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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Shaman" data-source="post: 3046913" data-attributes="member: 26473">“What’s the matter? Afraid of a couple of putain dogs?” Ortu snaps as the grenadier and the medic walk toward the base of the cliff where the jackals and vultures gather.“Don’t let him get under your skin.” Manolo Sánchez walks a few paces behind the pair, on his way to take up a position down the gorge from the other paras.“Silvio is ten litres of merde in a five litre bag,” he continues, keeping his voice low as he speaks, “but a tireur needs to be arrogant like that. In a real firefight his life expectency is about twenty seconds – he better believe he’s the toughest putain bastard around, or he won’t do his job. And he’s a Sardinian, so he’s stupid, too.” Sánchez smiles, but beneath his thick stubble, the old legionnaire’s face is gray with weariness. He dips his head and continues past as Marcel and Normand confront the jackals.The scavenger pair observes the legionnaires’ approach, heads low to the ground. At first they are reluctant to give ground, darting back and forth in front of the rocks that conceal the carcass, but a few well-thrown stones discourage them at last, and the two tawny canines withdraw a short distance away to watch the men, wary and dejected.Flies swarm over the remains of the donkey – torn flesh, growing ripe in the oppressive heat, hangs in loose tatters from the animal’s ribs. The jackals have ripped open the donkey’s abdomen, spilling its intestines on the ground and digging out the organs protected by the ribcage.Hands wave frantically to keep the flies at bay while the two paras inspect the corpse. There are no obvious signs of trauma, but with the damage done by the scavengers it’s difficult to be sure why the donkey died. Marcel notes that the fur on the pack animal’s snout is gray, and the skin around its ribs pulled tight, suggesting age or perhaps ill-health. There's blood and fur on the rocks, suggesting that it fell from the trail above, and unless it twisted around as it plummeted, the donkey was most likely ascending the trail.Marcel carries the stench of dead flesh about him as they finally step back from the carcass. Vidal Gaspard studies the ground a few meters away. “Find anything?” he asks.The radioman waves an arm at the scene in the gorge. “Does this remind you of anything?” he asks. “A dozen paras alone in the desert, searching for fells? Feels like we’ve done this before.” A wry grin turns up a corner of his mouth.</blockquote>

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