Wing and Sword: Life During Wartime

[The Shaman]

The platoon, tired but no less wary, navigates the twisting track back to the bourdj where the GMCs are parked. Again Sgt. Katsourianis’s section leads the way, with Lt. Ramadier near the head of the column. Sgt. Altmeier’s section brings up the rear of the paras, followed by Lt. Ferrand, Sister Courcy, the harkis – and the donkeys. Marcel again follows at the back of the platoon – the nurse and the SAS officer are deep in quiet conversation covered by the sound of the hooves of the donkeys and the curses of the skinner, leaving the medic to listen as Sgts. Müller and Altmeier growl at one another in German for ninety minutes.

At the front of the column, the legionnaires of the first section pick at the mud and cement clinging to their skin – a hasty wash at the cistern wasn’t enough to remove the caked-on dirt of the day. Sgt. Katsourianis addresses Lt. Ramadier as the column leaves the village. “Sir, was the lieutenant’s intelligence any good?” His tone is skeptical.

The tall platoon leader nods. “Yes, it was,” Ramadier answers. “That village back there is in one sector and El-Biya, where we left the rest of the company? That’s in a different sector.” His looks ahead at the hills bordering the oued as he talks over his shoulder to the sergent. “This is the only trail. The commander of the sector won’t send his troops up here because there’s no road in, and the commandant of the battalion in El-Biya won’t send his men up here because it’s not his sector.”

“That outpost where we left the trucks – those soldats have never been up here. They patrol the boundary between sectors, and that’s it.” The platoon leader shakes his head as if in disbelief. “How did it go with Lt. Ferrand?” he asks, lowering his voice slightly.

Kat gives him a rundown of the work in the village, along with Pyotr’s observations. “Sir, I think we should have tossed the houses,” he offers at the end.

“Yes,” Lt. Ramadier agrees. “These rappelé officers who never served overseas, never lived in the colonies – ” He doesn’t finish the thought. “Le Capitaine stresses cooperation with the SAS, Kat. So we cooperate.”

“Oui, mon lieutenant,” Kat replies, apparently satisfied that he made his point to the platoon leader.

The sun has dropped below the hills as the platoon arrives at the trucks. Lt. Ferrand speaks with the adjudant at the blockhouse – the harkis and the stock will spend the night at the outpost and be picked up in the morning. The paras climb aboard the deuce-and-a-halfs – Lt. Ferrand and Sister Courcy ride in the cab of the lead truck. The drive back is no less gut-wrenching than the trip out, perhaps more so due to the day’s exertions.

It’s full dark when Third Platoon rolls into El-Biya once again. The rest of the company has pitched their shelter-halves alongside the barracks belonging to the sector troops garrisoned in the market town. Le Capitaine appears almost as the trucks roll to a stop. As the paras unload, they can overhear Lt. Ferrand enthusiastically praising the legionnaires to the company commander for their hard work in the village.

Marcel suddenly finds himself face-to-face with Sister Courcy – standing in the glow of the headlights of the deuce-and-a-half, the slender nurse’s battered fatigues and combat boots are covered in dust, her dark hair tucked up inside her khaki sunhat.

She offers hims her hand. “Anne-Marie. Anne-Marie de Courcy. Remember what I told you, Marcel.” Her heart-shaped face breaks into a smile – for the first time it seems to spread across her face, lifting the tip of her nose, crinkling the corners of her blue eyes. “About the fatigues.” She turns and walks away toward the blockhouse.

The weary paras take up their primitive quarters for the night.

 

[Barak]

Normand, as usual, takes the time to stow his gear properly in the appropriate place before even thinking of finding some water available to remove the worse of the grit off of himself. His minimal ablutions completed, he thinks of what to do next.

Alright, I need to find something to do. I know.. Ortu. He thinks I'm a arab sympathizer, and maybe I am, but having him think that is not overly healthy.

An informal plan in his head, he walks around, looking for his fellow légionnaire. Once he finds him, he loses no time going up to the man.

"Hey, mon frère! I was looking for you. We have some free time tonight, correct? What is there to do around here?"

 

[The Shaman]

Slivio Ortu is seated on his bedroll, relacing a boot when Normand approaches. “Here?” he says with surprise, looking at the garrison barracks and around the dark village. “Not much.” The Sardinian tugs at the laces and slips the boot over his foot. “I missed the match this afternoon. AC Milan and Juventus,” he continues, tapping the transistor radio in his pocket. “What do you have in mind?”

 

[Barak]

Normand guffaws.

"If I had anything specific in mind, I wouldn't be asking what there is to do. As you said, I doubt anything real fancy would be around here. But surely, a place to have a few drinks, play some cards, something."

 

[The Shaman]

“Drinks?” Silvio answers with a derisive snort. “The wogs don’t drink alcohol, remember?” The tireur finishes tying his boot and inspects his handywork, then looks up at Normand. “So was jail worth helping that Arab? Y’know, he’d probably kill you if he had half a chance. Every one of ’em is a killer, Normand. Every one.” He looks down at his boots again. “Anyway, even if there was anything to do here, there’s no way we’d get a permission tonight. I overheard the lieutenant say we’re moving out at dawn.”

 

[shadowbloodmoon]

Pyotr finishes stowing his gear, wearily cleaning his rifles as he overhears his squadmates talking about what to do the rest of the evening. Deciding that he needed to get the day's activities out of his head, he pulls a deck of cards out.

"Somebody say cards?"

 

[Barak]

Normand shrugs.

"I thought I got solitary for keeping those local idiots from ruining the crap out of our raid. If it was for saving that kid, I don't feel so bad. In the end, if he had died, it would have riled up all the wogs even more, making our lives even worse. Think 'bout it, Ortu." With a smile, he adds. "And I did learn that I'm probably the only one in the whole outfit who knows how to give a real beating, which is good to know. Anyway, water under the bridge and all that."

Pulling his cigar-gear out of his bag, he shrugs.

"So no alcohol and no going out. We can still stay in and take Pyotr's money. The russkies, they don't know how to play. What do you say, mon frère?"

 

[Bobitron]

Marcel, still prone in his bunk while he thinks on the days events, sits up and shakes his head, clearing it of the reflections.

"Cards, you say? I'm not very good, but someone needs to play and make sure Normand doesn't cheat," he says with a grin, pulling out his pack of smokes. "Cigarettes?"

 

[The Shaman]

“Talk to some of these guys who were in Indochina,” replies Ortu, unlacing his boots again. “They’re like fish in a net. The Communist thing.”

“Fish in the sea, Silvio, not a net.” Manolo Sánchez rolls over from where he’s lying on his bedroll, props himself up on one elbow. “It’s Maoist doctrine. ‘The guerrilla must move amongst the people as a fish swims in the sea.’”

Ortu waves his hand. “Whatever.” He sprinkles foot powder liberally in his boots, then sets them aside. “No cards for me, thanks.” He slides into his bedroll, pops the earpiece from his transitor radio in an ear, and lies back with his head on his hands.

Sánchez sits up and reaches into the pocket of his smock. “Room for one more?” the veteran legionnaire asks, a tidy wad of francs in his hand.

Sánchez settles in, declines Marcel’s proferred cigarette, pulling an Ideales from his own pocket instead. The Spaniard watches as the cards are shuffled. “In Indochina you could never be sure who was Vietminh, and who wasn’t. After awhile they all became ‘viets.’ It was the only way to stay alive – treat every one of ’em like he was going to cut your throat if you turned your back.” He takes a long drag from his cigarette – the lines on the veteran's face are deep in the glow of the flashlight lighting the cards. “The fellaghas use the same tactics. Some of ’em learned ’em from the viets themselves, in prison camps. That waiter - ” he focuses on Normand “ - could’ve been working with that mechanic back in Portemonte, for all we know.” He flicks a bit of ash from his cigarette and takes another pull. “The Arabs, the Berbers - they're no better or worse than anyone else. But you can’t trust them either, not completely. Even in the best of times they’re a shrewd people. Cunning. And these are not the best of times.”

 

[Barak]

Normand shrugs, and starts shuffling the deck.

"Wanna play au beigne, then? Since it works with any number of players anyway." After shuffling some more, he starts to deal. "Me, I don't care much about the politics, you know? But that waiter, coulda been an informer working for our side, too. I don't know. One thing for sure though, I had stood there with everybody and watch the crowd beat him, he would have been a fell in a month, if he wasn't already. They kill him? His whole family would have hated us then. Me, I don't think about it, I just don't let a mob beat up a kid who did nothing."