Fifty-Fifty O'Brien

  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.”

  Chapter Seven

  AT 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 p
ost.

  “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 G
rant’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.”