Fifty-Fifty O'Brien (7 page)

Chapter Seven

A
T
midnight, Grant had made his decision. They would have to get out of there by morning, if they got out at all. They lacked the water to stay. If the aviation drome would send a squadron over at dawn, the caravan could be wiped out and the Tuaregs would run for it.

Grant located Duval. “I am going down for the lieutenant's flares. If I don't come back—”

“Sir,” said Duval, “we can't allow you to go down. You would be deserting your command.”

Grant's eyes were dangerous. “You can't what?”

“It's too much risk, sir.”

“To hell with that,” snapped Grant, heading for the
murette
. Duval's hand was on his sleeve, detaining him.

Schwartz and another corporal were there, blocking his way. “You can't do this, sir,” said Schwartz. “You're the one who can get us out of this. Call for volunteers.”

Grant was about to blast them with searing words when he knew that they were right. He didn't dare go away and leave this post.

“Attention,” roared Grant. “I want volunteers to go after the lieutenant's flares.”

Silence fell along the
murette
. For a moment it appeared that none of the men wanted the job, and then five came slowly toward Grant.

He raked them with his eyes. “All five of you can't go.” He fumbled in Muller's pockets and found a report book and a pencil. Tearing off five strips of paper, he numbered them. Dumping them into his kepi he passed it around.

Five hands dipped into the cap; five faces were bent over the slips. A small, compact Legionnaire with a very old face stepped out a pace.

“I'm one, sir. When do I go?”

Grant felt the words choke in his throat. “Right now. I want the pack which contains the
panels
and flares. Without it we can't get out of here alive.”

The small Legionnaire saluted and did a smart right-face. He climbed over the top of the
murette
and dropped silently out of sight into the darkness.

Grant paced restlessly back and forth. He listened intently. The entire platoon was listening with him. Would the man get through? Their entire front was blanketed by the Tuaregs. The lieutenant's body lay in the midst of the raiders. It was an impossible task.

Abruptly, shots flashed out in front. A Tuareg yelled loudly. The gun spoke again. The fire doubled instantly.

After that everything was very still.

Grant muttered, “He didn't make it.”

A thick-faced man was conjured up before Grant. “My slip said ‘two,' sir.”

Without waiting for orders, the Legionnaire dropped over the side of the wall and was gone. Grant's jaw muscles worked nervously. He felt as though he himself were out there, gliding over loose stones, trying to keep away from the Tuaregs and yet reach that precious pack.

Minutes passed, dragging. Grant caught himself holding his breath seconds at a time.

The roar of guns made Grant jump. His fingernails were digging into his palms. Sweat stood out on his forehead. This time there was no reply.

Silence dropped again over the mountains. Grant felt something snap inside him. He stepped ahead, but Duval caught his arm.

An indistinct blur was at his right.

“I'm number three, sir.”

“Get the pack,” muttered Grant.

Seconds, minutes, silence in front. Grant felt a lump in his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. His orders were doing this. Were his orders right? Was this really necessary?

Yes, they had to spot the caravan. They had to signal the drome. Perhaps the drome was waiting for an emergency message.

That man would get through. He had had time. He would make it. He had to; because Grant knew that he didn't have the nerve to send another out. He had never known what it was to hold a man's life in his hand. It took more nerve to give those orders than he had thought he possessed.

A scraping sound came to them, grew louder.
Hobnails
on stone. The man was making it! He was making it back with the pack. Grant's muscles were as tight as bowstrings. He was mentally pushing the fellow along, straining forward as though that would help.

Suddenly rifles cracked. A small sound came from the other side of the
murette.
A body rolled a little ways; boulders turned; the rifles stopped.

Grant knew he couldn't take the fourth. He didn't have the nerve to send another.

Before hands could bar his way, he was over the
murette
and gone.

He scrambled down the shale, heedless of the noise he made. In the starlight he could see a silent shadow against a rock. That would be the Legionnaire.

Strangely, no one fired at him—not yet. He arrived at the body and knelt. The pack was there. Fumbling for it, he felt the hard glaze of the open eyes. He withdrew his fingers as though he had been stung.

Whirling about, he sprinted up the slope. A rifle slapped a bullet at his heels. Another took it up. Suddenly it seemed as though a thousand guns were pounding at him. But this did not seem to trouble him greatly. It was better to be shot than to order men to their death.

The
murette
was close in front of him. A khaki arm snaked down to grasp his hand and pull him over.

His face went numb. Blinded, he clawed at the rocks before him. Hands grabbed him, pulled him over. He sprawled on the ground, unable to see. Gingerly he touched his face. The cheekbone had been laid wide open by a ricochet. Blood ran hotly down his chest.

His vision cleared and he saw the pack beside him. He stood up and took out the flares and the light pistol. His fingers were greasy with blood, but he would not give the task over to the rest.

Fitting the big shell into the pistol, he cocked it and raised it high over his head. A red light soared far above him and burst in a shower of stars. He discharged another and then another.

Three red lights—that ought to bring them.

He wilted suddenly. He swore at himself for his weakness, but he could not stand. He had been going on nerve too long. The back wound and now this had been too much.

Perhaps, he murmured, hugging the ground, perhaps if he slept a little, he'd— He scarcely knew when they bandaged his face.

Some hours later he opened his eyes and sat up. He was at the base of the watchtower, in its shade. A machine gun was rattling and a loud roaring filled the air. For a moment he did not understand.

Then he saw the planes. Two of them diving and banking higher in the mountains. Each time they came down they fired swift bursts into an invisible target.

The panels were laid out in their black pattern. He knew that one of the corporals had attended to the signaling. They had wanted to leave yesterday. They'd wanted to run. Nothing would have stopped them had they gone. They could have left him there to die. But they hadn't.

The platoon was watching the planes. Grant got to his feet, unsteady and weaving. He saw something white far out in front. A moment later he knew that it would be the Tuaregs, beating a hasty retreat from a method of warfare they did not like nor understand.

Presently the planes came over the
murette
and dipped. A pilot waved his hand and then the two of them droned up and to the north, growing smaller and smaller until they were lost in the metallic sky.

Grant touched Duval's arm. “Take a squad and go up there to mop up the place. Destroy all the ammunition and take what prisoners might be left alive.”

Duval saluted,
“Oui, mon sergent.”
He collected his men.

Schwartz came up, clicked his heels smartly.

“
Empaqueter
,”
ordered Grant. “We leave immediately through the pass.”

“Oui, mon sergent,”
said Schwartz.

Grant took a swallow of water. He was too sick to eat. The bandage was hot against his face. He'd probably have a scar there now. Ruin his beautiful face, most likely. Well, to hell with it.

Leaning against the
murette,
his attention was drawn by a Legionnaire to a small dot out on the plains. Listening to the sounds made by ammunition exploding up the pass, Grant took a pair of field glasses and studied the dots.

If he had been sick before, he was violently ill now. That was Muller and the rest of his party. And they were heading for the pass, evidently knowing that the caravan had been overcome.

Grant turned on Schwartz. “You will leave immediately, Corporal. You are senior now. I must join my party out there.”

Schwartz saluted and bawled orders. In five minutes Grant stood alone in the compound, watching the party coming toward him. The sounds of the platoon receded into silence up the mountains. Their mission was fulfilled. The Tuareg threat was over.

As an afterthought, Grant shed the sergeant's tunic and folded it under his belt. Leaning against the
murette,
he closed his eyes and saw red spots dancing beneath his lids.

That was the way Sergeant Muller found him. Sergeant Muller's beefy face was very red with anger. He laid a heavy hand on Grant's shoulder.

“Here you are,” roared Muller. “You worthless pig! What was the idea—” He saw then that a bandage covered the better part of Grant's face. “Oh, you're hit.”

Grant nodded, dully. From his belt, his fingers painfully clumsy, he dragged the tunic, sweat stained and soggy with blood. “Here's … your … tunic … Sergeant. I—”

Abruptly he fell flat on his face in the dust.

Chapter Eight

A
month later, in the general hospital at
Sidi
, Legionnaire Larry Grant sat in the warm sunshine, looking out across the parade ground.

They had told him he'd never look the same. He didn't care. They had told him he was damned lucky to be alive. Grant had guessed he was. They had told him that he had barely escaped court-martial. Grant knew that already, more than he could tell them.

But all in all, he felt very complacent, sitting there. He wasn't thinking about Lieutenant Stephans. He had ceased to do that when he found it was possible to do so without wincing. All that was dead and gone.

Sergeant Boch passed the veranda and stopped for a moment. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, sir,” said Grant with a smile.

“Carry on,” replied Boch, departing.

Two officers strolled by, all gold braid and glitter. A company clerk passed them, saluting. One of the officers stopped the clerk.

“Did you find out anything?” asked the officer.

“No, sir,” replied the clerk. “The platoon is in the barracks now, resting up after all that scrapping in the pass down Ahaggar way. I asked them, sir, but none of them know how to describe the fellow except that he looked more like a gentleman than a sergeant.”

“That's a hell of a description,” snapped the other officer. “What did you say he did, Pierre?”

Pierre slapped his riding crop against his boot and smiled. “Saved the platoon after the lieutenant and sergeant were killed. Got word through at the risk of his life—and then vanished. Nobody seems to have known his name.”

“Huh,” said the other. “You mentioned something about a decoration.”

“Yes, there's one waiting for him.”

“I saw it this morning,” volunteered the company clerk. “It's written out to Sergeant X.”

Pierre slapped his boot again; the clerk saluted and moved on. The two officers wandered away through the yellow sunshine.

Grant smiled and looked at Boch far across the grounds. Boch was busy lacing down a couple of
bleus
who were out of uniform.

Red Sand

Red Sand

P
ERHAPS
it was the desert cold; perhaps it was the predawn blackness. Whatever it was, Hardesty felt a sudden chill.

Walking to his post across the compound, unable to see a foot to either side, he had heard a soft rasp—probably some sentry changing his position. A second later the rasp was repeated and a man's hard breathing was loud and hoarse in the blackness.

All the manhunter in Legionnaire Hardesty came swimming to the surface, bursting through as a man does after long submersion. He ran swiftly toward the place he had heard it, leaped up the unseen staircase which led to the embrasures and groped in front of him.

A heavy thump sounded close beside him. He reached out with his stubby arms, grabbing at thin air. His fingers touched cloth. Abruptly he felt as though an earthquake had jarred the
Moroccan mountains
. A heavy fist struck him full in the face. A bayonet slithered by his throat.

To save himself he leaped backward. Space snatched him and he hurtled back to the compound. Jumping up he once more started for the steps. Although he could not see, some sixth sense guided him back to the spot which had brought the first combat.

The heavy silence of the mountains and desert, so still that it actually could be heard, was once more settling on the legion post. Hardesty, every muscle tense, waited for something to happen.

A gray line appeared in the east, turned brighter. Hardesty still waited. A shaft of sunlight struck a peak above and the world was faintly alight.

He could see Kaslov hunched over the machine gun above the wall gate. Kaslov's shoulders were tremendous things. His head was out of proportion—too small. His hands were three times the size of an ordinary man's. The Russian was nearly six feet six and as brawny as a bull.

“Kaslov,” said Hardesty, his somewhat squeaky voice very tight.

Kaslov did not move and then Legionnaire Hardesty remembered. Some weeks before Kaslov had attacked a Berber stronghold with the others of the company. The Berbers had had a small
one-pounder
, stolen from France. Kaslov had bodily uprooted the gun, but, unfortunately, it had gone off close to his head. Kaslov was almost deaf, almost blind.

Hardesty strode forward and touched the Russian's shoulder. The man jumped and whirled about, hand on his bayonet. When he identified Hardesty, he grunted. “Oh, so it is you. You are late.”

Hardesty knew he was late in his relief. But that had been caused by the scuffle on the battlement. “Did you hear anything up here, Kaslov?” asked Hardesty.

“Nothing.”

“Did you see anything during your watch?”

Kaslov's small eyes were impudent as he gazed at Hardesty's sleeve. “Huh. I do not see any chevrons.”

Hardesty, a foot shorter than the Russian, adjusted his kepi. He did not touch the peak. He placed his hand on one side of it as one handles a
bowler
hat.

“No, maybe you don't see any chevrons,” said Hardesty, “but you're liable to see lots of stars. Go on to bed.”

The Russian looked half minded to break Hardesty between his two hands. Then he noticed that it was light, and refrained. Grumbling, he slouched down the steps and to his barrack room.

“Now,” said Hardesty, staring at the retreating back, “what in the hell ailed him? His bayonet was backward in its sheath. I wonder—”

He sat down, straddling the saddle of the machine gun. Of course, he hadn't had any right to question Kaslov. Doggone it, this instinct of his would get him into trouble yet. The
High Atlas
had no bearing on Chicago. And Detective-Sergeant Flaherty was a long ways back from Legionnaire Hardesty.

He fidgeted with the loading handle, looking down the narrow pass. Sometimes the Berbers got funny ideas about dawn. The lieutenant ought to be up here by this time, looking things over.

Wondering who could have attacked him so pointlessly, he shoved his kepi over his right eye and scratched his head. His face was very round. He did not tan at all; he burned raw. He certainly did not make a very impressive soldier. But then he had been trained to find men, not to kill them. Some day, he supposed, they'd tell him that politics had changed back home. When that happened, he could return. The last gang and their crooked frame had certainly been tough on his reputation.

Ah, well, he guessed he'd better forget all that. Failing to see any non-coms about, much less the lieutenant, he searched out a cigarette, jabbed it in the corner of his mouth as though it were a cigar and started to light it.

His roving eye caught sight of a sparkle on the span over the gate. He stared at it, frowning. The match burned down and singed his fingers. Without any exclamation whatever, he dropped it.

“Blood,” he whispered. “For heaven's sake—”

Moving swiftly away from the machine gun he touched the red spot. It was almost solid, and when it had touched the place first it had been old.

The pale daylight showed everything in clear detail now. He thrust his head over the wall and stared down.

“A stiff!”

Unconsciously, he gnawed on the cigarette, staring at the inert body. The thing down there was horribly slashed and mangled.

Turning he saw that Corporal Bereaux had come out of the barracks. “Hey,” cried Hardesty. “Hey, corporal! There's a stiff down there in front of the gate!”

Bereaux, tall and dark, a perfect martinet, ran swiftly up the steps to Hardesty's side. He stared down and his swarthy face went chalk-white.

“Damn those Berbers!” snapped Bereaux. “Go get the sergeant, quick!”

Hardesty blinked at the order and then ran across the compound toward Sergeant Schnapp's quarters. He hammered loudly on the door.

Presently, Schnapp's hard face and chill eye appeared in the crack. “What is it you want,
hein
?”

“Sergeant, there's a stiff in front of the gate,” said Hardesty.

“Well, why call me,
hein
? Why not call the lieutenant?” A buckle jangled within and Sergeant Schnapp came forth, hitching his coat up over his beefy shoulders.

Schnapp did not go to the embrasures. He took down the bars and opened the gates wide. His face did not change when he saw the object. He merely grunted and knelt down.

By the grapevine operating in all military units, the men knew. They came pouring out of the squad rooms, across the bare compound, to stare over Schnapp's shoulder.

Schnapp grunted again and picked the body up.

“Wait a minute,” said Hardesty, urgently. “Don't touch him!”

Schnapp glared and shouldered through. “Want to get shot by the Berbers,
hein
? What do you think they left this for,
hein
? Get inside, you pigs!”

The stiffened corpse was laid, not too tenderly, upon the bare stone. Schnapp ordered the gate closed and then stared up at the lieutenant's office.

Instantly, his eyes came back to the corpse. There was very little left of the face. The throat had been cut. The arms had been slit open and dried blood covered the uniform, obliterating its marking.

“My heavens!” cried Corporal Bereaux. “It's the lieutenant!”

“Sure it is,” snapped Hardesty. “Who'd you think it was—Napoleon? Listen,
mon sergent—
”

“Shut up!” rapped Schnapp. “You know nothing about this. I know you were a detective somewhere else, but that makes you just a private here. Shut up!”

Hardesty shoved his kepi over his eye, gnawed at a tattered cigarette and shoved his hands in his pockets. His red face grew redder and his small eyes spun with anger.

“Get up on the embrasures!” ordered Schnapp. “Who told you to leave that gun,
hein
?”

Hardesty went, very sullenly. Once more he straddled the seat of the machine gun and listened to the squabble below.

“Those Berbers,” growled Schnapp, “caught him when he was out on reconnoiter, yes. They took him apart like this and left him here for us to see. Those Berbers want this post, yes. If they get this post they will run their guns down here, yes. They think they can scare us out,
hein
?”

Corporal Bereaux's regulation voice came up to Hardesty. “But they can't be allowed to get away with this. We ought to tear out there and wipe them up.”

“That's a good idea. Teach those pigs a lesson,
hein
? Yes, corporal, that's a good idea. Trumpeter! Sound
aux armes
.
Squads one and three—”

Hardesty snorted in disgust and fumbled with the loading handle. By leaning out a little he could see the spot where the body had lain; he could see the red stains in the sand.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Russian, Kaslov, shoulder stolidly past Bereaux, head down, scowling. Kaslov stared up at the embrasure, glared at Hardesty and walked on into the squad room.

Hardesty watched squads one and three depart down the pass, loaded with rifles,
Chauchats
, grenades. Vengeance was all right, guessed Hardesty, but it was feeble solace to his outraged professional training.

At eight o'clock he went down to eat his breakfast, turning the machine gun over to his relief. At the rough table he slapped down his
pannikin
and canteen cup and began to eat.

Presently a Legionnaire known as Tou-Tou, onetime sewer rat of Paris, seated himself across the board. “So the lieutenant got his, eh?”

Hardesty bobbed his head.

“I was across the fort when it happened,” said Tou-Tou. “I couldn't leave my post, you see.”

Hardesty looked up, frowning a little. “No, you couldn't at that, could you?”

“No, of course not. The conceit of those Berbers is pretty awful, isn't it?” said Tou-Tou. “I see by the marks on the top of the gate that they tried to lift him over the edge, leaving him right in the compound. But the lieutenant slipped back, I guess.”

“Yes, guess so,” replied Hardesty, eating. But his red face was unnaturally flushed and his eyes were restless.

“Funny you didn't hear it,” said Tou-Tou with a knowing smile. “But then, none of us liked the lieutenant,
hein
? But it's a pity, it's a pity.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Hardesty, scowling.

“Some say you get money from the United States,” replied Tou-Tou, his bitter face wreathed into a greasy smile.

Hardesty very carefully picked up his pannikin. Without any warning whatever he pitched it, contents and all, into Tou-Tou's face.

The former
apache
yelled shrilly, leaping back. But before he could get to his knife, Hardesty launched himself across the table and grabbed him. Bodily, Hardesty pitched the squirming Tou-Tou out through the door.

Hardesty wiped his hands on his khaki pants and turned to the popeyed cook. “Get me another plate of grub,” ordered Hardesty.

The cook, for the first time in legion history, complied, without a word.

At eight that night, Hardesty went on duty again. He seated himself on the machine-gun saddle, gnawing on a cold cigarette, and watched the pearly radiance of the upcoming moon.

He lifted his kepi on the side, replaced it and gave it a pat on top to drive it down. Back in Chicago, if politics were running all right, they'd be after him for his opinion. Yes, indeed, they would. The newspaper boys wouldn't have left his side for a moment. His phone would be hysterical, trying to keep up with the rings. Everything would be order.

But here. Hell, here he was nothing but a damned Legionnaire, trained bayonet unit. He wished he could get a crack at some of those big cases back home. Those were the babies. He knew every crook in Cook County. He knew every joint. Take that bank robbery he'd just read about in Sidi. He'd have solved that by now. And back home they'd still be fumbling. Too bad he'd been framed and sent away—to this.

His keen eyes picked up a moving shadow in the trail. Sitting erect he held the trips, ready for any
Berbers
who might spring out of nowhere.

Tensely he sat there, waiting. The shadow was taking the center of the trail. A shaft of moonlight struck the silhouette. It was grotesque, all out of shape. What in the name of Heaven was—

Suddenly he understood. Whirling, he bellowed, “Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard!”

The corporal came running, side arms jangling and thumping.

“Open the gate!” said Hardesty. “Two Legionnaires are coming up the trail.”

The corporal unbarred the entrance. The small port swung open with a dismal creak.

Presently a man staggered through, carrying another. Hardesty, jumpy with excitement, started to leave the gun and then remembered that, after all, he was a soldier now, not a manhunter.

Corporal Bereaux eased the Russian, Kaslov, to the pavement and stood there, spent and panting, while the corporal of the guard slammed shut the gates.

“What happened?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

Bereaux sank down and mopped at his forehead. “I don't know what happened!”

Kaslov moaned and rolled a little.

“What's the matter with him?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

“Slugged,” stated Bereaux. “I had … had to carry him for three miles. Lord, but he's heavy.”

“Where are the others?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

Bereaux moaned, “They're dead—all of them. I … I was sent out to reconnoiter. I heard firing behind me and tried to get back, but I fell down a ravine and when I could get to them— Lord, but it was horrible! They were dead! Ambush!”

Kaslov sat up unsteadily. Legionnaires had poured out of the barracks, surrounding the two.

“He was the only one left alive. He was far behind the others, working a Chauchat.” Bereaux stopped, breathing heavily.