Sunday morning finds the paras lugging their gear as all four platoons pile into the company vehicles. Normand gets a visit from Cpl. Bestebreurtje, who checks the Frenchman’s various wounds as well as his vital signs and pronounces him fit for duty. Pyotr gets the nod from Kat to bring Ekaterina. Raffaele receives the musette of plastique from the armorer and adds it to his gear. Marcel is similarly loaded down with his medical and surgery kits, and all of the legionnaires carry their field packs, with rations for four days.
It makes for a snug fit in the back of the deuce-and-a-half. “Tighten it up,” Kat orders. “Make room for the lieutenant.” The platoon headquarters – Lt. Ramadier; his radioman, Benoit Joachim; and Georg von Krenzl, the lieutenant’s runner – plus Marcel join First Section in one truck, while Sgt. Altmeier and Sgt. Szabo cram their respective sections into a second 6x6. The other platoons do the same in the cool morning air, and with engines roaring, the column of trucks and jeeps sets out.
The convoy of vehicles heads west, away from Portemonte, past the farms and fields and orchards, the wheat and trees green against the dun-colored hills and plain. It’s Ortu who catches first sight of the Rubiera farm – “That’s where we were,” he says simply as the trucks pass the double-row of poplars lining the driveway. The windows and doors of the farmhouse are boarded up and the goats and horses are gone from their pens. “I wonder how that little girl is doing,” says Nedjar to no one in particular as the convoy whips past.
“Hey lieutenant,” Ortu asks, breaking the quiet among the paras again, “where are we going?”
Lt. Ramadier looks up from a map on his lap. “About forty-five kilometers south of town,” he answers. “A recon flight spotted what they thought was fellaghas moving through the mountains, near one of the Arab villages.”
“Ratissage?” Kat asks. The lieutenant nods.
A couple of the veteran legionnaires shake their heads.
Marcel asks about ratissage.
Karel Syrovy looks at Marcel with a wide grin. “Ratissage means a lot of humping up and down hills for days dodging snakes and scorpions, with the chance that we may confiscate an old Lebel from some wog shepherd,” the slender Hungarian says with obvious disdain as he reaches for one of Raffaele’s proffered cigarettes.
Lt. Ramadier tucks his map into a pocket on his smock. “It also means denying the fellouze the use of an area during the time we’re operational,” he says, glancing at Syrovy, “which can prevent them from moving men and supplies, and limits their offensive capability.” The young officer glances at his watch, then looks out the back of the truck at the column trailing along behind. The lieutenant’s French is clear and clean, with a slight accent that’s hard to place.
Marcel introduces himself to Raffaele, and Silvio Ortu, the husky gunner, chimes in, “What I want to know is, did you have to stand on your toes during the physical?” He grins sardonically at the diminutive legionnaire.
The banter dies down and legionnaires are quiet as the convoy follows a winding route through the foothills of the Saharan Tell. The trucks turn off the paved highway onto a graveled road, and soon the air is filled with choking dust that swirls up and through the raised canvas sides of the big trucks. Eventually stifiling heat proves preferable to the grit rising from the road and the sides are dropped and lashed tight.
The trucks bounce and tilt for more than an hour before slowing and stopping. Eventually the idling engine falls silent and a moment later a green-bereted head appears under the canvas, announcing, “Lieutenant, Le Capitaine wants you.” As Lt. Ramadier exits the truck, the paras get a glimpse of rows of ramshackle stalls and striped tents outside. Ortu nods to Pamuk, and together they roll up one side of the canvas cover – the other follows shortly after.
Surrounding the convoy the paras recognize the familiar sight of a country souk. The weekly market is clustered on the bank of a wide oued, amid a scatter of date palms surrounded by the barren, rocky peaks of the Tell. The stalls and tents envelop the gravel road and radiate outward from it. In the nearest stalls the paras see bolts of dyed cloth as well as finished goods – djellbas and gandourahs, colorful carpets in rolls. Beyond the textiles are tents with baskets and metal goods, including some odd-looking bits of scrap. Crates and boxes filled with dates, citrons, and other produce, or baskets of beans and peas, stand in front of some tents, while nearby vendors offer bits of cooked meat and steaming urns of coffee to the throng of shoppers. Along the periphery are temporary pens made of ropes woven together, in which are gathered clusters of sturdy donkeys and ungainly camels.
The smell of dust and manure, of strong coffee and roasting lamb, flows over and around the paras as they watch Arab men in long robes, or veiled women followed by dirty, inquisitive children, make their way up and down the alleys between the temporary storefronts. Only the children seem interested in the trucks full of legionnaires.
A jeep is parked off to one side. Two French soldiers in khaki shorts and shirts with the sleeves rolled up slouch against the fenders, MAT-36s slung over their shoulders as they watch the busy market, their faces shaded by their soft bush hats and cheap aviator sunglasses.
“Legionnaires?” one of them says as he looks up at the truckload of paras. He waves at a fly buzzing around his face, then leans forward. “Par-lay-voo-fran-say?” he asks with exaggerated slowness, a grin splitting his face.
His companion smiles as well. “Don’t you mean, ‘Sprechen-sie Deutsch’?” the second soldat replies.
The first raises his right arm in stiff-armed Nazi salute. “Ja, ja, Sieg Heil!”
Pyotr climbs down and gives the French soldier a shove.
The soldats smirk turns into a look of surprise as the Ukrainian accosts him – a wave of catcalls and jeers erupts from the trucks as the paras voice their approval.
The second soldier takes a step toward Pyotr and the jeers take on an ominous note that stops the soldat in his tracks.
At that moment Sgt. Verdurand’s voice bursts over the tableaux. “Legionnaire, back on the truck!” he snaps. The burly first sergeant casts a withering look at the two soldats, then looks up at Kat. “Keep you men together,” he says evenly, then his voice rises again, booming, “Sergents, keep your men on the trucks.” He glances at Pyotr, then resumes his walk toward the tail of the convoy.
Pyotr is greeted warmly by his section mates as he returns to the truck. The two soldats by the jeep glower in silence.
It’s Sgt. Müller who pokes his head in the rear of the truck first. “The SAS lieutenant we were supposed to meet here is in some village in the mountains,” he tells Kat as the rest of the legionnaires listen. “He was supposed to provide an intelligence briefing before our rat hunt.” The German platoon sergeant looks up at the blue sky. “Le Capitiane is sending the whole platoon.” Müller pounds a hand on the tailgate, then turns to rejoin the second and third sections in the other truck.
The lieutenant returns a few minutes later – an extended hand helps him into the back of the truck, the engine revs, and the deuce-and-a-half lurches forward, carrying the paras out of the market and onto a dusty, bumpy road.
The two trucks jostle along the rough track for some thirty minutes, crossing and recrossing a small dry streambed several times in the process. The swaying and jolting make conversation impossible, and the legionnaires cling to seats and roof stays to keep from being tossed to the floor.
The GMCs grind to a halt at last. The oued the trucks were following opens out slightly, and a cement blockhouse and watchtower stands beside the road. Next to the tower are a jeep and a large tank truck, both painted olive green – several French soldiers in their khaki summer uniforms and sun hats watch the legionnaires with expressions ranging from curiosity to boredom.
“Kat, get your section ready,” Lt. Ramadier instructs, climbing down from the rear of the truck, followed by his radio and runner. “Make sure canteens are full, and bring your packs. We’re walking the rest of the way.”
Kat looks around at the paras. “You heard the lieutenant. Let’s go.”
Recap: Following the firefight at the farm and rooting out the FLN terrorist at the Esso station in Portemonte, the company has been sent into action in the mountains south of town, to search for fellaghas spotted by an Air Force patrol plane. As the company stages in an Arab village, Lt. Ramadier's platoon has been dispatched to locate a SAS lieutenant in order to get an intelligence briefing - the paras have arrived at road's end, and are preparing to continue on foot to find the SAS officer somewhere in the hills beyond the last army checkpoint...
