Bloodstained Dunes (eBook)

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 13

Meiring Fouche, Pieter Haasbroek (Autoren)

Pieter Haasbroek (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
118 Seiten
Pieter Haasbroek (Verlag)
978-0-00-077737-9 (ISBN)

Infos

In the heart of the Sahara, a frantic message cuts through the static.

An oil camp is being annihilated... by men wearing the uniform of the French Foreign Legion.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. For veteran Legionnaires Teuns Stegmann and Fritz Mundt, it's the start of a descent into a bloody hell. Led by the brilliant Captain D'Arlan, their patrol is sent to uncover the truth but instead finds a gruesome massacre and a deadly trap. The attackers are ghosts, wearing friendly faces and leaving no witnesses.

Ambushed and outnumbered, they are pitted against a phantom army led by the sadistic Koebikof, a man who delights in torture and chaos. When they discover a traitor has compromised them from within, the line between ally and enemy blurs into the shimmering heat. Every decision carries the weight of death, and every shadow could hide their executioner.

Hunted across the bloodstained dunes and left for dead, Stegmann and Mundt must survive a brutal game of cat and mouse where the scorching sun is the least of their worries. This is a relentless, action-packed military thriller where the classic adventure of the Foreign Legion crashes headlong into a modern mystery. Perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean and Lee Child.

Step into this unforgettable thirteenth Sahara adventure now!

Textauszug

Chapter 2

STRANGE HORSEMEN

Le Clerq and D’Arlan are so shocked by the sight of the eleven white kepis that initially, they cannot utter a word. They touch them with their hands, look at the blood on them, and then look blankly at each other.

It is Hassan who speaks first. “These men were nearly all shot through the head, mon Colonel,” the Arab informs them. “They were all shot dead in a heap down in the wadi. Everything was left there as it was, except the weapons. Those were all removed, the weapons and the water flasks.”

Le Clerq looks long and searchingly at the elderly Arab with the white pearl on his right eye. “Is that all you observed there, Hassan?” the colonel finally asks. “Think carefully, Hassan. Is that the only thing you saw there?”

Abdoel Hassan lowers his grey head, stands there deep in thought. “The only other thing I saw there are the horse tracks, mon Colonel... Just the horse tracks. That is all. Nothing more.”

“Horse tracks?” asks D’Arlan, stepping closer.

“There were many horses, mon Capitaine,” the Arab replies. “How many?” asks D’Arlan urgently.

“Difficult to say, mon ami,” the Arab answers familiarly. “The sand is very loose there. If I had to guess, I would say there were no fewer than a hundred horses.”

“A hundred horsemen,” says Le Clerq, surprised. “Arabs?”

Hassan shakes his head quickly, and in his eyes is the mysterious light known to the Arab when a matter relates to his innate knowledge of the desert and its inhabitants. “No, it was not Arabs,” he answers without the slightest hesitation.

“Why do you say that?” asks D’Arlan quickly.

“If the Legionnaires had been attacked by Arabs, they would not all have died in a heap. Then most of them would not have received headshots. These Legionnaires did not know what to expect. They were together when they were shot, and it is clear to me that there was no fight...”

“You ought to have been a general in the Foreign Legion, Hassan,” says Le Clerq, looking appreciatively at the elderly Arab. “I think your deductions are one hundred percent correct. But how do you think, who shot these men so cold-bloodedly?”

“Whites,” answers Hassan, and it seems the question affords him infinite satisfaction.

“Where do the horse tracks lead from this place?” asks D’Arlan suddenly.

“South-eastwards, mon Capitaine. Straight south-eastwards, as straight as the flight of a honeybee...”

“That is directly towards Oil Camp C,” says D’Arlan quickly, trotting to the map on the wall and swiftly searching for locations there. What he finds confirms his suspicion. Oil Camp C lies directly southwest of Oil Camp D, which has apparently been massacred.

“Thank you for this valuable information, Abdoel Hassan,” says Le Clerq, sits down and writes out an order. “Go give this note to the paymaster of the fortress, and he will pay you the two hundred Francs,” says the colonel. Hassan takes the note, bows low, salutes in his fashion, and then turns and walks out.

Le Clerq stares with a strange melancholy at the eleven kepis on the writing desk. “Then Renner and all his men have paid the ultimate price for the Foreign Legion,” Le Clerq says softly.

“We will avenge them,” says D’Arlan bitterly, walking back. “Mon Colonel, I wish to depart immediately. Will you give me fifty men?”

“First, I want Oil Camp C warned,” says Le Clerq, pressing the bell on his desk. The orderly appears immediately at the door. Le Clerq quickly writes out a message.

“Le Clerq, Dini Salam to Chief Engineer Oil Camp C, mysterious gang of bandits moving through the desert. Make arrangements for defence. Legion detachment en route to provide assistance. Unknown attackers heading towards Camp C. Viva la France... Le Clerq, Colonel.”

The orderly salutes, grabs the note, and trots out. “Tomorrow I will warn all the other oil camps as well. Select fifty men for yourself immediately, D’Arlan,” says Le Clerq, “and go find out who the devil is perpetrating this destruction in the desert. Establish radio contact with me as soon as you reach Camp C. Take enough automatic rifles to protect your men thoroughly. You will depart at sunset.”

“Oui, mon Colonel,” answers D’Arlan, salutes, and walks out quickly.

The orderly hurries to the radio room. “For immediate transmission,” he says. “Special order from Colonel Le Clerq.”

The man who takes the slip of paper from him and then looks up at him is very dark, and his eyes are intense. His name is Metaxas, and one of his eyes is already beginning to turn purple from the punch Teuns Stegmann gave him shortly before in the washroom, says Metaxas, who relieved Gide a few moments ago. He immediately bends forward and, with his forefinger, searches on a map for the wavelength he needs. He hears the orderly close the door behind him. Then Metaxas reaches out his hand and begins transmitting a message...

Suddenly, the alarm sounds throughout the fort. Men who were ambling half-naked from the washrooms or lying half-naked on their beds waiting for dinner time, jump into their trousers, quickly pull on their shirts, slap on their kepis, grab their rifles, and storm out to the parade ground. There they find Sergeants Zhakof and Catroux shouting orders left and right. Moments after the men arrive on the courtyard, they are standing in long rows.

“What the devil is going on now?” Fritz Mundt asks Teuns standing next to him.

“They’re probably going to give you the Croix de Guerre, old big fellow,” Podolski jests softly from one side.

“Or perhaps they want to check if we’ve brushed our teeth,” Teuns replies dryly.

“But what can it be... Parade at this time of day?” Jack Ritchie wants to know. No one can answer, however, because Zhakof’s “Attention!” sounds like a hurricane here in the warm silence.

Across the courtyard, D’Arlan comes striding quickly. A small, lively figure in his full combat gear, the short officer’s baton gleaming in his hand.

“Something special must be going on, here comes the capitaine,” says Fritz out of the corner of his mouth.

D’Arlan halts at the head of the three columns of men who have fallen in one behind the other. “The men whose names I call out will step forward,” says D’Arlan matter-of-factly. And then he begins rapidly calling out names as he walks down along the rows.

When he reaches the bottom, there are gaps in all three columns, and a total of fifty men have stepped forward, a full pace ahead. Among those fifty are the names of Teuns Stegmann, Fritz Mundt, Podolski, Jack Ritchie, and little Petacci.

“We’re probably getting a holiday on the Riviera,” whispers Fritz, still standing next to Teuns.

D’Arlan turns on his heel and walks back. Zhakof takes over. He dismisses the rest of the columns and then has the fifty who stepped forward fall into a single column.

“Mes legionnaires,” commands Zhakof, “you have precisely half an hour to prepare yourselves for an expedition of indeterminate duration, full combat gear... large water flasks.”

Then he dismisses them, and the men walk amongst each other, talking, as they return to the dormitory to get ready.

And that night, D’Arlan pushes them hard, following the tracks, as well as for a large part of the following morning.

From Dini Salam, it is approximately 100 kilometres to Oil Camp C, and it is D’Arlan’s intention to reach it in the shortest possible time to try and safeguard the camp from the attacks of the unknown desert bandits.

Now it is some time after noon, and D’Arlan brings his exhausted men to a halt at the foot of a heavy red dune. The men sink gratefully onto the sand, for this has been a murderous forced march. Surely the harshest most of them have ever endured. They merely remove their kepis and wipe away sweat. Some take off their boots, and others throw off their backpacks, for it feels as though the straps have cut their shoulders in half.

Only D’Arlan does not yield to this repose. He paces restlessly, almost impatiently. He wipes the sweat from his eyes, draws the small telescope he always carries on these desert marches from its sheath, and slowly begins climbing the steep dune. Just behind the crest of the dune, he lies down and peers cautiously over. What he sees before him fills him with gratitude and wonder simultaneously.

Barely two kilometres from them lies Oil Camp C. He looks at the rows of wooden huts, at the high derricks of the oil drills, at the larger building in the centre where the administrative work of this large enterprise is surely conducted, at the vehicles parked everywhere, at the large piles of water barrels stacked all around, at the fuel drums stacked elsewhere.

He carefully brings the telescope to his eyes and meticulously surveys the entire camp. He barely notices Teuns Stegmann following him and lying down flat beside him.

“It seems as though nothing has happened at this camp yet, mon Capitaine,” whispers Teuns, as if afraid the sand dune has ears.

“Peculiar business,” whispers D’Arlan distractedly back. “I see not the slightest movement. I don’t even see a chicken or a dog moving. It looks as though the whole place has turned to stone.”

“Did we perhaps arrive too late, mon Capitaine?”

“Impossible,” D’Arlan replies quickly. “These people in the oil camps are relatively well-armed, and we warned them yesterday afternoon. With the shelter and weapons at their disposal, they can repel strong attacks. They could easily have...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 25.8.2025
• Übersetzer: Pieter Haasbroek, Ai
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-077737-4 / 0000777374
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-077737-9 / 9780000777379