by Wayne Turmel
“He brings attention. You think the New York Times cares about Beloit College? Would Renault donate three trucks and drivers for free if this was just another dig?”
“These trucks are more like overgrown cars. And they look ridiculous.” He knew he was being petty, but couldn’t help himself. The trucks meant press coverage for the College, and room for lots more arrowheads and flint tools than he’d be able to strap to the back of some stupid humpbacks. It just all seemed a bit… disappointing.
Pond had spent the last six months fantasizing a long, slow, camel trek through harsh conditions to undiscovered Stone Age sites, risking sandstorms and death by scimitar along the way. Instead he got brand new trucks, hotels for the first and last legs of the journey and less than a month of real field work. On top of all that, he had to put up with de Prorok’s shenanigans.
Maybe, he thought, the real age of exploration was over and done. Camels were being replaced with cars and pneumatic tires. Proud warrior tribes were fast becoming tame subjects of anthropological studies, as if the depths of the Sahara were no more mysterious than a day trip to the Wisconsin Dells. Still, it beat Beloit and another semester in the classroom.
The tribes were still a little bit of a concern, as evidenced by the machine gun bracket mounted to the roof frame. Between Algerian malcontents and Tuareg tribes that had bent the knee in name only, it was better to have it and not need it than the other way around. Algeria was no picnic at the best of times, and even with more rain and the best crop in years, this was far from the best of times. Maybe Brad was right, he thought. Leave everything to the Count and just do your job. If, of course, they ever left town.
Finally, the last hand was kissed or shaken, and the final palm greased. The Count turned to the assembly and raised his pith helmet in salute. “Adieu, adieus—allons nous en,” which was the cue for several burnoose-clad locals to fire their muskets in the air to the cheers of the restless crowd.
Byron couldn’t fully hide his satisfaction as Madame Rouvier waved her handkerchief and bravely fought back tears. He strode to Sandy’s passenger side, flung open the door, gave the crowd a final exultant flourish with his helmet, and the Franco-American Sahara Expedition of 1925 was well and truly away, heading towards the Sahara on the last paved road they’d see for a while.
At the edge of town was the Sidi Rached Bridge, a marvel of engineering in a place where camel dung bricks were considered quality construction material. It ran 330 feet high over the Gorge du Rhumel in a graceful swoop over multiple Romanesque arches. It was the first sign of civilization desert visitors saw when arriving in Constantine, and the last thing they saw—perhaps forever—as they headed into the barren wastes of the Sahara desert. Pond admitted it was a dramatic departure point, and must have made quite a picture. Before he could really enjoy it, though, the cars coasted to a halt at the very end of the bridge.
“Now what?” he groaned. Tyrrell just shrugged and the two men craned their necks out the windows to see Barth and two porters shooing a donkey loaded with camera equipment while the photographer held his hat on his head with one hand. Apparently, Count de Prorok also thought of what a dramatic sight it would make and had arranged for the whole vista to be filmed in all its glory. Now they had to wait for him to catch up.
The three cars and their inhabitants simmered in the heat at the end of the bridge, blocking traffic and enduring the honks and curses of those trying to enter the city. Finally, after ten minutes of agony, equipment and photographer were unceremoniously stowed in the back of the lead car, and they were truly, finally, off to their first destination. Next stop would be a little oasis called Batna.
The cars were unevenly loaded—most of the gas and water had been strapped to the Marshall’s car, Hot Dog. Lucky Strike carried the Americans, food, water and barrels for the archaeological samples, along with the machine gun. Sandy, the lead car, contained the Count’s precious film equipment and not much else, so it was no surprise to Pond that they were becoming separated from each other. The lighter cars were able to travel a rather impressive thirty-five miles per hour, as opposed to their vehicle that chugged along at only twenty-five or so.
Going slower at least allowed for more sight-seeing. They passed through a few small hamlets. One even had a small gas station, which they passed. It was only a short run and, as Martini said, the Count had made all the arrangements.
Nine miles from Batna, Lucky Strike caught up with Reygasse’s car, Hot Dog. It sat at the side of the road, with a very perturbed looking driver kicking at the door and exhibiting a rather impressive vocabulary of French curses. A stoic Marshall Reygasse sat upright in the car, staring straight ahead. Louis Chapuis and Belaid squatted in the dirt in the shade of the vehicle.
“Chaix, que c’est que passe?” Martini asked as he stepped from the car.
“Manque d’essence.” Pond winced, recognizing the phrase from his own days as an ambulance driver. Hot Dog had run out of gas. He grinned as he saw the frustrated driver kicking the front bumper as if that would solve the problem.
Louis Chapuis strode over to the car. “The Count and the others went on ahead to Batna and they’re sending back some gas. Chaix, there, wouldn’t leave his precious truck so we stayed with him. Renault probably wouldn’t like anything to happen to it.”
Pond agreed. “Well, hop in, no sense all of you sitting around.”
“I’ll stay with Chaix. Algeria is no place to be alone,” the guide offered.
Reygasse and Belaid, though, were happy to accept a ride, crowded though it was. It was unpleasantly warm and sticky before the extra bodies were added. Now it was downright fragrant. With the windows open, though, nine miles wasn’t such a long haul. Off they went, Brad Tyrrell playing his harmonica to lighten the mood.
They were almost to Batna when Pond heard Martini muttering to himself, “Non… non… God damned stupid machine…” and he slammed his fist on the steering wheel.
Pond heard the engine utter a sad “chucka-chucka-pawwwww” and Lucky Strike coasted to a stop. Everyone sat quietly for a moment. Finally he couldn’t take the suspense. “What’s wrong?”
“Manque d’essence,” offered the stoic driver, who got out and lifted the truck’s bonnet to ensure that’s all it was. He dropped it with an echoing “thunk”. “Si, that’s all it is. We’re out of gas too.”
Brad Tyrrell pulled his pipe out of his pocket and tamped down some of the good American tobacco he always carried. “How far is it into Batna?”
Belaid knitted his eyebrows. “Not far. Two, maybe three kilometers.” When he saw the puzzled look the American gave him, he added, “A mile, mile and a bit.”
Tyrrell remained upbeat. “Well, that’s easy then. Lonnie, Come on, we’re hoofing it. Martini, you stay here and we’ll send some gas back for you. Marshall, are you joining us?”
Reygasse’s cool had deserted him. He impatiently waved them away. “I’ll wait. I’m not entering Batna like some god-damned beggar.”
The big American gave a suit-yourself shrug. “Lonnie, you coming?”
Pond grabbed his knapsack and shouldered it in resignation. Offering a passable impression of Martini, he groused, “Monsieur le count say everything is good… The Count see to everything.” Brad patted his shoulder paternally.
“Explorer’s lesson number one. Never trust those city experts for anything, and don’t take anything for granted. Let’s go.”
“What’s that?” Alonzo pointed to an ancient heap of a car rattling towards them, geysers of dust shooting up in its wake. The car pulled up short and two disreputable looking Arabs immediately engaged Belaid in an animated mix of French, Arabic and wordless but explicit gestures.
Pond followed the babble as best he could. Apparently de Prorok arrived at the hotel safe and sound—of course he did—and sent this bunch with gasoline. Of course, they only expected one bunch of Kafir idiots to run out of gas. They weren’t sure they had enough for two groups.
“Are
there any more of those idiots out there?” one of them asked, unaware or uncaring that the Americans might hear what was said.
“No, only two groups of morons. We’ll only need a splash of gas to get into town. You can take the rest to the others down the road,” Belaid told them. Pond thought he could have been a little more diplomatic about it all.
Without asking permission, Martini grabbed a can of gas from the back seat, made sure the funnel was clean and poured out a few glug-glugs of petrol into the tank. Then he added one final glug for good measure, splashed some on the carburetor, recapped the jug, and handed it back. With much thanks and salaaming from all involved, the drivers headed further north to rescue Chaix and Chapuis, and the unfortunate Hot Dog.
Five minutes later, Lucky Strike pulled in front of the Hotel Batna. What was left of the welcoming committee was still there, most of them squatting and smoking in what little shade the hotel’s awnings offered. The owner, a frighteningly skinny Pied-Noir with an equally thin moustache tried to rouse the staff to their feet and give an appropriate hero’s welcome to the brave—and obviously rich—travelers.
Pond watched, disgusted, as Barth directed the reluctant locals to stand and applaud the arrival. When he had them looking enough like a cheering mob, Reygasse emerged from the car straightening his hat as his medals jingled like wind chimes on his chest. The local headman greeted him with a kiss on each cheek and a hearty handshake, then the owner welcomed him to the grand vision that was the Hotel Batna.
Tyrrell and Pond crawled out of their vehicle on the street side, stretching their legs. They were immediately accosted by a frazzled porter, who gestured and shouted that he would do it all. “Leave it to Mahmoud, Sir…. I am Mahmoud.” He pointed to himself and bowed deeply, just to make sure there was no confusion on that point. He grabbed a crate of digging tools, promptly dropped them on the ground, then smiled apologetically, hoping his tip wasn’t in the balance.
A voice boomed from the doorway, “Ah, the prodigal sons arrive.” De Prorok stood in the doorway, arms spread in welcome and motioned them to come in out of the heat. His hair was perfectly groomed, and there wasn’t a speck of dust on him anywhere. Pond glared sullenly. Had he had time to bathe and change already, or did the son of a gun just not sweat like normal people? “Lonnie, let’s get you something cool to drink before you combust. Brad, this way…”
Inside the lobby, a combined reception, café, bar and luggage storage depot, ceiling fans clunked noisily overhead. Pond tilted his head up towards them. The breeze felt wonderful, even if the way they rattled in their brackets left their ability to stay up there very long in serious doubt.
Reygasse had regained some of his dignity, and grandly gestured for the Americans to meet his “very good friend,” and “this most honored gentleman,” and other prominent locals, none of whom had actual names, it seemed. Pond smiled and shook hands, muttering greetings in French. Tyrrell, who always seemed to make himself at home despite being unapologetically unilingual, managed to make “good to meetcha” a universal language.
Long after the others finally dragged themselves in, the Count held court in the middle of the room, his voice honking out stories, jokes and bonhomie in a bewildering mix of French, Arabic, English and pantomime to include every living thing in the hotel. His long-stemmed pipe was alternately a baton, a sword, and a perfectly plausible excuse to pause and bask in the appreciation of the locals.
Pond looked around and envied Hal Denny, who was dead asleep in a chair removed from the main salon. The Times reporter snored softly, his notebook dangling from his lap.
“You okay, Monsieur Pond?” Chapuis asked twice before he got a response.
“Mmm, yeah. Fine.”
The guide nodded. “It’ll be fine. I’ve worked with him before. In Carthage and other places. He’s a good man.”
“If you say so.” Pond regretting sounding so petulant, but it was getting late, and he wasn’t feeling particularly diplomatic.
After dinner, they retired for the night. Tyrrell and Pond shared a room with three narrow cots. The whitewashed mud brick walls were unadorned except a couple of iron hooks for clothes and a crude crucifix that had been hastily added once the owner was reassured the occupants weren’t Muslim.
The third cot was for Martini, when he finally showed up. The driver had ducked out the back as soon as dinner was over to inspect Lucky Strike. It showed a remarkable sense of duty, especially since it meant he’d get the cot furthest from the window and the fresh air.
The Americans moved their cots as close to the window as possible and pulled the mosquito netting into place. If the insects were blind enough, maybe they wouldn’t see the gaping holes along the seams and let them get some sleep. It would get cool at night, but the breeze might eliminate some of the smell, and most of the vermin. Sleeping in their clothes seemed a reasonable precaution as well.
After a few minutes of quietly sucking his pipe, Brad spoke up. “Okay, Pond. Out with it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The older man chuckled. “You say nothing louder than just about anyone I’ve ever met. Give.”
Pond leaned up on one arm. “Do you think Prorok knows what he’s doing?”
“He knows what he knows, that’s for sure. The College couldn’t get this trip off the ground before he got involved. We wouldn’t have gotten out of Constantine without him playing Madame Rouvier like a fiddle—and don’t think she’s done with him yet. We wouldn’t be driving these pretty new trucks, and we sure as heck wouldn’t have the New York Times tagging along. So, yeah. I think he has some idea of what he’s doing.”
Pond lay back, head behind his hands. ”But the gas…”
“Not his shining moment, I’ll grant you. You know this is his first command, right?”
“That’s no excuse,” the younger man said, fully aware of how petty he sounded, but past caring.
“Not an excuse, maybe, but a pretty good reason. He’s always had someone older or smarter to take care of the details, and he could just focus on the work and take the credit. Lots of guys are like that, especially salesmen…which is what he is, let’s face it. First thing I learned in business, Lonny: being good at your job doesn’t make you a good boss. I know plenty of bosses who wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow if they actually had to do the dirty work, but they get things done.”
Tyrrell lit his pipe, then added, “Being in charge looks awfully tempting and easy from the cheap seats. You’ll find out some day.”
That was the longest speech he’d ever heard Brad Tyrrell make and the young student lay there silently wondering why the older man wasn’t as angry about them running out of gas as he was. The Tyrrell money certainly wasn’t made tolerating stupidity.
Eventually Pond fell asleep imagining himself at the head of his own expedition; making world shaking discoveries while demonstrating perfect judgment and unfailing courage. Then he’d tour like the Count did, only his lectures would be accurate and profound, at a hundred bucks a pop. Brad said he’d find out some day, he sincerely hoped his friend knew what he was talking about. His last waking thought was, I will sure have earned it.
Chapter 3
Cedar Rapids Iowa
January 22, 1926
When I stepped off the streetcar my eyeballs nearly froze solid, but it was January in Iowa, so what did I expect? The wind that had followed me up Third Avenue finally caught me full in the face as soon as I turned towards the Montrose. The blinding winter sun added to the discomfort, and it took a moment to stop blinking and focus. I was wearing my good clothes, so I didn’t dare button my coat. Sure, I was risking frost bite, but at least I looked good.
I dashed across the street and up to the front door of the hotel. First I was greeted by an unimpressed looking doorman who took his own sweet time opening up for me, then by a blast of stale, hot air. The Montrose did its best to keep its guests insulated from the deprivations of the great outdoors. And, I presumed, ri
ffraff like me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby mirror. What looked back at me was presentable enough, if you didn’t count the bright red patches in my otherwise pasty German face. I straightened my bow tie, tugged my vest down, and remembered to pull my cap off my head and shove it in my pocket like Mama taught me I should do when going amongst my betters.
The desk clerk—a foreigner of some kind judging by the size of his schnozz and the grease holding his hair down—checked me out in a hurry.
“May I help you?” His tone suggested that was highly unlikely. I noticed he had an oversized white carnation in his lapel and perfectly manicured hands. It threw me off, I don’t think I’d ever seen such perfect fingernails on anyone, man or woman.
“Yes, Count de Prorok’s room please.” I hoped I sounded properly business-like. I waited as he processed the question, and whether or not he’d deign to comply.
“And your business with the Count?”
“I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”
“Just a moment.” He picked up the phone and asked for room 324. He appraised me from head to toe then back again as he waited, obviously displeased with his findings.
“Count de Prorok, this is Gerard at the front desk. There is a young man here to see you. I told him you were very busy but…” he flinched and covered the phone. “Your name sir?” He called me sir, although he’d probably rather choke to death on a fishbone.
“Mr. Willy Brown,” I said, wondering if he’d bite on it.
“It’s a Willy, Brown, sir.” Nope, he wasn’t going to give me the Mr. just an “a”, but I did get the room number and a begrudging, “The elevator is around the corner. Have a good day, sir.”
“Thanks, Pal.” I slapped the front desk and spun on my heel like Harold Lloyd. Elevators no less. Walking up three flights was nothing when you lived in our part of town, but when in Rome… I decided not to take the stairs.
