Fifty-Fifty O'Brien (6 page)

Chapter Five

G
RANT
looked about him. He could see the faces of the men who ringed the place. He recognized none of them. He looked back at Duval to make certain that the man was serious.

But Duval was all respect and obedience. The situation was so ludicrous that Grant wanted to laugh. He had come up here expecting to turn himself in for a swift passage to the
bataillon pénal
! But instead he was in command, just because he had been cold and had donned Muller's jacket.

A high rock in the center was used for a lookout post. A Legionnaire called down, “They're massing for a direct attack!”

Legionnaire Grant reverted to Lieutenant Stephans. His face was a disciplined mask. His eyes were sober. “What is the lay of the land, Corporal?”

Duval, heels together, said: “You came up the pass, sir. The Tuaregs can't get us from the rear. We must resist a frontal attack.”

“Where are your machine guns?”

“Commanding the pass as it comes down.”

“Then,” said Grant, “place those guns in such a position as to rake both the pass and the slope before us. You haven't time to worry about the caravan now.”

Duval saluted and strode quickly to the waiting gunners. “Take your pieces to the front. Quickly.”

The gunners immediately snatched up the tripods and moved them. In less than a minute, the machine guns were slamming short, wicked bursts down the pass into the forming ranks of the raiders.

Grant watched the procedure with a sort of silent awe. He had not actually thought that they would carry out his orders. And yet they had done so absolutely without question.

This was the first time he had ever commanded men under fire. There was little thrill to it. They were all responsive to his order and he felt responsible for their lives. Just because he had happened to have chevrons on his sleeve!

Another corporal came up. “Sir, I am Corporal Schwartz. Does the sergeant wish to check our ammunition and supplies?”

“Your word is good enough,” replied Grant. “How long can they last?”

“Not more than twenty-four hours, sir. We've waited for the caravan several days and we're getting pretty low on water and food.”

“I don't think the Tuaregs will stay at it very long,” said Grant. “Place a guard over the water.”

“Yes, sir,” said Schwartz, saluting.

Grant pulled his kepi down over his eyes. He felt like a burglar coming in here and bossing these men about. He had no right to do it; but how could he tell them?

He went up to the
murette
. The rock wall had been thrown up hastily for defense. The Legionnaires were half lying against it, firing between breaks in the stone. They glanced up when they sensed his presence and then went on firing.

A pair of field glasses lay in the niche the lieutenant had reserved for himself. Grant picked them up and studied the massing below.

The Tuaregs were gathering out on the plain, evidently preparing for a rush. Blue Veil was behind them, issuing orders.

Grant went back to the center of the compound. Duval came to him and Grant took the man's whistle. He blew “cease firing,” and waited for the guns to stop their sharp barking.

His voice was very loud in the ensuing silence. “Wait until the charge has reached the pass mouth. Then, sights two hundred meters and
volley fire
. Machine guns change for enfilade fire down the slope.”

The Legionnaires changed their sights and laid their rifles back along the
murette,
waiting. Once more Grant was jarred by the implicit way they obeyed him. Who was he to be obeyed, anyhow?

He went back to the lieutenant's niche and watched the Tuaregs. The horses were drawn up in ranks. Long rifles and two-handed swords flamed in the sunlight. The mass started ahead at a trot. The pace quickened to a canter. Then at a fast run they catapulted toward the pass. Before they reached it the group broke into two sections, one heading straight up the slope.

With the whistle in his lips, Grant waited. He took down the field glasses to better judge the distance. The veils whipped, robes fluttered, horses reared as they plunged ahead.

Two hundred meters, Grant judged. He blew a single, shrill blast. The guns responded as one rifle. The machine guns clattered, swift and deadly.

The uproar was deafening. Empties spat away from the
murette,
smoking into the compound. The Tuareg yell was thin, lost in the thunder of exploding powder.

The charge came on to a hundred meters. The pass was strewn with kicking horses and shrieking men. Abruptly the lines shattered themselves against an invisible wall. The Tuaregs turned and raced back.

The guns stopped. Legionnaires coolly blew the curling smoke out of their barrels and sat back. Grant exhaled a great sigh. If those rifles had failed to respond when they did, the Tuaregs would have struggled up to engulf them; and that would have been the end. He knew, then, that he had borne all the strain on his own smarting shoulders.

Grant turned and looked up at the rock. “Lookout! Watch for any further movements below and report them instantly.”

A thin “Yes, sir,” drifted down.

Grant seated himself with his back to the
murette.
He was very, very tired. His wound hurt like hellfire itself. Schwartz came over to him.

“Corporal,” said Grant, his haggard face lifted up, “I've been marching all day and all night. After that shambles, the Tuaregs will hold off for a little while. Carry on while I take a nap.”

“Yes, sir,” said Schwartz with a salute.

After that, Grant dozed. He awakened every time the machine guns started and went to sleep each time they stopped. He was as nervous as a cat, not because of the Tuaregs, but because of the command.

Just before dark, he made another tour of the defenses. Men looked at him through the red glow of the sunset, speculation in their eyes. He noticed that they talked together in low tones after he had passed.

A chill went through him. Did they suspect his masquerade? After all, he might well be expected to carry the thing off successfully. He lacked nothing by way of knowledge in military matters.

Chapter Six

S
OME
of his self-reliance had left him when he reached the base of the lookout rock. He stood there glancing about him. Schwartz and Duval and two other corporals came out of the shadows of the
murette
and approached him. Their stride was a little uncertain and they did not look him in the eyes.

Duval came to a full stop before him. “Sergeant, we have been talking it over.

“We are not safe here,” added Duval, screwing up his weathered face.

“No,” said Schwartz, staring past Grant, “we are not safe here. We think it best that we retreat up the pass under cover of darkness and escape in the direction of the aviation drome.”

Emboldened by Grant's silence, Duval stepped a pace forward. “The caravan will know about this. They would not miss the firing. We are going to retreat.”

Grant tightened his mouth. “Have you planned all this out?”

“Yes, it will be very simple,” said Duval.

Grant looked him in the eye. “So it will be simple, eh?”

“Yes, very simple,” echoed Schwartz.

The situation was clear to Grant. The men were growing panicky through inaction and doubt of the Tuareg movements. But if they retreated from this
murette
they might meet the armed caravan which could easily defeat them in the open. For an instant he was panicky himself. He did not know how he could cope with this. What would Muller do? What would Boch do?

Grant stepped forward until less than a foot separated his face from Duval's. “So, you'd turn tail and run,
hein
? You'd turn your back on the enemy? You're yellow!”

Duval faltered. Schwartz flushed angrily. Grant's voice was raw, dripping with venom.

“So you'd run!” roared Grant. “You're a pack of yellow curs!” He snatched Duval's tunic and shook the man. “Do you realize you'd meet the caravan in the pass? Do you know what you're up against? No, you brainless, spineless fish, you wouldn't know.

“I'm here to keep you from getting killed. You're trying to take a fast way out, trying to leave the Legion in the lurch! Do you know what would happen if you ran?

“No, you're too damned witless. The ammunition would get through, understand? It would go through and the Tuaregs would wipe our outposts off the map. I know you don't care about your vermin-chewed hides. But you've got to think about the others.

“Oh, you don't like it? You don't like it. Get back up there on the
murette
and wait for the night attack. Get up there!”

Duval, released, staggered back. His teeth were bared and his fists were clenched. Grant whipped his revolver out of his belt and slapped the butt against Duval's jaw. Duval went down on his knees. Grant kicked him in the side and then swung, raging, on the others. They scurried like paper scraps before the wind. Duval got up shakily, head down, and walked away.

Grant strode to the
murette.
The Legionnaires were facing front. “If any of you want to run like the yellow sheep you are, go on and run! Go on! Get out before I throw you out!”

Not one man moved. Grant, sweating, went back to the lookout rock. He bellowed at the man on watch: “Wake up! Do you see the Tuaregs?”

“They're out front,” came the reply. “Milling about like they're waiting to make an attack.”

“Well, watch them!”

Grant saw a greasy-haired Italian kneeling at the water casks. He stepped nearer and saw that the man was drinking.

“What the hell are you doing?” cried Grant.

The Italian leaped up, spilling the water from his canteen cup. “I'm the guard,
mon sergent
.
”

Grant's fist lashed out and sent the man rolling into the dust. “You're supposed to guard it, not guzzle it. Stand there at attention. Why don't you say something?”

“I—”

“Shut up, nobody asked you to talk.”

Grant paced the length of the
murette.
He felt a little nauseated at himself. But then, these men didn't understand anything less. They'd have gotten themselves slaughtered if he hadn't stepped in.

Suddenly he thought about Muller. Muller's words when Grant had been wounded had been of the same timbre. Grant realized then that he would still be lying in that pass, whipped, if Muller hadn't goaded him on. Muller had made him fighting mad, had made him forget his pain in hate.

It came over Grant in that moment that Muller had done him a favor.

“The Tuaregs are coming!” cried the lookout.

Grant bellowed: “Range two hundred meters. Stand by for the command to fire.”

He sprang up on the wall, staring down the pass. The Tuaregs were coming indeed. They seemed as numerous as at first, and twice as angry. They spilled across the plain, headed for the pass. The range narrowed swiftly to two hundred.

“Fire!” cried Grant.

Machine guns started to work like clocks. The barrage of steel jackets slapped into the charging ranks, mowing the men down, dropping the horses, blocking the entrance with the dying.

A loud explosion rocked the earth behind Grant. The Legionnaire below him fell back, an ugly wound at the base of his neck.

Grant stared up. Faces were on the cliff above him. A hand grenade hurtled into the compound and exploded. Two more Legionnaires fell forward.

Grant understood. Under cover of this attack, the Tuaregs had somehow gotten above them. Their position was untenable. He snatched up the rifle of the dead Legionnaire at his side.

Sighting up at the round head against the red sky, he pulled the trigger. The Tuareg pitched forward, falling almost on top of the lookout rock.

Another head appeared. Grant blew it out of sight. A hand grenade came down, exploded in midair. The Legionnaire on watch was blown to pieces at his post.

Grant ran toward the base of the cliff. Duval was in his way and he thrust him to one side. Grant started up the sheer face.

“Wait!” cried Duval. “You can't go. Send Gian!”

Abruptly, Grant remembered that, after all, he was in command here. The Italian was close at his side. Grant pointed up. “I'll cover you. Here's a revolver. Clear that top!”

Gian went up, swift and lithe, sure of himself. Grant stood back and grabbed a private by the shoulder. “Cover that man.”

Gian went on up. A head appeared and went out of sight before the shot had ceased to echo from the gun.

Gian clung to the edge of the cliff. The revolver fired once, twice, three times. Gian waved his hand to Grant and started to come down.

Suddenly, seemingly without reason, Gian straightened up and loosed his holds. He turned over as a man does in a back dive. His body lighted a few feet away from Grant. A bullet from out front had done that.

Grant felt a little sick. He had been responsible for that. His order had sent Gian up there to die. With pain in his eyes, Grant turned back to the
murette.

The machine guns had taken care of the slope. The attack had been stopped. But in the settling murk of twilight, the Tuaregs were taking up positions closer to the
murette.

Darkness came in a few minutes and with it came silence. Schwartz approached Grant, saluted smartly. “Sir, do you think there's any chance of getting word to the aviation drome? They could stop that caravan from the air.”

“They don't know we're here, do they?” said Grant.

“No, sir. If we could hold out until morning, the planes could finish this up for us.”

Grant weighed the possibilities. No man could get through. No man could hike twenty miles through the darkness.

“Where are your flares?” said Grant.

Schwartz thought for a moment. “In the lieutenant's pack, sir.”

“And the pack?” said Grant.

“Is with the lieutenant.”

Grant scowled. “The lieutenant is down there, dead, right in the thick of those Tuaregs. But if we're going to get out alive, we'll have to have those flares.”