4. REVENGE OF THE DESERT

Chapter 1

DYING RIDERS

On the ramparts of the fortress Dini Salam of the French Foreign Legion, two guards walk towards each other in the night wind, and when they meet, they click their heels, as is proper for them to do.

They do not, however, turn about and march away from each other in opposite directions, as is also proper for them to do.

For one guard has spoken to the other, which is naturally completely improper and entirely contrary to the discipline of the Foreign Legion.

“Jack,” whispers the one guard, who, with the long Lebel rifle over his shoulder, appears large and strong in the faint moonlight.

“Yes?” whispers the other guard curiously.

The large one is Fritz Mundt, the colossal German, the biggest man in the entire garrison, indeed in the whole Foreign Legion. A man who could down a whole barrel of beer if only given the chance.

And Jack is Jack Ritchie, the blond Englishman from the nobility, who joined the Foreign Legion rather than disgrace his respectable country family in England over a minor transgression he committed there.

“What is it, Fritz?” whispers the Englishman softly, narrowing his eyes, trying to discern the expression on the German’s face.

“I tell you, something’s amiss, something’s definitely wrong. I can feel it.”

“You’ve said that a hundred times already, Marshal Von Boek,” teases Jack, although deep down he doesn’t feel at ease either.

“It doesn’t matter if I’ve said it a thousand times,” the German defends himself. “It remains true nonetheless.”

“This won’t be the first patrol to arrive late, Fritz,” Jack tries to console him whisperingly, but his own words do not convince him at all.

“They should have been back three days ago, and to this day, there’s been no word nor sign of them.”

“Perhaps run into some pretty Arab girls at some oasis or other, old giant,” Jack attempts to jest.

Fritz Mundt, as serious as the nation to which he belongs, pays no heed to this frivolity. “Didn’t I tell you it would bring misfortune if they separated the two of us from the South African, Teuns Stegmann? Haven’t I always told you that? And here we have it now. I tell you, disaster has struck that patrol precisely because the three of us were separated. It’s not good. It’s completely wrong. I’ve always had that feeling. And now that sense of foreboding has been realised. I can feel it in my bones. I don’t know what possessed D’Arlan to separate us three this time. Why didn’t he send us out together on this patrol?”

“I think D’Arlan has a plan to promote the South African to the rank of corporal. That’s why he was sent with Vermeer’s patrol. Nothing else.”

“Jack, can you recall a single occasion when the three of us were not together, me, you, and Teuns Stegmann? Can you?”

“Not once have we been separated,” Jack Ritchie concedes, and suddenly this realization sends a shock through him. He, the big German, and the South African Stegmann, had become inseparable friends, and they had always contrived to be together, even in the greatest danger. If they drank too much wine, they were always together to help each other. If they had leave and took out women, they were together. If a fight broke out among the men, the three of them were together. In the desert, they had often shared each other’s last water and smoked each other’s last cigarette butts. And the two of them are more than just companions to the tall, blond South African, who joined the Foreign Legion because Arabs murdered his brother in the Second World War. They harbour for him a tacit admiration, for he is the bravest man they have ever seen. Neither of them has forgotten how Teuns Stegmann once saved an entire column of the Foreign Legion in Doetra, the capital of the rebellious Doelaks, led by t