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Beschreibung

1. SAHARA ADVENTURE SERIES - Witch of the Sahara


The thrilling adventure begins in the blistering Sahara desert, where a French Foreign Legion outpost finds itself under attack by a dangerous band of Arab raiders known as the Dulacs. During one bloody skirmish, a lone survivor tells a shocking tale, that the Dulacs are being led by a mysterious white woman. This news sends shockwaves through the outpost’s leadership, who vow to hunt down this “Witch of the Sahara” and stop her reign of terror.


We follow brave Legion captain D’Arlan as he leads an expeditionary force into the desert to find the Dulac stronghold. After days of grueling march through the scorching sands, D’Arlan and his men finally reach an oasis village, only to find it deserted and polluted. It is the work of the merciless Witch. With their water supply poisoned, the Legionnaires find themselves on the brink of death from thirst. Just when all seems lost, the beautiful but deadly Karima appears to gloat over D’Arlan’s predicament. She is indeed the Witch of the Sahara, a white woman who has rallied the Dulacs with promises of driving out the French colonizers. Karima offers the Legionnaires water and safety if they surrender, but proud D’Arlan refuses to yield. Teuns Stegmann, finds himself irresistibly drawn to the beautiful but dangerous Karima. What hold does she have over him, and will he betray his comrades? Will Teuns resist the Witch’s spell and stay loyal to the Legion? Can the Legionnaires stop Karima and her Dulac army from launching an all-out war across the Sahara? The chess match between D’Arlan and the Witch of the Sahara has only just begun with Teuns playing a key role in helping D’Arlan and his fellow soldiers.


Karima punishes D’Arlan for his stubbornness by condemning him and nine others to a horrific death atop the “Hill of Eagles,” where they will be slowly tortured by the savage birds. One condemned man, however, an Italian named Petacci, manages to engineer a daring escape. Through quick thinking and heroics, Petacci frees the others, allowing D’Arlan to hatch a bold counterattack. With help from Arab villagers who also seek freedom from the Dulacs, D’Arlan launches a surprise offensive and turns the tables on Karima.


Filled with pulse-pounding action, thrilling chases across golden dunes, shocking twists and betrayals, and starring an unforgettable cast of heroes and a villainess for the ages, “Witch of the Sahara” by Meiring Fouche is a must-read for adventure lovers of all ages. This riveting book will keep readers hooked as they follow the French Foreign Legion’s desperate campaign to crush Karima and her Dulac warriors. Fouche’s masterful storytelling transports the reader directly into the action. Moving from bloody ambushes on the desert sands to inhuman cruelty in Dutra’s lethal uranium mines, this is epic adventure storytelling at its best. Meiring Fouche expertly describes the landscape and captures the essence of this lost world. This classic adventure tale will appeal to fans of Beau Geste with its perilous journey and timeless story of conflicted love. Combining romance, intrigue, and non-stop excitement against the backdrop of a brutal desert campaign, this book will leave you breathless and eager to continue the Legionnaires’ saga. The Sahara adventure series continues with thirty-nine more exciting stories as we follow Legion heroes like Fritz, Jack, Podolski, and Petacci, and especially with the heroic, brilliant, and fearless South African, Teuns Stegmann, at the center of each story with nonstop action and adventure for book lovers of this genre.

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WITCH OF THE SAHARA

by

MEIRING FOUCHE

and

translated by

CHRIS BRISTON

Published by:

TREASURE CHEST BOOKS - PUBLISHERS

Strand Mews Strand

2023

WITCH OF THE SAHARA

The sketch on the cover page was generated with AI software.

This book is the third edition (updated version) and the first edition translated into English.

Copyright in this work is strictly reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the publisher’s written permission. All the characters and the events in this story are fictitious and do not relate to any person, living or dead.

WITCH OF THE SAHARA

by Meiring Fouche and translated by Chris Briston

ISBN 978-1-928498-48-3

Published by:

Treasure Chest Books - Publishers, Strand Mews,

Strand, 7140

South Africa

Copyright @ Pieter Haasbroek (2023)

Online Store:https://panther-ebooks.com

Website:https://www.softcoverbooks.co.za

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

“Chris Briston is a practicing attorney and member of the Law Society of the Cape of Good Hope. He matriculated from St Albans College Pretoria before obtaining a BProc. And LLB degree from the (then) University of Natal (Durban). He did his articles at De Klerk & Le Roux in Johannesburg and qualified as an attorney of the High Court in 1990. He has practiced for his account since 1999.”

SUMMARY

The thrilling adventure begins in the blistering Sahara desert, where a French Foreign Legion outpost finds itself under attack by a dangerous band of Arab raiders known as the Dulacs. During one bloody skirmish, a lone survivor tells a shocking tale, that the Dulacs are being led by a mysterious white woman. This news sends shockwaves through the outpost’s leadership, who vow to hunt down this “Witch of the Sahara” and stop her reign of terror.

We follow brave Legion captain D’Arlan as he leads an expeditionary force into the desert to find the Dulac stronghold. After days of grueling march through the scorching sands, D’Arlan and his men finally reach an oasis village, only to find it deserted and polluted. It is the work of the merciless Witch. With their water supply poisoned, the Legionnaires find themselves on the brink of death from thirst. Just when all seems lost, the beautiful but deadly Karima appears to gloat over D’Arlan’s predicament. She is indeed the Witch of the Sahara, a white woman who has rallied the Dulacs with promises of driving out the French colonizers. Karima offers the Legionnaires water and safety if they surrender, but proud D’Arlan refuses to yield. Teuns Stegmann, finds himself irresistibly drawn to the beautiful but dangerous Karima. What hold does she have over him, and will he betray his comrades? Will Teuns resist the Witch’s spell and stay loyal to the Legion? Can the Legionnaires stop Karima and her Dulac army from launching an all-out war across the Sahara? The chess match between D’Arlan and the Witch of the Sahara has only just begun with Teuns playing a key role in helping D’Arlan and his fellow soldiers.

Karima punishes D’Arlan for his stubbornness by condemning him and nine others to a horrific death atop the “Hill of Eagles,” where they will be slowly tortured by the savage birds. One condemned man, however, an Italian named Petacci, manages to engineer a daring escape. Through quick thinking and heroics, Petacci frees the others, allowing D’Arlan to hatch a bold counterattack. With help from Arab villagers who also seek freedom from the Dulacs, D’Arlan launches a surprise offensive and turns the tables on Karima.

Filled with pulse-pounding action, thrilling chases across golden dunes, shocking twists and betrayals, and starring an unforgettable cast of heroes and a villainess for the ages, “Witch of the Sahara” by Meiring Fouche is a must-read for adventure lovers of all ages. This riveting book will keep readers hooked as they follow the French Foreign Legion’s desperate campaign to crush Karima and her Dulac warriors. Fouche’s masterful storytelling transports the reader directly into the action. Moving from bloody ambushes on the desert sands to inhuman cruelty in Dutra’s lethal uranium mines, this is epic adventure storytelling at its best. Meiring Fouche expertly describes the landscape and captures the essence of this lost world. This classic adventure tale will appeal to fans of Beau Geste with its perilous journey and timeless story of conflicted love. Combining romance, intrigue, and non-stop excitement against the backdrop of a brutal desert campaign, this book will leave you breathless and eager to continue the Legionnaires’ saga. The Sahara adventure series continues with thirty-nine more exciting stories as we follow Legion heroes like Fritz, Jack, Podolski, and Petacci, and especially with the heroic, brilliant, and fearless South African, Teuns Stegmann, at the center of each story with nonstop action and adventure for book lovers of this genre.

EXTRACT

Two more eagles appeared, diving low across the men, and one clawed a nasty gash on Jack Ritchie’s neck with its dangerous talons. He screamed short and loud from the pain. The other one imbedded its beak deep into the cheek of an elderly Russian who swore loudly. He wiggled his shoulders and tried to turn his bloodied face away from the mountain eagles’ assault.

More and more came flying, screeching, swaying on their enormous rustling wings, and every time they attacked, the blood ran. The men swung their bodies backward and tried to kick the brutes, which only worsened their anger.

“We are going to die, Capitaine,” screamed the elderly Russian almost hysterically, and then he had to fight against a screaming eagle that had imbedded its talons into the poor old man’s shoulders and head.

1. WITCH OF THE SAHARA

Chapter 1

A WOMAN ON HORSEBACK

Private Podolski of the French Foreign Legion turned his back to the wickedly cold desert wind blowing from the distant Atlas Mountains and peered again to the East to see if there was any red sign of the day. He wished he was back in the barracks in Dini Salam, where he could have wrapped himself in a woolen blanket. But, unfortunately, Dini Salam was both a breeding ground for flies and an oven, where the Sahara sun mercilessly scorched you. However, it was still better than this lonely desert that wanted to finish you off with its heat during the day and shake you from the cold at night.

Podolski wondered what on earth had made him angry at the Russians. If he had not gotten mad with them because they had occupied his homeland, Poland, he would not have to stand guard in the cold wind on this god-forsaken dune. However, at his lonely outpost, he made a gesture with his hands, a gesture of acceptance. For what did it help to dwell on this now? He was in the French Foreign Legion, which was the end of it. The French Foreign Legion must guard the Sahara and its inhabitants.

“Cursed Dulacs,” sighed Podolski out loud. “If they did not get it into their heads to raid caravans, I would not have had to stand here now. So they must shoot the bunch of them, and then there would be an end to this nonsense,” Podolski bitterly said.

He felt a slight tingling down his spine and quickly swung around, carefully peering into the dark, trying to see if he could spot an enemy creeping up on him. However, it was still too dark to see well. So, he drew a circle around him on the ground with the bayonet he had attached to his Lebel rifle. Then he quickly swung the firearm around him again.

Because the Dula’s were worse than cats, silent, virtually invisible when the light was faint and deadly, Podolski thought of that horrible night at the foothills of the Atlas Mountains when the Dulac assassins cut the throats of all a Legion’s regiment’s sentries before they knew what was happening.

But Private Podolski found nothing. Only the thin whistle of the wind blowing through the sparse scrub and desert grass growing here and there on the dune’s crest.

If only the day would come, yearned Podolski. If only one could see. He could not understand why the commander in Dini Salam had not yet sent a proper expeditionary force against the Dulacs. They should have been wiped out long ago.

But the ways of the commanders of the Legion were beyond understanding. All they did each time was to send a small group of legionnaires to protect each camel caravan. As a result, several caravans had been eliminated by the bloodthirsty Dulacs just the previous week with their guards.

Podolski’s musings suddenly stopped, and he felt utterly cold where he stood, even colder than the touch of the dawn wind.

Could that have been the whinny of a horse?

He could have sworn that he had heard something. Something not far, perhaps behind the next dune, which now grew like a giant black whale in the dark before him, as the day moved slowly out from behind the earth.

Podolski immediately loaded the Lebel, doing it slowly and silently as they had been taught. He suddenly wondered how many hours he had spent in the awful sun on the parade ground to learn how to load a Lebel silently.

There was only a slight click sound when he slid the bolt open and closed it. He stared at the dune in front of him, concentrating intensely on its dark crest. Then he turned slowly around in a circle, exploring the area around him. His trained ears are looking for the slightest noise... But there was just the hissing of the wind and nothing more.

Perhaps he only imagined he heard something. Maybe his nerves were too tense.

If only it would become day, a day so clear you can see an enemy’s eyes!

Podolski completed the circle and then stared eastward again from where the saving light of the day would come.

And then Private Podolski, formerly of the Polish army and now an ordinary private in the Foreign Legion, suddenly stiffened as if he had been shot through the heart.

No longer aware of the singing wind. He was no longer feeling the Lebel in his cold hands and not knowing whether to breathe.

Because in front of him, on the crest of the red dune, black against the first thin glow of the day, stood a rider. Black as a statue. A still silhouette, threatening and motionless.

Podolski swallowed heavily, moving his tongue over his dry lips.

“Dulac,” he whispered in the wind, almost choking on the word, so dry was his throat.

He glanced around him quickly, concentrating fervently. He imagined every shrub and clump of grass was an enemy, with the dreaded curved short dagger and the equally dreaded curved sword in their hands.

When Podolski looked east again, he saw others. They appeared on the crest like dark shadows next to the first rider.

And still, they came, one after another, until they all stood mounted on the crest.

The Polish private waited no longer. He jumped up and sprinted back to the camp that the few legionnaireshad pitched in a circle around the camel caravan…

He ran hunched over to a small tent on one side of the camp. The camp was still quiet. Everyone was still asleep with one or two snoring, so Podolski imagined the Dulacs could hear them up on the dune. Here and there, a camel sighed, satisfied.

Podolski entered the small tent and shook the sleeping man lying on the cot bed by the shoulder.

“Sergent, mon Sergent,” said Podolski. “Dulacs, at four hundred paces eastward.”

The young Sergeant Lazarre almost pushed the anxious Pole over as he jumped out of bed.

“How many?” he urgently asked as he grabbed his revolver’s holster and hurriedly belted it on.

“A good forty. There could be more. I did not wait,” Podolski said.

“Mon Dieu!” Lazarre said aloud, sticking his kepi on his head while rushing out of the tent.

“Wake up your comrades,” Lazarre commanded Podolski, “but do not fret. Maybe those heathens have not seen us yet. Could it be that they are passing us by?” But the young sergeant knew that he was being optimistic. Dulacs are among the best spies globally, and it would be a miracle if they passed by a caravan that lay here in the open between two dunes.

Podolski roughly shook the other legionnairesawake. Some protested and moaned at the invasion, but they all immediately got to their feet and grabbed their Lebels. Lazarre himself got in among the Arab hawkers and roused them quietly. Some camels protested loudly, and Lazarre felt as if he could hit their big mouths with the butt of his revolver.

While the camp silently woke up, some other sentries came running in.

“Form a circle!” commanded Sergeant Lazarre hoarsely in a stage whisper. “Number off so long.”

Forming a circle was the only tactic in the open when the Arabs would far outnumber the few legionnaires.

As the men form a circle, they numbered off. Then the even and odd numbers would take turns to fire, alternately, to maintain constant gunfire. This way, some soldiers could load while others continued to fire their weapons.

This tried-and-trusted tactic of the Foreign Legion was so well known to the men that they were prepared in seconds. Around the Arab hawkers and their pack animals knelt the thin line of legionnaires with the Lebels in their hands.

In the middle of the circle stood Sergeant Lazarre, his heavy Luger revolver ready in his right hand while still giving orders to the Arabs. Some he sent in between the legionnaires to take up a position with their outdated ancient muzzleloaders. Others he ordered to tie the camels together and to restrain them.

It got light quickly because here in the Sahara, the day comes suddenly, just like the night. By now, there was a bright red band in the East, and one could see better. One could even make out shrubs on the nearest dune when they were still veiled by earlier dark moments.

“The odd numbers will fire first,” ordered Sergeant Lazarre. “It will be rapid-fire and make every shot count. We are fifteen, and they are probably more than fifty. I will fire the first shot with my revolver, which will be your sign to fire the first volley. Mes amis, this morning you must shoot as you have never shot in your miserable lives. Otherwise, the vultures will soon come to play between you. I know you can. Remember, you are soldiers of the Foreign Legion. Long live France!”

Lazarre’s head rings. This is not his first skirmish with the Dulacs. He thus knows them. He has seen their torture. He has seen men staked out on the hot sand, how their nails were torn out... how their tongues were split... how their eyelids were cut off...

“Mes amis, we must win,” he says, and it is a funny, urgent command, and his voice sounds unsteady. “This morning, we cannot lose. You know what awaits us.”

“Mon Sergent,” said Schmidt, a German with a big red face, pointing upwards.

Lazarre looked up and what he saw filled him with resentment and fear.

High above the dunes, the first vultures circled, insensitively and boldly, as if preparing for the battle’s outcome.

“Vultures have good noses,” said Podolski, and the laughter went like a ripple through the little circle of men.

Lazarre closed his eyes, and once again, he was grateful for the courage of these desert fighters, some of the urchins from the streets of many cities, some of them men weighted by conscience. Scoundrels, murderers, and some who had innocently fallen by the wayside, but all braver than brave, almost completely without fear.

“Those cursed bald necks are knocking on the wrong door,” Lazarre said encouragingly, looking back at the wheeling birds.

“Where do you shoot a Dulac, mon Sergent?” asked someone.

“Between the eyes, mon ami,” replied the sergeant confidently while playing with the trigger of his revolver.

“Silence!” Lazarre said suddenly.

Above the whirring of the wind, they could hear the sound of many hooves beating on the sand.

“Here comes the heathen,” said Levy, a Jew who had fled from Tel Aviv.

“Rifles ready!” spat the order from Lazarre’s mouth.

Above the wind whirring, there was a single clash of steel as the bolts of the Lebels were quickly pulled back and snapped closed again.

The clash of the rifle bolts was still floating on the wind when the first Arabs appeared on the dune’s crest nearest the East. Their white mantles are bulging and flapping in the wind. The Dulacs sat firmly on their horses’ backs as only a proud Dulac could.

“Mon Sergent,” whispered, Petacci, a petite, thin Italian, suddenly from behind Lazarre. “Look there!”

The sergeant swung around to see a whole line of Arabs appear behind them on the top of another dune.

A cold shudder went down the Frenchman’s spine. He felt that amazing sense of powerlessness that one feels when you know you have lost. In those few seconds between him and death, he thought diligently of a way to survive, but he came up empty. He found himself only able to stare in terror at the faint glint of the first light on the Arabian scimitars, those curved, thin steel blades they held aloft so proudly.

But he did not have much time for fear. There were still some dreadful moments that he could fill with courage.

“Mes legionnaires, ready!” bellowed Lazarre while pulling back the hammer of his revolver.

The next moment, more than two hundred Arabs came thundering down from the dunes onto the small circle of men, their fingers twitching on the triggers of their rifles.

Lazarre waited until they were at one hundred paces. Then his big Luger spoke, sending the leading Arab of the group storming from the west, screaming out of his saddle.

Moments after Lazarre’s first revolver shot, the Lebels spoke around him. Every shot counted, but there were just not enough shots.

The Dulacs were a tidal wave that this tiny circle of men could simply not stop.

They left the little camp in the dust with the very first charge.

“Baionnettes!” shouted Lazarre while shooting three Arabs off their horses quickly.

The next moment it was bayonet against scimitar. After that, it was a bloody struggle of armed men, bellowing horses, jostling camels, and babbling hawkers trying to club their opponents out of the saddle with their rifle butts.

It was a horrible and short-lived slaughter.

Just as the sun climbed slowly over the dunes, the first vulture settled next to Sergeant Lazarre of the Foreign Legion, where he lay with his limp hands in the sand.

Here and there, the white flap on the back of a legionnaire’s kepi fluttered in the light morning air. Here and there, the wind stirred the white mantle of a fallen Arab.

All around, the first heat shimmered on the quiet dunes.

* * *

Even though it was late afternoon, the heat still lay like a withering flare across the Sahara. The dunes danced and shimmered in the heat waves, and it felt like the sun was taking its last chance at vengeance on everything that still dared to breathe in this sandy desert.

Colonel Le Clerq, the diminutive sallow Frenchman who commanded the garrison of the Foreign Legion in Dini Salam, one of the French outposts in this turbulent area, fanned his face with his military cap where he sat behind his desk. He leveled his gaze at Captain D’Arlan, who had just saluted him perfectly.

“Sit, D’Arlan,” said the colonel, pointing wearily to the single chair in front of his desk with his lean hand.

D’Arlan, a slender, dark desert warrior who survived so many bloody skirmishes with the Arabs by a hair’s breadth, slowly sat down, laying his swagger stick on the desk’s shiny surface.

“Any news from Lazarre and the caravan?” Le Clerq asked with his thin voice that suited his small, terse frame so well.

“I told them to report regularly.”

“No news to report, mon Colonel,” replied D’Arlan, swatting at a fly bothering him.

“I am afraid we have lost contact with them,” said D’Arlan.

“Lost contact?” Le Clerq said impatiently, and his little eyes sparkled menacingly. “Mon Dieu, but there must be a problem, D’Arlan!”

“I am afraid so, mon Colonel.”

Le Clerq placed his cap on the desk. “D’Arlan, an end must be put to these forays by the Dulacs. They have taken on serious proportions, and they could ruin my reputation as commander of this garrison.”

“They have already caused us considerable damage, mon Colonel,” said D’Arlan, nervously fidgeting with his hands. “Supplies in Dini Salam have reached a low point due to the raids on the caravans. There is hardly any coffee, sugar, and flour anymore, and the clothing traders are furious because they have received no stock in recent weeks. Not only have many caravans been wiped out, but coastal traders no longer want to send convoys to Dini Salam. The Arabs whisper openly that the Legion is unable to protect them.”

“In God’s name, what should I do, D’Arlan? I do not dare send an expedition out against the Dulacs when the tribes in the area are restless. It would be foolishness. I cannot strip Dini Salam of its defenses to organize an expedition to punish those miserable Dulacs.

“We face a dangerous dilemma, mon Colonel,” said D’Arlan. “The tribes are restless, and we can expect trouble as you say. But, on the other hand, we cannot stand by and watch while one caravan is destroyed after the other along with their groups of legionnaires that we can hardly do without.”

“If only I had more men,” Le Clerq sighed and wiped his forehead.

“What does Algiers say about the reinforcements you asked for?”

Le Clerq, who had grown old through the harassing Sahara heat, shook his head slowly.

“Too many other commitments. The old story... they cannot release more troops for Dini Salam.”

“But what are they thinking?”

D’Arlan was cut short by the sound of someone urgently banging on the door.

“Entrez!” called Le Clerq.

The next moment, a long, lean man with sparkling blue eyes and an athletic body stood to attention before Le Clerq. This was Private Teuns Stegmann, the South African in the Foreign Legion.

“Yes, Private Stegmann?” Le Clerq barked while staring at the young man whose bravery he had often heard.

“Mon Colonel,” says Teuns quickly. “The... the division under Sergeant Lazarre has been destroyed.”

“What!” Le Clerq shouted and jumped out of his chair.

“The Dulacs, mon Colonel.”

“Where does this news come from?” asked Le Clerq.

“There is only one survivor, mon Colonel, Private Podolski.”

“Where is he?”

“He is waiting outside your office,” Teuns replied.

“Bring him in straight away!” snapped Colonel Le Clerq.

Teuns and the big German, Fritz Mundt, brought in Podolski. He hung between them, unable to walk. His head hung far in front, his uniform in shreds, and his clothing covered with dry blood.

Le Clerq and D’Arlan held their breath when they saw the battered man.

“Let him sit in the chair,” commanded Le Clerq before gesturing to Teuns and Fritz to leave the room.

“Good Heavens!” whispered Le Clerq while staring at the silent man in front of him. Podolski made a weak attempt to salute, but the colonel gestured to him to leave it.

“Give him some brandy, D’Arlan,” Le Clerq said and immediately went to the side of the wounded Podolski. “Where are you wounded, legionnaire?” The colonel asked, and when the Pole pointed to his left shoulder, the colonel tore the padding away to examine the wound. It is an ugly wound, but it looks like a flesh wound to him.

“Can you talk, mon legionnaire?” asked the colonel.

Podolski’s tongue moved slowly and painfully in his swollen mouth, and he mumbled.

“I will try to talk, mon Colonel.”

They first let him drink the strong cognac, and then Le Clerq said.

“I am listening, mon legionnaire.”

Podolski sank back into the chair, closing his eyes, his face grimacing from the pain in his shoulder.

“A day or three ago,” he said softly and hoarsely, “we camped with the caravan far away from the oasis of El Soer. Then, just when it became day, they attacked us there. There were probably two hundred of them. There was no chance for us. Everyone died except me and three others. Sergeant Lazarre also fell.”

He then fell silent, opening his eyes wide as someone awakened from a nightmare. His right hand moved back to his shoulder.

D’Arlan held the glass of cognac to Podolski’s lips, who greedily gulped the last drops of moisture.

“Where are the other three survivors, mon legionnaire?” Colonel Le Clerq asked, his voice soft and sympathetic.

The battered Pole emitted a snigger, almost like a sob.

“I... I will tell you yet, mon Colonel.”

“Just tell the story just as you think best,” Le Clerq encouraged, leaning in anticipation on his desk. “D’Arlan, another cognac for the comrade.”

“A camel half fell on me and then a dying Arab,” Podolski continued. “The Arab’s blood spilled all over me, and I was wounded in the shoulder. They were looking for wounded people but left me just like that. They thought I was dead. They found three of the wounded, Karnak, Cunningham, and Tovash... They took them three away. They also took all the goods, including weapons and camels. I lay there for over an hour. Then I crawled under the camel and headed over here. My water canteen fell under me, and it was almost full. Luckily, I found a caravan that brought me here.

D’Arlan brought more cognac that Podolski drank with long, panting drafts.

Podolski fell silent. The only sound in the stuffy silence of Le Clerq’s office was the slow tick-tock of the wall clock next to the door.

Finally, Le Clerq said.

“Your story is not finished, mon legionnaire.”

That is when Podolski shuddered. He sighed deeply, and the tears made a shiny streak in his half-closed eyes.

“I found them the morning of the day before yesterday.”

“Who did you find?” asked D’Arlan encouragingly.

Podolski’s whole body trembled, and he pressed his hands in front of his eyes. His head fell forward so that his hair made stripes down his face, and he slowly swung his head, just like someone struggling with something he could not say.