Hell's Legionnaire by L. Ron Hubbard Read Free Book Online Page B

before Caesar. And the terrain on which this city
is built is a blank spot on the map. It is on the northern slope of the High
Atlas.
    No topographer has
ever carried his alidade that deep into northern Africa, and there are only a
few of us who have known the Legion who can sketch the trails that are safe,
the few water holes that exist in that bleached aridity.
    We
who have been in the Legion sometimes know more than the trails. Working for a
pittance a day we should have known nothing of vast riches—gold
piled in heaping stacks, glittering gems which might have graced the head of
Cleopatra. No, there is entirely too much contrast there. We should never have
known.
    I sat behind a machine gun,
bowing my head under a merciless sun which was sending heat waves writhing all
up and down the sides of the bare brown mountains. The heat waves made a target
jump like a 1912 movie. But if they were bad for me, so were they bad for the
Berbers who lurked down in the ravine, or on the opposing slope—gray white
swirls of burnoose, gone before a man could get a decent aim.
    My only protection
against the shrill whine of snipers’ bullets was the rough-hewn murette — the
rock wall we had built on our arrival. The machine-gun’s black snout was thrust
through an embrasure so as to command the slope which went down from us to the
ravine bottom. Near at hand Chauchats were stacked—three of them, clean and
ready. Back of me, in the poorly constructed pup tents, the remainder of my
squad stretched out under canvas, panting in the heat, hoping for the coolness
of night.
    I had not shaved or
washed for three weeks. One cannot keep clean on a swallow of water a day. Nor
can one do a great deal to fight off thirst. The only water hole for miles was
with us, inside the murette, and the man who named it a water hole was
the century’s greatest jester. It had been going dry, inch by inch, until now
there remained but a damp scum over the bottom—green scum at that.
    Within forty-eight
hours our water would be gone, and the only answer to that predicament would be
a pell-mell rush down the ravine toward the main command which lay some leagues
to the east. It was doubtful whether we could get through those white robes; moreover,
the district had been reported subdued. No patrols would be out checking on us.
I had not sighted a plane for three days.
    A man in the tent
nearest me moaned incessantly. A sniper’s bullet had caught him just under the
belt, smashing his hip. He had been delirious for twelve hours. Soon he would
die.
    The five other men
were silent save for their heavy breathing. Hungry and thirsty, baked by sun
and caked with dirt, not yet rested after a long campaign, they found no heart
to talk.
    Although my eyes were
burning with the shimmering haze of heat, I saw the movements across the
ravine. Several Berbers sprang out from behind a rock the size of a moving van
and began jumping up and down, waving their guns.
    Suddenly a stone
rolled down below. I boosted myself up to my knees and stared into the ravine.
Not ten feet away from me a pair of beady black eyes set in a chisel-sharp face
returned my stare.
    The fellow had a knife
clutched in his fist, a rifle across his back. Behind him came five others.
    I grabbed the machine
gun and depressed the muzzle as far as I could. The second man in the attacking
party drew a revolver and fired. My cap went spinning away to thump against the
tents. Hands were over the edge. I snapped down on the trips.
    The first dozen shots
caught the leader square in the face, hammering it into a raw mass of blood.
The second burst cut the man with the revolver just above the belt line—cut him
almost in two. Before the others could turn and run for it I centered my sights
on them and let drive.
    Their bodies went
bumping and sliding down the slope. I helped them along with a few shots. In a
moment there were six bundles of rags far below, lying motionless, gray