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<blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 2344417" data-attributes="member: 26473"><p><strong>La chat et le souris: Chapter 5</strong></p><p></p><p>Ahmed listens as Sgt. Yazid describes the paras’ position. <span style="color: sienna">“They are camped about a half-kilometer ahead of where we are now, sir, on the opposite side of the <em>oued</em>,”</span> the sergeant explains. <span style="color: sienna">“My scouts reported sentries but no other activity. I think they will continue south in the morning. The <em>oued</em> here is very steep – if they do attempt to cross I doubt it will be before dawn, but they would do better to travel south where the two riverbeds meet.”</span></p><p></p><p>Ahmed nods in the dark. <em>Allah, thank you for watching over your servants.</em> The silent prayer is followed quickly by orders in a hushed voice. <span style="color: sienna">“Sgt. Boupacha, your men are now in the lead. We’re going to fall back for about another kilometer and take up a defensive position in the <em>oued</em>. If there are aircraft in the morning, or if they send out a patrol, we want to be under cover as much as possible.”</span> Saleh acknowledges – there’s a reassuring quality in the timbre of his voice, the man of action. <span style="color: sienna">“Sgt. Yazid, can you and your scouts find a position where you can observe and not be seen in the morning? We will need to know where they are going as early as possible.”</span></p><p></p><p>The veteran grunts his assent. <span style="color: sienna">“We won’t be seen, and we’ll report as soon as we can.”</span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: sienna">“Good. We’ll bed down the company for a few hours so we can make the march during the day along the <em>oued</em> to reach El Abiodh, if the paras don’t come toward us. If they do...”</span> Ahmed pauses a moment before continuing. <span style="color: sienna">“If they do then we will evaluate an ambush here or slipping away. Pass the word quietly – no noise, no lights. Our lives depend on stealth. Understood?”</span></p><p></p><p>The tough Algerians have no problem bedding down in the rocky streambed following the short march – after sentries are posted the <em>moudjahiddine</em> settle quickly. Saleh offers to spell Ahmed, to give him a chance to close his eyes, but Ahmed refuses – better that his sergeants sleep if possible. <em>Yazid won’t get any sleep tonight</em>, he corrects himself. His wily veteran. Where Saleh was intrepid, Yazid was methodical. As useful a pair of sergeants as a commander could hope for. </p><p></p><p>Sergeant Kaci was the only question mark. A <em>caporal</em> in the <em>tiraillerus</em>, he had not seen action in either Europe or Indochina. He was a sergeant because he had held a rank in the service, and because his family was connected to Rashid, the battalion commander. <em>I will need to watch him,</em> Ahmed thinks unhappily. <em>Yazid will be fatigued in the morning. Better to put him second in line behind Saleh – let Kaci’s platoon take the rear.</em></p><p></p><p><em>We must be ready to strike decisively. Our lives will depend on it</em>. Ahmed steels himself for the reality of his plans – if Allah wills it, men will die by his hand tomorrow. It is not the first time, but in this he will set the wheels in motion himself. As a sergeant in Tonkin, he followed the orders he received from his company or platoon commander – his role was to see that they were followed. Now he is giving the orders himself. The responsibility lies with him now. <em>Allah give me wisdom and strength</em>.</p><p></p><p>A strange thought forms in the corner of his mind: <em>Did the officer who ordered my father to his death have doubts?</em> he wonders. Did he cower in a foxhole as the German tanks thundered toward him, as the artillery shells crashed down on the trees overhead, when he ordered the <em>tirailleurs</em> to charge the <em>panzer grenadiers</em>? Did he scream, “For France!” as the machine guns rattled and the exploding shells rained deadly splinters from the treetops on the frail, mortal bodies of his men? There was simply no way to know – Ahmed’s father’s platoon was wiped out to the last holding an unremarkable patch of forest in the Ardennes. <em>Sixteen years ago.</em></p><p></p><p>For France.</p><p></p><p>Ahmed rubbed at his eyes. Too many other things to do. Arms and ammunition are short – remind the men to choose their targets carefully and to take French weapons and magazines whenever possible. Water conservation will be crucial – marching during the day increases consumption. First aid supplies – a few of the men have wound kits taken off the bodies of dead <em>soldats</em>, but most make do with rolled pieces of clean cloth and whatever home remedies they know for treating infection. <em>We will need to designate stretcher-bearers</em>, he realizes grimly. Grenades – the <em>moudjahiddine</em> possess only a handful, including the two on his own belt.</p><p></p><p>A rustling catches his ear and he looks down in time to see a tiny form scurry between his boots and into a cleft between two rocks. A gerboa. Ahmed can picture the tiny mammal in his mind. He and his brother used to make elaborate traps to catch the little rodents, the more elaborate the better, in the desert behind their village. A coffee can, a cardboard box, a small cage woven from acacia branches – each tried to outdo the other in demonstrating his prowess as a trapper.</p><p></p><p>There had always been competitiveness between the two brothers. After their father’s death, the war no longer intruded directly on their lives and yet still they lived under its shadow – in the half-light that defined their world after his passing, the boys grew distant and strained, the friendly competition less cheerful, more desperate as each grasped at the shades of memory like a drowning man might a floating barrel. His brother has left in 1944 to look for work in the towns, he said, though Ahmed believed it was to escape life in the village. In April 1945 he received a letter – his brother was working in a mine near Setif, making a poor wage but living as a man on his own. Ahmed, while sad for his own loss, was pleased that his brother had found a place for himself.</p><p></p><p>In May he received another letter.</p><p></p><p>His brother had been among those killed in the riots, it said simply. He was mutilated by the French soldiers. He is buried in the Muslim cemetery.</p><p></p><p>For France.</p><p></p><p><span style="color: darkorange">“Why do you fight? Why do you fight for your oppressor?”</span></p><p></p><p>Ahmed glanced up at the strip of sky visible between the walls of the <em>oued</em>. The stars would be fading soon, replaced by the harsh white light of the sun, and perhaps a day of death and destruction would be at hand.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="The Shaman, post: 2344417, member: 26473"] [b]La chat et le souris: Chapter 5[/b] Ahmed listens as Sgt. Yazid describes the paras’ position. [color=sienna]“They are camped about a half-kilometer ahead of where we are now, sir, on the opposite side of the [i]oued[/i],”[/color] the sergeant explains. [color=sienna]“My scouts reported sentries but no other activity. I think they will continue south in the morning. The [i]oued[/i] here is very steep – if they do attempt to cross I doubt it will be before dawn, but they would do better to travel south where the two riverbeds meet.”[/color] Ahmed nods in the dark. [i]Allah, thank you for watching over your servants.[/i] The silent prayer is followed quickly by orders in a hushed voice. [color=sienna]“Sgt. Boupacha, your men are now in the lead. We’re going to fall back for about another kilometer and take up a defensive position in the [i]oued[/i]. If there are aircraft in the morning, or if they send out a patrol, we want to be under cover as much as possible.”[/color] Saleh acknowledges – there’s a reassuring quality in the timbre of his voice, the man of action. [color=sienna]“Sgt. Yazid, can you and your scouts find a position where you can observe and not be seen in the morning? We will need to know where they are going as early as possible.”[/color] The veteran grunts his assent. [color=sienna]“We won’t be seen, and we’ll report as soon as we can.”[/color] [color=sienna]“Good. We’ll bed down the company for a few hours so we can make the march during the day along the [i]oued[/i] to reach El Abiodh, if the paras don’t come toward us. If they do...”[/color] Ahmed pauses a moment before continuing. [color=sienna]“If they do then we will evaluate an ambush here or slipping away. Pass the word quietly – no noise, no lights. Our lives depend on stealth. Understood?”[/color] The tough Algerians have no problem bedding down in the rocky streambed following the short march – after sentries are posted the [i]moudjahiddine[/i] settle quickly. Saleh offers to spell Ahmed, to give him a chance to close his eyes, but Ahmed refuses – better that his sergeants sleep if possible. [i]Yazid won’t get any sleep tonight[/i], he corrects himself. His wily veteran. Where Saleh was intrepid, Yazid was methodical. As useful a pair of sergeants as a commander could hope for. Sergeant Kaci was the only question mark. A [i]caporal[/i] in the [i]tiraillerus[/i], he had not seen action in either Europe or Indochina. He was a sergeant because he had held a rank in the service, and because his family was connected to Rashid, the battalion commander. [i]I will need to watch him,[/i] Ahmed thinks unhappily. [i]Yazid will be fatigued in the morning. Better to put him second in line behind Saleh – let Kaci’s platoon take the rear.[/i] [i]We must be ready to strike decisively. Our lives will depend on it[/i]. Ahmed steels himself for the reality of his plans – if Allah wills it, men will die by his hand tomorrow. It is not the first time, but in this he will set the wheels in motion himself. As a sergeant in Tonkin, he followed the orders he received from his company or platoon commander – his role was to see that they were followed. Now he is giving the orders himself. The responsibility lies with him now. [i]Allah give me wisdom and strength[/i]. A strange thought forms in the corner of his mind: [i]Did the officer who ordered my father to his death have doubts?[/i] he wonders. Did he cower in a foxhole as the German tanks thundered toward him, as the artillery shells crashed down on the trees overhead, when he ordered the [i]tirailleurs[/i] to charge the [i]panzer grenadiers[/i]? Did he scream, “For France!” as the machine guns rattled and the exploding shells rained deadly splinters from the treetops on the frail, mortal bodies of his men? There was simply no way to know – Ahmed’s father’s platoon was wiped out to the last holding an unremarkable patch of forest in the Ardennes. [i]Sixteen years ago.[/i] For France. Ahmed rubbed at his eyes. Too many other things to do. Arms and ammunition are short – remind the men to choose their targets carefully and to take French weapons and magazines whenever possible. Water conservation will be crucial – marching during the day increases consumption. First aid supplies – a few of the men have wound kits taken off the bodies of dead [i]soldats[/i], but most make do with rolled pieces of clean cloth and whatever home remedies they know for treating infection. [i]We will need to designate stretcher-bearers[/i], he realizes grimly. Grenades – the [i]moudjahiddine[/i] possess only a handful, including the two on his own belt. A rustling catches his ear and he looks down in time to see a tiny form scurry between his boots and into a cleft between two rocks. A gerboa. Ahmed can picture the tiny mammal in his mind. He and his brother used to make elaborate traps to catch the little rodents, the more elaborate the better, in the desert behind their village. A coffee can, a cardboard box, a small cage woven from acacia branches – each tried to outdo the other in demonstrating his prowess as a trapper. There had always been competitiveness between the two brothers. After their father’s death, the war no longer intruded directly on their lives and yet still they lived under its shadow – in the half-light that defined their world after his passing, the boys grew distant and strained, the friendly competition less cheerful, more desperate as each grasped at the shades of memory like a drowning man might a floating barrel. His brother has left in 1944 to look for work in the towns, he said, though Ahmed believed it was to escape life in the village. In April 1945 he received a letter – his brother was working in a mine near Setif, making a poor wage but living as a man on his own. Ahmed, while sad for his own loss, was pleased that his brother had found a place for himself. In May he received another letter. His brother had been among those killed in the riots, it said simply. He was mutilated by the French soldiers. He is buried in the Muslim cemetery. For France. [color=darkorange]“Why do you fight? Why do you fight for your oppressor?”[/color] Ahmed glanced up at the strip of sky visible between the walls of the [i]oued[/i]. The stars would be fading soon, replaced by the harsh white light of the sun, and perhaps a day of death and destruction would be at hand. [/QUOTE]
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