Blood Trails in the Sahara (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 1

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
129 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082160-7 (ISBN)

Infos

They were sent to save a desert fort.

They walked into a massacre.

Now, three legionnaires are the only hope for an entire army.

In the blistering heat of the Sahara Desert, South African legionnaire Joos Janse isn't just fighting for France, he's hunting the man who brutally murdered his brother. His quest for vengeance leads his company straight into a trap set by the cruel and cunning chieftain, El Dowla.

Overwhelmed and captured, the survivors face a horrific fate of unimaginable torture. After a daring escape, Joos and two comrades carry a terrible secret. A treacherous plot to annihilate the Legion's main fortress.

Hunted by a relentless cavalry across blood-soaked sands, they are the only thing standing between their brothers-in-arms and a devastating slaughter. If they fail, hundreds will die, and the desert will bury their bones.

A gritty, pulse-pounding military adventure, 'Blood Trails in the Sahara' is a tale of survival, revenge, and unbreakable courage. Perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith and classic action-thrillers.

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

Textauszug

1. BLOOD TRAILS IN THE SAHARA

Chapter 1

ULTIMATUM TO THE COLONEL

Dini Sadazi? Now there’s a place fashioned by the devil himself. It is not exactly a place one would venture to of one’s own volition. Nobody goes there to live. But many go there to die. That is just the nature of the place. Some 5,000 Arabs reside there, and Dini Sadazi is but a flyspeck on the map, in the south-eastern extremity of the Sahara Desert. Moreover, it is the advanced headquarters of the Third Battalion of the Second Regiment of the French Foreign Legion.

By day, the sun bakes as if it harbours a personal vendetta against you. You sweat until you can sweat no more, and then you wander about like a desiccated potato. So, it is until evening descends. Then, it feels as though you might perish from the cold, as if the luminous moon shines from a sky above the Arctic Ocean.

In this desolation, it is only the flies that love you. They are so fond of you that they persistently endeavour to consume you. Sooner or later, this affection from the flies bestows upon you a fever, and then they lay you seven feet deep beneath the desert sand, and the world forgets you.

Do not, however, be discouraged. This Dini Sadazi can also be an interesting and action-packed place.

And precisely at this moment, things are afoot in this wretched little town.

It is nine o’clock in the evening. It is the time when it feels as if the day’s sweat is freezing on your back. For the past three hours, the battalion has been confined to barracks. The order had come suddenly. A group of non-commissioned officers had gone to round up the soldiers. They had gathered them from cafes, from the narrow, fetid alleyways, and from the clamorous marketplaces. Since then, not a single uniform of the Foreign Legion has been seen outside.

The Arabs do not like this. The fellow over at the market, gesticulating as if addressing a public assembly, had almost sold a thin-bladed throwing knife to a Spanish Legionnaire when the order came for the soldiers to return to barracks. And that girl, leaning out of the window, was thoroughly enjoying a conversation with a German soldier when the order interrupted their pleasant communion. Everything had just begun to proceed smoothly.

This sort of thing has never happened before, at least not as far as most inhabitants are aware. Dini Sadazi is a quiet little place. For the past twenty years, there has not once been a state of emergency. Some opine that the Legion is about to conduct manoeuvres. Others, in turn, believe someone has been beaten to death in the barracks. Most local Arabs have their theories, but none of them are correct, for this thing that has happened today is far worse than they imagine.

The colonel barks.

“A bluff? It might be, but I cannot afford to take the risk. Fort Ney is very poorly manned. There is no alternative. The garrison there must be reinforced immediately. Perhaps it will not be for long, but we must send reinforcements until we know what this wretched El Dowla is plotting, if indeed he is plotting anything at all.”

Colonel Ribrun sweeps his hand over his short, greying hair, a gesture of concern and desperation. Then he fumbles again with papers on his desk. He is worried, he is uncertain, and he is confused. He suddenly feels ashamed of these displays of nervousness, for a soldier of his status and experience should betray no emotion before a subordinate. He ought not to do so, not even in the company of a senior company officer like Captain Monclaire.

He cannot, however, conceal his feelings. He is grateful that Monclaire has endured sweet and sour with him for many years and can be trusted not to spread tales.

Monclaire stands looking at the large map against Ribrun’s office wall.

“The fort is eighty miles from here. It can be reached with a forced march in two days,” says Monclaire.

At first, it seems Ribrun does not hear. He sits staring at the piece of paper in his hands. The message on it is written in French. It comes, however, from a Bormoen Arab. It is written by El Dowla himself. It is short, and it is polite. That makes it seem even worse. The note points out that Fort Ney is situated in Bormoen territory. In the note, El Dowla claims that only one agreement was made for the occupation of Fort Ney by French troops, and that was a verbal agreement his father made years ago with the French authorities. Now that his father is deceased, however, he, El Dowla, no longer recognises any such agreement.

Ribrun stares unceasingly at the piece of paper on which the simple message is written. El Dowla demands that the fort be evacuated immediately. If this is not done, he reserves the right to act against the garrison as he sees fit.

The colonel sits wondering if one company will suffice to reinforce Fort Ney. That would bring the strength of the garrison to three companies. That is not very much for a fort in distress. He sits wondering if he should contact the regional command in Algiers. Then he hears Monclaire’s last words...

“That is the case. We have always reached Fort Ney within two days in the past. This means we will have to move in battle order. The men can take no heavy supplies with them, nor any heavy weapons. You know what that means?”

“It means a greater strain on the fort’s supplies,” says Ribrun. “More food and water will be needed. The extra men will not be able to stay there long unless we can arrange for extra provisions for the fort. It will be very difficult to replenish the necessities of life, for we ourselves do not have much here.” Captain Monclaire nods. He thinks the colonel is becoming fainthearted. Perhaps the colonel is growing old. Perhaps he has been in this scorching heat of Dini Sadazi for too long, with not enough to do.

The Arabs often make threats, but this El Dowla is different from most other chieftains. He is a highly educated man. He studied at the French Sorbonne, and he holds very strong views on Arab independence. The French tried to “soften” him at the Sorbonne, but their efforts had precisely the opposite effect on him.

El Dowla is cruel as a devil, and strange tales have been told about him. Most of them, however, are probably untrue.

Colonel Ribrun stands up. It seems his doubts now lie behind him.

“You will depart at ten minutes to midnight. If we are fortunate, it will mean you will have been on the move for a few hours before a message can possibly be sent to El Dowla. It is essential that he learns as little as possible of our movements. This ultimatum I disregard without further ado.”

He extends his hand to Captain Monclaire. The captain takes it in his and says softly.

“Do not worry, mon Colonel. If these Bormoen wish to act foolishly, we will know how to deal with them.”

Deep within, the colonel is a sentimental man. He looks at Monclaire’s pallid, lean face. With that, he gets a strange feeling, a feeling that he will not see this soldier of France alive again. It causes a lump in his throat, and in this moment, he wonders if he has not perhaps grown a little too old for this kind of existence. Perhaps he has been in this pernicious place for too long.

Suddenly, he says.

“Adieu, mon ami... Be careful. France cannot afford to lose its best soldiers.”

Joos Janse throws his heavy coat over his shoulders. Most of the soldiers of Company One have already done the same, for while just moments ago they were suffocating in the heat, it now feels like a winter’s evening on the Transvaal Highveld again. He walks to the adjacent cot. There sit Neels Bredenkamp and Org Ochse. Neels is recounting a boxing match he once had before the Second World War took him to North Africa. Neels spends most of his time talking about boxing matches he has had. He particularly enjoys telling how he once lasted three rounds against one of South Africa’s best heavyweights.

Neels says.

“I soon found out it doesn’t pay to try and block that devil’s right fist. I found out he punches right through your hand, if that’s all you’ve got. And do you know what? Once I started giving way to that right, he couldn’t touch me anymore. Later, he said I was as hard to hit as a butterfly.”

“I reckon any man is hard to hit if he runs away the whole time,” Joos breaks in.

Neels looks up quickly. The light from the oil lamp reflects off his astonishingly shiny bald head.

“If you weren’t in my kraal, I’d have knocked your jaw crooked by now,” says Neels. He stirs his shoulders to emphasize his words. They are large, angular shoulders. They are the kind of shoulders that make one think of the withers of a large ox, for Neels is a big man. He is as big as a tree.

Neels is the sort of man one does not pick a fight with, at least not if you do not want your hide damaged.

Joos, however, is not a man who cares much for his own hide. He possesses a sort of blind courage. Instead of backing down, he claps Neels hard on his back. It feels as if he is striking a large barrel with his hand.

“You’re just a braggart,” says Joos. “The old folks say that once a man has gone bald, the strength has gone out of him.”

Neels clears his throat and slowly rises, his massive body towering over the rest. Joos does not stir. He just stands where he is. He has his thumbs hooked in his waistband, and he is as cool as a cucumber. He already knows how to handle this giant, especially when he is angry.

Joos speaks slowly.

“They told me again, that devil you’re talking about, he hit with his left hand like a mule kicks. What did you do about that?”

For Neels, it is enough if one...

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: 0-00-082160-8 / 0000821608
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082160-7 / 9780000821607