Warriors [Anthology]

by George R. R.

  “So what’s your point?”

  “Just what I said—sometimes, battles don’t need to happen.”

  “Like tomorrow’s?” Durado asked.

  Kline pointed toward the buildings. “Maybe they’ll surrender.”

  “Or maybe they hope we’ll surrender. Is that going to happen?”

  “Of course not.” Kline quoted from the Legion’s Code of Honor, which all recruits were required to memorize at the start of their training. “ ‘Never surrender your arms.’“

  “And they won’t do it, either,” Durado said.

  “But in the end, France was forced to leave Mexico. Camerone made no difference,” Kline told him.

  “Be careful. You’d better not let the colonel hear you talking this way.”

  “Maybe tomorrow’s battle won’t make a difference, either.”

  “Thinking isn’t our business.” Now it was Durado’s turn to quote from the Legion’s Code of Honor.” ‘The mission is sacred. You will see it through to the end, at any price.’“

  “ ‘At any price.’“ Kline exhaled. “You’re absolutely right. I’m not paid to think. Tomorrow, I’ll fight as hard as you.”

  “God punishes us for our sins? Is that what you said earlier?” Durado asked. “The things I’ve seen in this war prove He doesn’t exist. Otherwise, they never would have been allowed to happen.”

  “Unless this battle tomorrow is God’s way of paying us back.”

  “For our sins?”

  “For the things we’d give anything to forget.”

  “In that case, God help us.” Again, the irony in Durado’s voice reminded Kline of Rourke.

  * * * *

  Kline lay under the blanket, staring across the rocky hill toward the buildings that seemed to waver in the heat. He knew that soldiers just like him watched from their own hiding places over there. With their weapons beside them, they brooded behind the city’s walls, parapets, turrets, and gates, knowing that soon, probably the next morning, the battle would begin.

  Kline was struck by how different things had been a year earlier. When the Germans had broken through the concrete battlements of the Maginot Line and invaded France, the only tactic that had made sense was for him and Rourke and the rest of the legionnaires to fight a retreating action, trying to slow the German advance as much as possible.

  And we still might have beaten them, Kline thought, if the Germans hadn’t realized the mistake they were about to make.

  The risk to the invading army had been that a rush to occupy all of France would overextend their supply lines, leaving them vulnerable to devastating hit-and-run attacks by French civilians and the remainder of the French military. Without supplies, the Germans would have been helpless. To prevent that from happening, they’d developed the brilliant strategy of consolidating their forces in the northern and western parts of the country, an area that included Paris. Meanwhile, their massive threatening presence had convinced the rest of France that total occupation was only a matter of time, that it was better to capitulate and negotiate for favorable terms.

  So the bastards in the south became collaborators, Kline thought.

  The deal was that the southern two-fifths of France would remain free of German soldiers. Meanwhile, France would form a new government based in the community of Vichy in the central part of the country. In theory, this government was neutral to Germany, but in reality, the Vichy regime was so eager to placate the Germans that they were more than happy to hand over Jews or any other “undesirables” that the Germans wanted.

  The rest of France might as well have been invaded. The result was the same, Kline thought. Maybe they could justify collaborating if they’d made an effort to resist. But as it was, they just surrendered and acted like the enemy.

  He painfully remembered the last time he’d seen Rourke. Along with a remnant of their legionnaire unit, they’d been hiding in an abandoned French barn, waiting for nightfall when they could slip out and elude patrols by the Vichy militia.

  Their radioman picked up a wireless signal that he quickly reported. “The Thirteenth Demi-Brigade shipped back from fighting in Norway.”

  All the men hiding in the barn sat up from the straw they lay on. The context didn’t need to be explained—the Legion had been fighting on two fronts, and the Thirteenth’s objective had been Norway. But like the Legion’s unit on the Maginot Line, the Thirteenth had been forced to withdraw.

  “They landed at Brest,” the radioman continued.

  The men nodded, well aware that Brest was the westernmost port in France.

  “When they realized France had capitulated and that the Germans were about to occupy the port, they hurried back on the ships and headed toward England.”

  “So they’re going to help the Allies try to retake France?” Kline asked.

  “Yes,” the radioman said. “But not all of them went to England.”

  Rourke straightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Some decided to go back to headquarters in Algeria.”

  The legionnaires remained silent for a moment, analyzing the significance of this information. Another reason Germany had resisted invading all of France was that the move would have made enemies of Algeria and Morocco: French territories in North Africa. But by persuading France to form the Vichy government, a supposedly neutral regime that was in effect a puppet government, Germany gained indirect control of those French territories and prevented the legionnaires stationed there from helping England.

  “They’re going to fightagainst the Brits?” Kline asked in shock.

  “It’s more like they’re hoping Algeria will remain neutral. That way, they’ll be able to sit out the rest of the war without fighting anybody,” the radioman explained.

  “Lots of damned luck to them,” someone said.

  “The message came from England,” the radioman continued. “From Brigadier General de Gaulle.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “I never heard of him, either,” the radioman continued. “But apparently he’s in charge of something called the Free French Forces, and that includes the legionnaires who went to England. He wants every French soldier to get there somehow and regroup. The fight’s not over.”

  “Thank God, somebody’s got some balls,” another legionnaire said. “I guess we know which way we’re going tonight. South to the coast. We’ll get our hands on a boat and head toward England.”

  Most of the men readily agreed. They’d been born and raised in Spain, Portugal, Greece, or any number of other countries, but all were now French citizens and felt loyal to the nation they’d been fighting to protect.

  Kline couldn’t help noticing that some were pensively quiet, however. Evidently, the previous year of fighting made the idea of sitting out the war in Algeria appealing.

  Kline also couldn’t help noticing that Rourke was one of the men who remained quiet.

  * * * *

  At dark, as the group sneaked from the barn, Kline motioned for Rourke to wait.

  “I get the feeling you’re not going to England with us,” he said when the two of them were alone.

  In the shadows, Rourke took a moment to answer. “Yes. When we reach the Mediterranean, I’ll find a way across to Algeria.”

  “You’ve had enough fighting?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with sitting out the war. Believe me, I’m happy to fight the Germans.” Rourke paused. “But I can’t go to England.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You and I never talked about our pasts, my friend.” Rourke put a hand on his shoulder. “But I think you guessed a lot about mine. If I go back to England, I might end up serving next to the same British soldiers who hunted me in Ireland before I joined the Legion. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t join the Legion to escape them.”

  “I know. You joined to do penance.”

  “See, we understand each other,” Rourke said. “I once told you that Catholics need to tell God they’re sorry for thei
r sins and then do whatever’s necessary to prove they mean it.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, how can I keep doing penance if some bastard British Tommy recognizes me and shoots me?”

  From the darkness outside the barn, a legionnaire whispered, “Kline, we need to get moving.”

  “I’ll be there in a second,” he murmured through the rickety door.

  He turned to Rourke. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rourke said, shaking hands with him. “We’ll cross paths again after the war.”

  * * * *

  But Rourke had been wrong. It wasn’t after the war that they would cross paths. Soon after the split in the Legion, some men going to England, others going to Algeria, the Vichy government ordered the legionnaires in Algeria to assist the German army.

  By June of 1941, when the Allies fought to liberate Syria from the invaders, Kline’s Legion unit was helping the British. Meanwhile, a different Legion unit, the Vichy brigade, was helping the Germans.

  In the morning, Kline knew, the unthinkable would occur. Battling for Damascus, legionnaires who had trained together, bivouacked together, gotten drunk together, and fought together, would now fight each other, and unless Rourke had already died in combat, he would be one of those whom Kline would attack.

  * * * *

  As the sun began to set, Durado returned one last time, assigned to sentry duty for the night.

  The intense heat continued to weigh on them.

  “Still quiet over there?” Durado asked.

  “No sign of anyone. Maybe they pulled back,” Kline hoped.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Me, too. They know we won’t pull back.”

  “But surely they realize they’re on the wrong side,” Durado said.

  “Probably they’re saying the same thing about us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re the ones fighting for France.”

  “For a government sucking up to the damned Germans,” Durado said.

  “Even so, it’s the only French government there is. Do you remember what Commander Vernerey said when the Allies told him to fight the Germans in Norway?”

  “If I heard, I’ve forgotten.”

  “Legionnaires fighting in snow instead of sand. He knew how crazy that was. But he didn’t argue with his orders. He said, ‘What is my aim? To take the port of Narvik. For the Norwegians? The phosphates? The anchovies? I haven’t the slightest idea. But I have my mission, and I shall take Narvik.’“

  “Yes,” Durado said. “We have our mission.”

  “Something’s moving over there,” Kline said.

  Durado squirmed next to him and peered between the boulders.

  At a gate in the Damascus wall, a white flag appeared. Several legionnaires emerged, recognizable because each man’s cap was the Legion’s traditional white kepi. Unlike the shorts and short-sleeved shirts that Kline’s unit wore, the uniform of the opposing legionnaires consisted of full-length sleeves and pants.

  In the last of the setting sun, they formed a line against the wall, stood at attention, and formally presented arms to Kline’s unit.

  Kline strained to distinguish their faces, unable to tell if Rourke was among them. Even so, he had no doubt that, if he got closer, he’d be able to call each of them by his first name.

  At once, he gripped the boulder on his right. Using it for leverage, he stood.

  “What are you doing?” Durado asked in alarm.

  But Kline wasn’t the only man who stood. All along the ridge, sentry after sentry rose to his feet.

  Soon Durado did, also.

  Someone yelled, “Present...arms!”

  The line of sentries imitated their brethren across the way. Kline’s chest felt squeezed as he went through the ritual that ended with him holding his rifle close to him, the butt toward the ground, the barrel toward the sky.

  From somewhere in Damascus, a bugle played, echoing across the valley. The song, “Le Boudin,” was familiar to every legionnaire, who learned it by heart at the start of his training. It dated back to the nineteenth century, when Belgium had refused to allow its citizens to join the Legion. As the pulsing melody faded to a close, a bugler on the Demi-Brigade’s side took it up. Soon voices joined in, filling the valley with the normally comical lyric about blood sausage and how the Legion wouldn’t share any with the Belgians because they were shitty marksmen.

  “Le Boudin” was followed by another favorite from the first day of training, “La Legion Marche.” Its energy expanded Kline’s chest and made him sing so hard that he risked becoming hoarse. Even though his voice was only one of thousands on both sides of the valley, nonetheless he did his best to make Rourke hear him.

  The Legion marches toward the front.

  Singing, we are heirs to our traditions,

  One with the Legion.

  The song praised Honor and Loyalty, virtues that gave the Legion strength. But Kline’s voice faltered as he realized that absolute loyalty to a mission was what had brought the Legion to this moment.

  When the lyrics reached their refrain, a section of it made Kline stop singing entirely.

  We don’t only have weapons.

  The devil marches with us.

  He couldn’t help remembering the conversation he’d had with Rourke when they’d enlisted long ago.

  ‘“My name is Legion,’“ Rourke had said.

  “ ‘For we are many,’“ Kline had responded. “A possessed man says that to Jesus, trying to explain how many demons are in him.”

  From Damascus and from this ridge, each side now repeated the song’s refrain, their voices rising.

  The devil marches with us.

  As the sun dipped completely behind the horizon, the music sank as well, echoing faintly, descending into silence.

  Enveloped by darkness, Kline stood at the bottom of the ridge, staring up at the cold glint of the emerging stars.

  He left Durado and made his way to the mess tent. Although he had no appetite, he knew that he would need all his strength in the morning, so he ate the bread and bacon that was served, and drank bitter coffee. Many other men sat around him. None said a word.

  Later, in the shadows of his tent, he wondered what Rourke had done that was so horrible it had made him join the Legion as his punishment. Had he set a roadside bomb intended for a British army convoy, only to see it blow apart a school bus full of children? Or had he set fire to a house occupied by an Irish family who supposedly had revealed the IRA’s battle plans to the British, only to discover that he’d set the wrong house ablaze, that the family who’d burned to death was innocent? Would those things be terrible enough to make someone like Rourke hate himself? In his nightmares, did he hear the screams of the dying children, just as Kline imagined his wife sobbing over the corpse of their daughter, reaching for a razor blade to slit her wrists while Kline hid from the police because of a bank robbery in which a guard had been killed for $24.95?

  Everybody ran in different directions,Kline remembered. I never got even a dollar.

  Imagining the relentless coughing that had racked and smothered his daughter, he thought, I should have been with them.

  He remained awake for a long time, staring at the top of the tent.

  * * * *

  Explosions shook him from a troubled sleep, so many roaring blasts that he couldn’t distinguish them. The ground, the tent, the air—everything trembled. The first shock waves slapped his ears, making them ring. But amid the persistent heavy rumbles, his ears quickly became numb, as if muffled by cotton batting. He grabbed his rifle and charged from the tent, seeing the chaos of a camp being struck by artillery shells. Powerful flashes illuminated the darkness as rocks, tents, and men disintegrated in the blasts.

  Murky silhouettes of legionnaires ran desperately toward the cover of boulders, toward pits they’d dug, toward anything that would shield them from flying debris. The camp’s own artillery returned fire, how
itzers and tanks shuddering as they blasted shells toward Damascus.

  Burning blasts erupted from the sandstone buildings over there. They and the muzzle flashes of the cannons turned the darkness into a pulsing twilight that allowed Kline to see his way toward a rock wall behind which he dived before a nearby blast sent shrapnel streaking over it.

  The bombardment went on for hours. When it finally ended, the air was thick with dust and smoke. Despite the continued ringing in Kline’s ears, he heard officers yelling, “Allez! Allez! Get on your feet, you lazy bastards! Attack!”