Sands of Destiny

by E. C. Tubb

  He turned and walked away, a proud son of the desert and, as he vanished behind a file of rocks, Marignay wiped his perspiring face and neck.

  “Do you think that he meant what he said?”

  “He meant it,” said Corville grimly. “He swore to it on the Koran and no Arab will ever break that oath,” He shrugged as he stared at the fearful face of the colonel. “You know what to do, of course?”

  He meant that the colonel should kill himself after destroying the guns so as to save himself the promised torture, but Marigany seemed to have arrived at a different conclusion.

  “Yes.” he said slowly. “I know what to do.”

  Corville bit his lips with thoughtful suspicion as he stared after the figure of the colonel.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ESCAPE INTO INFERNO

  TWO men died within the next hour. They died from machinegun bullets as they tried to draw water from the well. Following their deaths came the expected charge and the newborn day was rendered hideous with screaming raiders and the echoing volleys from the defenders’ rifles. The legionnaires beat back that charge but, when the burnoosed figures had hidden themselves again in the hills, less than half of the remaining legionnaires were left to defend the shattered fort.

  And those few had no water.

  Thirst became a real and living thing, The sun, burning down from the cloudless sky, seemed to suck every drop of moisture from their veins so that they licked their cracked lips and sucked at bullets to relieve their thirst. Sergeant Smith, his brown scarred face grimed and streaked with sweat and blood, saluted as Corville came up to him.

  “The men are in bad shape, sir. We have no water at all now, what little there was has been given to the wounded, and the wine is almost all gone.”

  “How is that?” Corville knew that the fort, like most garrisons, usually contained a great deal of wine. In many cases it was better to drink wine than water of doubtful purity and. in any case, the legionnaires were entitled to a ration of two litres per man per day. Smith shrugged at the officer’s question.

  “The casks were punctured by bullets, sir. Some of the Arabs, or it may have been sheer chance, fired at the barrels. The wine leaked out before I could plug the holes. There is a little left, a few litres only, and I have issued that to the wounded.” He stared up at the sun. “In any case it is not good for men in the sun to drink too much wine.”

  “I see.” Corville glanced at the sweat-streaked faces of the legionnaires. Below them, in the centre of the compound, the well was a mockery with its promise of endless water but, menaced as it was by the machineguns, it was a death trap.

  Standing on the firing platform he stared towards the rocky hills, his eyes narrowed as he sought to locate the deadly weapons.

  “What are you thinking of, sir?” Smith crouched beside him his eyes anxious.

  “We must have water,” said Corville. “Tell me, have you managed to locate the machineguns?”

  “Yes, sir.” Smith pointed then drew back as a Jezail spat fire and sent its heavy slug whining towards him. “They have one over there, behind that pile of stones. The other is to the right, see? Just behind that boulder.”

  “I see them.” Corville nodded as he spotted the thick barrels and improvised defences of the two guns. “Smith, you are a good shot. Are there many other marksmen left to us?”

  “All the legionnaires are good shots, sir. But I know what you mean. Jenson, Henriques, Schwarzt and Brunner are about the best marksmen we have now.”

  “Good. Get them together, each with a man to load for him, and extra rifles to hand. Place them so as to lay a cross-fire over the machineguns. Give them orders to shoot every man who tries to serve those guns and, at the command, to concentrate on rapid fire. I want to prevent those guns from being fired for long enough to get some water from the well.”

  “I understand you, sir, but you will, naturally, call for volunteers to get the water.”

  “I was thinking of getting it myself.”

  “No, sir. With all respect to the lieutenant, he must not do that. If he were killed the fort would be without a commander and....”

  “Colonel Marignay is your commander,” said Corville shortly.

  Smith shrugged.

  “The men think otherwise, sir. You will permit me to call for volunteers?”

  Corville nodded, there was nothing else he could do. As Smith had said he was, if not in name, then in fact in command,

  The arrangements were soon made. Eight men, four to each machinegun position, took their places, each man with one other to act as his loader and to pass him a refilled weapon. Corville placed Jenson, and Schwarzt with Smith and one other man, taking Brunner. Henriques, and a small, wiry Basque as his own team. Tensely they crouched behind the merlons, gauging distances and trying to forget that, even as they fired, they would be targets to the watching Arabs.

  “Ready?” Corville rested his cheek against the stock of the Lebel, drawing a bead on an inch of turban showing from behind a rock. “Let the volunteers start as soon as we open fire. Now!”

  Eight rifles spat as one and an Arab, his turban splotched with red, sprang from behind his cover, shrieked a prayer to Allah, and died with four bullets in his body. Again the rifles sent echoes across the surrounding hills, again, again, the swift reports sounding almost as if the men were using machineguns instead of bolt-action rifle. Corville aimed and fired, aimed and fired until his mental count told him that he was using his last cartridge. Swiftly he threw down the rifle, lifted the loaded weapon his attendant had placed in his hand, and was firing again without a second’s pause.

  Splinters of rock and shattered stone flew from where the machineguns rested behind their barricades. One gun began to stutter its song of death then fell silent as lead whined towards the gunner. For a moment it seemed that the plan would succeed then, as the watching tribesmen saw what was happening, rifle fire echoed from the hills and leaden messengers of death whined through the burning heat towards the fort.

  The Basque swore, stared stupidly at the sun, then toppled lifeless towards the sand below. Henriques twisted as if something had cut the nerves of his legs, screamed in a strange, high-pitched voice, then, his kepi falling from a head that was a red-stained ruin, fell towards the compound. Corville gritted his teeth as splinters of dried brick stung his cheek, fired at a turbaned head, swore as the rifle jerked almost out of his hands, and flung it down, its stock torn and his barrel bent by the heavy bullet from a Jezail. Quickly he re-aligned the new weapon handed to him, then swore with hopelessness as a machinegun began to spray the fort with lead.

  “Down!” He snatched at Brunner’s arm. “Down, you fool!”

  “I’ll get that gunner first.” Brunner, a study in cool detachment, aimed as if he were back on his own Yorkshire Moors shooting at nothing more harmful than a rabbit. Twice he fired then, as he grunted and took more careful aim, the hosing death from the machinegun swept towards him.

  Corville shuddered as he turned away from the body. Brunner had been a handsome man but now? Now his head had been literally ripped from his body and blood spouted from the severed arteries.

  Smith came crawling towards the officer, his face grim as he stared down into the compound. Corville followed his gaze, half-hoping that the volunteers had managed to win a little water. His heart sank as he saw two figures sprawled beside the well.

  “Snipers,” explained Smith. “They were more clever than we thought. The machineguns were to keep us down and their own snipers covered the well.” He stared at the men who had died. “Eight men dead and not a cupful of water in return.”

  “I shall be the next to try,” said Corville harshly. “We must have water, even a canteen would do. You can’t hope to cross the desert without it.”

  “I’m not crossing the desert, sir, I told you that.” Smith snatched up a rifle and fired at a distant shape. A thin scream echoed from the surrounding hills and a blob of white sprawled across the rocks. The
sergeant smiled with grim humour as he reloaded his Lebel.

  “That’s one devil the less. I wish that they were all as easy to kill.”

  “Someone must carry the news to Colonel Le Farge,” insisted Corville. “I am in command here, I can’t go. Of all the others you stand the best chance.” He gripped the sergeant’s shoulder. “Damn it, man! Can’t you see how important it is?” He had lapsed into English and Smith answered in the same tongue.

  “There is something else far more important, sir. There are two women in the fort, and you know what will happen to them if they are found by the Arabs. I think that it would be best to shoot them before the final charge. The brother too, it is not fair that he should have to suffer because of the criminal stupidity of the Colonel.”

  “Sergeant!”

  “I mean it, sir. Colonel Marignay is a dangerous fool. Worse than that. For one thing he is far too friendly with Sheik El Morini. For another, hasn’t it struck you as odd that he sent a relief column out to rescue us in the desert? Did he want to rescue us? Or did he want to weaken the garrison by having more men killed before the attack?”

  “Do you know what you are saying, Smith?” Corville glared at the sergeant in shocked disbelief. “You are accusing him of being a traitor!”

  “Well?” Smith stared steadily at the young officer. “This whole attack is out of the ordinary. The attack at night, when always before the Arabs attack by day. The blowing up of the main gate and the setting of machineguns to deprive us of water. The Colonel, remember, wouldn’t let me draw water for storage when we had the chance. And another thing, why doesn’t he show himself more often? The men are beginning to talk. They wonder why he remains in his quarters so much, and remember, the arms and ammunition are stored beneath the Colonel’s private chambers. He has the key and, without it, we can’t get in to destroy them.”

  “The parley,” said Corville, “I was suspicious even then. It sounded as if El Morini was reminding the Colonel of what would happen to him if....” He swore with bitter anger. “A traitor! Is it possible?”

  “Perhaps the Colonel is just weak,” suggested Smith. “I have no proof of what I say, but this I do know. The Colonel talks of a Villa near Toulon. How can any officer afford a luxury villa? Marignay has no private means, that is why he persuaded his friends to get him this command. How did he become rich so soon?”

  “So you think that Marignay will permit us all to be killed and then, when the battle is over, hand over the guns and ammunition to the raiders?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could be right and if you are....” Again the young officer swore bitterly as he thought of what would happen if such a thing were to come to pass. Armed from the fort, inspired by their easy victory, the tribesmen would call on their brother nomads and, within days, the desert would be aflame with war. Marojia. the arsenal town of the Legion, would be attacked and fall easy prey. Then, armed to the teeth, the Moslems would declare a holy war and the Great Jehad that Le Farge feared would drench the sands of the Sahara in innocent blood.

  Corville stared up at the sun, now directly overhead, than looked towards the enemy-filled hills

  “Listen. This news must reach Colonel Le Farge. It is more important that he should know of the threat to Marojia than that we should try to save the fort here at Onassis.”

  “The fort is doomed,” said Smith bleakly. “It is just a question of time before we are all dead. One more charge, perhaps, and then, at nightfall without a doubt, the garrison will fall.” He glared towards the sulking Arabs. “They are beginning to value their own skins. Why should they charge and die, even if it means taking the fort now, when they can wait until the sun has weakened us and their snipers cut down our number? If what I think is right then they will wait until nightfall to attack. Then there will be fewer of us to destroy the guns. The Colonel can make his unholy bargain with El Morini, and, no matter what tale he chooses to tell, there will be none to deny it.”

  “What do you suggest?” Corville asked the question as he would ask it of an equal. The sergeant was no ordinary man and, had he wished, he could have been a captain long ago.

  “The news, as you say, must be carried to Sidi bel Abbes. You must take it if, for no other reason, you will be believed where I would not. Again, you have the experience to pass yourself off as an Arab. Your features are the same, you speak the tongue like a native, and you know the religion and customs.” Smith stared at the young man. “You must disguise yourself, await the final charge and then, in the confusion, slip over the wall, mingle with the enemy, and so make your way through their lines.”

  “And desert you all?”

  “Yes.” Smith glanced at the grim-faced men lining the parapet. “Legionnaires are not afraid to die. They will fight to the last man and kill as many as they can. There is no fear that any of them will live to be tortured. But it is up to you not to have made their sacrifice in vain. Unless the news reaches Sidi bel Abbes then all the dead and those who are about to die will curse you from their graves for having failed them.”

  “You are right.” Corville sighed as he thought about it. He would rather have stayed behind to have died with his men but that would have been a useless gesture. The fate of a nation depended on what he would decide and, with the scales balanced that way, he had no real choice.

  “Then you will go?” Smith stared anxiously at the young man. “You will carry the news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I shall attend to the women. It will be better for them to die now than to fall into tje hands of the Arabs.”

  “Wait!” Corville swallowed as he tried to imagine the young American girl lying dead with a bullet in her brain. “It may not be necessary. I have taught them the words of renunciation and acceptance of Islam. The Arabs will not kill them if they are true believers.”

  “Normally, no, but things are not normal.” Smith scowled towards the Colonel’s quarters. “They will be killed,” he said quietly. “If for no other reason than that they know too much. If the Arabs do win the guns and ammunition then neither Marignay or El Morini will want witnesses to what happened. Moslems or not all Ferengi will be slain. The men immediately, the women....” He shrugged and Corville knew what he hinted. Again he thought of Clarice and the thought of what might happen to her filled him with an inner sickness.

  “Can’t we save them?”

  “How? Take them with you? Impossible!”

  “But is it?” Hope burned in Corville’s eyes. “Listen. You can pass for an Arab and we can disguise the women and the man. Together we can slip through the enemy lines and make our way to Sidi Baba. There we can obtain transport to Sidi bel Abbes.” He gripped the sergeant’s shoulder. “We can do it, man. The five of us can escape this death trap easier than one.”

  “I don’t know.” Smith hesitated, torn between his loyalty to the officer and his desire to die with his comrades. “I will admit that there is a greater chance of five of us getting through than one. We shall be better able to defend ourselves for one thing, but....”

  “It is an order, Sergeant,” said Corville quietly, guessing the reason beneath the other’s hesitation. “We travel together or none of us travels at all.” He squinted at the sun again. “Get the girls ready and instruct them in what to do. When darkness falls and the Arabs charge again we shall slip over the wall and away. Pray Allah,” he said fervently, “that they do not charge before then. I do not think that the men could withstand it.”

  Allah must have heard and answered his prayers. The sun swung to the horizon and still, aside from a desultory fire from the hidden snipers, the fort was quiet. Quiet that is aside from the groans of the wounded and the cravings of men tormented with thirst. Twice they had tried to draw water from the well and each time the stutter of the machineguns had made a ghastly accompaniment to the death of another man. Now the area around the well was covered with the bodies of the slain and the thick, dried brick of the inner wall was mottled with the pit
-holes of bullet marks.

  Corville stared grimly at the dead, knowing that soon he too must make the attempt to snatch a little water from the well. It would be tempting fate to try it, but it would be certain death for them all if he did not. To cover the distance between Onassis and Sidi Baba without water was an impossibility. They would be dead before they had covered a third of the distance.

  The young officer had a plan, which, suicidal as it seemed, was the only one he could think of. It depended on speed, speed and darkness. And he waited for the all-too-short twilight that would herald the coming night and the last, final attack of the Arabs. The sun sank lower, lower and a strange hush filled the air as, obeying the call of their Mullah, the Arabs bent towards Mecca in prayer. As he heard the thin, high voice of the Mullah calling the faithful to prayer the young officer acted.

  Gripping a half-dozen canteens beneath one arm he lunged forward towards the dimming shape of the well. He ran as he had never run before, trusting to the dim light, the concentration of the Arabs on their Mullah, and the very suddenness of his attempt to defeat the enemy gunners. He covered half the distance, two thirds, three quarters, and, just as he reached the waist-high parapet, a rifle bullet chipped splinters from the brickwork before him. With one bound Corville jumped over the top of the parapet and, snatching at the bucket-rope with his free hand, dropped down to the liquid coolness below.

  Quickly he filled the canteens, then, laving his face and body, drank his fill of the crystal clear water. Slinging the canteens around his chest he gripped the bucket-rope and climbed towards the top of the well. At the top, just below the parapet, lie halted, his heart thudding against his ribs as he faced the most dangerous period of his attempt.

  All the other attempts had failed because the men had been cut down before they could raise the water. He had solved that problem by jumping down into it but now, with his mission almost completed, he still had to get out of the well and behind the safety of the thick walls. The moment he climbed from the shelter of the brickwork he would be the target for the concentrated fire of many guns. His only hope lay in speed.