Scream at Night (eBook)

Sand, Blood and Survival - A French Foreign Legion Series in the Sahara, Book 13

Sandbergh Beyers, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
123 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-082162-1 (ISBN)

Infos

His village was a smoking ruin, his people slaughtered.

With his last breath, the chieftain accused Captain Monclaire's men of the atrocity.

A lie that could set the desert on fire.

In the unforgiving Moroccan desert, Captain Monclaire of the French Foreign Legion faces an impossible choice. A dying chieftain, a trusted friend, has accused his soldiers of a horrific massacre. Monclaire knows his men are innocent, but the evidence is irrefutable, and the embers of a full-scale Arab revolt are beginning to glow.

The truth is a nightmare far deadlier than open rebellion. A penal battalion, four hundred of the Legion's most depraved criminals has mutinied. They are led by the brilliant and demonic anarchist, Pavani. To cover their escape, Pavani has devised a diabolical plan. Frame the Legion for a series of savage attacks on peaceful villages and thus drowning the Sahara in blood and chaos. Caught in this maelstrom is a beautiful and courageous widow, the only survivor of their first rampage, who holds the secret to stopping the slaughter.

Outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and hunted by both friend and foe, Monclaire and his small band of loyal legionnaires must march into a deadly trap. They are the only hope to stop Pavani's ghost army before the entire desert explodes into a war that will leave no one unscathed.

A classic action-adventure novel with the heart of a gripping military thriller. This tale of honor, betrayal, and survival against impossible odds is perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean and Wilbur Smith.

Start your unforgettable Sahara adventure now with the thirteenth and last ebook in the series!

Textauszug

13. SCREAM AT NIGHT

Chapter 1

MEN OF PEACE

Just as the sun was setting, he reached them.

He is stooped and looks dreadful from suffering. His hands, once slender and fine, are now repugnant, for the nails have been torn from his fingers. His sensitive old face bears the bloody welts where hot branding irons have touched it.

But Bala Aslaam, chieftain of the village of Doeaka, is not yet broken. He draws his weathered old body somewhat erect when he first sees Fort Valeau. He tries to refuse the aid of Foreign Legion soldiers who come running to assist him. Two of them, however, lift the stricken old Arab as if he were merely a child and carry him through the great gate of the fort.

They let him rest for a while in the waiting room while a soldier goes to convey the message to the commanding officer, Captain Monclaire.

Shortly thereafter, he is hastily taken to the captain, and Monclaire observes him with a mixture of profound compassion and unease.

Monclaire says. “Aslaam, mon ami, you must go to the infirmary at once so that your wounds can be treated, and then you must tell me everything... everything...”

Aslaam raises one of his emaciated hands, and then he speaks, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “It is needless. Time is too short. People know when their time has come, just as I know now that my time has come, mon Capitaine...”

“Then I shall have the medical officer come here.”

“No, please do not. I wish to speak with you alone. And it must be at once... thank you, in any case, Capitaine.”

Monclaire holds a beaker of water to his broken lips, but most of the tepid liquid rolls down the old Arab’s bloodstained grey beard. He manages to swallow a little, however, and the water brings slightly more life into the ravaged old body. His voice becomes clearer, and he even tries to sit upright in the chair.

Old Aslaam says. “We have been friends for many years, have we not, Capitaine?”

“That is the truth, Aslaam... ever since I first came to Morocco as a mere stripling of a lieutenant.”

“Yes, it is so. During those years, was I not the faithful friend of the French. Did I not always trust them?”

Monclaire nods slowly, wondering what this old man is getting at.

The elderly Arab’s voice has again become but a thin whisper. “But now I come to...”

His head falls back, his eyes close, and he slowly slides from the chair. Monclaire slips his arms under his shoulders, helps him back onto the chair, and gives him a little more water. Once again, Aslaam recovers slightly.

Somewhat vexed, Monclaire says. “My dear Aslaam, all these things can wait. You must first go to the infirmary so that your hands... your face... your entire body can be attended to.”

“Please... The minutes are passing quickly, and my life cannot last much longer than a few mere minutes... Capitaine, I have come to ask you a question.”

“Yes, Aslaam?”

“My people in the village of Doeaka are peaceful, are they not? They are not troublemakers, are they?”

“They are peace-loving, Aslaam... just like you, their chieftain, they are good people.”

Aslaam summons the last of his rapidly diminishing strength. He lifts his tortured old face and stares intently into Monclaire’s eyes.

Then he says. “If that is so, why did Legionnaires come and burn down our village, Capitaine? Why then were so many of our men shot dead...? And with Lebel rifles, while the helpless women and children stood and watched?”

Monclaire stands with the water beaker in his hand. He does not even realise that he has let it fall, clattering, onto the stone floor. After a good few minutes, he replies, his voice almost as faint as that of the old Arab. “Aslaam, are you quite certain of what you are saying? Are you telling me that this is what happened to your people in Doeaka?”

“It is the truth, Capitaine, and it happened but two nights ago. They descended upon us like vultures on a suckling lamb. I, the chieftain, was splayed open on the ground, and while my people stood and watched, they did all these things to me, mon Capitaine.”

He gestures with his ruined hands towards his broken old face and says. “They thought I would die, but I had to live; I had to live long enough to come and ask you why this thing was done to my innocent people.”

Without a word, Monclaire stares at the beaker lying before his feet, trying to create order from the chaos within him.

Doeaka...

It is situated some forty miles south-east of Fort Valeau, and because there are a number of artesian wells, there is sparse vegetation. The approximately one hundred inhabitants farm cattle and goats, and occasionally they barter their produce with passing pedlars.

Because the village is located so close to the fort, Monclaire is responsible for the safety of its inhabitants.

Without even having to think, Monclaire knows that none of his patrols have been there in the past month. The place is visited by a patrol every three months or so, and the last patrol that passed that way visited the small place three months ago.

Monclaire finally says. “Aslaam, my friend, I am certain there is some misunderstanding. It was not my men who massacred your people. It must be others, and I swear, as I stand here, that I will see to it that they are tracked down and brought to justice, even if it is the very last thing I do in my life. They could not have been Legionnaires. This is the only Legion garrison for many hundreds of miles. It is surely unthinkable that I could have given such an order, and I cannot conceive how anyone else could have done so.”

Aslaam takes a slow, deep breath, and now it is a tremendous effort for him even to utter a few words.

“I know you would not have done such a thing, Capitaine, but I swear before Allah that it was Legionnaires who attacked my village and left it a smoking, bloody ruin...”

“Aslaam... are you... are you quite certain of that?”

“Have I not eyes to see? And those who were spared, they also saw the soldiers of the Foreign Legion. And my people have sworn vengeance upon you, Capitaine. They spat on me when I told them that you would not do such a thing. When I told them I wanted to come here to see you, not one would come with me. They would not even give me a horse or camel to ride. They said it would be better if I perished in the desert than be further tortured by these Legionnaires. But I did not die in the desert, because I had to endure to come and speak with you, Capitaine. I wanted to find out why this atrocity was committed and which officer it was who gave this terrible order.”

His voice is now barely audible, and his feverish breathing becomes even faster, rattling. Monclaire rings the handbell on his desk, and when the orderly enters, he sends him to fetch the physician immediately.

Monclaire does not finish speaking, however. He follows the corporal’s eyes and sees Aslaam slowly sliding from his chair. With a single leap, Monclaire is beside the old, tortured Arab. When he reaches him, however, Aslaam is already stretched out on the stone floor.

Each breath is a gasping sob, like that of an athlete who has overexerted himself.

With tenderness, Monclaire lets the old Arab’s head rest in the crook of his arm and says softly. “Aslaam... I want you to understand this well... France does not stab its friends in the back... I do not know who committed this act, but I swear that those responsible will be found and that they will pay with their lives... I swear it here before you, Aslaam...”

Aslaam’s lips tremble as he tries to answer, but the cruel wounds and the long trek through the raging desert have sapped his life force. Monclaire knows that the old warrior has endured too much. Somehow, however, Aslaam manages to lift one of his ruined hands and touch Monclaire’s face.

And an instant before his hand falls limp in death, there is the faintest trace of a smile on the old, tortured face. It is the smile of one who trusts a good friend.

The daylight is almost gone when they remove Aslaam’s body to the fort’s mortuary. Monclaire stands watching them carry him away, incapable of any emotion. He just stands there as if he too has died. He knows it is not merely the death of the old Arab, his friend, that makes him feel so, but also the circumstances of his death, the incredible, fantastical tale he told.

When he is alone again, Monclaire sits on the edge of his steel desk and lights a cigarette. He wants to reflect on this matter.

He believes implicitly that the first step to solving a problem is to understand the full particulars of that problem. He believes that if one proceeds otherwise, one invites disaster. Thus, he must now apply his own counsel, which he has so often given to junior officers.

Firstly, what sort of man was this Aslaam? Monclaire decides, however, that this is not even something that needs to be considered. He is of the finest type of Bormoen Arabs. He is completely trustworthy. He was sagacious enough to comprehend the immense advantages French protection meant for them. In return, he gave absolute loyalty. His village, Doeaka, although so remote, was still a model of Arab orderliness.

Therefore, Aslaam must have honestly believed that his village was attacked by Legionnaires and that some twenty of the men were killed.

That some group of persons committed this act is as plain as a pikestaff. The crux of the problem is that Aslaam imagined these were Legionnaires, that he saw them, and that they were also seen by others...

But it could not have...

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: 0-00-082162-4 / 0000821624
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-082162-1 / 9780000821621