Fifty-Fifty O'Brien

by L. Ron Hubbard

  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

  CRAWLING 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 foo
tsteps, 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.

  Chapter Three

  A Tuareg, astride a charging black horse, burst into sight. A two-handed sword was held aloft, shattering the rays of the departing sun. The man was veiled, only his eyes showing. The white robe swirled about him.

  Behind him came others. Hoofs and yells and the clatter and ring of steel deafened Grant. He waited, holding his fire until the targets were more certain.

  The wall of running horses loomed large before the muzzle of the gun. Grant cut loose.

  Sitting, he tried to keep the machine gun steady. But it jerked, hammered and rocked about him as though he were a small, roly-poly doll.

  The bullets slashed through the Tuaregs, cutting a wide pattern. A horse screamed and reared, spilling its rider out of the saddle and under the hoofs. Another fell, skidding from excess momentum.

  The Tuaregs shouted and tried to turn, but others were pressing from the rear. The gun hammered on with its appalling slaughter.

  Abruptly the pass cleared. Grant ceased firing. His wounded back ached from the shock of the recoil. He felt a little sick. A horse was striving to raise its head. Grant picked up the gun and put the beast out of its misery.

  He saw that the squad was gone, reduced to an occasional sparkle of metal far out on the plain. They would be able to make it now. He wondered what Muller would do when he regained his wits: stamp and swear and vow that he’d get Grant, of course.

  But Grant knew there’d be no getting him. When the Tuaregs had succeeded in untangling themselves, they’d come back and kill him. His position was far from satisfactory. His back was exposed as well as his left flank. He couldn’t cover three ways at once.

  Strangely, none of this seemed to worry him so very much. In spite of pain, the rankling ugliness of his late existence had been wiped away. He’d gotten even with Muller. Of course that still left Boch, and the drillmaster.

  The sergeant’s pack was close at hand—also his canteen. Grant’s own were back up the trail where he had been wounded. Unscrewing the cap, he drank of the liquid. It was hot and metallic, but it helped his throat.

  Digging into the compartments of Muller’s pack, he found some flinty biscuits and a tin of sausages. With his bayonet he opened the can.

  He sat there taking a bite of sausage, a bite of bread and a swallow of water, repeating until nothing was left. He listened intently for the return of the Tuaregs. Of course they’d get him at the finish, but he might as well take a few along to Heaven with him.

  For an hour he sat very still, thinking and waiting. The sun went down over the mountain rim and the moon began to turn the world into glossy blue white.

  He realized that he was cold. He felt about him for his tunic and then remembered that it had gone with his pack. The sergeant’s tunic lay near at hand. He looked at the chevrons and smiled. He donned it, trying not to move his back too much.

  When the Tuaregs came back—

  A sandal rasped behind him. He whirled, trying to level the rifle. A man in heavy robes sprang at him. Grant grabbed for the throat and his hands tangled in the veil.

  Yells broke out on all sides. Suddenly he was drowning in a sea of cloth. A voice was above the rest, crying out orders.

  A moment later he stopped struggling. He hadn’t intended to go out this way. Probably he’d face torture now.

  They pulled him to his feet, holding his arms. A Tuareg in a long blue veil studied him. The Tuareg’s eyes were like silver dimes with holes bored in the center.

  “A sergeant!” said “Blue Veil.”

  Grant glanced down at the chevrons and then back at the Tuareg.

  “Perhaps you’d like to die now,” said Blue Veil in very clipped French. He took a revolver from his belt and juggled it. “Yes, I think you would like to die now.”

  “Go ahead,” replied Grant, unafraid.

  Blue Veil put the revolver back in his belt. “But I do not think I will kill you. You are from Intelligence.” His eyes stabbed Grant’s face. “Yes, Intelligence. We know a great deal. We also have intelligence.”

  Grant’s gaze was steady. His blue eyes were calm.

  “And because you are from Intelligence,” continued Blue Veil, “perhaps you can buy your life. Where is that patrol?”

  “What patrol?” said Grant.

  “You know what I mean. You French think you are very clever. You think you can guard the pass and keep me from getting ammunition. But I will kill off that platoon.”

  “I don’t know of any platoon,” replied Grant.

  “You’re lying. You know where it is. Tell me and I let you go.”

  “I don’t know where it is,” said Grant, doggedly.

  Blue Veil laughed derisively. “I know that you do. There are ants here, Sergeant. There are sweets here, Sergeant. Would you like to be tied across an anthill and smeared with honey? A sweet death, but rather painful. Tell me and I let you go.”

  “I know of no platoon,” said Grant.

  “You’re a stubborn brute.” Blue Veil turned his back and snapped orders to his men. For a moment, Grant thought that he was about to receive punishment. Then he saw the Tuaregs haul forth their pack animals from the pass.

  Camp was made in a short space of time. Fires were lighted and food was cooked. Grant was seated at the base of the wall, a guard at either elbow.

  After he had eaten, Blue Veil squatted down before him. “It is too late to do anything tonight. I keep you under heavy guard. But you cou
ld go now if you would tell me.”

  “I do not know anything to tell you,” replied Grant.

  Blue Veil stood up. “Bah!” He spat deliberately into Grant’s face. “Tomorrow morning you will tell.” He turned and entered a tent.

  Grant hunched his knees up under his chin and stared at the cooking fire. Blue Veil was wise to postpone this thing until morning. Even a stout heart will go soft if given too much time for thought.

  By this time Muller and the rest would be struggling homeward. Or perhaps they would stay for more information. At any event, the word would go through about the uprising.

  These Tuaregs were bad medicine. As desert raiders they were under the impression that they ruled the world. No caravan captain would think of venturing forth without a Tuareg guard. If he did, then the Tuaregs would wipe out his command.

  Desert racketeers, that’s what they were. Ugly devils, spooky in their veils—but every inch soldiers. That was their profession and had been for centuries.

  The black guards were silent, staring ahead, hands propped up by their rifles. Grant looked at their hawk profiles. Swell chance he had of getting away. And in the morning—

  The platoon would have to succeed in wiping out that ammunition train. If ammunition did come through, there’d be hell to pay in plenty. Grant began to realize just what French control meant in this part of the world. A handful of soldiers policed this district. Things could so easily get out of hand.

  Something like esprit de corps was born in Grant. This was real. He did not have to take a sergeant’s bullying abuse. He was here to think for himself, act for himself—even though death was not far distant.

  The glowing fire died to a pile of pulsating red coals. The camp slept.

  Chapter Four

  IN the silence of a Sahara night, Grant heard voices which had no earthly form. They were the voices of his past, calling to him across oceans and continents and years—a snatch of song, a hearty curse, the brassy blare of a bugle.