He glanced round the group of operational staff officers until he detected the elderly and faded colonel. Jonot directed an accusing glare in his direction.
“You, colonel, will be particularly interested in this. I recall that when we met a fortnight ago you foresaw much trouble with the native populations.”
“I still foresee it, man generale. The enforced evacuation must have caused a great deal of ill-will.”
He waved his copy of the survey report and added: “There has been some trouble with the Arabs in each command area of the Zone, according to this…”
“Except in the Fort Ney area.” The colonel gave a puzzled nod.
“Oui, I see that Fort Ney sent a signal this afternoon reporting that the evacuation has gone to plan. They make no mention of meeting any hostility. I’ll admit I’m surprised. I can see no reason why the Fort Ney area should differ from the others.”
Jonot fumbled in his despatch case. He produced and consulted the trooping schedule.
“Fort Ney,” he announced with some drama, “is commanded by a Lieutenant D’Aran. That name may be worth remembering, gentlemen. D’Aran is obviously a highly competent officer. I will congratulate him personally at the earliest opportunity. It has always been my policy to encourage those who carry out their orders with imagination and ability… that brief, succinct message we received from him this afternoon reflects a clear mind working with smooth efficiency. One or two senior officers here might study Lieutenant D’Aran’s methods with advantage, for I have always said…”
The general was enjoying himself.
And his operational staff suffered in respectful silence.
2. One Gun…
D’Aran did not sleep that night.
He writhed against his bonds like a man in a fever. His mind was a hot tumult. He tried to calculate the diminishing hours to dawn. But he had lost all sense of time. There was only blackness. Only the night was real. The night and the fear which stalked within him.
Supposing they failed?
But they were almost certain to fail! It was not really a plan they were going to put into operation. It was a mad tilt at the wheel of chance. A gambler’s last throw against odds of a thousand to one.
It all turned on at least one gun and an extra clip of ammunition. One was as important as the other. A Luger alone, holding a mere ten rounds, would be next to useless. Those additional cartridges were essential;
But would they get either?
It would be a divine act of providence if they managed to snatch the pistol from the guard. But surely the Divinity would not intervene twice!
Non, it would fail. And some would die with slugs in their bellies. Just as the Russian had died. But it would be worthwhile. In fact, those who were shot would be lucky. Better to go that way than to be trussed like cattle and await the explosion.
And why should he, D’Aran, worry? He had nothing to live for.
That safe in the orderly room… it would surely be opened by now. And he would be branded a thief. A cheap little upstart. A disgrace to the uniform of France.
Lucinne…
Dieu! He hadn’t thought of her for days! Yet she had possessed him once. Held his whole body and mind in serfdom. And now… now he could think of her with cold indifference. He could see her for what she was. Well, what was she?
A tramp!
Oui, a tramp in rich clothes! And Lieutenant D’Aran had been a piece of garbage she had picked up, then tossed aside!
He started to laugh. A low-pitched but hysterical laugh. It stopped when Legionnaire Keith Tragarth whispered: “You all right, mon officier?”
So the Englishman was awake, too!
Legionnaire Tragarth would die tomorrow—or was it today? He would either die at dawn when their bonds were unfastened, or at 15.00 hours in the afternoon…
But Tragarth would die honourably. Like a man. Tragarth did not know the agonising humiliation of hating oneself.
Ah out, lucky Legionnaire Keith Tragarth!
Damn you, you’re yellow! Keith told himself.
You always were yellow. Didn’t you shake your pants off when the creeping barrage started at Alamein? Oh yes; you got through all right! You managed to fight it down and you got a Mention in Despatches. Plus a nice spray of laurel leaves to stick on your medal ribbons. But God, no one knew how scared you’d been!
The same in Italy.
Before the first bloody attack on Monte Casino you got down on your knees and prayed when no one was looking. Yes, prayed! Pleaded for a little guts!
And hadn’t you been glad when you got a gun-shot wound in your leg!
It meant safety in a base hospital while better men were being blown to bits.
You were glad, too, when you were sent back to England. On leaves between assault training you were able to walk amid the peace of Devon again. And hope that perhaps the invasion of Europe would never come. But it came. And you, Keith Tragarth, were quaking in one of the first tank landing craft. You fought your way up the beach in a blank daze.
You were in a daze all the way across France.
Then you quit! You turned and ran!
“I’m a gutless swine,” Keith whispered. “I deserve to be haunted by the men I betrayed in Germany. The men who fought and died while I was skulking away…”
He heard a laugh.
It came from D’Aran’s bunk. Keith collected himself and murmured: “You all right, mon officier?”
D’Aran became quiet after muttering something.
And Keith thought: “So he can make a joke of it all! He’ll die tomorrow, but he’ll die like a man. He won’t hate himself.
“Ah, lucky Lieutenant D’Aran…”
Full daylight.
But no heat yet in the sun. It directed pale shafts of light on the bunks and on the bound men.
There was a strange lack of movement among those legionnaires. Almost as if they were corpses.
And there was but one sound—the droning of the sand-flies as they darted from man to man getting their morning fill of salty sweat. It was a good day for the flies. No bodies were contorted to throw them off. They bit and they sucked at leisure. For the legionnaires scarcely noticed their presence.
Then, from beyond the locked door, footfalls. They echoed dimly as they approached. Each separate impact between boot and stone seemed to say, “soon, soon, soon…”
It was a signal for a relaxing of the tension. Simultaneously, all the legionnaires eased against their constricting ropes. There was an automatic flexing of muscles. A simultaneous licking of dry lips. The sand-flies lofted angrily to the ceiling. The footfalls had almost reached the door.
Soon, soon, soon…
They stopped. A clink of keys. A rasping insertion into an old and massive lock. The turning of the mechanism, which was a mere mass of mechanical agony.
And the door was open.
Six guards entered, all holding Lugers. They paused on the threshold, making a swift preliminary inspection. Satisfied, two of them advanced to untie the bonds so that the legionnaires could eat, drink, and attend to the other needs of nature. The four others remained just inside the door.
It was a long tedious process, that freeing of the ropes, for they were always knotted with skill. The two guards progressed along at either side of the room, taking nearly two minutes to each man.