Wing and Sword: Chat et Souris (Prologue)

[The Shaman]

Gonzalez listens to Marcel without comment and the Spaniard follows his instructions, slowly but methodically. Marcel joins him, pulling canteens and water bags off the dead fells, piling up weapons – French MAS-36s and heavy old Lebels, Masuers with German, Spanish, and Czech stamps, a couple of British Enfields and American M1s, another German MP-40 machine pistol. On a number of the fellaghas, the medic finds dressings and bandages – rolled strips of clean cloth seem to constitute the primary medical supplies for the ALN, though two standard French Army wound kits are turned up as well. It all goes into the medical kit.

Eventually they reach Martinez’s body. Lifting the body over his shoulder, Gonzalez carries the dead Moroccan back to the base of the hill and carefully lays him out on the ground. The same is done for Gustav Berg. Gonzalez removes his smock and places it over the faces of the two legionnaires.

“Marcel?” Dinter is sitting on the ground near Duval and Vidal. “Could you help me over there?”
____

Normand sees Pyotr’s wave and alerts Sgt. Duval, who motions the Russian back to the legionnaires’ position. The wounded fellagha continues to clutch at his damaged leg, but he’s no longer watching the legionnaire, his eyes closed as he lies on the ground bleeding out.

The barrel of the gun is still hot to the touch as Pyotr carefully shoulders the weapon and makes his way back to the base of the hill where the legionnaires are congregated.

 

[Bobitron]

“Marcel?” Dinter is sitting on the ground near Duval and Vidal. “Could you help me over there?”

Marcel jogs over to Dinter. "What's the matter, Dinter? Is the pain getting worse? I wish I had something to give you, but..."

 

[The Shaman]

“No, no...I mean, yes, it hurts, but no, I just wondered if you could help me over to sit next to Gusti.” Dinter’s face is bleak. “I’ll have to write his mother...” His voice trails off.

 

[Barak]

Following orders, Normand relocates much closer to the legionnaires, easily within earshot, but still slightly away from the group, on the edge in the direction in which the fells disappeared.

He also keeps his back to the legionnaires, scanning continually what is in front of him, one hand pressed against his most serious wound, finally starting to feel the pain as his adrenaline level drops off.

 

[Bobitron]

“No, no...I mean, yes, it hurts, but no, I just wondered if you could help me over to sit next to Gusti.” Dinter’s face is bleak. “I’ll have to write his mother...” His voice trails off.

"Of course, Dinter." Marcel helps the German to his feet and moves with him, his face solemn and thoughtful.

I never would have wished that death on anybody, he thought.

"So you two have known each other a long time? If you don't want to talk, that's fine."

 

[The Shaman]

Dinter’s eyes are closed as he lies on his back next to his friend. “We grew up together. My father worked for his father, on their dairy farm. We served in the same youth brigade, during the war.” His voice is quiet, his tone reflective. “Our fathers died, and and both of Gustav's brothers were killed.” He rubs his eyes. “Frau Berg will take this very hard, very hard.” Dinter winces as he adjusts his position.

After a moment he opens his eyes. “Do you think they’re coming for us soon?”

 

[Bobitron]

After a moment he opens his eyes. “Do you think they’re coming for us soon?”

"I hope so, Dinter. I hope so." Marcel lays a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "Look, I'm going to get back to Duval. You call me if you need anything, comprenez?"

Marcel works his way back to Duval and Vidal. "Sir, how long until we extract? Any word?"

edit: spelling

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

When Pyotr reaches the cluster, he carefully sets down the MG-34 with the rest of the scattered arms. Looking at Duval, he speaks. "I figured we would want that too. There is a fell down there. He's got a wound in his leg and has passed out. I wasn't sure whether you wanted to question him or not, so I left him." Pyotr then nonchalantly takes a seat, going over the battle in his mind, chiding himself for not having a better aim.

 

[The Shaman]

“I figured we would want that too. There is a fell down there. He's got a wound in his leg and has passed out. I wasn't sure whether you wanted to question him or not, so I left him.” Pyotr reports to Duval.

The sergent-chef nods acknowledgement. “Good job, Kerenin. You handled yourself well today. Get some water and post yourself as a lookout.”

Marcel walks up to find that Duval has removed the SCR-300 from Vidal’s shoulders, allowing the radioman to recline. "Sir, how long until we extract? Any word?" the medic asks.

“The capitaine says there are a couple of jeeps and truck heading our way now. Maybe another half-hour.” The sergent-chef looks up at Marcel. “You did well, Fortier. Thank you.”

True to his word, about a half-hour later two jeeps and a GMC weapons carrier come bouncing over the horizon. The French soldiers – part of a transport and supply company, reservists all – are wide-eyed at the sight of the dead fellaghas, the pile of weapons, and the bloodied legionnaires. Somewhat curiously a gendarme is present as well, his tan uniform and blue kepi standing out among the olive drab fatigues of the soldats du train and the paras’ camouflage, a bizarre reminder of the war-that-isn't-a-war. All stand around gawking for the first few minutes, weapons gripped tightly in nervous hands.

The adjudant in charge of the men informs Duval that more troops are on the way, but that his orders are to transport the paras back to El Abiodh in the meantime. He apologizes in advance for the rough trip ahead. With the assistance of the soldats, Marcel supervises the loading of the wounded and the dead – in the cab of the GMC is a well-stocked medical kit, making the prospect of caring for the wounded easier on the journey across the desert.

Even with three vehicles seats are limited, but eventually space is made for all of the men. Unable to carry all of the captured the weapons, the bolts are quickly removed from the rifles and along with the MG-34 and the machine pistols are stowed behind the seat of the GMC.

The ride is as bumpy and as uncomfortable as promised. Pyotr finds himself in the cramped rear seat of one of the jeeps with the soldats – the reservists ask nervous questions about the fellaghas, their eyes straining to catch a glimpse of the insurgents they are sure must be hiding behind every rock and shrub that caravan passes. The back of the weapons carrier is just as cramped – in order to make space for the inured paras, it is necessary to load Berg and Martinez and cover them with a thick tarpaulin, then situate the wounded on top of their dead comrades. Marcel rides in the cab of the WC with the soldat driver and Vidal - Normand rides in the back with more seriously wounded.

The sun is low in the western sky when the caravan reaches El Abiodh, a small Arab village of whitewashed mud walls and winding streets. Capt. Villiers and the rest of the training formation are there, as is a company of tirailleurs, sector troops that will march to the oued at first light. A makeshift infirmary has been prepared for the wounded, and Marcel is relieved a couple of hours later by a regimental surgeon and a team of nurses and orderlies that arrive in a small convoy of ambulances.

It’s fourteen hours after the leap into darkness when the paras finally stand down.

– FIN –​