Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime

[The Shaman]

Ortu takes Marcel’s outstretched hand and gives it a firm, if a bit perfunctory, squeeze. “I figured they stopped training replacements not to walk in front of machine guns,” he replies. There’s no ice in his voice this time. “Don’t get yourself killed, doc. We need you in one piece.”

“Pyotr and Vidal got the one that ran from the barn,” says Nedjar, “probably the one that lit up Kat. They also got one more in the farmhands’ quarters, along with the prisoner.” The Algerian shifts slightly in his seat. “And I saw that fell in the farmhouse, Normand. You didn’t just drop that pineapple on your own feet.”

“So that’s five,” he finishes.

The truck bounces along past the outlying farms as twilight turns to night, and soon the GMC rolls into the outskirts of town.

Portemonte looks like any of a thousand other colonial towns in Algeria, with pale brick walls and tile roofs. The streets are mostly dark and quiet as the truck rolls past. Sánchez slows as the legionnaires reach the center of town.

The clinic is located just off the square that marks the heart of Portemonte, a small park with scraggly oaks shading wrought-iron benches and the monument aux morts, a small bronze statue of a poilu on a marble pedestal and a pair of marble slabs each bearing a handful of names of the town’s honored dead. Around the park a handful of businesses, bars and restaurants and coffee houses with doors wide open on the June evening, throw their light on the streets, illuminating a considerable crowd as the GMC rumbles by.

A couple of dozen men with rifles in hand or slung over shoulders are assembled on the small green in the town square, antiquated leather harnesses and ammunition pouches worn over civilian clothing. A few wear helmets, some of WWII French vintage, others of American make. Groups of pieds-noirs men and women survey the scene from the narrow sidewalks around the square or cluster in the entries of a bar of coffee house. Sánchez drives through the square and around a corner where the clinic is located and brings the deuce-and-a-half to a stop.

The passenger door swings open with a squeak and Kat peers up through the wooden slats at the legionnaires. “David, Silvio, come inside and give me a hand with the litters. The rest of you wait here.” Nedjar and Ortu hop down from the back of the truck first and follow the section leader up a small flight of steps and through the door of the clinic.

Asmussen and Syrovy climb down from the back of the truck as well, Asmussen stretching his arms and back and Syrovy lighting up another cigarette as they wait. From up the street come voices and several figures can be seen approaching from the direction of the town square.

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr sighs as he sits back, staying silent at the moment, trying to reflect on their recent battle. What could I have done better?

 

[Bobitron]

“Don’t get yourself killed, doc. We need you in one piece.”

"Yeah, I suppose so. I would hate to think what might have happened to Babaye if I hadn't gotten to him in time."

Once Ortu and Nedjar leave, Marcel steps out of the truck along with the others, lighting up another Gauloise and offering one to each of the others. He notices Pyotr's reflective expression and calls out. "Pyotr! Long day, no? Take a nap if you want, I'll wake you in a while."

 

[Barak]

Realizing that he'll probably have to receive some more medical attention once the more seriously wounded of the légionnaires have been attended to, Normand decides to just relax in the back of the truck for the time being. He uses the space freed by the departed to stretch his legs some more, and to get somewhat more comfortable. One thing he learned in his short time in the Légion is that one relaxed when he could, because once things started moving, they moved fast...

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr peeks an eye at Marcel. "Not tired, frere. Just thinking." He pauses, "Thanks though."

 

[The Shaman]

As the figures walking up the street from the square get closer, the door to the clinic opens and the legionnaires return, carrying a pair of litters, followed by a tall, thin man in a long white coat. “Syrovy, Asmussen, carry the gendarme,” Sgt. Katsourianis instructs as Nedjar hands over one of the litters to the Hungarian.

“Carefully, now,” says the tall man. In his white lab coat the lanky figure looks like a giant marabou stork. By the light spilling from the doorway of the clinic he appears to be in his early to mid-sixties, a fringe of gray hair around the back of his head and a bushy gray mustache beneath a long, narrow nose on which are perched a pair of wire-rimmed bifocals. A stethoscope dangles from around his neck.

First, Babaye is gently moved onto the litter carried by Nedjar and Ortu under the watchful eye of the doctor, who gives the wounded man’s dressings a quick once over. “Inside, in the surgery,” the doctor says with a curt nod.

As the gendarme is moved forward to the edge of the bed, a booming voice cries out, “Who’s in charge? Tell me what happened!”

Stepping into the light is a group of a half-dozen men. In the lead is a short, portly man in a gray suit coat and slacks and white dress shirt open at the neck – his dark hair is slicked straight back. A pair of large horn-rimmed glasses gives him a slightly bookish appearance, but his ham-like hands clenched into fists and weathered skin suggest that he is anything but an academic.

Beside him is another man, older, much taller and heavily built – he looks like a man who could at one time break an axe-handle in his bare hands, now gone to paunch. He has thick gray hair and a full beard – slung over his shoulder is a rifle and around his ample waist is a bandolier. The other men trailing along behind are similarly armed and attired. All are pieds-noir.

The doctor turns at the sound of the booming voice. “Jean-Marie, I have wounded to attend to first,” he says in Italian-accented French, “then you may ask your questions.”

The short man, apparently the speaker, looks up at the doctor with a scowl, then spies the gendarme being loaded onto the second litter. “You there, tell me what happened.”

“We were ambushed, mayor,” the gendarme replies as he attempts to lie at attention on the litter, “near the Rubiera place. Sergent Teller is dead, sir, along with Phillipe Argaud and Henri Moret. I injured my leg...”

“What about the Rubieras?” interrupts the taller man. His voice is deep and calm.

The gendarme shakes his head. “All dead, Monsieur Girard. All but the little girl.”

A murmur runs among the men like a wave receding on a shingle beach, their words punctuated by sharply-spoken expletives. The mayor turns toward the legionnaires. “And this is our PROTECTION?” he spits angrily. “What were you doing? Where did they come from? How did they get to the farm?”

“Not now, Jean-Marie,” interrupts the doctor forcefully. He looks up at Normand. “Can you walk? Good. Inside.”

The pieds-noirs speak angrily amongst themselves, the voice of the mayor the most audible, as the legionnaires are hustled into the clinic. A small waiting room greets the paras. The doctor gestures to the litter bearers and directs them through a set of double-doors to a treatment room on the right. He turns to Normand. “Sit down a moment, son,” he instructs, then spends a moment assessing the legionnaire’s wounds. “You’ll need clean dressings, and penicillin, but otherwise you look like you’ll live. You come last.”

The doctor converses quietly with Sgt. Katsourianis for a brief time. The sergent looks up at Marcel. “Fortier, you assist the doctor,” he orders. The tall physician nods and tilts his head toward the back of the clinic.

Marcel...[sblock]“I’m Dr. Bruzzi. Have you any experience with assisting in a surgery?” he asks, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hall.[/sblock]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]The lobby grows quiet, but outside the hubbub of voices seems to be growing.[/sblock]Please post your replies in spoiler blocks.

 

[Bobitron]

Marcel stays quiet as the town officials rant, but all present can tell it is tough for him to hold back. The scene in the basement had affected him strongly, and any attempt to blame any party other than the insurgents gave him a sour taste in his mouth.

Marcel...[sblock]“I’m Dr. Bruzzi. Have you any experience with assisting in a surgery?” he asks, his long strides carrying him quickly down the hall.[/sblock]

[sblock]"Marcel Fortier, doctor. Yes. I studied in Paris at Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu. I could do this myself, if I had a field hospital." He speaks very matter-of-factly, with confidence in his ability.[/sblock]

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr pops one eye open as the voices outside the truck get louder. Who the hell is this upstart? Stepping down from the truck, he eyes the group enough to commit them to memory then follows the rest inside.

[sblock]
"See Normand? Doc says you'll live. That suicide arm of yours failed you again." Smiling to the big man, his ears perk to listen to the outside gathering. "I don't suppose you know what that is all about?"
[/sblock]

 

[Barak]

[sblock]
Normand grins as Pyotr jokes, but doesn't respond, just shakes his head. As Pyotr asks the serious question, however, he grows serious as well, and responds with a shrug

"Not anymore than you, really. But if I had to guess, I'd say the mayor isn't too fond of the Légion to begin with, and will use this to "show" that we don't do much good."
[/sblock]

 

[The Shaman]

Normand and Pyotr...[sblock]“They expect us to be sector troops and stand guard over their houses,” Kat replies, overhearing Normand’s comment. His face is pensive. “David, you and Pamuk stand a post outside. Be careful – remember, no confrontations.”

As the two legionnaires move toward the door, it swings open, and in strides the mayor and Monsieur Girard, accompanied by a woman this time – she appears to be in her mid- to late thirties, and wears a simple housedress. Through the open door a considerable crowd can be heard outside.

“Sergent, a word with you, now,” says the mayor, his voice echoing off the walls of the lobby.

Kat glances at Nedjar and Pamuk, who slip out the door as the mayor continues, “I want details, sergent...” Before he can continue, the woman interrupts, “Marie Rubiera is my sister – is she all right? Her children?”

The Greek legionnaire takes a deep breath – his face is grave. “Madame, the gendarmes are at the farm now...”

“Don’t give me that, sergent,” the mayor breaks in angrily. “The gendarme told me they’re all dead,” – the woman recoils slightly at the words – “You were right there when he said it!” The short man glares at the legionnaire.

Kat stands as if at attention. “We found four bodies belonging to colons. We also found a little girl alive.”

The woman’s hand rises to her mouth at Kat’s words and she shakes her head as tears begin to flow. The mayor helps her to a seat and Kat kneels down beside her. “The little girl is with a neighbor...” he says quietly.

The heavy-set bearded man with the rifle over his shoulder turns to the other legionnaires as Kat talks softly to the woman. “My name is Jacques Girard, and I’m the leader of the Unités Territoriales for Portemonte,” His voice is a bass rumble, his face composed behind the thick gray beard. “Joseph Rubiera is a respected man in the community, and this is a shock for many,” he continues. “I spoke with him myself this afternoon, when he was in town. It’s difficult to comprehend.”

He looks to Normand. “Obviously there was a fight. How many were killed? Were they Arabs? Where did they come from?”[/sblock]

Marcel...[sblock]“A surgical student?” the tall physician replies. “The Legion seems an odd place for you.” He leads Marcel down a hall past three examining rooms and into the surgery. It’s little more than a large examining room itself, but looking over the setup Marcel can see that’s it efficient if a little austere.

Babaye is stretched out on the table, his eyes closed. A nurse in a clean white uniform is laying out surgical instruments on a tray, assiduously protecting the sterile field. She is short and curvy...plump...fat, actually, with bright red curly hair that peeks out the back of her white veil.

Dr. Bruzzi points to a wash basin. “Scrub there while I start the anesthetic.” The doctor prepares a syringe and an IV as Marcel takes a sponge and vigorously scrubs at the blood and grit crusted on his hands, stripping the skin bare and pink. “I was a military surgeon myself, during the war,” the physician continues as he inserts a needle into a vein in Babaye’s wrist. “How did you come to be in the Legion?”[/sblock]