Fifty-Fifty O'Brien (4 page)

“Hell, you can't kill a Marine, they're too dumb to die.”

A rumble inquired from the doorway, “How is he?”

“Okay,” said the corpsman.

O'Brien came in looking somewhat tattered but otherwise very happy. “Howya feelin', kid?”

“Okay,” said Smith.

“Look,” said the corpsman, “you got a cut on your head, top. You better let me fix it.”

“Nuts,” said O'Brien. “Listen, kid, I thought you might want to know that I convinced the skipper that you're too valuable a man to let loose in those hills. I told him about the guys you knocked off and he says maybe we can work you up to a gunnery sergeant. Anything I can do?”

Win Smith, beaming but puzzled, shook his head and the top kicker went out singing
“Bang Away, Lulu,”
far out of tune.

“What the hell?” said Smith to the corpsman. “He's gonna rate me. I save him and he sits on me, he saves me and I'm tops. What the hell?”

“You're drawing expert pay, ain't you?” said the corpsman. And then with a wise and twisted smile, he added, “It's the nature of the beast and something else you might call obligation. It's O'Brien's boast that he don't take nothin' off nobody.”

“Well, swab my decks,” said Smith, “I never thought of that before. I guess,” he murmured, “that it would be pretty hard to owe a guy your life.”

And he lay back on the cot to marvel, and to drink in the clatter of pans in the galley, the yells from the tents, the tramp of feet, and the strains of “Bang Away, Lulu,” pouring raucously forth from the big mouth of Fifty-Fifty O'Brien, the guy who paid his debts.

The Adventure of “X”

Chapter One

T
HE
cell stunk of disinfectant and the unwashed bodies of all the drunks. A slit of dirty light struck the end of the wooden bunk, lending a sickly grayness to the enclosure.

The face of Larry Grant was also sickly gray. But for all that it was a well-molded face. The cheekbones were high, the jaw well proportioned, and the blue eyes were alive and intelligent. The rumpled Legion blues did not fit the face. One looked for an officer's cap, a riding crop and polished boots instead of the blankness on the arm which signified a private.

Larry Grant looked across the room at the soggy hulk of
Legionnaire
Lipinski and drew back his lips from his teeth. “If that fool Sergeant Boch were here now, lord, what I'd do to him.”

“Think of his stripes,” muttered Lipinski.

“Stripes? Yes, his stripes. But if I were ever to meet that man without his stripes I'd hammer him into so much dirty filth.”

“It's a good idea,” muttered Lipinski.

“Sure, it's a good idea. What did I do? Nothing! What did he do? He struck me with his stick and slammed me in here.” The surge of bitterness in Grant's voice made Lipinski sit up straighter.

“You were out of uniform,” stated Lipinski.

“Bah! Out of uniform! What do you fools know about a uniform anyway? Am I supposed to nurse a set of rags like these forever? What a fool I was to ever set foot in this outfit!”

“Now you're here, you've got to soldier,” said Lipinski.

“Soldier? What the hell do you know about soldiering? If I had that man here, right here between my two hands, I'd throttle him until—”

Something rattled outside the door. Both men whirled, facing the grate. A big jaw was there—a pair of close-set eyes. Sergeant Boch surveyed them very coolly.

“So,” he rumbled. “Legionnaire Grant would like to throttle me, eh? He'd like me between his two hands,
hein?
” With a kick he sent the cell door flying open. He strode in, hands on his hips, glaring.

Grant sat where he was and said nothing. Boch closed the door, locked it and threw the key into the corridor. Then he took off his tunic and tossed that through the grate. His stick and revolver followed.

“Now, you yellow camel,” snarled Boch, “that's Sergeant Boch out there, see? And this in here, this is So-and-so Boch, see? And what are you going to do about it?”

Grant stirred restlessly, his mind flashing out a warning signal to him that this was some kind of trap. He looked at Boch's throbbing neck muscles, at the hard, red face.

“What are you going to do?” thundered Boch.

Grant stood up. He took an uncertain step forward. Lipinski drew in his feet and melted into the wall. Boch's eyes held a flame; his hands were clenching and unclenching. Grant took another step.

Suddenly Boch struck. The smack of the blow was loud in the cell. Boch struck again. Tottering, Grant lashed out with both hands, striving to seize the towering hulk he saw in a blur before him.

But Boch had known what Grant would do. Boch seized the slighter man, gripped his throat and slammed him back against the wall. Savagely, Boch banged Grant's head on stone, time after time. Grant sagged slowly, his eyes rolling white, his knees buckling. A thin course of red went down his neck and disappeared into the uniform collar.

Boch grunted and dropped the limp body. Then he whirled to the door and bellowed: “Corporal of the guard! Come down here with a bucket of water for this
cur
!”

The corporal came and, a moment later, Grant came uncertainly to, staring up at the raging man above him.

Boch grunted again, reaching out for his tunic and putting it on. “So you're not so tough now,
hein
? Not so tough anymore. I heard what you were saying down here. You won't say it again. No, not ever again. I've got a tasty little detail for you, Legionnaire Grant.”

Grant, his whole body a flaming ache, lay still, listening.

“You,” continued Boch, “are going out with Muller and his squad—to spot
Tuaregs
. Intelligence work,
mon brave
.
We have ways of ridding ourselves of such as you.”

“Intelligence?” said Grant, hoarsely.

“Intelligence,” repeated Boch. “You're going down to the
Ahaggar Plateau
to spot Tuaregs. And I doubt if you'll get back alive when I tip the word to Muller. Now get up! Clean yourself. Be ready to march tonight!”

Chapter Two

C
RAWLING
down through the narrow defile, Larry Grant spat out a mouthful of dust. That ricochet had been close. The snap and scream of bullets bouncing off the rocks over the head of the patrol was far more deafening than the spiteful sniping fire which had been going on for an hour.

Last in line, he could see Muller's back ahead. Muller's back was coarse and the khaki shirt was black with sweat. Muller's tunic was lashed to his pack. The others of that miserable patrol were too far gone to think. They merely crawled and hoped they'd get out alive.

Lord, how far this was from the tan parade grounds of the US Army. For an instant Grant was puzzled. What was he, Lieutenant Stephans, doing here? It was all a nightmare, unreal. He was half minded to stand up. Then a slug spanged close to his head and he groveled lower into the choking dust.

Sergeants! How he hated the beasts. It seemed to Grant that he had spent his life avoiding them, being mauled by them, obeying them: the sergeant he had accidentally shot in the States, the drillmaster at Sidi, and Boch. Now he had to deal with Muller.

Exhausted, half crazed with thirst and hunger, he raised himself to stare again at the back up ahead. Muller was a
martinet
. Everything was duty. To be slapped about by such a brute of a man seared Grant to the core.

He caught sight of Sam Ying's yellow cheek. Sam Ying crawled in Muller's wake, like a dog. The Chinese was completely subjugated. He was like an automaton. The thought of it made Grant shudder.

Filth, cursed orders, imminent death—Grant had a way of escaping from this. Some night he'd blast out his brains. Or would he? He had too much stage presence to go out that way, acknowledging that sergeants had whipped him. Maybe there was some other method.

His thoughts were hacked off by a flash of white lightning which ripped across his shoulders and hammered him flat into the dust. A small sound escaped his lips and then he compressed them tightly. He was numb, unable to move.

When he could think again, he knew this was his way out. Plugged by Tuareg bullets.

Rustling came to his ears. A rough hand ripped his pack and rifle and tunic away. Muller grunted, pawing at the wound.

“Get up, you
salopard
!” grated Muller. “Get your ugly face out of the dust and crawl. You're not hurt. You've got a scratch a real soldier wouldn't feel.”

Grant rolled his eyes back, trying to collect himself. He saw Muller's coarse face through a haze of pain. He could feel the raggedness of the wound. He could feel the blood coursing down inside his shirt.

“Get up,” roared Muller. “Want to leave me in the lurch, that it? Trying to get hit on purpose, weren't you? You filthy pig, get up and crawl!”

The flame of rage licked up and devoured the fires of pain which racked Grant.

Slowly, summoning every ounce of nerve, he struggled forward. Muller slammed the rifle across the wound and tightened its sling.

“Damn you,” spat Grant.

Muller went back to the head of the small column. He was searching for more rugged terrain where they could stand up and fight the Tuaregs off. If they came to open ground they would have to cross it with Tuareg rifles cutting them down like ducks in a shooting gallery.

Grant crawled in their wake, swallowing their dust, his squinted eyes on the hobnails of the man in front. He was dull from the shock of the bullet. The hot feeling of the blood was terrifying.

He knew that he was not playing a very noble part in all this. The question of his courage did not enter into it at all. He was just a bayonet unit, a private soldier. Once he had been an officer. Once he had been able to hold up his head—but not now.

Thirst tortured him; but he knew better than to drag at his canteen. Thirst would have to be worse before he could do that.

How long had he done this? Hitch, gather himself up and drag. Those Tuaregs had been on their trail since dawn and now it was almost sunset. To make it worse the moon was already up, almost invisible in the onslaught of the sun's scorching rays. There'd be no escape by night.

Presently the column stopped. Grant sank into the dust, listening to the snap of stray slugs and the undercurrent of Muller's voice.

After a short rest, Grant felt better. The wound was clogging up; the bleeding was stopping by itself. The pain was less. He became enough interested in the proceedings to raise himself very cautiously and stare ahead.

Instantly he knew that their number was up. A flat plain two miles wide was just ahead. They'd have to cross it. The Tuaregs would swoop in upon them and tear them to pieces. This was the end.

Muller was pulling the machine gun from its carrying case. “Attention, you idiots,” cried Muller. “Around this point is a small circle of rocks. I'm going to cover your retreat. If any of you get back to base, tell them this.”

He stared at their uplifted faces, spat deliberately into the dust, and continued: “The Tuareg tribes are massing for combined resistance to France. But the keynote is a shipment of ammunition which is coming through a pass to the north.

“Guarding that pass is a platoon of the Legion. Their position is a puzzle to the Tuaregs. All of you know the whereabouts of that platoon. Under no circumstances are you to go to it, understand? You will be followed and the platoon will be attacked and the ammunition will get through.

“Get it straight; remember it; and if I don't come through, you know what to tell them at the base. The Tuaregs are massing, waiting for ammunition. The ammunition is holding them up. Ammunition will spring their attack against outposts. Do not go to the platoon. Do you understand?”

All heads bobbed dully. All heads except one: Grant's. Grant was glaring at Muller with a steady ferocity born of hate, pain and thirst.

Grant smiled bitterly. Muller was making a grandstand play—all for the Legion! Muller had something up his sleeve. Muller would get through all right and the rest would be dead on the plain.

Grant was not entirely sane. His usually intelligent face was a mask. His blue eyes were as hot as a gas flame. Slowly he hitched himself forward.

Muller turned his back, rounded the point of land out of sight. None of the others paid Grant any attention whatever. Their eyes were riveted to the plain. They knew what would await them out there. But the sergeant had said go and they would go.

Grant got to his knees. He jacked a bullet into his gun and followed Muller. Unsteadily, when he was protected by the rocks, he stood up. Muller was selecting his post, scanning the ground about him carefully. When he heard Grant's slow footsteps, he spun about.

Something in Grant's expression warned Muller, but the sergeant snapped: “Get back there, you yellow fool. Get ready to run for your worthless life.”

“I'm not running,” replied Grant, very distinctly. “You're making a grandstand play, that's all. You're glory-grabbing. You're thinking about medals.” His voice was monotonous, ugly. Insanity swam in his eyes.

Muller whipped his revolver out of his belt. “Get back!”

Grant sidestepped swiftly. His gun came up for a smashing stroke. The steel-shod butt crashed into Muller's blue jowl.

Muller went down, heavily. Dust spurted as he hit. Grant lowered his rifle and wiped his sleeve across his eyes. Suddenly he realized what he had done. He had struck a non-com and the
bataillon pénal
would be his lot from now on.

The thought jerked him back into reality. Like a man awaking to find a nightmare real, he looked about him and then back at the sergeant.

No need to blow out his own brains, now. The Tuaregs would attend to that. Grant knew that Muller's strategy had been sound. They'd have to cross the plain. Someone would have to fight a rear action.

He staggered to a rock and sat down. He couldn't return to the Legion—not now. All the bitterness swelled up inside him. A recklessness came with it. In spite of pain and thirst, he laughed. He'd have to shoot the works. And there'd be plenty of sparks when he went out.

The Chinese, Sam Ying, wondering what had happened, peered around the corner. His eyes went big when he saw Muller in the dust.

Grant's voice had a ring and snap it had lacked for months. “Ying! Pick up the sergeant, get the men and run for it. I'm covering your retreat.”

The others of the squad came forth, crawling like crabs. Yells were sounding up the ravine. The Tuaregs were not far away. None of the men asked any questions. Casting off the sergeant's pack, they picked him up.

Grant hefted the machine gun. He felt a certain exhilaration—if he lived he'd be sick later, but he doubted that he'd live that long.

The rest of the squad started for the open at a run. Grant watched them go, noted that none of them looked back. Suddenly he wondered if they were worth saving.

Hoofs thundered near at hand. Tuaregs yelled loudly as they sighted their quarry. Grant expected a sleet of bullets to cut the squad to pieces.

But no bullets came—only hoofs and yells.