Ivan, slower witted than the rest, growled, “Well, what is wrong with that? Maurice was playing in with you, mon corporal. It was—”
“Shut up, pig!” snapped Montrey.
I studied their faces for the space of a minute. I saw then that they were not glaring at Montrey. Their eyes were on me. I already could feel the sharp points of their needle bayonets going through my flesh.
I did not sleep any more that day.
CHAPTER SIX
Fight in the Mosque
IN the white moonlight we approached the walls of the city—or what had once been a city. Tier after tier of stones had been standing there for hundreds of years. I am not enough of an archaeologist to give you the exact description and type and period, but even to my unpracticed eyes, this seemed the work of Romans.
Approaching a wall which had dwarfed us, the others turned to me. Montrey smiled, his dark eyes were blazing.
“You think we cannot find our way out of here?” he said.
“I don’t know, Montrey,” I replied. “It would be rather difficult without a compass. Of course, it’s nothing to me if you want to get lost in these mountains. Nothing at all.”
Then Montrey pointed to something which I had not seen before. It was a stone-paved road leading out to the northwest. A Roman road, built nine feet into the ground, imperishable. It would show the way.
They would not need me anymore.
Simultaneously with that discovery, Gian made another.
“The Berbers!” he cried. “They didn’t follow us down here!”
All eyes swept to the southeast toward the empty mountains. It was true.
They had not followed. But it was not a cause for relief. There must be something in this city which they feared.
I stepped away from the others. By moonlight it was impossible to see very far with any distinctness, even though the moon was as bright as an arc lamp.
Looking back at the town I saw the gates. Something was moving beside them. Something white. Had the Berbers followed us after all? I did not think so. The hillmen would want nothing better than an open plain to start an attack. As we were without cover they could wipe us out by the very crush of numbers.
Montrey trotted toward the gate and I went up to him. The white thing had disappeared. Montrey tested the tall iron grilling. In this high altitude, the iron did not show any great signs of wear or rust—a fact which is very usual but which caused me a bad moment. The grill was shiny at the height of a man’s hand!
“We’d better get out of here,” I said. “If we don’t, I’m afraid there won’t be any of us left to go back.”
“You should worry about going back,” snapped Montrey. He swung around and I saw that he held a Chauchat at waist level. By the moonlight I could see the fire in his eyes.
I dived to the right, expecting the impact of bullets at any instant. But instead I heard a creak of rusty hinges. I looked back at Montrey and past him I beheld a white robe. The gates were open!
The man said something in a language which sounded like Arabic, but before the sentence was finished, Montrey had wheeled on him with the auto-rifle. Almost in the same instant, a sword flashed in the gatekeeper’s hand.
Montrey let drive. The powder flame turned the wall a dull red. It seemed that the gun went on forever before the gatekeeper collapsed.
Kraus, Gian and Ivan came on the run, faces set, guns ready. They headed straight for the gate.
“Don’t go in!” I shouted. “The town is occupied!”
But I might as well have told the silent hills to move. Montrey in the lead, they swept in through the portals and ran down a narrow street, boots ringing against the stone, their bandoliers clanking. I rammed after them, pack jarring my back.
Instantly the town was alive with men. They spewed from every doorway. Crude lanterns jumped into being. A concerted howl went up from a thousand throats.
The four ahead of me would not stop to make a stand. They were mad with the lust for gold. They did not seem to realize that there would be no escape for them, ringed as they were with walls and men.
Ahead was a cleared space—probably the old forum. The stones were worn and in the moonlight the white pillars of the buildings which faced it loomed like so many ghostly soldiers.
On a rise a hundred feet away stood a square, squat building built like the Acropolis. Montrey headed for it.
To the rear of the three others ran Gian. His head was lowered and his teeth were set. From a roof above us a rifle cracked with a streak of red flame. Gian stumbled and caved in.
I paused long enough to snatch up the auto-rifle and the cartridge belts. Another rifle spat down at me and knocked my kepi away. My auto-rifle barked and the gun above me clattered to the street, followed by a white-robed figure.
Recovering the kepi, I sprinted on. A small bridge was underfoot and I could hear the gurgling wash of the river beneath.
Montrey knew what he was doing when he headed for the square building above. It was the only one which could be defended—and it was obviously an old Roman temple.
I toiled up the steps. Above I saw Montrey unlimber an auto-rifle. Ivan was already at work. The machine gun rapped and roared, sending screaming bullets into the streets below.
I made the entrance of the building with one last jump and dived inside, heading for the rear.
Two statues were in this dim interior, statues of the Roman gods. But they were lying on their sides, broken into great fragments. Mohammedanism had come to this city, that was plain. Therefore, this was a mosque.
A shadowy body was catapulted at me, knife shimmering in a tense hand. I sidestepped and pulled the trigger. The man went skittering back, flat on the floor, driven there by my bullets.
I was not a moment too soon in reaching the rear of the mosque. Men came swarming up the hillside, weapons gleaming beneath the white moon.
Bracing the Chauchat against a pillar, I let them have it. The line wavered. Those in the rear were knocked back by those who fell in front.
No cover was available on that hillside. After the first rush was checked, even while the leaders exhorted their men to go on, I started at the left side and fired in an arc to the right. Pausing midway I fed more bullets into the smoking breech. The arc went on through.
In less than a minute the hillside was carpeted with white—nothing stirred.
Before I could get my breath I saw that I had not deterred the remaining forces in the least. They were forming at the bottom once again, ready for a second charge.
Although the Chauchat was hot enough to melt, I hammered three short bursts into the group across the forum just to show them that they were far from out of range.
I reached back confidently to where I had dropped the bandoliers. I reached further back, fumbling with the collapsed canvas. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was all out of ammunition.
I sprinted for the front of the mosque, risking an attack on the rear in my absence. The machine gun had gone silent as had the other auto-rifles.
Ivan was sprawled across his weapon, hands still on the trip. A pool of blood was widening on the white stone.
I whirled about and stared down the platform. Gian was doubled up, moaning, hitching himself toward me.
Gian’s face was twisted in agony. He pressed pain-stiffened hands against his belly. Through the reddened fingers I saw that his belt had been shot away.
From within the mosque I heard Montrey’s voice laughing shrilly. Then I heard Kraus’ bellow of rage. Gian was close to me now, his eyes pleading. I knew what he wanted.
I unstrapped Ivan’s rifle, jacked a bullet into the chamber and sent it sliding toward Gian. I turned my back and went into the mosque. The crack of the Lebel outside was dull, muffled.
Montrey’s laugh was there again and I ran toward it. I saw an oil lamp, fed by mutton fat, hanging from the wall. Below it, bending over a chest, stood Montrey and Kraus. Some bright-colored stones were still rolling on the floor. Montre
y had jerked a necklace away from Kraus.
They straightened up and I knew they had not heard me enter. Kraus reached back for his rifle, his face scarlet with anger. Montrey’s revolver was there first. The revolver barked.
Kraus jerked himself erect, rising on his toes. Montrey fired again and Kraus fell face forward to the stone.
My own rifle was off my back. The revolver went spinning away from Montrey’s suddenly red hand as I shot from the waist.
His face was blank with surprise. He recovered instantly.
“Curse you!”
“Shut up. The rest are dead,” I snapped. “We’ve got to get out of here and get out fast. I’m all out of bullets for this auto-rifle and there aren’t ten shots left in that machine gun. We can’t hold out, understand? It’s going to take the two of us to get out of here!”
With that I went over to the man I killed in the mosque. I stripped him of his white robe and found it filthy with grease. Bringing it back, I laid it out flat before the chest.
Montrey, unarmed and realizing what I had said was true, dipped his hands into the chest and began to scoop out handfuls of stuff which glittered and shimmered in the light of the swinging oil lamp. Several bright bars lay in the chest but I shook my head.
“No gold, get me? It’s too heavy. And to blazes with that amber you’ve got!”
Grudgingly, Montrey let the amber slide back and scooped out another double handful of gems. Wrapping the ends of the robe around the glittering heap, I emptied my pack of everything that I did not think I could use. But that did not include the many pounds of gunpowder and dynamite that I had hauled all these torturous miles. Montrey looked on, sullenly.
“How are we going to get out?” he muttered. His wounded hand had sobered him.
“Follow me,” I ordered.
From the rear of the mosque came a medley of yells. They had discovered that I was not at the top of those steps, and they were coming up.
Montrey and I stopped by the front pillars. I hurriedly gathered up the rifles. I extracted the bolt from the machine gun and then demolished the working parts with a smash against the stone.
Ivan’s dead eyes seemed to follow us as we plunged down the steps toward the bridge.
Gian no longer had eyes. A Lebel bullet fired by his own hand had finished him.
But we had no time to worry about dead men. Very live men rose up before us like ifrïts. Guns started up. Slugs whined about us like angry wasps.
Heads down, burdened by excess rifles, we ran toward the bridge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The River of Death
WE made the bridge because we ran too fast and changed our course too often to make good targets.
I dropped the rifles to the deck of the nearest barge and then followed them over the edge. Montrey landed behind me like a cat.
Casting off the rough hempen line, we shoved the scow out into the swift stream which bisected the town. That done, I snatched up an auto-rifle and fed the last clip into the breech.
The men who had assembled on the bridge over our heads hastily drew back under the hail of bullets. The snipers along the river banks shrieked and dived for shelter. The stream carried us swiftly toward the aperture which let the river flow on through the valley to the steep gorge at the far end.
Then I heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs far away. Mounting their barbs, Allah’s children were making certain that they would reach the gorge before we did. I wondered why we should not be able to slip on through the gorge. I found out soon enough.
Montrey, thinking that the danger was passed, turned on me. “I suppose you think I’m going to let you—”
I lowered my rifle.
“You’re staying with me, Montrey, until I don’t need you any longer.”
“Got an idea that you can take me into Legion headquarters or something like that?”
“Shut up and lay on with that pole. We’ve got to get to the gorge before those horsemen. Otherwise, we’re liable to be out of luck.”
That brought him back to momentary truce. He snatched up the pole and plied it with a will. The arch in the west wall of the town passed swiftly over our heads. When we were out on the plain, floating swiftly along, the horsemen rounded the near wall and thundered along the bank toward us.
I leveled the auto-rifle and fired three bursts, emptying several saddles. I discovered once and for all, as I started to fire again, that the auto-rifles were useless. We were out of everything but rifle bullets.
Without ceremony I dumped the three Chauchats into the river and followed them up with all the Lebels but two. At least they would never fall into Berber hands.
The plain whisked by. Ahead I heard the mutter of falling water. I knew then why they seemed so certain of catching up with us. That gorge was filled with rapids, perhaps falls, as are most river gorges. I knew that we didn’t have a chance. No more rapid-firing guns—only two Lebels and a questionable supply of ammunition for those. The auto-rifles and the machine gun were what had kept us from annihilation thus far.
Just before we reached the gorge, I headed the scow into the bank. We jumped out and let the barge float on.
Running again, I saw a footpath that seemed to travel along the riverside.
Montrey slacked up.
“What’s the use?” he cried. “We haven’t anything with which to defend ourselves. They’ll hunt us down no matter how far away we travel!”
I did not answer him. I was too busy working in the cliff side. From a short distance away came the pounding of hoofs, as ominous as distant artillery fire. Montrey stood looking back, gripping his Lebel with white-knuckled hands.
I had drilled a dozen deep holes in the soft, crumbly rock, so I unstrapped my pack and hauled out the dynamite and gunpowder. It was a moment’s work to cap the sticks and apply the fuse.
Stuffing the holes full of explosive, hoping that this would give us a temporary respite, I applied a match. The fuse sputtered.
The hoofs were nearer now, less than two hundred yards away. Montrey saw what I had done. He ran ahead of me. The horses were almost to the gap.
I dropped down on one knee and held them up for a moment with two shots. The horsemen pulled in and unlimbered their own guns. The moonlight sparkled on naked steel.
Suddenly the entire world seemed to fly apart. I had had no idea that the explosion would be so great. Boulders flew away from the cliff. Rocks showered down like mortar shells.
The bright river was suddenly obliterated by the fog of dust and flying fragments.
I was knocked flat by the concussion. My face in the dirt, I heard the whole cliff begin to slide away.
My ears ached with the impacts of sound.
The opposing cliff caved in, jolted to its very base.
Then everything became still. The dust settled slowly and evenly over the gorge. Once more the moon shone through.
I heard a laugh behind me and scrambled up. Montrey stood there, feet spread apart, his rifle centered on my chest.
“That,” said Montrey, “was very clever, mon corporal. And it will save me a great deal of bother. Those people cannot get out of that valley. When we came down we had to slide like goats. The upper gorge is a torrent.” He pointed to the river below us.
It had ceased to run! The cliff had dammed it!
“And I suppose,” I said, “that I’m to die now.”
“Correct,” replied Montrey, raising his Lebel the fraction of an inch which centered it on my heart. “There is no need to share that wealth with you.”
I found courage enough to laugh.
“Then fire away. I still have a stick of dynamite in my pack and a box of caps to go with it. One jar and we’ll both die!”
Montrey’s mouth gaped. He drew hastily away from me.
“That’s not far enough,” I told him. “It might blow the cliff down on your head.”
He backed up once more, never taking his eyes from me. When he had reached the range of fifty ya
rds he stopped and threw the gun to his shoulder.
I dived away into the protection of an overhanging ledge. Montrey fired but he had neglected, as Ivan had neglected with the machine gun, to set his sights.
My own Lebel’s crack brought the echoes out of the rocks. I fired three times. The first struck Montrey in the chest. The second and third smashed his face. He wilted toward the edge and then stumbled. His body fell into a pool of quiet water below.
Perhaps Montrey has found out in some other world that I had not possessed so much as a single cap or stick in my haversack.
I made my way to Casablanca without much difficulty, traveling fast and by night, using the stars for a compass.
Outside of that city I found a clothier and I outfitted myself, discarding Legion garb.
It was obvious that I could not go back to Sidi. One cannot readily explain the loss of an entire squad. And if I had gone back they might have given me some time with the Zephyrs just to show me that an insignificant corporal should not take the initiative of leaving his post, lack of water and temper of men notwithstanding.
Besides, mes amis, what need have I for a sou a day? Or for the cover the Legion affords to the indiscreet? I paid up my bills, paid them double—and I did not miss the price!
Story Preview
NOW that you’ve just ventured through some of the captivating tales in the Stories from the Golden Age collection by L. Ron Hubbard, turn the page and enjoy a preview of While Bugles Blow! Join an American Lieutenant in the French Foreign Legion caught in the middle of an ancient feud between two tribes in the Moroccan city of Harj. When a gorgeous woman finds herself drawn dangerously into the midst of the conflict, the Lieutenant does what any man must—he saves her . . . igniting a war.
While Bugles Blow!
AN offer came from the crowd.
The girl, standing there stripped before this barrage of eyes, hung her head. Her hair was long and brown and fell so as to partly hide her delicately featured face. Her eyes, blacked with kohl, flicked upward every few seconds to look at the men who bid for her.
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