Hell's Legionnaire (6 page)

Harvey nodded. “All right.
Perhaps you hold the winning cards, Kirzigh. I'll show you the maps if you'll .
. . well, if you'll let me off with a mere shooting.”

“Excellent,” smiled the caid. He sprang up and went to
the door. “We still have a little time before darkness. We shall go,
hein
?”

Jack Harvey stood up and allowed himself to be led into
the fading sunlight.

It was still hot now, but later in the night it would
grow cold—cold enough to make a man want blankets. Porous rock does not hold
heat for long.

Accompanied by most of the men in the village, they
trooped down the length of a ravine, avoiding boulders, climbing over
obstructions. Two rifles were close to Harvey's shoulder blades, ready to blow
him apart.

Caid Kirzigh was happy, joking with his men as he
walked. Harvey listened to him, trying to piece together the drift of affairs.

Walking along the floor of another ravine, Harvey said, “Your plan, Kirzigh, would seem to be sound enough.”

“Then you speak Arabic. I did not know.”

“Not well, but enough. Your French, Kirzigh, is
excellent.”

“Ah, you like my French,
hein
? I spent enough
time learning it. In Paris, you see. Among those
Franzawi
that came
after the Moors had left.”

“But don't you think,” said Harvey, “that you're letting
ambition run away from sense?”

“How do you mean?”

“This idea of wiping out the French. They have guns,
planes, soldiers by the division. They'd stop you before you could start.”

“Brains and the courage of my men will do it,” said the
caid. “Of course this matter will take considerable time. We will wipe them
out, outpost by outpost, railhead by railhead. We have,
mon capitaine,
studied
the methods evolved by the Englishman,
Lawrence
, and find them to be quite
enough.”

“But to think of . . .”

“Of a handful of tribesmen,
Capitaine,
growing
into an avalanche of running horses, flaming guns, wiping the
Franzawi
from
the face of the earth. And why not? They loot our villages. They take our women
and cast them aside—dead. They destroy our crops. They interfere with our
religion. Something must be done. It is not presumptuous to think that I am the
man to do it. Careful preparation . . . You know, I am sure.”

They had come into the ravine where the plane had
landed. The Caudron spread its silent wings across the sand as though waiting
for its master. Its shadow was long in the shaft of faded sun which came down
to it.

Distrustful of the ship, the Berbers stopped a hundred
paces in front of it, eyeing first the caid, then the wings. They had heard
this thing snarl. They had seen death pour out from it. And nothing Caid
Kirzigh could do would make the bulk of them continue on.

Kirzigh looked into the faces of his men and then
shrugged.

“It is all right,” he said. “You are within easy shot of
a hundred good rifles. The three of us shall continue.”

The three included one guard. The others hung back.

The tail of the plane was pointing toward them. Kirzigh,
sword unsheathed, approached with sidelong glances at Harvey.

“Remember,” said the caid,
“that should you try to get into that ship and away they will riddle you with
bullets. And if you are unlucky enough to be alive after such a move . . .”

Harvey strode on, the rifle
probing into his spine. His face was quiet, composed. They reached the side of
the fuselage and Harvey pointed into the rear pit. “The charts are there.”

“I shall remove them,” replied the caid. He rummaged
through the interior, a little dazed by the presence of so many strange things.
Presently, he backed away and pointed up. “You get them out.”

Harvey grunted and climbed up
over the rim. He dropped to the seat and fumbled under the panel.

Suddenly he straightened. Grabbing the butts of the twin
guns he swiveled them around and down with one fast jerk. The Berber rifle
exploded almost against his waist. The slug whirled him, numbed him. He clawed
at the butts, keeping his feet only through the force of will.

The machine guns racketed. The guard fell, hands
extended. Kirzigh caught the burst in the chest and lower jaw.

Rifles hammered and the tribesmen began to surge
forward. Harvey brought the guns about and pressed the trips. They leaped,
quivering in his hands. Right to left, left to right. Six, seven hundred slugs
a minute from each gun. The breech gnawed through the belt, spitting out empty,
tinkling brass cases.

The Berbers stopped for an instant and then came on
again. A bullet smashed its way through the flesh of Harvey's arm. The guns
grew melting hot. The rush stopped once more. The men glanced fearfully about
and found they stood in isolated groups. The red-tinged sand, fired by the
dying sun, was clotted with unmoving bundles of white, strewn about like empty
sacks.

With a concerted scream of terror, the tribesmen
sprinted for the shelter of the canyon end. Harvey gave them three short
bursts.

He did not know that he was badly hit. He was only
thinking about the engine. Racing around to the front, he yanked through on the
prop. Diving through the interwing section, he threw on both magnetos. Back at
the prop again he found strength enough to pull it through. At any instant they
might return.

The Moraine-Ditrich was faithful. It roared into
chattering life, sucking flame into its water-cooled cylinders.

Stumbling, Harvey placed his hands on the cockpit rim.
Looking down he saw Caid Kirzigh's head, blood-spattered and mangled against
his dusty boots.

A tired frown flicked across the
capitaine
's graying face.
Looking down the ravine, he saw that the men had not had time to form another
attack. He gripped the bright sword and, with a grunt of distaste, lopped off
Kirzigh's head!

When the gory thing rolled free from the body, Harvey swallowed hard, a little sick. But it had been necessary. It was not until then
that he noticed the guard striving to get at his fallen rifle.

Unmindful of his own weakness, Harvey threw both guard
and head into the rear cockpit. The Berber slumped down, eyes glazed with
terror.

The
Caudron wallowed through the sand, picking up speed. Seeing it go, the Berbers
turned and ran after it, shouting and waving their guns, pausing to fire. They stopped
when they came to the headless body of their caid.

T
he motorcycle lurched to a stop before the door of the office on
the great square of Fez. Two were riding in the side car and a Legionnaire was
astride the saddle.

Capitaine
Jack Harvey,
shaky from exhaustion, lifted the dead weight of the Berber from him and stood
up. He approached the square light which fell from Duprey's entrance, yellow on
black stone.

Major Duprey whirled at the sound of boots, stopping
midway in his restless stride down the concrete floor. Harvey was without tunic
and his sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder, displaying bandages. He carried a
red-smeared burnoose in his hand.

“You're late,” said Duprey, glowering.

Harvey placed the bundle on
Duprey's desk. “I was detained,” he said slowly, “and Rubio is dead.”

“Rubio? And who the devil is Rubio? What's this thing
you've got here, man?”

“A souvenir,” replied Harvey. His eyes were watchful,
studying Duprey's face.

Duprey muttered something and then saw the Berber who
was being held outside. “Who's that?”

“A man I captured. I believe it would be better, Major,
to turn him in to the hospital. He's wounded.”

“Wounded, you say? What do I care about a wounded
Berber? He'll know all about the plans these barbarians have been concocting to
launch against France. Gian!”

Gian, sleek as a staff officer should be, came out from
an adjoining room, the picture of a perfect soldier.

“Gian,” said Duprey. “Take that Berber out there and put
him through the . . .”

“You mean . . . ?” said Gian.

“Information, understand? And it's no matter to us if
you kill him. But get the information. Get it, do you hear?”

Gian saluted and went out. The Berber was led away.
Duprey turned back to his desk and the bundle.

“Now,” he said, “now let's see what you've got here.”

He unfolded the smeared burnoose and disclosed the
bullet-mangled head of Caid Kirzigh. For a moment he was startled.

“It's Kirzigh's,” supplied Harvey, still watchful.

“Kirzigh's. Ho! That's a joke. He sends me a head and
then I have his. Well, that's fair enough, isn't it? Ugly-looking brute, wasn't
he? These damn uncivilized devils think they're above losing their lives. Well,
I showed them, didn't I?”

Harvey swallowed. His alert eyes
grew a little haggard.

Duprey replaced the wrappings. “Kirzigh's head! Ah,
that's the best joke yet. Here, I must take this over to the colonel. He'll be
pleased,
Capitaine,
very pleased.”

Duprey went briskly to the door, the grisly burden
swinging carelessly at his side. He remembered something and turned. “Oh, yes, Harvey. I see you're wounded. Get it fixed up and turn yourself in to the hospital. You'll
. . . well, you'll get a mention in the orders of the day for this. By the
saints,” he laughed, “you might even get a medal.”

“For France,” said Harvey, dully.

“For France!” cried the major. Night swallowed his
footsteps.

Harvey went to the desk and
picked up a bottle of cognac, pouring himself a stiff shot. He raised the glass
to the height of his eyes and said, “For France,” very quietly. Then he drank
and limped out to the great square.

For half an hour he stood there, watching the natives
pass back and forth. Watching their straight shoulders and observant blue eyes,
their silks and fine leathers. For the first time, he was seeing them.

He sighed finally and turned to go toward the hospital.
He felt disappointed, let down. Hollow inside, somehow, as though he had lost
something which rightfully belonged to him.

But then, of course, you couldn't expect Major Duprey to
get the point.

They were laughing in the colonel's quarters.

The Squad That Never Came Back

CHAPTER ONE

The Dying Man

B
ACK
in
Sidi-bel-Abbès
they
still think that my squad and I died in a miserable outpost on the northern
slope of the High Atlas Mountains. Well, they're seven-eighths right. I'm still
living, but the rest of the squad have long since given their bones to dust in
the rocky heights of Morocco. I could not go back until it was too late—and now
I don't want to.

Besides, the papers
tell me that they are thinking the Legion will be held only as a police force
and labor outfit from now on. That lets me out.

The papers tell me
other things. And one of these things has prompted me to write my story. The
news concerns a discovery made in Morocco a short while back.

Two airmen, according
to a press dispatch, were flying south of Casablanca over uncharted terrain.
They brought back the tidings that they had discovered a city in a lake. Their
guess was that it was an ancient Roman city, untouched for centuries.

Also, they are
thinking of fitting out an expedition to visit that place overland. Judging
from the reports of the two airmen, it would seem that the four corner towers
and the wall are clearly visible in this lake.

That expedition is due
for a surprise. They'll drain that lake to discover that only a small quantity
of silt has been deposited on the paved streets. They'll also find fabrics
still intact. And, I have no doubt, they'll find the skeletons of men not long
dead. Doubtless, this will amaze them.

They will write
innumerable theses to explain that this water has a certain mysterious chemical
component which makes it impossible for bones to decay. However,
mes amis
,
the true explanation is very simple—entirely too simple to be grasped by the
scientific mind.

They'll find that
those men have been dead not longer than two years. And yet they are buried in
a Roman city which flourished before Caesar. And the terrain on which this city
is built is a blank spot on the map. It is on the northern slope of the High
Atlas.

No topographer has
ever carried his
alidade
that deep into northern Africa, and there are only a
few of us who have known the Legion who can sketch the trails that are safe,
the few water holes that exist in that bleached aridity.

We
who have been in the Legion sometimes know more than the trails. Working for a
pittance a day we should have known nothing of vast riches—gold
piled in heaping stacks, glittering gems which might have graced the head of
Cleopatra. No, there is entirely too much contrast there. We should never have
known.

I
sat behind a machine gun,
bowing my head under a merciless sun which was sending heat waves writhing all
up and down the sides of the bare brown mountains. The heat waves made a target
jump like a 1912 movie. But if they were bad for me, so were they bad for the
Berbers who lurked down in the ravine, or on the opposing slope—gray white
swirls of burnoose, gone before a man could get a decent aim.

My only protection
against the shrill whine of snipers' bullets was the rough-hewn
murette
—
the
rock wall we had built on our arrival. The machine-gun's black snout was thrust
through an embrasure so as to command the slope which went down from us to the
ravine bottom. Near at hand Chauchats were stacked—three of them, clean and
ready. Back of me, in the poorly constructed pup tents, the remainder of my
squad stretched out under canvas, panting in the heat, hoping for the coolness
of night.

I had not shaved or
washed for three weeks. One cannot keep clean on a swallow of water a day. Nor
can one do a great deal to fight off thirst. The only water hole for miles was
with us, inside the
murette,
and the man who named it a water hole was
the century's greatest jester. It had been going dry, inch by inch, until now
there remained but a damp scum over the bottom—green scum at that.

Within forty-eight
hours our water would be gone, and the only answer to that predicament would be
a pell-mell rush down the ravine toward the main command which lay some leagues
to the east. It was doubtful whether we could get through those white robes; moreover,
the district had been reported subdued. No patrols would be out checking on us.
I had not sighted a plane for three days.

A man in the tent
nearest me moaned incessantly. A sniper's bullet had caught him just under the
belt, smashing his hip. He had been delirious for twelve hours. Soon he would
die.

The five other men
were silent save for their heavy breathing. Hungry and thirsty, baked by sun
and caked with dirt, not yet rested after a long campaign, they found no heart
to talk.

Although my eyes were
burning with the shimmering haze of heat, I saw the movements across the
ravine. Several Berbers sprang out from behind a rock the size of a moving van
and began jumping up and down, waving their guns.

Suddenly a stone
rolled down below. I boosted myself up to my knees and stared into the ravine.
Not ten feet away from me a pair of beady black eyes set in a chisel-sharp face
returned my stare.

The fellow had a knife
clutched in his fist, a rifle across his back. Behind him came five others.

I grabbed the machine
gun and depressed the muzzle as far as I could. The second man in the attacking
party drew a revolver and fired. My cap went spinning away to thump against the
tents. Hands were over the edge. I snapped down on the trips.

The first dozen shots
caught the leader square in the face, hammering it into a raw mass of blood.
The second burst cut the man with the revolver just above the belt line—cut him
almost in two. Before the others could turn and run for it I centered my sights
on them and let drive.

Their bodies went
bumping and sliding down the slope. I helped them along with a few shots. In a
moment there were six bundles of rags far below, lying motionless, gray white
robes turning scarlet with blood.

Montrey, a small
Frenchman and second in command, came racing out of the first pup tent on all
fours. He crawled over to me.

“Name of a name!”
swore Montrey. “They are gone?”

“Yes,” I told him.

“Confound it! I missed
the fun.”

“Wasn't any fun to
it,” I said. “If they'd come five feet further before I saw them they'd have
gotten me. And they'd have gotten the rest of you before you could have reached
your
Lebels
.”

“Maybe,” replied
Montrey, seating himself and fumbling for a smoke.

“How is the little
fellow?” I asked, referring to the wounded man.

“Copain? He's all
right. Or will be in another three or four hours. He's lucky, that one. No more
worry about water, no more worry about these Berber pigs.”

“I think I'll go in
and see him,” I said.

Copain's eyes were
wide open, but he did not see us. He was sprawled on his blankets. Flies,
attracted by the blood, were already gathering. Copain was small and wiry. His
yellow face was quite calm.

“How are you feeling?”
I asked him. I knew that he would not answer, that he had not heard, but I felt
that I should say something.

But Copain surprised
us. His lips drew open and he twisted his shoulders around. By the light of his
eyes I knew that he was deep in delirium.

“You'll get it all
now, won't you, Tanner? All of it!” Copain's glassy eyes flickered. “You're a
swine, Tanner.”

Montrey looked at me
quickly. This Tanner that Copain talked about had been killed some weeks before
in a line skirmish far to the east. And Copain had been there at the man's
finish.

“But before I see you
get all of it, I'll take this gun—this gun, see? The gun that killed André!
I'll take this gun and shoot you down like a pig! You won't get it if I'm not
there. We've waited too long.”

Montrey tried to
smooth Copain's forehead.

“Easy, soldier.”

But Copain threshed
out his arms and with amazing strength threw Montrey back from him.

“Get away from me! Get
away from me! You can't talk me out of it. You can't do me out of my share!
I'll get it in spite of you and hell and the Berbers. And I'll spend it on cars
and women!” He was shouting now, his glazed eyes narrowed.

“Quiet,” I said. “It's
Montrey and your corporal. It's all right, Copain.”

The flap of the pup
tent lifted and curious, unshaven faces peered in.

Montrey shook his
head.

“He won't live an hour
if we let him roll around like that.”

“Which makes it three
hours less he'll have to suffer if he comes out of this,” I said. “I wonder
what the devil he's talking about.”

Copain, through that
fog of delirium, must have heard me.

“You know what I'm
talking about, Tanner. It was you that went with me when we discovered it. It
was you that said to wait a while until we could get André out of the deal
before we made a break.”

“André?” muttered a
man in the entrance. “He was found shot in the back last month—shot with a
Lebel.”

“Sure he was!” howled
Copain. “Sure he was! I did it, didn't I, Tanner. I did it. He wanted all of
it. Every last bit of it. And so I shot him.”

I didn't like to
crouch there listening to another man's secrets. I started to back out but the
crowd in the door wouldn't let me through.

Copain was talking
again.

“You couldn't even
find your way back there! You weren't ever in the Intelligence, Tanner. You
need me and you'll take me with you!”

I didn't like the
sudden light which came into Montrey's eyes.

“I'll take you with
me, Copain,” he said. “Just you and I, eh? We'll go get all of it. And because
you know the way and have the map, I'll let you have sixty percent.”

At first I thought
that Montrey was just trying to humor Copain. I should have known better than
that. I should have been on my guard. God knows, if I had been, maybe some of
those men would be living today.

Copain appeared to be
easier.

“All right, Tanner.
Just you and I. And I get sixty percent because of that map. You don't know
where it is, but I do, and I'll find it as soon as I'm off this post. We'll
make a run for it tonight. There's plenty of it for both of us in that town,
isn't there, Tanner?

“More than fifty Moor
barbs could carry. Jewels, Tanner —think of it. And gold. I'll take the jewels.
Gold is too heavy, Tanner. And I'm . . . I'm . . . tired. . . .”

Copain sagged back on
his blankets. His eyes flickered shut. Phlegm rattled in his throat. His
fingers contracted like claws.

I moved forward again
and drew the blanket over Copain's face. Then I crawled backward out of the
tent and went over to the
murette
. I sat down on a rock, facing the
opposite side of the ravine.

Suddenly, Ivan's
machine gun jerked out of the embrasure and pointed at me. Another gun rammed
its blunt muzzle against the small of my back. I looked up and saw Montrey's
queerly tight face.