The Shaman
First Post
“Corporal Sfez, you and your men follow me!” Ahmed yells. The section falls in behind the company commander as they work their way along the wash to where Kaci’s scouts were deployed. The sound of gunfire dies away for a short time, then returns with even greater intensity as Ahmed and Sfez’s section come upon a scene that sends an icy dagger into Ahmed’s chest. A wounded man, one of the irregulars, cries piteously as he clutches at his bleeding abdomen – another, a djoundi, one of Ahmed’s regulars, is being treated for a head wound, his face a mask of blood. Others cower behind rocks and bushes while up the steep slope another moujahid crawls painfully down from the rim of the oued dragging his legs behind him like a rabbit snared in a trap.
The fire continues from above, punctuated by shouted orders and the wails of the dead and dying. Ahmed reaches down to grab one of the men hiding in a clump of shrubs, yanking him roughly to his feet. “What’s happening?” he says, holding the man by his shoulders.
The young Arab’s eyes are wide with fear. He simply shakes his head uncomprehendingly at the lieutenant’s questions, and Ahmed lets him go, reaching for Sfez instead. “Get a scout up there and find out what’s going on, and send a runner for Sgt. Boupacha and Sgt. Yazid – tell them to bring their men back quickly.” The veteran soldat nods and sets about the task.
Above the gunfire Ahmed hears another sound, a buzzing coming from the sky. He looks up to see a scout plane, tricolore roundels on its wings, flying overhead. They have us, he thinks, his heart sinking further. As he watches the plane, he also sees more wounded coming painfully down from the rim of the oued now, some supporting their comrades, others limping or crawling in agony. Sergeant Kaci is among them, the shoulder and chest of his fatigue blouse soaked with bright red blood, a field dressing hastily jammed in place to control the bleeding. Ahmed scrambles up the slope to the wounded man. “Sgt. Kaci, report,” he says, forcing a composure into his voice that he doesn’t feel.
Kaci licks his lips – his face is ashen, a sickly grey that contrasts with the crimson stain on his tunic. “I deployed scouts as ordered. They spotted a scout plane, then came under fire. A patrol. Paras.” His eyes roll back and he closes them tightly, grimacing.
Ahmed reaches out to the sergeant, supporting his arm. “How many, sergeant? How big is the patrol?” He looks about as he speaks, trying to get a sense of how many of the platoon remains.
“A platoon, maybe,” Sergeant Kaci replies, “with automatic weapons. Maybe mortars.” Ahmed feels a hand on his arm – Sfez, shaking his head. Ahmed lets Kaci go, and the wounded sergeant sinks in a heap on the ground, breathing heavily.
Ahmed and Sfez take a few steps away. “No more than a section, sir, with submachine guns and grenades. A dozen men at most.” The corporal takes a knee and draws his bayonet. “At the top of the wash is a streambed running east, like so,” he says, tracing in the sand with the tip of his knife, “and a cluster of rocks here. The paras are in the streambed here, and more behind that cluster of rocks providing covering fire.” Sfez looks up at the lieutenant. “Kaci attempted to flank the paras in the streambed and came under fire from there.”
“Casualties?” Ahmed asks.
The older man shakes his head. “Perhaps half the platoon dead or wounded, others scattered.” replies Sfez. “A few are covering the retreat of the rest. Sir, the patrol looks like it’s falling back with its wounded, along the streambed. There’s a low hill here.” He places a small stone near the line of the stream in the sand.
Ahmed’s face is a mask as he listens to the Jewish corporal, concealing the turmoil in his heart and mind. The firing is dying away, each falling away from the contact. The paras will attempt to evade, he thinks, his mind spinning, to guide in the rest of the company. But they headed south, not north. He considers for a moment. A battalion? One company south, one or two more in the north, maybe in El Abiodh?
His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the rest of Yazid’s platoon, with Saleh close behind. Both sergeants come to Ahmed directly. Saleh’s face is red, his eyes alight with their own fire. “No need to wait until El Abiodh,” he says, a barely controlled rage in his voice. “We must fight them here instead.”
“We don’t even know what unit we’ve contacted,” Ahmed replies. He quickly recaps Sfez’s report. Saleh speaks as soon as Ahmed stops. “A section? A patrol? We must destroy them, Ahmed - lieutenant. We must. Now, before they can get back to rest of their unit.”
“It’s too late for that,” Ahmed answers, tossing his head up in the direction of the spotter plane buzzing overhead. “They know where we are.”
“All the more reason to attack!” Saleh replies savagely.
“He has a point, sir,” Yazid interjects. “If we wipe out the patrol, it will slow the French down. They will take the time to consolidate their forces before they come after us. They always do.” The predictability of the French officers was a tactical advantage which the ALN sought to exploit at every opportunity – all three men had experienced this first-hand.
Ahmed is still as a statue, as the fire dies away from above the rim, leaving only the buzzy whine of the scout plane keeping watch overhead and the moans of the injured and dying. Attack with a sure blow, advance at a steady pace. If we are sure to win, fight to the end; if not, resolutely refuse combat. A company against a section. We are engaged now. We can no longer refuse combat. “We need to recover our weapons, and take theirs. The spotter will call in more aircraft. We must destroy the patrol and then scatter before the rest of the paras come up. Evade until dark, then rally at the ravine.”
The lieutenant bends down and hastily re-sketches Sfez’s diagram in the sand. “They’re falling back toward a hill here. If we stay in the streambed I believe we can get close enough to overrun them. Yazid, your men will advance to here and provide covering fire as qwe advance. They have men in these rocks here. We will drive them back or cut them off and destroy them, then occupy the position for ourselves. Put Ali and the machine gun here, along the streambed to establish fire superiority.”
Ahmed looks up to Saleh. “Take a section and move on our left flank. Once we have fire superiority, move up quickly along their flank, force them off-balance. Assuming they move for this hill, we will assemble your platoon and take them as Yazid’s men cover our advance.” He looks up at the two sergeants, veterans of fighting Vietminh and Nazis on behalf of the army they now sought to kill. “Tell the men to stay low, short runs. Short runs. Use the cover in the stream bed as much as possible.”
Ahmed orders the men into line, Saleh’s platoon first, Yazid’s men following. A corporal from Kaci’s platoon is ordered to round up survivors and tend to the wounded, and to recover whatever weapons and ammunition they can. Ahmed moves to the head of the column, just below the rim of the oued. He looks down on the faces of his men. He swallows hard before he speaks.
“Follow your orders, and do your job. Stay low and move quickly. Use the cover of the streambed. Do as I do. Listen for the whistle when it’s time to charge. Allah be with you all.” A low murmur of “Inshallah!” passes down the line of men, hands tightly gripping rifle stocks or wiping away perspiration as the sun arcs high in the sky. Saleh stands to one side, the German MP-40 cradled in his arm. He says nothing, only smiles at Ahmed, that wolfish look again. Ahmed nods, then turns to the man behind him. “Let’s go!”
The fire continues from above, punctuated by shouted orders and the wails of the dead and dying. Ahmed reaches down to grab one of the men hiding in a clump of shrubs, yanking him roughly to his feet. “What’s happening?” he says, holding the man by his shoulders.
The young Arab’s eyes are wide with fear. He simply shakes his head uncomprehendingly at the lieutenant’s questions, and Ahmed lets him go, reaching for Sfez instead. “Get a scout up there and find out what’s going on, and send a runner for Sgt. Boupacha and Sgt. Yazid – tell them to bring their men back quickly.” The veteran soldat nods and sets about the task.
Above the gunfire Ahmed hears another sound, a buzzing coming from the sky. He looks up to see a scout plane, tricolore roundels on its wings, flying overhead. They have us, he thinks, his heart sinking further. As he watches the plane, he also sees more wounded coming painfully down from the rim of the oued now, some supporting their comrades, others limping or crawling in agony. Sergeant Kaci is among them, the shoulder and chest of his fatigue blouse soaked with bright red blood, a field dressing hastily jammed in place to control the bleeding. Ahmed scrambles up the slope to the wounded man. “Sgt. Kaci, report,” he says, forcing a composure into his voice that he doesn’t feel.
Kaci licks his lips – his face is ashen, a sickly grey that contrasts with the crimson stain on his tunic. “I deployed scouts as ordered. They spotted a scout plane, then came under fire. A patrol. Paras.” His eyes roll back and he closes them tightly, grimacing.
Ahmed reaches out to the sergeant, supporting his arm. “How many, sergeant? How big is the patrol?” He looks about as he speaks, trying to get a sense of how many of the platoon remains.
“A platoon, maybe,” Sergeant Kaci replies, “with automatic weapons. Maybe mortars.” Ahmed feels a hand on his arm – Sfez, shaking his head. Ahmed lets Kaci go, and the wounded sergeant sinks in a heap on the ground, breathing heavily.
Ahmed and Sfez take a few steps away. “No more than a section, sir, with submachine guns and grenades. A dozen men at most.” The corporal takes a knee and draws his bayonet. “At the top of the wash is a streambed running east, like so,” he says, tracing in the sand with the tip of his knife, “and a cluster of rocks here. The paras are in the streambed here, and more behind that cluster of rocks providing covering fire.” Sfez looks up at the lieutenant. “Kaci attempted to flank the paras in the streambed and came under fire from there.”
“Casualties?” Ahmed asks.
The older man shakes his head. “Perhaps half the platoon dead or wounded, others scattered.” replies Sfez. “A few are covering the retreat of the rest. Sir, the patrol looks like it’s falling back with its wounded, along the streambed. There’s a low hill here.” He places a small stone near the line of the stream in the sand.
Ahmed’s face is a mask as he listens to the Jewish corporal, concealing the turmoil in his heart and mind. The firing is dying away, each falling away from the contact. The paras will attempt to evade, he thinks, his mind spinning, to guide in the rest of the company. But they headed south, not north. He considers for a moment. A battalion? One company south, one or two more in the north, maybe in El Abiodh?
His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the rest of Yazid’s platoon, with Saleh close behind. Both sergeants come to Ahmed directly. Saleh’s face is red, his eyes alight with their own fire. “No need to wait until El Abiodh,” he says, a barely controlled rage in his voice. “We must fight them here instead.”
“We don’t even know what unit we’ve contacted,” Ahmed replies. He quickly recaps Sfez’s report. Saleh speaks as soon as Ahmed stops. “A section? A patrol? We must destroy them, Ahmed - lieutenant. We must. Now, before they can get back to rest of their unit.”
“It’s too late for that,” Ahmed answers, tossing his head up in the direction of the spotter plane buzzing overhead. “They know where we are.”
“All the more reason to attack!” Saleh replies savagely.
“He has a point, sir,” Yazid interjects. “If we wipe out the patrol, it will slow the French down. They will take the time to consolidate their forces before they come after us. They always do.” The predictability of the French officers was a tactical advantage which the ALN sought to exploit at every opportunity – all three men had experienced this first-hand.
Ahmed is still as a statue, as the fire dies away from above the rim, leaving only the buzzy whine of the scout plane keeping watch overhead and the moans of the injured and dying. Attack with a sure blow, advance at a steady pace. If we are sure to win, fight to the end; if not, resolutely refuse combat. A company against a section. We are engaged now. We can no longer refuse combat. “We need to recover our weapons, and take theirs. The spotter will call in more aircraft. We must destroy the patrol and then scatter before the rest of the paras come up. Evade until dark, then rally at the ravine.”
The lieutenant bends down and hastily re-sketches Sfez’s diagram in the sand. “They’re falling back toward a hill here. If we stay in the streambed I believe we can get close enough to overrun them. Yazid, your men will advance to here and provide covering fire as qwe advance. They have men in these rocks here. We will drive them back or cut them off and destroy them, then occupy the position for ourselves. Put Ali and the machine gun here, along the streambed to establish fire superiority.”
Ahmed looks up to Saleh. “Take a section and move on our left flank. Once we have fire superiority, move up quickly along their flank, force them off-balance. Assuming they move for this hill, we will assemble your platoon and take them as Yazid’s men cover our advance.” He looks up at the two sergeants, veterans of fighting Vietminh and Nazis on behalf of the army they now sought to kill. “Tell the men to stay low, short runs. Short runs. Use the cover in the stream bed as much as possible.”
Ahmed orders the men into line, Saleh’s platoon first, Yazid’s men following. A corporal from Kaci’s platoon is ordered to round up survivors and tend to the wounded, and to recover whatever weapons and ammunition they can. Ahmed moves to the head of the column, just below the rim of the oued. He looks down on the faces of his men. He swallows hard before he speaks.
“Follow your orders, and do your job. Stay low and move quickly. Use the cover of the streambed. Do as I do. Listen for the whistle when it’s time to charge. Allah be with you all.” A low murmur of “Inshallah!” passes down the line of men, hands tightly gripping rifle stocks or wiping away perspiration as the sun arcs high in the sky. Saleh stands to one side, the German MP-40 cradled in his arm. He says nothing, only smiles at Ahmed, that wolfish look again. Ahmed nods, then turns to the man behind him. “Let’s go!”
