6. DEATH AT SUNRISE

Chapter 1

WIND OF THE DESERT

They are only seven together. Just seven soldiers in the boundless infinity of the Sahara. They wear the blue jackets and white kepis of the French Foreign Legion.

Sergeant Catroux, the small, grey Frenchman with his jaunty little moustache and lively blue eyes. Then there is Fritz Mundt, the German, largest and strongest in the entire Foreign Legion, Teuns Stegmann, the blond South African, broad of shoulder, but lithe in movement like an athlete, Jack Ritchie, the Englishman, cast out by his family as a black sheep. Then there is also Podolski, the Pole, who joined the Legion because his fat wife nearly drove him to madness at home, Petacci, a little Italian who preached so much hate speech in his fatherland that he had to flee, and lastly Jorgensen, the large, lumbering Norwegian who looks as though he is always dreaming of the cool fjords of his homeland.

Their boots crunch northward through the sand, and their water flasks slap against their sweaty backs.

“I wish something would happen,” yawns Podolski, the brave Pole who has witnessed so much bloodshed in this desert. “This walking is driving me stark raving mad. Even if a vulture attacked us now, just so I could stab it dead with my bayonet.”

“Well, you’re cheerful, you big Pole,” says Teuns Stegmann, looking back at Podolski. “If you have too much energy, why don’t you jog ahead to Fort Laval.”

“He’s completely childish,” grumbles Jorgensen. “Who wants to look for trouble in this heat?”

“Just big talk,” snaps Petacci the Italian.”

Podolski pays no attention to the others. “Or what do you say, old giant?” he turns to Fritz Mundt. “You’re always looking for action, aren’t you? These old patrols through the sand are making me fed up!”

But Fritz Mundt does not answer. He puts his forefinger in his mouth, holds it there for a moment, and then raises it into the air, just like someone pointing to something in the deep blue sky.

“Looks like the old giant is starting to go childish too,” Teuns jests. “He’s sucking his finger like a child now.”

“Wait, I think he’s about to venture another grand prediction,” teases Jack Ritchie. “He is, after all, the great oracle of the desert.”

They look surprised at the big German who is always so quick to react, ready to respond and quick-tempered by nature, not only with his mouth but readily with his fists too.

He turns his head, looking around, glances upward, and scans the entire horizon with narrowed eyes.

“There’s a strong wind coming,” Fritz Mundt then says softly.”

“Wind!” Teuns Stegmann scoffs, and the others all start laughing. “The only wind in this desert right now is the wind coming from that big windbag mouth of yours!” the South African continues.”

“I tell you there is wind. One cannot feel it, but it is there, and it is a kind of wind I do not like. I think Podolski will soon get all the action he craves.” Without another word, the German steps out of the short line and hurries towards where Sergeant Catroux is striding ahead of them, head down.”

“I think old Fritz’s head isn’t working right anymore,” Jorgensen remarks from behind, but Petacci corrects him. “He knows this desert thoroughly. He never predicts incorrectly.”

“Then Field Marshal Rommel has at least one admirer in the Foreign Legion,” Podolski teases Petacci.”

Then they fall silent and listen to what Fritz Mundt is saying to Catroux.

However, they cannot hear it, and then Catroux suddenly brings his small patrol to a halt.

He immedi