Fifty-Fifty O'Brien

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “Yes, there’s one waiting for him.”

  “I saw it this morning,” volunteered the company clerk. “It’s written out to Sergeant X.”

  Pierre slapped his boot again; the clerk saluted and moved on. The two officers wandered away through the yellow sunshine.

  Grant smiled and looked at Boch far across the grounds. Boch was busy lacing down a couple of bleus who were out of uniform.

  Red Sand

  Red Sand

  PERHAPS it was the desert cold; perhaps it was the predawn blackness. Whatever it was, Hardesty felt a sudden chill.

  Walking to his post across the compound, unable to see a foot to either side, he had heard a soft rasp—probably some sentry changing his position. A second later the rasp was repeated and a man’s hard breathing was loud and hoarse in the blackness.

  All the manhunter in Legionnaire Hardesty came swimming to the surface, bursting through as a man does after long submersion. He ran swiftly toward the place he had heard it, leaped up the unseen staircase which led to the embrasures and groped in front of him.

  A heavy thump sounded close beside him. He reached out with his stubby arms, grabbing at thin air. His fingers touched cloth. Abruptly he felt as though an earthquake had jarred the Moroccan mountains. A heavy fist struck him full in the face. A bayonet slithered by his throat.

  To save himself he leaped backward. Space snatched him and he hurtled back to the compound. Jumping up he once more started for the steps. Although he could not see, some sixth sense guided him back to the spot which had brought the first combat.

  The heavy silence of the mountains and desert, so still that it actually could be heard, was once more settling on the legion post. Hardesty, every muscle tense, waited for something to happen.

  A gray line appeared in the east, turned brighter. Hardesty still waited. A shaft of sunlight struck a peak above and the world was faintly alight.

  He could see Kaslov hunched over the machine gun above the wall gate. Kaslov’s shoulders were tremendous things. His head was out of proportion—too small. His hands were three times the size of an ordinary man’s. The Russian was nearly six feet six and as brawny as a bull.

  “Kaslov,” said Hardesty, his somewhat squeaky voice very tight.

  Kaslov did not move and then Legionnaire Hardesty remembered. Some weeks before Kaslov had attacked a Berber stronghold with the others of the company. The Berbers had had a small one-pounder, stolen from France. Kaslov had bodily uprooted the gun, but, unfortunately, it had gone off close to his head. Kaslov was almost deaf, almost blind.

  Hardesty strode forward and touched the Russian’s shoulder. The man jumped and whirled about, hand on his bayonet. When he identified Hardesty, he grunted. “Oh, so it is you. You are late.”

  Hardesty knew he was late in his relief. But that had been caused by the scuffle on the battlement. “Did you hear anything up here, Kaslov?” asked Hardesty.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you see anything during your watch?”

  Kaslov’s small eyes were impudent as he gazed at Hardesty’s sleeve. “Huh. I do not see any chevrons.”

  Hardesty, a foot shorter than the Russian, adjusted his kepi. He did not touch the peak. He placed his hand on one side of it as one handles a bowler hat.

  “No, maybe you don’t see any chevrons,” said Hardesty, “but you’re liable to see lots of stars. Go on to bed.”

  The Russian looked half minded to break Hardesty between his two hands. Then he noticed that it was light, and refrained. Grumbling, he slouched down the steps and to his barrack room.

  “Now,” said Hardesty, staring at the retreating back, “what in the hell ailed him? His bayonet was backward in its sheath. I wonder—”

  He sat down, straddling the saddle of the machine gun. Of course, he hadn’t had any right to question Kaslov. Doggone it, this instinct of his would get him into trouble yet. The High Atlas had no bearing on Chicago. And Detective-Sergeant Flaherty was a long ways back from Legionnaire Hardesty.

  He fidgeted with the loading handle, looking down the narrow pass. Sometimes the Berbers got funny ideas about dawn. The lieutenant ought to be up here by this time, looking things over.

  Wondering who could have attacked him so pointlessly, he shoved his kepi over his right eye and scratched his head. His face was very round. He did not tan at all; he burned raw. He certainly did not make a very impressive soldier. But then he had been trained to find men, not to kill them. Some day, he supposed, they’d tell him that politics had changed back home. When that happened, he could return. The last gang and their crooked frame had certainly been tough on his reputation.

  Ah, well, he guessed he’d better forget all that. Failing to see any non-coms about, much less the lieutenant, he searched out a cigarette, jabbed it in the corner of his mouth as though it were a cigar and started to light it.

  His roving eye caught sight of a sparkle on the span over the gate. He stared at it, frowning. The match burned down and singed his fingers. Without any exclamation whatever, he dropped it.

  “Blood,” he whispered. “For heaven’s sake—”

  Moving swiftly away from the machine gun he touched the red spot. It was almost solid, and when it had touched the place first it had been old.

  The pale daylight showed everything in clear detail now. He thrust his head over the wall and stared down.

  “A stiff!”

  Unconsciously, he gnawed on the cigarette, staring at the inert body. The thing down there was horribly slashed and mangled.

  Turning he saw that Corporal Bereaux had come out of the barracks. “Hey,” cried Hardesty. “Hey, corporal! There’s a stiff down there in front of the gate!”

  Bereaux, tall and dark, a perfect martinet, ran swiftly up the steps to Hardesty’s side. He stared down and his swarthy face went chalk-white.

  “Damn those Berbers!” snapped Bereaux. “Go get the sergeant, quick!”

  Hardesty blinked at the order and then ran across the compound toward Sergeant Schnapp’s quarters. He hammered loudly on the door.

  Presently, Schnapp’s hard face and chill eye appeared in the crack. “What is it you want, hein?”

  “Sergeant, there’s a stiff in front of the gate,” said Hardesty.

  “Well, why call me, hein? Why not call the lieutenant?” A buckle jangled within and Sergeant Schnapp came forth, hitching his coat up over his beefy shoulders.

  Schnapp did not go to the embrasures. He took down the bars and opened the gates wide. His face did not change when he saw the object. He merely grunted and knelt down.

  By the grapevine operating in all military units, the men knew. They came pouring out of the squad rooms, across the bare compound, to stare over Schnapp’s shoulder.

  Schnapp grunted again and picked the body up.

  “Wait a minute,” said Hardesty, urgently. “Don’t touch him!”

  Schnapp glared and shouldered through. “Want to get shot by the Berbers, hein? What do you think they left this for, hein? Get inside, you pigs!”

  The stiffened corpse was laid, not too tenderly, upon the bare stone. Schnapp ordered the gate closed and then stared up at the lieutenant’s office.

  Instantly, his eyes came back to the corpse. There was very little left of the face. The throat had been cut. The arms had been slit open and dried blood covered the uniform, obliterating its marking.

  “My heavens!” cried Corporal Bereaux. “It’s the lieutenant!”

  “Sure it is,” snapped Hardesty. “Who’d you think it was—Napoleon? Listen, mon sergent—”

  “Shut up!” rapped Schnapp. “You know nothing about this. I know you were a detective somewhere else, but that makes you just a private here. Shut up!”

  Hardesty shoved his kepi over his eye, gnawed at a tattered cigarette and shoved his hands in his pockets. His
red face grew redder and his small eyes spun with anger.

  “Get up on the embrasures!” ordered Schnapp. “Who told you to leave that gun, hein?”

  Hardesty went, very sullenly. Once more he straddled the seat of the machine gun and listened to the squabble below.

  “Those Berbers,” growled Schnapp, “caught him when he was out on reconnoiter, yes. They took him apart like this and left him here for us to see. Those Berbers want this post, yes. If they get this post they will run their guns down here, yes. They think they can scare us out, hein?”

  Corporal Bereaux’s regulation voice came up to Hardesty. “But they can’t be allowed to get away with this. We ought to tear out there and wipe them up.”

  “That’s a good idea. Teach those pigs a lesson, hein? Yes, corporal, that’s a good idea. Trumpeter! Sound aux armes. Squads one and three—”

  Hardesty snorted in disgust and fumbled with the loading handle. By leaning out a little he could see the spot where the body had lain; he could see the red stains in the sand.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Russian, Kaslov, shoulder stolidly past Bereaux, head down, scowling. Kaslov stared up at the embrasure, glared at Hardesty and walked on into the squad room.

  Hardesty watched squads one and three depart down the pass, loaded with rifles, Chauchats, grenades. Vengeance was all right, guessed Hardesty, but it was feeble solace to his outraged professional training.

  At eight o’clock he went down to eat his breakfast, turning the machine gun over to his relief. At the rough table he slapped down his pannikin and canteen cup and began to eat.

  Presently a Legionnaire known as Tou-Tou, onetime sewer rat of Paris, seated himself across the board. “So the lieutenant got his, eh?”

  Hardesty bobbed his head.

  “I was across the fort when it happened,” said Tou-Tou. “I couldn’t leave my post, you see.”

  Hardesty looked up, frowning a little. “No, you couldn’t at that, could you?”

  “No, of course not. The conceit of those Berbers is pretty awful, isn’t it?” said Tou-Tou. “I see by the marks on the top of the gate that they tried to lift him over the edge, leaving him right in the compound. But the lieutenant slipped back, I guess.”

  “Yes, guess so,” replied Hardesty, eating. But his red face was unnaturally flushed and his eyes were restless.

  “Funny you didn’t hear it,” said Tou-Tou with a knowing smile. “But then, none of us liked the lieutenant, hein? But it’s a pity, it’s a pity.”

  “What do you mean?” snapped Hardesty, scowling.

  “Some say you get money from the United States,” replied Tou-Tou, his bitter face wreathed into a greasy smile.

  Hardesty very carefully picked up his pannikin. Without any warning whatever he pitched it, contents and all, into Tou-Tou’s face.

  The former apache yelled shrilly, leaping back. But before he could get to his knife, Hardesty launched himself across the table and grabbed him. Bodily, Hardesty pitched the squirming Tou-Tou out through the door.

  Hardesty wiped his hands on his khaki pants and turned to the popeyed cook. “Get me another plate of grub,” ordered Hardesty.

  The cook, for the first time in legion history, complied, without a word.

  At eight that night, Hardesty went on duty again. He seated himself on the machine-gun saddle, gnawing on a cold cigarette, and watched the pearly radiance of the upcoming moon.

  He lifted his kepi on the side, replaced it and gave it a pat on top to drive it down. Back in Chicago, if politics were running all right, they’d be after him for his opinion. Yes, indeed, they would. The newspaper boys wouldn’t have left his side for a moment. His phone would be hysterical, trying to keep up with the rings. Everything would be order.

  But here. Hell, here he was nothing but a damned Legionnaire, trained bayonet unit. He wished he could get a crack at some of those big cases back home. Those were the babies. He knew every crook in Cook County. He knew every joint. Take that bank robbery he’d just read about in Sidi. He’d have solved that by now. And back home they’d still be fumbling. Too bad he’d been framed and sent away—to this.

  His keen eyes picked up a moving shadow in the trail. Sitting erect he held the trips, ready for any Berbers who might spring out of nowhere.

  Tensely he sat there, waiting. The shadow was taking the center of the trail. A shaft of moonlight struck the silhouette. It was grotesque, all out of shape. What in the name of Heaven was—

  Suddenly he understood. Whirling, he bellowed, “Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard!”

  The corporal came running, side arms jangling and thumping.

  “Open the gate!” said Hardesty. “Two Legionnaires are coming up the trail.”

  The corporal unbarred the entrance. The small port swung open with a dismal creak.

  Presently a man staggered through, carrying another. Hardesty, jumpy with excitement, started to leave the gun and then remembered that, after all, he was a soldier now, not a manhunter.

  Corporal Bereaux eased the Russian, Kaslov, to the pavement and stood there, spent and panting, while the corporal of the guard slammed shut the gates.

  “What happened?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

  Bereaux sank down and mopped at his forehead. “I don’t know what happened!”

  Kaslov moaned and rolled a little.

  “What’s the matter with him?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

  “Slugged,” stated Bereaux. “I had … had to carry him for three miles. Lord, but he’s heavy.”

  “Where are the others?” demanded the corporal of the guard.

  Bereaux moaned, “They’re dead—all of them. I … I was sent out to reconnoiter. I heard firing behind me and tried to get back, but I fell down a ravine and when I could get to them— Lord, but it was horrible! They were dead! Ambush!”

  Kaslov sat up unsteadily. Legionnaires had poured out of the barracks, surrounding the two.

  “He was the only one left alive. He was far behind the others, working a Chauchat.” Bereaux stopped, breathing heavily.

  “Didn’t you see it?” demanded the corporal of the guard to Kaslov.

  “No. One burst of fire, my eardrums close. I can hear nothing. I got hit with something on the head, but … but I see no blood.” Kaslov felt gingerly of his skull.

  Bereaux stood up, angrily, the perfect non-com. “Why you filthy louse! You ugly hog! You made me carry you for miles because you said you couldn’t walk.”

  A chuckle ran about the circle and was then instantly still. It had suddenly occurred to them that they numbered eighteen and that they were completely without command. The lieutenant was gone. Sergeant Schnapp had gone along with two of the squads, three and one.

  A platoon at first, they were now but half a platoon. True, they had three corporals. The corporal of the guard realized what they faced. He turned to Bereaux.

  “You’re senior,” said the corporal of the guard.

  Bereaux, rocking on his feet with weariness, blinked about him. “Eighteen men? But by Heaven, the Berbers want this post! They’ll—” He checked himself but the rest understood.

  Hardesty nodded slowly, shifted his kepi, looking down from his post at the gun.

  “Someone will have to reconnoiter,” stated Bereaux. “We can’t afford to be surprised. Neither can we afford to fill all the posts all the time.”

  “I’ll go,” said Hardesty, rather surprised at the loudness of his voice. He realized then that he was under a strain.

  Bereaux stared up, swarthy face very tired in the moonlight. “Ah, the detective. Well, go then.”

  Hardesty surrendered his post to another Legionnaire and climbed down to the compound. He procured his rifle and a canteen of water.

  “Where,” said Hardesty, “did the Berbers ambush the s
quads?”

  Bereaux shook his head. “Not out there. Just scout the front and get back.”

  Kaslov’s brute face turned away. “If he can,” muttered Kaslov.

  Hardesty went through the gate. He could hear the murmur behind him. He could hear Tou-Tou’s wail, “We’ll be slaughtered!”

  Hardesty’s hobnails rasped and scraped on the stones in the pass. The moon cast his shadow behind him, conjured up other shadows to the fore. But Hardesty did not try to go either quietly or cautiously.

  He could trace the tracks in the sand. Seventeen men leave ample evidence of their passage, even by moonlight. At the end of a half-hour he found himself trotting across a smooth plain which ended in a ravine—a black gash across the silver of the world.

  He was thinking furiously. So the Berbers wanted this post, did they? Just how bad did they need it? So they could run their guns down this pass, Schnapp had said. Perhaps Schnapp was right. That had been foolish of Schnapp—going out that way. He had no business deserting his command.

  Fifteen minutes later Hardesty was beside the ravine. There was ample cover here—boulders, holes, niches along the cliff walls.

  Down below huddled a group of shadows, almost in formation. Hardesty stopped, adjusting his kepi again. He tramped down the slope of the hill and stopped again.

  Schnapp’s head had been blown away. He had been following the squads. The next row of men were hacked through the shoulders. The next had gotten it in the chest. And the front rank had been smashed through the small of their backs.

  Hardesty grunted. They were all dead in their tracks—killed almost instantly. Hadn’t they covered themselves any better than that? Oh, yes, with Kaslov and an auto-rifle.

  Hardesty sighted back up the slope. He knew the exact angle of fire because of the bullets in the targets. It was a rather gruesome calculation, but Hardesty knew that the gun which had mowed them down had been high and to the rear.

  He backtracked swiftly. Suddenly he saw the scattered empties which had spewed out of the breach. They were all in one square yard. The gunner had not moved. The guns were gone, of course. Leave that to the Berbers.