are no more than two hundred paces away from the clay huts of El Wadak. A strange structure appears on the other side of the settlement, on the open sand. D’Arlan nearly falls because all his attention is riveted on the structure. He cannot quite make out what he is seeing. He wishes the sun was still brighter. The light is deceptive because the high plateau still casts its shadow over the oasis.

D’Arlan looks away. His gaze drifts over the clay huts and the swaying palms of the oasis, but he sees nothing. Everything is too quiet for him…

This is the time of day that the Arabs come to life, so to speak. Then, when the coolness of the evening descends over the Sahara, they come out and start with their tasks. Goats are being milked, camels are groomed, children come out to play, and food is getting cooked.

But now, D’Arlan sees no such activities. Not even the smoke of a fire. He cannot understand this, so a warning bell goes off in his head.

“Rifles at the ready, men!” he orders and hears the clicking sound of the men c*****g their guns. Then all goes quiet again, except for the sound of their boots in the sand.

It does not stay quiet for long. Suddenly it is as if an ant nest has been broken open. A bunch of Arabs swarm out of the huts and descend on the soldiers. It is not only the men but women and children too. They shout and babble, and in the late afternoon light, D’Arlan sees that they are brandishing all sorts of weapons… walking sticks, spears, and guns.

* * *

D’Arlan brings his small convoy to a halt and stares at this sight in utter amazement. He puts up his hand in the traditional symbol of peace, but it is useless. The crowd is still coming, and now D’Arlan finds himself in a dilemma. Must he order his men to shoot, or what must he do?

This surely cannot be the people of El Abbas. No, it is impossible. These are some of the friendliest Arabs in the desert. They have always been prepared to do anything for the French Foreign Legion. But now…

The threatening crowd is nearly on them, and the Arab men have already gone down on their knees. They are aiming with their old guns.

“Down, down!” shouts D’Arlan, just in time because the first bullets start flying over their heads.

The next moment D’Arlan shouts. “Bayonets!”

The advancing Arabs are so keen that the dust stands up in flurries, and the men can no longer see properly to shoot.

“Storm!” orders D’Arlan, when the nearest Arabs are about ten steps away from them. “Do not shoot unless necessary!”

With his revolver, D’Arlan fires a couple of warning shots over the heads of the advancing Arabs.

They quickly lose some of their enthusiasm, and when they notice the glint of the bayonets, they lose all their courage. However, the Legion men do not have to run far because the attackers have halted. There is a lot of shouting, crying, and keening.

It is clear to D’Arlan that these former friendly Arabs of El Wadak have undergone a drastic change. Their eyes are white with anger, and they want to draw blood. They are screaming out their hate against these men of the Legion.

“Quiet!” shouts D’Arlan, and he notices that his men, bayonets at the ready, have joined him on the flanks.

“People of El Wadak, what is going on here?” shouts the captain. “Why are the people of El Wadak looking for the blood of the French Foreign Legion?”

At these words, there rises a burst of cruel, condescending laughter out of the crowd, and lots of them spit on the ground.

“El Abbas… the traitor!” they shout.

“What happened here?” asks D’Arlan, whose voice has a forbidding tone. “Why are you going on like a bunch of murderers?”

A tall, conceited Arab steps forward. He comes up to D’Arlan and folds his hands.

“Legion dog, we do not want to talk to you,” he spits out, and an ugly smile shows his sharp, white teeth.

D’Arlan feels as if his blood is freezing in his veins. He looks at this creature in an underhand way and realizes it has become completely silent.

The Arabs are just standing there, breathing harshly, with dancing eyes, as if waiting for something to happen.

When D’Arlan spoke again, his words cut like knives. “What are you doing here? You do not belong here!”

“I am an Arab and belong everywhere in the Sahara.”

“You are a Dulac,” says D’Arlan, “so what are you doing here?”

He gives half a step closer to the big Arab.

“I have come to prepare the Arabs for the big rebellion, Legion dog,” sneers the Arab and laughs. The other Arabs join in the laughter.

D’Arlan touches the trigger of his Luger, but he realizes he has to be patient.

“You are an agent of El Karima, that white witch of the Dulacs. You are causing treason under the Arabs that choose to live in peace, you Dulac dog!” It looks as if his words are like a slap in the face of the Arab. He draws his knife and prepares to stab D’Arlan in the jugular of his neck. The knife flashes dully.

D’Arlan shoots him from below through his throat, and as the knife reaches the apex of the movement, it falls slowly out of his slack, dead hand.

The Arabs retreat in fright, and D’Arlan climbs over the body in a never-minded fashion and approaches them. “Stay where you are,” he orders his men. “Take their weapons.”

When his men start to obey, he speaks to the Arabs. “The man who moves gets a bullet through the head.”

The Arabs remain still while their old weapons are taken away, and when it is done, D’Arlan speaks up.

“You are like sheep. You get misled by this traitor. Where is El Abbas, the big man of El Wadak?”

They all turn their heads in unison and look back behind them. D’Arlan follows their eyes and shivers… What he and his men have seen from a distance appears to be a rough wooden cross, and someone is hanging on that cross. But, unfortunately, they just missed it in the confusion of the fight.

And then, without needing someone to tell him, he knows that El Abbas is hanging there… a friend of the French Foreign Legion.