Sahara Adventure Series

On the battlements of the French Foreign Legion’s fort, Dini Salam, two guards are walking toward each other in the night wind. When they come face to face, they click their heels, as is the custom, but they do not turn around again and walk in opposite directions as they are supposed to do. One guard is speaking to the other, which is against the rules and strictly f*******n by the Legion. “Jack,” the one big, strong guard, with a Lebel over his shoulder, whispers to the other in the moon’s dim light. “Yes?” the other one asks curiously. The big man is Fritz Mundt, the massive German. He is the biggest man in the whole garrison and the French Foreign Legion, and if given a chance, he can polish off an entire keg of beer on his own. Jack is Jack Ritchie, the blonde Englishman of noble descent. He had joined the French Foreign Legion to avoid putting his good rural family in England, in disgrace, because of a minor transgression on his part. “What is it, Fritz?” The Englishman whispers and draws his eyes into slits to make out the German’s expression in the dark. “I am telling you that something is wrong. I can feel it. All is not as it seems.” “You have said that a hundred times already, Field Marshall Von Boek,” Jack teases, although he also feels something is amiss. “It does not matter if I have said it a thousand times before,” the German defends himself, “it stays the truth.” “This will not be the first patrol that has arrived late, Fritz.” Jack tries to comfort him, but even his own words sound hollow. “They should have been back here three days ago, and up till now, we have had no tidings of them.” “Maybe they have met up with a bunch of beautiful Arab girls at some or other oases, big guy,” Jack tries to joke. Just as serious as the nation he belongs to, Fritz Mundt ignores the frivolous remark. “Have I not told you that it is a bad idea to separate us from the South African, Teuns Stegmann? Have I not told you that time and time again? And here we have it, and I think that calamity had struck all because the three of us have been separated. It is just wrong, and I have always had that feeling, and I think now my feeling of impending disaster will prove to be true. I do not know why D’Arlan had decided this time to separate us. Why could not we have joined the patrol?” “I think D’Arlan might have decided to promote the South African to the rank of corporal, which is why he has been sent out with Vermeer’s patrol. That is probably it.” “Jack, can you remember a period when the three of us were not together? You, me, and Stegmann. Can you?” “No, we have never been separated before,” Jack agrees, and the realization shocks him. He, the big German, and the South African, Stegmann, have become great friends, and they have always wangled things in such a way that they could be together, even in great danger. If they had over-indulged in the wine, they have always stayed together to help one another, and even when they get a leave of absence and take women out, they are together. If a fight breaks out under the men, they are together. Many times before, out in the desert, they had given one another their last water or cigarette. They are more than just friends with this tall, blonde South African, who had joined the French Foreign Legion because the Arabs had murdered his brother during World War Two. They have immense respect for this man, as he is one of the bravest men they have ever encountered. Not one of them has forgotten how he had managed to save a whole column of the French Foreign Legion once in Dutra, the capital of the war-like Dulacs. “Now, this is where the problem comes in,” says Fritz Mundt. “This time, we are apart, and that means trouble. I am telling you something has happened.” “Do you think that the patrol has been overpowered?” Jack asks hesitantly. “What else? Those damn Dulacs have been far too quiet. It is about time that they start with their shenanigans again. I am telling you again. There is trouble.” “I cannot accept that Teuns Stegmann and the other guys have been killed.” “I do not even want to contemplate it,” says Fritz, and he shivers, “but we have to accept the fact that it is a possibility. Where could they be? They should have been back three days ago, and I think D’Arlan might be just as worried as we are. This afternoon he had sent a couple of men to the caravan drivers to ask if they had not seen Vermeer’s patrol.” “And?” “They have not seen a damn thing, not even a trail, and Vermeer’s patrol was supposed to follow the main caravan route towards the Atlas Mountains. They should have come across them. They had to!” “Who says they are speaking the truth? These drivers, you know…” “Hush!” Fritz whispers urgently. “What is it?” “Did you not hear anything? You are so deaf, Englishman, that the Arabs can remove your brain without you knowing about it.” “Listen! There it is again. Can you hear it now?” “This time, I heard it,” Jack Ritchie says assertively. “Sounds like the neighing of a horse.” They hear it again, and it sounds like the neighing of a horse about to die. However, it is not the neighing of a fresh horse. Another sound now reaches their ears, chilling them to the bone. They hear a soft, moaning sound like a man dying or in terrible pain. The man in distress and anguish sends shivers down these hardened men’s spines because they have heard that sound before. They know what it means. Mundt and Ritchie hastily move to the side of the battlement and peer through two openings between the short towers of the wall. Fritz Mundt’s hands are trembling on the hardened concrete of the battlement’s tower, and Jack Ritchie’s mouth is suddenly very dry, and his ears are burning. “What in the blue devil?” Mundt asks in a whisper while staring through the dim moonlight at the scene beneath them. “Riders,” says Ritchie, “but there is blood. I can even see it from up here.” “What did I tell you?” the German whispers and spits out his chaw of tobacco. “What did I tell you!” he nearly screams. “Who or what are they?” the Englishman enquires. Another groan reaches their ears, like a sighing accusation that cuts through a man. The horse neighs softly again. “Vermeer’s patrol had returned,” says Fritz Mundt, and his voice has a strange tone. With these words, he turns around and rushes down the steps to the guard room. Fritz’s eyes are big and shiny when he storms in there. “Mon Sergent,” Mundt bursts out when he sees Sergeant Renan, the officer of the guards, “There are riders outside the walls, wounded riders.” Mon Sergent“Riders? What riders?” the sergeant asks with a frown. “They are wearing the uniforms of the French Foreign Legion, mon Sergent…” mon Sergent“What are you talking about, Private Mundt?” the sergeant asks, sounding stunned, and then he jumps up, puts his kepi on his head, and storms out of the guard room. The men sitting there with him, awaiting their turn on guard duty, follow Mundt and Ritchie. They run directly for the portal, and four men jump onto the heavy wheel of the pulley. The heavy portal gate opens, and then they are outside. They run underneath the wall around to the west side of the fort. What they see there in the moonlight makes them stop dead in their tracks. They gasp and murmur out their utmost shock and horror. “Good, merciful heaven!” whispers Sergeant Renan as he hesitantly walks closer. “Those poor bastards!” Fritz Mundt and Jack Ritchie break the spell by rushing forward toward the group of horses. “Maleficent Dulac dogs,” Fritz Mundt says softly, and he hisses as he looks at the blood-soaked riders. They do not even look like human beings anymore. They are terrible, maimed men bound to the horses in different positions. They are limp, bleeding, and groaning. “Bring the horses inside the fort,” Renan orders. Quickly the animals get taken inside. “Go and wake up Captain D’Arlan and the medical orderly on the double,” he orders two men who had just arrived on the scene. A couple of minutes later, the men lie in the hospital room. Sergeant Vermeer, the patrol leader sent out over a week ago, is dead. His grey-haired head is lying loosely backward because the Dulac knives have cut off his one big artery. Only four of the men who arrived here are still alive. The rest have all died of blood loss or the horrible t*****e inflicted on them by the Dulacs. Renan looks at these wounds and says. “This is the work of the Dulacs. It is the work of El Karima and her swine because only they can be so barbaric. They are the only people capable of treating men like animals.” The Legion men look upon this c*****e and inhuman behavior in utter disgust. They know it is the work of the Dulac Arabs under their white leader. Some men are wringing their hands, and some have turned their faces away. Others have left the room because they cannot look at this horror. Here, a man’s hand had been cut off at the wrist, and over there, a man is missing a nose or ear. Some have just been cut into one of their arteries. D’Arlan, who had entered the room silently, goes and kneels next to the bed of a young soldier. This had been his first patrol, and maybe his youth had counted in his favor because he could still speak. “Can you tell me something, mon ami? Can you tell me what happened?” D’Arlan asks with infinite kindness in his voice. “What happened?” mon amiThe young man’s lips move convulsively, and big, shiny tears well up in his torturous eyes. He breathes softly as the life flows out of him through two gaping holes in his wrists. “Can you talk, mon ami?” D’Arlan gently prods him again. mon ami“It is them… it is the Dulacs.” “The Dulacs?” He nods. “They attacked us the day before yesterday. The white woman, she…” “What about the white woman, mon ami?” mon amiThe young man licks his cracked lips with a swollen tongue. “The white woman, she was there, she was there...” “That damn witch,” D’Arlan whispers bitingly. “We could not fight them. There were a hundred of them.” “What happened then, mon ami?” asks D’Arlan, giving the dying man more of the cognac. mon ami“They… they have brought us closer to this fort. Most of them went to their home, but some have brought us here.” He falls silent again, and his eyes close in pain. D’Arlan offers him the glass of cognac again.