Chapter 2

BROKEN BARRELS

Finally, Captain D'Arlan turned away from the window. He stared intently at the thin, pale face of Colonel Le Clerq, as if seeking a reaction there. But the old colonel's face was completely expressionless.

"What do you think of this story about the white woman, mon Colonel?" asked D'Arlan, unable to conceal the anxiety in his voice.

"I have no other choice but to believe it, mon Capitaine," said the colonel, and D'Arlan sank wearily into a chair. "This Private Podolski is in his full senses," the colonel continued, "and I cannot see why he would tell a lie about such a thing. He is known in the Legion as a brave, resourceful, and reliable soldier."

"But who and what can she be?" asked D'Arlan.

Le Clerq shrugged his narrow shoulders and tilted his head. It was a gesture of ignorance regarding this phenomenon of a white woman apparently leading a band of barbaric Arabs.

"All I am entirely sure of, D'Arlan," said the colonel, "is that we are dealing with a dangerous phenomenon here. Somehow this wretched white witch must have ended up among them, and now they naturally regard her as a white goddess sent by Mohammed to deliver them from the hands of the white heathens. You know what that means. If we don't put an end to this reign of terror soon, tomorrow or the day after we'll be dealing with a holy war that could set the whole of French Morocco ablaze. This phenomenon of a white woman among them is all these sheep need to believe that she will bring deliverance from the yoke of France that awaits them. I tell you, D'Arlan, this white witch is capable of causing the greatest uprising in Morocco that either of us has ever seen."

Le Clerq quickly stood up from his chair, went to the wall, and rolled down the large map hanging there.

"We shall have to do something, D'Arlan," the colonel said to the lean captain, who had also risen and followed him towards the wall.

"But what, mon Colonel?" inquired D'Arlan.

Le Clerq made circles with his pencil around a few places on the wall map and said, "There is only one thing to do, D'Arlan, and that is to attack this filth in their lairs."

"To detach enough men for that will mean dangerously weakening the garrison here, mon Colonel, and how do we know how far this woman has already ignited fires among the other tribes?"

"I know, D'Arlan... I know... But there is no other alternative," said the weathered colonel irritably. "What else is there to do? We cannot sit here with folded hands while these devils incarnate do as they please. Their blockade is so effective that the local Arabs will soon rise in revolt. And what will Algiers think of me if one caravan after another is wiped out in this gruesome manner?"

He suddenly looked at D'Arlan, and there was a glint in his eyes. The old fighting spirit that had made him the fear of the Arab tribes glittered again in Le Clerq's eyes. He thrust his small fist menacingly into the air. "We will smoke them out, D'Arlan. We will smoke them out."

With the pencil, he gestured again on the map. "Here," said the colonel, "is the small oasis El Soer. It is situated not far from the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. We shall make this oasis the base of our operations against the Doelaks, D'Arlan."

"It is a dangerous plan, mon Colonel," said D'Arlan, "but it is apparently the only plan. From the oasis El Soer, one can reach their hiding places in the Atlas Mountains."

"I am grateful that you agree, mon Capitaine," said the colonel.

"May the honor fall to me to undertake these military operations, mon officier?"

Le Clerq slapped the younger man on the arm, a gesture of camaraderie, for he knew the military qualities of D'Arlan, who had been bled so many times by the rebellious Arabs, only to escape death each time. D'Arlan's exploits had become legendary, not only in the Foreign Legion but also among the Arabs. The lean Frenchman had escaped from such seemingly impossible situations time and again that his comrades in the Legion, both officers and ordinary privates, had given him the nickname Capitaine Houdini. This was in reference to the famous illusionist, who could escape even from a nailed-up coffin under the sea.

"The honor belongs to you, mon ami," said Le Clerq, highly satisfied that the younger officer agreed with his plan, and he bowed mockingly to his subordinate.

But then he quickly straightened up, and he was once again the dominant, tough personality whose command was law.

"You will depart tomorrow afternoon at sunset, mon Capitaine. You will take two hundred men and enough supplies to last a month."

D'Arlan's eyes were wide with surprise. "But mon Colonel, that is half the garrison... It will dangerously divide the garrison. I can manage with fewer men..."

"Capitaine D'Arlan, since when do you argue about my orders?" Le Clerq's thin voice cracked like the lash of a whip.

"I am sorry, mon Colonel. It is just that I..."

"Do you think I am going to throw you to the wolves by giving you too few men?" Le Clerq spoke harshly. "You will take twenty automatic rifles with you. You will make immediate arrangements to depart... Let Podolski rest well and eat. I think it would be good if you took him along. Have the medical orderly treat him immediately."

"Oui, mon Colonel," D'Arlan said submissively.

"I shall meanwhile draw up your orders in the finest detail," said the colonel.

* * *

Crunch-crunch-crunch went the heavy boots over the sand here in the infinity of sand and heat. It was now the afternoon of the fourth day since they had left Dini Salam, and each time during the ten-minute rest period, after marching for two hours, Captain D'Arlan looked through his binoculars to see if he could yet spot any sign of the oasis El Soer.

Through all these tormenting days and through large parts of the night, when they marched in full battle gear, D'Arlan had set a stiff pace at the very front for his column, which snaked like a sluggish reptile through the vast spaces with the small group of pack mules trailing behind.

"I don't like this affair," said Fritz Mundt, the colossal German, as he trudged through the sand, his water canteen jingling against the buckle of his belt.

"None of us can exactly jump out of our skins with joy, Fritz," said the lithe South African, who, despite his 1.9 meters, looked like a child next to the German giant.

Fritz Mundt wiped his red face with his hand and then looked down at Teuns Stegmann, the man with the broad, angular shoulders, the athletic figure, finely muscled, lithe, with bright blonde curly hair and restless blue eyes. The South African looked up at the big German walking to his left and expected another outburst, for the German, with his deep, rough voice, burst out about everything. That is why Teuns and the others so enjoyed pulling his leg.

"That's not what I mean, schweine hund," Mundt bellowed, and Teuns ducked mockingly in fright.

"What do you mean then, you colossal lummox?" came from the private trudging to Teuns's right. He was a serious, dark fellow, speaking with the accent of the British aristocracy. He was the Marquis Jack Ritchie, but a minor misstep had made him the black sheep of the family. He had then had to abandon a promising academic career at Oxford and flee to the Foreign Legion, the refuge for all men with sorrow in their hearts, for all men with a past.

Jack nudged Teuns with his elbow, and they both looked up at the sweaty face of the German, who was now terribly serious.

"What is it then that you mean, Fritz?" Teuns inquired good-naturedly.

"I mean it is completely wrong that they broke up the garrison in this way. I can feel it in my bones that the whole lot will rebel and that they will attack us and the garrison separately. How much chance do we have here in this barren desert if the bunch of black skins gang up against us? They will hack us to pieces." For a moment, the three comrades walked on in silence. Fritz pulled out a cigarette and broke it into three pieces. Each received a small piece. Thus were the three, what one had, he shared with the other two. They always pulled strings so they could end up together, the South African, the German, and the Englishman. So many times had they lain side by side, staring death in the eyes.

"I'm not so worried because they broke up the garrison," Jack Ritchie finally said.

"And what are you worrying about then, Lord Haw-Haw?" mocked the German.

"Herr Eulenspiegel," Ritchie teased back, "there is another, much more serious matter. Why do you think, Field Marshal Rommel, have the black skins left us alone so far on this long march?"

"Yes, so far it has been a picnic," Teuns Stegmann broke in.

Fritz Mundt nudged Teuns in the ribs, bent low, and smiled at him. "Is it funny to you that the English always lose all the wars?" the German said, laughing deep from his large belly. "Listen to this lord. He wants to know why the black skins left us alone. I will tell you, Englishman, then you'll know next time. When you've been in the Foreign Legion for ten years like your Uncle Fritzie, you'll know why Arabs act one way and not another. They left us alone because they have a plan for us, my English friend."

"What sort of plan?" Jack asked, this time completely serious.

Fritz wiped his large face pleasedly, for it always stroked his ego when the others looked up to his experience, when...