Hell's Legionnaire

by L. Ron Hubbard

  We who have been in the Legion sometimes know more than the trails. Working for a pittance a day we should have known nothing of vast riches—gold piled in heaping stacks, glittering gems which might have graced the head of Cleopatra. No, there is entirely too much contrast there. We should never have known.

  I sat behind a machine gun, bowing my head under a merciless sun which was sending heat waves writhing all up and down the sides of the bare brown mountains. The heat waves made a target jump like a 1912 movie. But if they were bad for me, so were they bad for the Berbers who lurked down in the ravine, or on the opposing slope—gray white swirls of burnoose, gone before a man could get a decent aim.

  My only protection against the shrill whine of snipers’ bullets was the rough-hewn murette—the rock wall we had built on our arrival. The machine-gun’s black snout was thrust through an embrasure so as to command the slope which went down from us to the ravine bottom. Near at hand Chauchats were stacked—three of them, clean and ready. Back of me, in the poorly constructed pup tents, the remainder of my squad stretched out under canvas, panting in the heat, hoping for the coolness of night.

  I had not shaved or washed for three weeks. One cannot keep clean on a swallow of water a day. Nor can one do a great deal to fight off thirst. The only water hole for miles was with us, inside the murette, and the man who named it a water hole was the century’s greatest jester. It had been going dry, inch by inch, until now there remained but a damp scum over the bottom—green scum at that.

  Within forty-eight hours our water would be gone, and the only answer to that predicament would be a pell-mell rush down the ravine toward the main command which lay some leagues to the east. It was doubtful whether we could get through those white robes; moreover, the district had been reported subdued. No patrols would be out checking on us. I had not sighted a plane for three days.

  A man in the tent nearest me moaned incessantly. A sniper’s bullet had caught him just under the belt, smashing his hip. He had been delirious for twelve hours. Soon he would die.

  The five other men were silent save for their heavy breathing. Hungry and thirsty, baked by sun and caked with dirt, not yet rested after a long campaign, they found no heart to talk.

  Although my eyes were burning with the shimmering haze of heat, I saw the movements across the ravine. Several Berbers sprang out from behind a rock the size of a moving van and began jumping up and down, waving their guns.

  Suddenly a stone rolled down below. I boosted myself up to my knees and stared into the ravine. Not ten feet away from me a pair of beady black eyes set in a chisel-sharp face returned my stare.

  The fellow had a knife clutched in his fist, a rifle across his back. Behind him came five others.

  I grabbed the machine gun and depressed the muzzle as far as I could. The second man in the attacking party drew a revolver and fired. My cap went spinning away to thump against the tents. Hands were over the edge. I snapped down on the trips.

  The first dozen shots caught the leader square in the face, hammering it into a raw mass of blood. The second burst cut the man with the revolver just above the belt line—cut him almost in two. Before the others could turn and run for it I centered my sights on them and let drive.

  Their bodies went bumping and sliding down the slope. I helped them along with a few shots. In a moment there were six bundles of rags far below, lying motionless, gray white robes turning scarlet with blood.

  Montrey, a small Frenchman and second in command, came racing out of the first pup tent on all fours. He crawled over to me.

  “Name of a name!” swore Montrey. “They are gone?”

  “Yes,” I told him.

  “Confound it! I missed the fun.”

  “Wasn’t any fun to it,” I said. “If they’d come five feet further before I saw them they’d have gotten me. And they’d have gotten the rest of you before you could have reached your Lebels.”

  “Maybe,” replied Montrey, seating himself and fumbling for a smoke.

  “How is the little fellow?” I asked, referring to the wounded man.

  “Copain? He’s all right. Or will be in another three or four hours. He’s lucky, that one. No more worry about water, no more worry about these Berber pigs.”

  “I think I’ll go in and see him,” I said.

  Copain’s eyes were wide open, but he did not see us. He was sprawled on his blankets. Flies, attracted by the blood, were already gathering. Copain was small and wiry. His yellow face was quite calm.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked him. I knew that he would not answer, that he had not heard, but I felt that I should say something.

  But Copain surprised us. His lips drew open and he twisted his shoulders around. By the light of his eyes I knew that he was deep in delirium.

  “You’ll get it all now, won’t you, Tanner? All of it!” Copain’s glassy eyes flickered. “You’re a swine, Tanner.”

  Montrey looked at me quickly. This Tanner that Copain talked about had been killed some weeks before in a line skirmish far to the east. And Copain had been there at the man’s finish.

  “But before I see you get all of it, I’ll take this gun—this gun, see? The gun that killed André! I’ll take this gun and shoot you down like a pig! You won’t get it if I’m not there. We’ve waited too long.”

  Montrey tried to smooth Copain’s forehead.

  “Easy, soldier.”

  But Copain threshed out his arms and with amazing strength threw Montrey back from him.

  “Get away from me! Get away from me! You can’t talk me out of it. You can’t do me out of my share! I’ll get it in spite of you and hell and the Berbers. And I’ll spend it on cars and women!” He was shouting now, his glazed eyes narrowed.

  “Quiet,” I said. “It’s Montrey and your corporal. It’s all right, Copain.”

  The flap of the pup tent lifted and curious, unshaven faces peered in.

  Montrey shook his head.

  “He won’t live an hour if we let him roll around like that.”

  “Which makes it three hours less he’ll have to suffer if he comes out of this,” I said. “I wonder what the devil he’s talking about.”

  Copain, through that fog of delirium, must have heard me.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Tanner. It was you that went with me when we discovered it. It was you that said to wait a while until we could get André out of the deal before we made a break.”

  “André?” muttered a man in the entrance. “He was found shot in the back last month—shot with a Lebel.”

  “Sure he was!” howled Copain. “Sure he was! I did it, didn’t I, Tanner. I did it. He wanted all of it. Every last bit of it. And so I shot him.”

  I didn’t like to crouch there listening to another man’s secrets. I started to back out but the crowd in the door wouldn’t let me through.

  Copain was talking again.

  “You couldn’t even find your way back there! You weren’t ever in the Intelligence, Tanner. You need me and you’ll take me with you!”

  I didn’t like the sudden light which came into Montrey’s eyes.

  “I’ll take you with me, Copain,” he said. “Just you and I, eh? We’ll go get all of it. And because you know the way and have the map, I’ll let you have sixty percent.”

  At first I thought that Montrey was just trying to humor Copain. I should have known better than that. I should have been on my guard. God knows, if I had been, maybe some of those men would be living today.

  Copain appeared to be easier.

  “All right, Tanner. Just you and I. And I get sixty percent because of that map. You don’t know where it is, but I do, and I’ll find it as soon as I’m off this post. We’ll make a run for it tonight. There’s plenty of it for both of us in that town, isn’t there, Tanner?

  “More than fifty Moor barbs could carry. Jewels, Tanner —think of it. And gold. I’ll take the jewels. Gold is too heavy, Tanner. And I’m . . . I’m . . . tired. . . .”


  Copain sagged back on his blankets. His eyes flickered shut. Phlegm rattled in his throat. His fingers contracted like claws.

  I moved forward again and drew the blanket over Copain’s face. Then I crawled backward out of the tent and went over to the murette. I sat down on a rock, facing the opposite side of the ravine.

  Suddenly, Ivan’s machine gun jerked out of the embrasure and pointed at me. Another gun rammed its blunt muzzle against the small of my back. I looked up and saw Montrey’s queerly tight face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mutiny

  I gave my kepi a tug and looked at Ivan. “Perhaps, Ivan, you had better save those bullets for the Berbers and point that machine gun back into the ravine.”

  Ivan’s dark, sunken eyes did not waver from my face. Nor did the machine gun.

  Montrey smiled.

  “Mon corporal,” he said, “I have said a few words to the men. They have decided to give you a chance.”

  “Very nice of them, mon général,” I snapped.

  “You might do better,” replied Montrey, “by sitting there and answering a few questions.” He jerked his gun at Ivan and his smile broadened. “Mon corporal, why did you join the Legion?”

  “What are you driving at, Montrey?”

  He struck a pose, looking like a scarecrow, and I would have laughed at him had it not been for the revolver and machine gun.

  “We want to know if you wish to continue serving France.”

  “Yes,” I replied, as quietly as I could. “If you’re talking about desertion, we don’t know anything about the country to the northwest of us and I don’t think we could even get through east to the main command. These devils think too much of our Lebel rifles and they hate the Makhzan on general principles. We’ll have to stick until we get a relief column.”

  “Mon corporal,” he said, “I have said a few words to the men. They have decided to give you a chance.”

  “Relief column, hein? You think they care enough about a squad to send a relief column after it—running the risk of losing a whole company in doing so? You are cafard, mon corporal. You think only in terms of brass bands and medals. If you do not wish to come with us, then we will find this map and go ourselves.” He lifted the revolver. “Without you.”

  “So that’s the way the wind blows. You’ll murder me and light out yourselves. How do you think you will find your way? No one has ever marked these peaks. You have no charts. You would be lost a day’s march away from this base.”

  “You have a compass,” smiled Montrey. “We would like to borrow that.”

  I reached into the right breast pocket of my tunic and pulled out the compass. It was primarily designed for determining azimuths and interceptions for machine-gun fire. It had a raised wire sight and when one looked through the glass eyepiece he saw a number on the compass disc and the object which would determine a bearing.

  I handed it to Montrey and with a glance to make certain that Ivan Njivi was still covering me, Montrey raised himself up until he could see over the parapet. He took a sight on a red boulder across the gap.

  “It is in good order,” said Montrey. “I thank you. Now we have no further need of you. Understand, mon corporal, that we shoot you not because we do not like you but because it is irksome to be hampered by a higher rank in our midst. Ivan! You might as well finish him.” Montrey stepped quickly away and Ivan squinted at me through the sights.

  I managed a smile.

  “Wait a minute, Montrey. Before you are so foolish as to kill me, take another sight at right angles to the one you just took.”

  He eyed me for several seconds. Then, feeling that I was doing more than stalling for time, he raised himself and sighted another boulder. He sank back in a moment, his face blank.

  “Why—why, mon Dieu! This reads almost the same! It must be broken!”

  “No,” I said. “It is not broken. Perhaps you have heard that iron deflects a compass needle. It so happens that these mountains are so full of iron ore that it is impossible to obtain a correct compass reading. You might as well throw that instrument away, Montrey.”

  “But,” cried Montrey, “how can you find your way around?”

  I was breathing easier.

  “Montrey, I don’t think you ever heard of trigonometry. Nor calculus. Nor could you name a single constellation in the sky.”

  His face was still blank.

  “What is a constellation?”

  “A body of stars,” I replied. “I was once a civil engineer, Montrey. They have to know such things. That is why I was on Intelligence work the first few months I was in the Legion. Not spy Intelligence, but mapping service. Because I mapped better than the officer in charge of the party, he became afraid that I would use my knowledge against him. He had me transferred to the line companies. Did you hear what Copain said before he died? Copain was an Intelligence man, also versed in mapping.”

  Montrey gestured to Ivan and scuttled back to Copain’s tent. The three men dived in with Montrey. The canvas shook, fell apart. Angrily they threw back the khaki rags and spread all of poor Copain’s meager belongings on the ground. With ruthless, lustful hands they set to work. Equipment was torn to shreds. Even the blanket was taken from the dead man and ripped apart.

  These men, a few moments before, had been good soldiers, but now, with the scent of gold in their nostrils, they had gone mad. Too much privation, bad food, too little water. It was an old story, that madness.

  In a few moments they discovered that Copain’s kepi had a double lining. They slit the innermost one and then Montrey was standing there holding a piece of mapping paper in shaking hands. Three unshaven faces peered over his shoulders. Ivan wanted to go but he did not leave the gun.

  Presently, Montrey came over to me and threw the paper in my lap. “Intelligence, hein? I see but little intelligence to that, mon corporal.”

  The sheet was covered with accurately drawn lines and minute figures. The readings were all in longitude and latitude, figured down to seconds. To a layman, it was an aimless jumble, but to a former Intelligence man, it was quite comprehensible. Vividly so.

  Copain had taken vast pains with this map. He showed the High Atlas with wriggling, correctly read contours. He had spotted peaks, estimated their elevation; he had drawn a small square, marking it with the recognized symbol for stone walls—a series of circles. It was easy to see that this city lay in a valley between two mountain ranges.

  Also that a river ran through the exact center of the town and found its way out of the valley by means of a deep gorge.

  “There is much intelligence to this, but it will do none of you any good. Go back to your tents and get out of this sun. We’ll have another attack tonight.”

  “No you don’t!” snarled Montrey. “You are going to lead us to that place. And we are leaving at dusk.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  Montrey glanced about him. A coil of line was at one end of the murette. I knew then what he intended to do. A band around the forehead, drawn tight as a tourniquet, is a pain no man can stand.

  I decided that I could only get out of this by smashing my way through. While his eyes were still on the rope I suddenly grabbed Montrey’s wrist.

  With a howl he jumped away, trying to bring up the seized gun. Ivan crouched lower over the machine gun, unwilling to shoot Montrey.

  Montrey twisted about, threw me off balance and jumped back. Ivan’s eye was tight against the machine-gun sight. He pressed the trips.

  It was Ivan’s pride that he was the best machine gunner in the Legion. I knew that his slugs would hammer me to pulp in an instant.

  Suddenly Ivan ceased to fire. I looked up, expecting to find myself dead. But Ivan sat beside the gun, grinning foolishly and staring at the sights. He looked at Montrey and shrugged, pointing to the sights.

  Montrey, half-crouched, eyed the revolver which lay in the dust halfway between us.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ivan, chuckling. “It’s th
e sights. They were set for six hundred yards. I fired over the top of his head.”

  Like a huge ape, he rocked back and forth. His mind was too flighty, too childish, to see any further than the joke. He, Ivan, the best machine gunner in the Legion, had failed to notice that his sights were set for six hundred yards when he was firing at thirty feet.

  Montrey relaxed and looked once more at the rope.

  I sighed.

  “Oh, what the deuce, Montrey. We can’t stay here. Let’s try for Casablanca way to the northwest. If we happen across the pipe dream of Copain’s, we’ll take along the loot. But I’ll go on one condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “Yes. That I am still in command of my own squad and that my word is law. We go as a body of Legionnaires, not as a rabble. Remember, Montrey, I am the only one that can take you to that place.”

  Montrey relaxed and shrugged.

  “All right, mon corporal.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Berber Bullets

  I assembled my men after they had finished the task of burying Copain. They looked at me with feverish eyes. Montrey licked his thirst-swollen lips. Ivan Njivi fumbled with his hands. Kraus, the German, Gian, the Italian, and Maurice, another Frenchman, made up the remainder of the squad. We had buried the other two a few days before.

  “Listen closely,” I said. “After moonrise it will be too late to get away, but I suspect that the Berbers will be waiting until they have light enough to make their attack. That should come within the next hour.

  “We will file along this ridge, one at a time. Then we will drop down into a ravine. That point will be our rendezvous. From there I will have to lead the way because we know nothing of what lies beyond.”

  They nodded, nervously. I knew that they did not fear the Berbers we might meet. They were overcome by the thought that they might have enough money at the end of this trek to live the rest of their lives in luxury. I knew that they would be hard to handle—harder even than when drunk.

  There is nothing quite as bad as gold madness.