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<blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2215928" data-attributes="member: 26473"><p><strong>La Chat et le souris: Chapter 1</strong></p><p></p><p>The moon set shortly after sunset.</p><p></p><p>The thin silver crescent disappeared below the horizon about an hour after sunset, leaving a brilliant canopy of glittering stars in its place. The <em>moudjahiddine</em> of <em>Katiba</em> 541 walk across the desert with studied ease, inured over several months to movement by starlight, familiar with the terrain. Most of the men were born and raised in the Saharan Tell, the rugged range of mountains separating the High Plateau of interior Algeria from the vast Sahara desert to the south. Once they were shepherds or farmers from small villages, tending flocks of goats or small plots of millet, or laborers or tradesmen from the scattered towns of the region, working on the farms or construction crews of the European <em>pieds-noirs</em> or more rarely operating a small business of their own.</p><p></p><p>Now they are freedom fighters, marching across the desert at night.</p><p></p><p>Near the head of the column walks a man in worn olive drab fatigues under a field jacket, a tan cap pulled down snugly on his head – a knowledgeable observer would recognize the fatigues as French Army issue, the jacket that of the U.S. Army, the cap that of the German <em>Afrika Corps</em> with the eagle and swastika patch removed, the insignia replaced with an embroidered red crescent and star on a field of white and green. Cinched around his waist is a web belt with a few ammo pouches and a canteen – the belt also sports a cordovan leather pistol holster and a sheathed combat knife. Slung over his shoulder is a bolt-action MAS-36, a typical French Army rifle, taken from the hands of a <em>gendarme</em> seconds after he was executed by a pistol shot to the back of the head.</p><p></p><p>Sewn on each shoulder strap of the <em>moudjahid’s</em> tunic are a white star and a red star, marking him as a <em>dhabet el-aouel</em>, a lieutenant of the <em>Armée de Liberation Nationale</em>. His name is Ahmed ben Salem, and he is grateful for both the night that conceals his men and the stars that light their way through the desert.</p><p></p><p>Ahmed walks with a steady pace, a function of both his soldier’s training and the experience of a lifetime traipsing over the rocky hills and the shifting desert sands of the <em>bled</em>. To many Europeans, even among the <em>colons</em> of Algeria, the desert is a hostile place best avoided – to Ahmed it is home, flooding his sense-memory with sights and sounds and smells and textures from his youth. Now it is become a refuge for him and for those he leads this night. The lieutenant permits himself a glance at the starry sky – out of the panoply of gleaming lights he picks out <a href="http://www.jas.org.jo/ss63.jpg" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue"><em>Hamil Ra's Al-Ghul</em></span></a>, the Bearer of the Demon’s Head, and for a moment he sees the faces of his father and brother, gazing up to the heavens, his father’s arm outstretched as he names the constellations for the two boys.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“Ahmed.”</span> A soft word breaks into his reverie. Saleh, commander of the first platoon.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“We’ll reach those hills before sunrise – there’s a dense thicket in a ravine where we’ll shelter for the day.”</span> Ahmed’s thoughts spill out unbidden to his subordinate and friend. <span style="color: sienna">“Less than an hour, I think.”</span></p><p></p><p>Saleh’s nod is invisible in the darkness. <span style="color: sienna">“If we march another two hours, we could reach <em>Oued Baraba</em>,”</span> he offers hopefully. <span style="color: sienna">“I’m sure the men could handle the extra distance.”</span> Ahmed notes the unspoken rebuke, that the night’s march was too short, too easy. <span style="color: sienna">“From there we could send scouts into El Abiodh before nightfall.”</span> Saleh, ever the impatient one.</p><p></p><p>Ahmed looks back over the column stretching off behind them in the darkness, about to speak when he sees something in the sky – a star, a moving red star, then two, now more. Aircraft, moving north to south, several kilometers distant. <span style="color: sienna">“Down and hold!”</span> he orders in a stage whisper that is quickly carried along from man to man as the <em>katiba</em> halts, silent. The stamp of boots and sandals on sand and gravel silenced, Ahmed catches faint hints of the thundering engines carrying across the still desert. Saleh reaches for a pair of binoculars carried around his neck.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“I make it four planes from the running lights, flying in line,”</span> he says quietly to Ahmed. <span style="color: sienna">“They’re flying low.”</span> Saleh pauses. <span style="color: sienna">“<em>Paras</em>?”</span></p><p></p><p>Ahmed does not reply, following the lights, watching as the aircraft turn and gain altitude to return over the bulk of the mountains looming in the darkness. Both Ahmed and Saleh had seen paratroopers in action during their service as <em>tirailleurs</em> in Indochina, where Ahmed was a young <em>sergent</em> and <em>Caporal</em> Saleh his assistant section leader. If Saleh was right, the planes were transports, American-made Dakotas or tri-motored Junkers Toucans taken from the <em>Luftwaffe</em> after the war.</p><p></p><p>Judging precise distances in the night is difficult at best, but Ahmed makes them to be about five to seven kilometers distant. <em>There is a flat plain, a good landing spot,</em> he thinks. <em>We were there less than two hours ago...</em></p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“We should send out...”</span> Saleh begins, then falls silent as he feels Ahmed’s hand on his shoulder. <span style="color: sienna">“First we need to move the company into the hills and get them undercover,”</span> says Ahmed, <span style="color: sienna">“then we can decide on a scouting party.”</span> <em>Could they be sending paras to follow us?</em> he wonders. <span style="color: sienna">“Pass the word to the other platoon and section leaders personally. No talking in the ranks, keep all weapons and packs from rattling,”</span> Ahmed tells Saleh, his eyes following the aircraft as they disappear among the stars.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="The Shaman, post: 2215928, member: 26473"] [b]La Chat et le souris: Chapter 1[/b] The moon set shortly after sunset. The thin silver crescent disappeared below the horizon about an hour after sunset, leaving a brilliant canopy of glittering stars in its place. The [i]moudjahiddine[/i] of [i]Katiba[/i] 541 walk across the desert with studied ease, inured over several months to movement by starlight, familiar with the terrain. Most of the men were born and raised in the Saharan Tell, the rugged range of mountains separating the High Plateau of interior Algeria from the vast Sahara desert to the south. Once they were shepherds or farmers from small villages, tending flocks of goats or small plots of millet, or laborers or tradesmen from the scattered towns of the region, working on the farms or construction crews of the European [i]pieds-noirs[/i] or more rarely operating a small business of their own. Now they are freedom fighters, marching across the desert at night. Near the head of the column walks a man in worn olive drab fatigues under a field jacket, a tan cap pulled down snugly on his head – a knowledgeable observer would recognize the fatigues as French Army issue, the jacket that of the U.S. Army, the cap that of the German [i]Afrika Corps[/i] with the eagle and swastika patch removed, the insignia replaced with an embroidered red crescent and star on a field of white and green. Cinched around his waist is a web belt with a few ammo pouches and a canteen – the belt also sports a cordovan leather pistol holster and a sheathed combat knife. Slung over his shoulder is a bolt-action MAS-36, a typical French Army rifle, taken from the hands of a [i]gendarme[/i] seconds after he was executed by a pistol shot to the back of the head. Sewn on each shoulder strap of the [i]moudjahid’s[/i] tunic are a white star and a red star, marking him as a [i]dhabet el-aouel[/i], a lieutenant of the [i]Armée de Liberation Nationale[/i]. His name is Ahmed ben Salem, and he is grateful for both the night that conceals his men and the stars that light their way through the desert. Ahmed walks with a steady pace, a function of both his soldier’s training and the experience of a lifetime traipsing over the rocky hills and the shifting desert sands of the [i]bled[/i]. To many Europeans, even among the [i]colons[/i] of Algeria, the desert is a hostile place best avoided – to Ahmed it is home, flooding his sense-memory with sights and sounds and smells and textures from his youth. Now it is become a refuge for him and for those he leads this night. The lieutenant permits himself a glance at the starry sky – out of the panoply of gleaming lights he picks out [url= http://www.jas.org.jo/ss63.jpg ][color=blue][i]Hamil Ra's Al-Ghul[/i][/color][/url], the Bearer of the Demon’s Head, and for a moment he sees the faces of his father and brother, gazing up to the heavens, his father’s arm outstretched as he names the constellations for the two boys. [color=sienna]“Ahmed.”[/color] A soft word breaks into his reverie. Saleh, commander of the first platoon. [color=sienna]“We’ll reach those hills before sunrise – there’s a dense thicket in a ravine where we’ll shelter for the day.”[/color] Ahmed’s thoughts spill out unbidden to his subordinate and friend. [color=sienna]“Less than an hour, I think.”[/color] Saleh’s nod is invisible in the darkness. [color=sienna]“If we march another two hours, we could reach [i]Oued Baraba[/i],”[/color] he offers hopefully. [color=sienna]“I’m sure the men could handle the extra distance.”[/color] Ahmed notes the unspoken rebuke, that the night’s march was too short, too easy. [color=sienna]“From there we could send scouts into El Abiodh before nightfall.”[/color] Saleh, ever the impatient one. Ahmed looks back over the column stretching off behind them in the darkness, about to speak when he sees something in the sky – a star, a moving red star, then two, now more. Aircraft, moving north to south, several kilometers distant. [color=sienna]“Down and hold!”[/color] he orders in a stage whisper that is quickly carried along from man to man as the [i]katiba[/i] halts, silent. The stamp of boots and sandals on sand and gravel silenced, Ahmed catches faint hints of the thundering engines carrying across the still desert. Saleh reaches for a pair of binoculars carried around his neck. [color=sienna]“I make it four planes from the running lights, flying in line,”[/color] he says quietly to Ahmed. [color=sienna]“They’re flying low.”[/color] Saleh pauses. [color=sienna]“[i]Paras[/i]?”[/color] Ahmed does not reply, following the lights, watching as the aircraft turn and gain altitude to return over the bulk of the mountains looming in the darkness. Both Ahmed and Saleh had seen paratroopers in action during their service as [i]tirailleurs[/i] in Indochina, where Ahmed was a young [i]sergent[/i] and [i]Caporal[/i] Saleh his assistant section leader. If Saleh was right, the planes were transports, American-made Dakotas or tri-motored Junkers Toucans taken from the [i]Luftwaffe[/i] after the war. Judging precise distances in the night is difficult at best, but Ahmed makes them to be about five to seven kilometers distant. [i]There is a flat plain, a good landing spot,[/i] he thinks. [i]We were there less than two hours ago...[/i] [color=sienna]“We should send out...”[/color] Saleh begins, then falls silent as he feels Ahmed’s hand on his shoulder. [color=sienna]“First we need to move the company into the hills and get them undercover,”[/color] says Ahmed, [color=sienna]“then we can decide on a scouting party.”[/color] [i]Could they be sending paras to follow us?[/i] he wonders. [color=sienna]“Pass the word to the other platoon and section leaders personally. No talking in the ranks, keep all weapons and packs from rattling,”[/color] Ahmed tells Saleh, his eyes following the aircraft as they disappear among the stars. [/QUOTE]
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