The Deserters (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 8

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
125 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082154-6 (ISBN)

Infos

They sold their souls to the French Foreign Legion.

But they never imagined they'd have to fight their own sergeant to survive.

Fort Ney, the Sahara Desert. In this sun-scorched hell at the edge of the world, legionnaire Joos Janse and his comrades are pushed past their limits. Their commander, the sadistic Sergeant Duparne, rules with an iron fist and a bottle of cognac, driving men to their deaths under the blistering sun for his own cruel amusement.

Falsely accused of mutiny and facing a firing squad at dawn, their only choice is the unthinkable. They have to desert but escaping the fort is just the beginning of their problems. Hunted by ruthless Bormoen warriors and stalked by the unforgiving desert, their desperate bid for freedom becomes a fight for their very souls. When they stumble upon an enemy army poised to slaughter their former comrades, Janse must make an impossible choice. Save themselves, or risk everything for the men they were forced to abandon?

A pulse-pounding military action thriller, this story of survival, betrayal, and honor will leave you breathless. Perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean and Bernard Cornwell.

Start your unforgettable Sahara adventure now with the eighth ebook in the series!

Textauszug

Chapter 2

TORTURE

Joos pushes through to the corporal. Out of habit, Org and Neels follow him. Joos’s eyes are narrowed to slits as he enquires. “Who, did you say, is to be flogged?”

The corporal clears his throat again. He wants to put this tall South African in his place for a moment. He does not want to be addressed so familiarly. There is, however, something in Joos’s demeanour that brings him to other insights and makes him decide to rather overlook this breach of discipline.

“His name is Stamm, I think I said that clearly enough,” the corporal answers curtly.

“Stamm, eh? Stamm is to be flogged! He’s Duparne’s orderly, true enough. What is he supposed to have done?”

“I understand he intentionally knocked over the sergeant’s cognac, out of sheer arrogance.”

Joos laughs, short and sharp. “Arrogance from Stamm! As I know that daft Dutchman, he’d apologise if he accidentally stepped on a fly. You must have heard the story wrong, Corporal. Surely it isn’t Stamm who’s to be flogged. It must be someone else.”

The corporal musters his courage and tries to appear as authoritative as possible. “I am not here to answer questions from a soldier, from an ordinary private. You heard my command. This command applies to every company in the garrison, and if you don’t hurry up and get ready, I fear that more people will be getting a tanning on this pleasant afternoon.”

He spins sharply on his heel and exits. Accompanied by groans and curses, the men begin to put on their equipment, equipment still damp with sweat from the recent parade. There are exceptions, however. About twenty men remain clustered around Joos. Among them are Org and Neels.

Joos strikes his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

“Just imagine, that daft little fellow who wouldn’t hurt a flea, supposedly knocked over Duparne’s drink! Do you believe this fantastic story? I don’t. Stamm is as incapable of that as Neels here is of playing the violin.”

“There’s no need to mess with me,” says Neels. “I can’t play the violin, and I reckon you can’t play the violin either.”

Org places his hand on Joos’s shoulder. “We have to go to the parade ground, or have you forgotten? I think we should hurry.”

Joos walks slowly to his cot and begins to put on his equipment.

Fort Ney is built in a small square, and the centre of the square is the parade ground. The dormitories, the kitchens, the supply stores are all in the northern wall of the fortress. All the walls are thirty feet high and five feet thick. Just below the tops of the walls are platforms on which the guards patrol ceaselessly. The main guard is in the watchtower from which the Tricolour of France flutters. The sliding gates are on the eastern side, and they look out onto Bormoen territory. These gates are as high as the walls, and they are only opened and closed when Legionnaires arrive or depart.

The consequence of this architectural style is that the heat is trapped and concentrated within the fort. That parade ground is like a hot Turkish bath, only without the humidity.

In this sun-baked little square, the already exhausted Company One assembles, to the left of the Second and Third Companies. The other two companies are relatively rested, as they are not tormented so much by Duparne.

Once again, sweat breaks out on them as they stand waiting for the sergeant’s arrival. Five minutes pass. The men, standing at ease, begin to shuffle. The junior non-commissioned officers also begin to shuffle where they stand.

Joos, standing here between Org and Neels, says. “I swear he’s watching us through the window and laughing himself sick because we’re standing here sweating in the sun.”

“There’s one fellow who’s not going to enjoy this spectacle,” says Neels, looking in the direction of the low doors on the other side, where the punishment cells open onto the parade ground. Two soldiers approach with Stamm.

In every army, there are men who look as if they ought to be tending little ostriches instead of bearing arms. In the weakest armies, there are many of them. In the best armies, they are few. In the Foreign Legion, there are decidedly few of them, but this Stamm is, without the slightest doubt, in the ranks of those hapless creatures who should never have arrived here in the desert. Under normal circumstances, he looks like a frustrated office clerk. On parade, he seldom gets the muzzle of his rifle higher than his shoulder, and he handles it as if it were a piece of lead. He marches with perpetual worry on his face, and he is invariably out of step, always desperately trying to get in step with the others. His large belly has repeatedly elicited the question from Duparne as to when exactly he expects to become a mother.

Stamm, however, always tries to put his best foot forward. He is the hardest trier in the Legion. He still tries to do everything efficiently, though he very seldom succeeds. Now he tries again. He tries to be brave. He tries again to get in step with the two guards. He looks almost like someone skipping rope. That large, round face glistens, and his eyes are bright as he comes along, half-skipping.

There is surely not a man among those standing there who does not feel pity and revulsion welling up inside them at this scene. Men who would think nothing of stabbing a comrade with a knife in a moment of anger suddenly feel sick at what they are witnessing. Men who have seen death so many times without batting an eyelid now feel lumps in their throats.

Most of them have seen comrades flogged with the sjambok. Many have been flogged with the sjambok themselves. This, however, is different. This is as if a defenceless child is being beaten because he cannot get a sack of maize onto his shoulders.

Neels feels it the worst. He knows this Stamm well. They are quite good mates, and no one has ever tried to harm Stamm when Neels was nearby. And Neels has always enjoyed protecting Stamm. In this big man, who boxed far in the past, there is a large and sympathetic heart.

“This is torture and nothing less,” says Neels, his colossal fist tightening around the barrel of his Lebel rifle.

Joos glances quickly at Neels.

“This is just an example of what I’ve been trying to impress upon you,” Joos says, hissing through his teeth. “Before the afternoon is over, perhaps even Org will think as I do,” says Joos.

Org hears these words, but he pretends not to have heard them. He just presses his glass eye more firmly into its empty socket and does not utter a blessed word.

The two soldiers and their prisoner have come to stand before the rows of men, and they too stand at ease.

It takes a full ten minutes before Duparne makes his appearance in the doorway of his quarters. He stands there for a moment, carefully scrutinising the rows of men. Then he approaches with quick, short steps until he is directly opposite Stamm and the two soldiers.

He shouts again, high-pitched and somewhat quavering, as he barks the command. “Attention!”

There is a dull rustle and a dull thud as more than six hundred boots are dragged over the sand and then quickly set down again. The men stand there as if suddenly turned to stone.

“At ease!” Duparne snaps again, and they resume comfortable postures.

Beneath the tan of Duparne’s face, there is a peculiar bluish tinge. He is not exactly swaying on his feet, but there is a slight movement above his hips as he stands there. He is decidedly not standing still.

His voice is high, sharp, and commanding when he speaks again. “A short while ago, I had to witness the most egregious insubordination in my entire military career,” he screams. “It came from Private Stamm, who now stands before you. After arguing with me about rations, he actually had the audacity to knock my cognac off the table. Doubtless, the foolish little pig thought he could later come and boast to you about his achievement. And you, of course, would have applauded him, my dear children. But you will not. You can now rejoice that the punishment to be meted out to this little man is not being meted out to you. I am going to show you how I deal with mutineers, how the French Foreign Legion deals with mutineers, my darlings.”

He swings around to the two soldiers. “Prepare the prisoner!” he screams.

Stamm’s uniform is ripped off, exposing his ridiculously small arms and a colossal stomach. His whole body is shaking now, though it is clear to everyone how he struggles to keep it under control.

Duparne looks to the right of the column.

“Private Araga!” he calls.

Araga steps out from among the others. The fact that his name is called does not surprise the others in the least. This robust, bestial half-breed is always needed when someone is to be flogged. Some say Araga’s mother was Spanish and his father a Moor, but others say it is the other way around. Whatever the truth, in Araga, the worst, the most animalistic of both those races, is combined. Nobody likes this man.

Everyone avoids him like the plague, for there is still a deadly, slumbering hatred in those black eyes of his. He does not know the word mercy, and he is quick to draw his knife when cornered.

Stamm is placed on another soldier’s back, his white back turned to the sun, that back which has not even tanned yet. Just like his face, it is as if there is a pinkish sheen on his back.

Duparne fumbles under his tunic and pulls out a cat-o’-nine-tails. The handle is of thick, hard leather, and then seven different braided lashes extend from it. At the tip of each lash, there is a small...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.9.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-082154-3 / 0000821543
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082154-6 / 9780000821546