by E. C. Tubb
He broke off but Corville knew what he meant. Beneath the torrid sun men’s bodies craved for water as for nothing else and, during the long hours of siege ahead, water would be as essential as bullets, He was about to give the order when Colonel Marignay joined them.
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir!”
“How are things?”
“Under control, sir. I was about to order the sergeant to draw water and store it. You agree?”
“Unnecessary,” snapped the Colonel. “The sergeant would be doing better by sending a man up into the watchtower. It is essential that I should know the movements of the enemy.”
“To send a man up there would be to send him to his death,” said Corville quietly. “The hills are full of marksmen and they would cut him down before he was halfway up.”
“It is dark,” grunted the sergeant. “What man can see in the dark?”
“You will do as I order,” snapped the Colonel, “Send a man, the man I whipped will do, up into the tower. At once!”
“Yes, my Colonel.” Smith saluted and crawled away to send the unfortunate man up to the watchtower. Marignay stayed where he was for a moment then, as lead blasted dust into his face, returned to his quarters. Corville, in effect if not in name now full commander of the fort, squatted and stared bleakly into the night.
The attack was well planned, there could be no doubt of that. And yet, as he thought about it. something troubled him. To attack at night was against the regular custom of the Arabs. They preferred to attack by day, riding out of he desert and charging with blind ferocity at the walls of the fort. Sometimes, as at Fort Hollendoft, they succeeded in scaling the walls and winning an expensive victory. At others they were beaten back with heavy losses until their Mullah, the holy fanatic who was usually behind all such attacks, was either killed or announced that Allah had decreed the fighting ended.
But this attack showed signs of careful planning.
The use of the night for cover, the volley aimed to eliminate the sentries, the twin machineguns set so as to spray the walls and keep the defenders behind cover. Above all the lack of a charge. Corville bit his lips as he thought about it and felt his stomach tighten with apprehension. The attack had been planned by a master of warfare and he wondered what the next step would be.
He soon found out.
The man Marignay had ordered to the top of the watchtower screamed and pointed towards the gate just as the murderous fire from a score of rifles lanced in his direction, The scream died as lead smashed the helpless body to mangled ruin and, as the rolling echoes of the rifle fire died away, flame and smoke shot up from the outside of the gate. The explosion deafened the young officer, blinding him with its bout of searing fire and, as he blinked to clear his eyes from the retinal after-images, he felt sick horror at what he saw.
The gate had been destroyed.
Men lay around it, mostly clad in the blue and scarlet of the Legion but with here and there the drab white of a burnoose. Even as he stared, hearing the groans of wounded men and the shrill prayers of the dying, a rush of hate-filled Arabs lunged through the-burst portal, their cries stabbing the air with searing dread.
“Allah il Allah! Allah the one true God. Allah the merciless, Death to the infidel! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
For a moment it seemed that they had won the fort. For a moment the compound was full of white burnoosed figures firing, slashing with their curved swords. stabbing with their pointed daggers. Men died then, brave men dressed in the blue and scarlet of the Legion but, as they died, they fought with the incredible desperation of despair. Lebels fired and fired and fired again. Then, their magazines empty, the legionnaires reversed their weapons and hurled themselves towards the shrieking enemy. Rifle butts thudded against the turbans, long, sword-bayonets flashed and dulled with blood as the desperate soldiers fought hand to hand with the swelling tide of invaders. Men screamed and groaned as steel and lead ripped their vitals. Others laughed with the sheer excitement of combat while others muttered prayers to forgotten gods as they thrust and lunged, parried and ducked, rose to kill and be killed in turn.
Corville had flung himself forward at the first appearance of the enemy, his automatic spitting fire as he emptied it before snatching up a discarded Lebel. Hastily he fitted on a bayonet and thrust at a tall, burnoosed figure swinging a heavy scimitar. The shock as metal met metal almost made him drop the rifle then, as the Arab swung again, Corville lunged and grinned as he felt the slender blade of the bayonet slip between the other’s ribs. Pausing only to jerk the weapon free he swung the butt at a snarling, bearded face, ducked as a rifle blasted towards him, and triggered his own weapon in reply, as something smashed with sickening force against his skull.
After that things took on a strange, misty unreality. Bearded faces with open, yelling mouths seemed to rise before him and to fall away without any effort on his part. Steel grated against his bayonet and once he felt the sting of a knife in his arm, but he seemed to be beyond all physical pain and fought more like a machine than a man, shouting orders, curses, swearing at legionnaires and Arab alike, his trained reflexes taking over from his numbed mind.
Finally it was over.
He staggered as he looked around him at the heaps of dead, staring at a sky that had suddenly changed from black to blue, and squinted at the ball of the rising sun where it rested over the horizon. Impossible as it seemed the fight must have lasted well over an hour and, as he stared at the bent and broken rifle in his hands, he wondered how it was that he was still alive. A voice called to him and turning, he saw the sergeant, his face blood-stained, crouching on the fire step, a rifle in his hands, two others at his side, the area around him littered with empty cartridge cases. Two dead men beside him stared at the sun with sightless eyes and a third whimpered as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from a stomach wound.
“Quickly, my lieutenant. Here before they fire into the compound.”
Hardly knowing what he did Corville climbed up to join the sergeant. He felt weak, dizzy, and the side of his face was stiff with dried blood.
“Here.” Smith passed over a canteen. “Drink and pour the rest over your head. You were a lucky man last night, the bullet meant for between your eyes only tore the flesh and almost stunned you.”
“You saw?” Corville gasped as the tepid water sent pain from his wound but beneath the shower his mind cleared and he was himself again. He stared at the piles of cartridge cases and at the position of the sergeant.
“You covered me,” he said. “You sat up here and fired at everyone around me. Why?”
“In a fight a man must keep a cool head,” said Smith calmly. “I saw what had happened to you and. calling these three whom I knew to be good shots, we sat up here and poured fire down into the compound. While you engaged them hand-to-hand they could not spare the time to shoot us down.” He looked at the two dead men and the one who was wounded. “At least,” he corrected himself, “not all of us.”
“I must have been half stunned from the bullet,” said Corville. “How is the situation now?”
“We have managed to beat them back from the compound but in doing so we have lost more than half our men. Now, with the gates destroyed we must concentrate on stemming a new charge.” Smith glowered at the heaps of dead below. “I would give much to know who thought of pinning us down with machinegun fire while their sappers set and fired a charge beneath the gates. No Arab thought of that.”
“No,” agreed Corville. He stared at the line of weary legionnaires lining the parapet over the open gate. Too few to do more than beat off another such charge as last night. Far too few to withstand a siege of any length of time. Smith attracted his attention and pointed down towards the well.
“The trouble has only just begun, sir. Soon the men will need water, the wounded are already crying for it, and we can’t draw water from the well without being exposed to the fire of the machineguns.” He pointed towards the rocky hills. “I have watched
them dismount the weapons and set them up so as to fire through the open gate. It would be certain death to attempt to cross the compound now.”
Corville nodded as he surveyed the area. The sergeant was right. As soon as the gates had been blown open the unknown genius behind the attack had set his rapid-fire weapons so as to cover the exposed compound. As yet they had not been used, while the attackers had filled the gate and battled with the legionnaires it would have been criminal folly to shoot down their own men, but now that the area was clear they could be used to render the compound impassable.
It was still possible to move around the fort, the high fire-platform protected by the thick merlons allowed that, but the sole source of water was the primitive well and that was in the centre of the compound. Corville felt thirsty as he looked at it, its nearness tempting him with its promise of cool comfort and liquid refreshment. He touched Smith on the shoulder.
“I must see the Colonel. Arrange for the wounded to be taken below. Relieve the men at intervals for food and rest, issue wine but no water. See that every man has plenty of ammunition and that, if possible, he has a spare rifle, fully loaded at his side.” He hesitated. “I needn’t tell you what to do if we are overrun.”
Smith nodded, his face grim. It was one of the tenets of the Legion that the last bullet should be saved for strictly personal reasons. Better death at one’s own hand than the slow tortures of an Arab encampment.
Marignay was in his quarters when Corville arrived. His guests were with him, afraid, but still hopeful that the famous Legion would save them in the end. Corville ordered the women down to the barrack room where they could dress the wounds of the injured and sent Dick to help the sergeant.
Alone with the colonel be stated what was on his mind.
“Fort Onassis is doomed. We can beat back another charge, perhaps two, but heat and thirst will defeat us in the end. I would say that we have until this evening to do what has to be done.”
“And what is that?”
“All arms and ammunition must be gathered and ready for immediate destruction. No matter what happens they must not be allowed to fall into enemy hands.”
“I am aware of my duty,” said Marignay coldly. “Are you certain of the position?”
“Yes. Whoever is behind this attack, and I’m certain that it is no ordinary Arab, is a clever man and knows just what he wants. The very fact that there have been no charges shows that he wants to avoid heavy losses. He is relying on the sun to defeat us, that and his two machineguns.”
“We will fight to the last,” said Marignay. “I shall never surrender.”
“No one has asked you to, yet. The Arabs intend killing every living thing within the fort. They want the rifles and ammunition we have stored here and you must see that they don’t get them.”
“I know my duty,” repeated the colonel. He reached for a carafe of water, then frowned as the young officer took it from his hand. “What are you doing?”
“We have no water. This is needed for the wounded.”
Corville didn’t even bother to say ‘sir’. He was disgusted with the inefficiency of the colonel, his weakness and apparent indecision. Even now, with the Arabs howling at his very gates, he didn’t seem to realise the seriousness of his position.
To Marignay war was something fought between gentlemen where only the common soldier ever got hurt. He couldn’t seem to realise that his life was as much at stake as that of the humblest legionnaire.
Corville left him standing by his desk, absently toying with the dagger that had been the gift of El Morini, and, still carrying the carafe, made his way down towards the wounded men. Clarice met him as he ducked through the low door.
The young girl’s face was pale and strained, her dress stained with blood, her hands red with it, but her eyes revealed her courage and she even tried to smile.
“How is it going?”
“Not good.” Corville handed the carafe to Smith and called to Miss Carson. “Here.”
“You want me?” Like the young girl Susan’s hands and dress were horribly stained but, again like the young girl, she had an inner courage which made Corville proud to call her his country woman.
“Listen.” He lowered his voice so that the wounded could not hear what he was about to say. “If by chance, and remember I only say if, we are defeated and the Arabs should overrun the fort there is something you should know.
“Things are serious, aren’t they?” Clarice smiled at the young man. “Don’t try to lie to us. It is better that we know the truth.”
“The truth is that we shall be overrun by nightfall,” Corville said harshly. “The men will be killed, we expect that, but you may not be treated so mercifully.” He hurried on before they could interrupt. “When the end is near I shall hide you and your brother together with Miss Carson in one of the cells. I shall lock you in so that, when the Arabs arrive, you will have a chance to speak with them before they can kill your brother. You must say to them the following words in Arabic. It is the first sentence of the Koran and will tell them that you have embraced Islam and that you wish to accept the Moslem creed. Now, “In the name of Allah, the merciful....”
Again and again he repeated the Arabic words, drumming it into their heads until he was satisfied that they had learned them by heart. Clarice paused in her recitation and stared at him.
“Will they let us go?”
“Perhaps. They will probably hold you to ransom but, as a Moslem, you will not be tortured or unduly harmed.” He didn’t think it worth mentioning that the likelihood was high that some Sheikh might decide to take them into his Harem, or that Dick might be set to menial tasks. He had done the best he could to save them in emergency, and he could do no more.
He jerked his head at Smith as he left the long, low barrack room now echoing to the cries of thirsty men.
“Sergeant, what would be the chances of your getting through to Sidi bel Abbes with a message?”
“None, sir.”
“I think that you would stand a chance. I’ve noticed that there are several Beni Seidel Rif adventurers and looters among the attackers. You have the same colour eyes as the Riff and I understand that you speak the Beni Seidel version of the language of the Moroccan Berbers. In disguise you could pass for a Beni Seidel. I want you to try and slip through the enemy lines and carry news of this attack and what we have learned from it to Colonel Le Farge at Legion headquarters. This is no ordinary attack. If they succeed, and it is hard to see how they can fail, then the path will be open to Marojia. Once the tribes learn that they can defeat us then they will be willing to rise to the voice of any Mullah preaching rebellion. It is essential that this news gets through to Colonel Le Farge.”
“Begging the Lieutenant’s pardon,” said the Sergeant, “but he is more suited to the task than I. You could disguise yourself as a Toureg or as a Berber and so mingle with them unsuspected. The tribesmen have no great love for the Rif adventurers and once out of the area I would hardly be safe.”
“I gave you an order, sergeant. How long will it take you to be ready to leave?”
“I am not going.” Smith stared defiantly at the young officer. “I refuse to obey your orders. You can break me, if you will, or report me for insubordination and have me sent to a penal colony, but I will not leave the fort while you remain behind to face certain death.”
It was impossible to argue. Corville knew that, knew too that the sergeant would rather be shot than leave him alone, and, angry as he was at the man’s disobedience, yet he felt strangely touched by the sergeant’s loyalty. He lifted his head at the sound of bugles and stared wonderingly at the man at his side.
“Assembly? Not alert? What is happening?”
Smith shrugged and led the way up to the firing platform. To either side of them the legionnaires stood in readiness their eyes hard as they stared down at the small party advancing towards the fort.
Corville recognised one of the men below, the tall stately figure
of the Sheik El Morini, and turned as Marignay climbed slowly up the steps to join him. The Colonel was afraid, he showed it in every movement of his hands, the flickering of his eyes and the way he wiped sweat from his streaming face and neck. He swallowed as he stared down at the advancing party.
“They’ve asked for a parley, de Corville,” he explained. “I thought that it would do no harm to hear what they have to say.”
“What good can a parley do? Even if you could trust them, which you can’t, what’s the good of words? You know what they want from us and you know as well as I do that above all, they must not have it.”
“At least let us hear what they have to say.” Marignay stared down at the Sheik as he came to a halt. “Speak. This is Colonel Marignay, the commander of the fort who addresses you.”
“Is it so?” There was a sneering contempt in the Arab’s voice and his French, while comprehensible, was of the sort acquired in the gutter. “I greet you as a live man greets the dead. What I have to say is simple and soon done. Surrender your command, give us the arms and ammunition you have within your walls, and you and your men shall be allowed to go free. I have spoken.”
“You can’t agree,” snapped Corville. He turned to the sergeant. “Warn the men to cover that party. At any sign of treachery they are to be shot without compunction.”
“Yes, sir.” Smith hurried away before Marignay could stop him touching the shoulders of several men who at his whispered instructions, levelled their Lebels at the Sheik and those with him.
“I must have time to think of what you have said,” shouted Marignay. “Come again tomorrow and I will then have decided.”
“I agree, but there will be no truce. Tomorrow the time for parley may be over. But one thing I tell you. If you surrender to me the guns you hold, then your life will be spared and much gold given you. If you destroy those arms then you will die beneath the knives of my women. This I swear. In the Koran I swear it and as I have sworn so it shall be.”
