Fouche / Haasbroek Revenge of the Sabre

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 11
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-928498-92-6
Verlag: Pieter Haasbroek
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 117 Seiten

Reihe: Sahara Adventure Series

His long-lost brother is alive.

But the message is a lie, and the price for the truth is a holy war that will drown the Sahara in blood.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. Teuns Stegmann, a haunted soldier in the French Foreign Legion, is lured by a cryptic message. A whisper of hope that his brother, a pilot lost to the desert years ago, has been found. It's a chance to finally silence the ghosts of his past.

But the promise is a venomous trap. A ruthless deserter holds the supposed truth, and his price is a treasure of immense power, the sacred Sabre of Doetra. Handing it over will unleash the fanatical Doelak tribes, betraying the Legion and condemning thousands to die. The choice is impossible. Save the brother he thought was dead or prevent a catastrophic war.

Now shackled, starved, and hunted across the blistering dunes, Teuns must outwit a sadistic madman and the phantom-like Doelak warriors who shadow his every move. In a land where trust is a mirage and death waits behind every dune, his only weapons are his wits and a desperate will to survive.

This explosive Sahara thriller blends the mystery of a lost artifact with the high-stakes tension of a classic action-adventure. Perfect for fans of epic historical quests and relentless suspense.

Step into this unforgettable eleventh Sahara adventure now!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fouche, Meiring

Haasbroek, Pieter

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ai

Haasbroek, Pieter

Leseproben

11. REVENGE OF THE SABRE

Chapter 1

THE LITTLE STRANGER

The lights are dim, the noise is loud, and the fume of wine hangs throughout the large room where a great throng of humanity sits, talking and drinking animatedly. Men of the French Foreign Legion rub shoulders with Arabs in long white robes, traders, caravan drivers, hawkers, and idlers. Somewhere an orchestra plays Eastern music, then interrupts it again with modern jazz, but no one pays much attention to the music.

The Legionnaires speak extra loudly because most of those sitting and drinking here tonight are on leave, and they try to savour every moment, knowing that sooner or later they will have to return to the scorching misery of the Sahara desert.

Here at the small table in the farthest corner, there is loud chatter. Teuns Stegmann, the tall, blond South African, has just sat down here after carving a path through the milling crowd. There is a noticeable blush beneath the tan of his glistening cheeks, and a particular light shines in his deep blue eyes. His large, well-formed hands seem tremulous, and he is as diffident as a schoolboy who has taken out his first sweetheart.

“Tell us, tell us!” bellows Fritz Mundt, the large German, the strongest man in the French Foreign Legion.

“Yes, speak up!” urges Podolski, the big Pole.

“How does she kiss?” wants Jack Ritchie, the blond Englishman, to know, and they all lean forward, their torsos on the tabletop as if Teuns must impart some tremendous secret to them. Petacci, the small Italian, doesn’t ask questions, but he stares intently at Teuns as if he already knows the entire secret, as if he is privy to every little detail the tall South African could tell them. But eventually, he too asks.

“Are her lips warm and trembling, mon ami?”

Teuns shifts uncomfortably on the hard chair, looks at his hands, then at the bottles of wine standing before them on the table, and then simply over the crowd towards where the warm night lies outside.

“Come on, come on,” Fritz Mundt prods again. “Don’t keep us hanging like this, man.”

“What is there to tell?” asks Teuns, spreading his large hands despairingly and blushing deeper.

“How Mademoiselle Julie Lefevre kisses, that is what we want to know,” says Podolski loudly. “Or haven’t you found that out yet?”

Teuns looks somewhat helplessly at the large Pole.

Jack Ritchie lays his hand on the South African’s. It seems as though there is compassion in his eyes.

“Don’t tell us you just sat with her on a bench under some palm tree, mon ami,” he says.

“Or just went for a walk along the waterfront of Algiers,” Petacci breaks in.

“Or just stood looking at the moon,” bellows Fritz Mundt. He throws his hands in the air. “After all, you saved her life, didn’t you, South African,” mocks the big German.

Teuns Stegmann’s thoughts slip back for a moment to that bitter time when the Arabs kidnapped Julie Lefevre, the beautiful daughter of Captain Gaston Lefevre, when she went to visit her father in Dini Salam. That was the time when he and Gaston Lefevre alone had to outwit a horde of Arabs in Fort Laval to save their lives and Julie’s. That time, she had cordially invited him to come and visit her when he was next on leave in Algiers, and now he had done so.

He thinks of their evening together at her apartment, of the meal she prepared for him, of the delicate wine she poured for him, of the soft, stimulating fumes of exquisite French perfume, the fragrance of her hair, and the supple, heated allure of her lips. He thinks of her lips, how they trembled lightly beneath his searching mouth, and how her arms closed around his shoulders in delightful surrender. He hears her whisper of ecstasy again and feels again the slow movement of her slender fingers through his hair.

He looks at the men around him, at each of them in turn. He sees the mischief in their eyes, and also the longing.

“One doesn’t talk about such things,” he says helplessly. He leans forward, and there is emphasis in the set of his shoulders. “Not one of you scallywags would divulge what you got up to with a young lady in an evening, of that I am quite certain. You have become utterly corrupted in the Foreign Legion.” He looks particularly at Jack Ritchie, whom he had always regarded as a finely educated man.

“Don’t try to teach us etiquette,” Fritz bursts out. “We want to hear what you got up to.”

Teuns laughs, embarrassed, and fidgets with his hands. “You’re just being ridiculous,” he defends himself. “I won’t tell... except that she is a wonderful person. I am going to see her every evening while we are here... another full, wonderful week.”

Podolski covers his mouth with his hand. “You lucky devil,” he whispers.

“What’s wrong with you lot?” asks Teuns, frowning and embarrassed. “Why don’t you each take a young lady out too? Are you telling me there are no girls you can take out here in Algiers? The place is teeming with beauty.”

“But none of them are Mademoiselle Julie,” complains Jack Ritchie. “This other lot just wants to drink wine with you and spend your money. And then they lose interest.”

“Can’t we take turns with Mademoiselle Julie?” asks Petacci timidly, his small eyes twinkling. Teuns immediately annihilates the little Italian with his sharp gaze.

They stare at him so intently that he simply beckons the waiter over and orders more wine.

“Are we going to hear something about your romance tonight or not?” Fritz Mundt asks again. Teuns quickly wipes his face, with a gesture of pure exasperation.

“Just leave me alone now,” Teuns requests. “Let’s drink wine and be merry and drop this nonsense of yours now. If you carry on like this, I won’t come back to you after being with Julie again.”

“It must be wonderful to keep such a secret in your heart,” whispers Podolski, wringing his hands together.

The words between them fray, and one after another, they start looking at Petacci. The little Italian’s attention is no longer with the group around the table. He stares away over the crowd, his eyes narrowed against the irritation of the smoke haze filling the large restaurant.

“What are you sitting staring at, Italian?” asks Podolski. “You almost look as if you see a Doelak lying in wait for you.”

“We are being watched,” says Petacci. “There’s a yellow-belly here who’s interested in us.”

“We must be five handsome fellows to him,” mocks Jack Ritchie.

“He’s not looking at us as if we’re handsome,” says Petacci. “Don’t all look at once,” says Petacci. “I’ll indicate where he is sitting, then you can also glance over occasionally. He is definitely keeping a close eye on this table.”

“You make me shudder, Italian,” Fritz Mundt teases. “An Arab shouldn’t sit staring at me. I’ll just get up and go break his rotten neck. I’m in the mood for a fight tonight anyway.”

Petacci indicates as unobtrusively as possible where the Arab is sitting, and the others glance that way in turn.

We are definitely being watched, is the conclusion they all reach.

“We are not only being watched, we are also being discussed intently,” Teuns finds.

“Yes, that is quite certain,” Podolski agrees. “That group there at the table belongs together, one can see that all too clearly.”

“Why would we be watched and discussed?” is the question Jack Ritchie voices, and it is also the question each of them asks, although they do not voice it aloud.

“We are famous people,” opines Fritz. “How many times haven’t we made the yellow-bellies look foolish,” he says proudly.

“You mustn’t forget that we hid the Sabre of Doetra, brothers,” says Podolski out of the blue. “That makes us marked men among the Arabs.”

They all fall silent at once, for this fact strikes each of them individually. Jack Ritchie glances quickly at the Pole, and Teuns suddenly fidgets with his fingers, his expression abstracted, his eyes somewhat sombre.

“You make a joke about it now,” says Teuns, “but it is the truth. The Arabs can forget the disappearance of the ceremonial Sabre of Doetra just as little as Jack Ritchie’s people can forget the battle of Waterloo.”

“You sound terribly impressive. One would swear the Arabs know we threw the Sabre of Doetra away in the Harba oasis.” It is Petacci who speaks thus.

“Arabs are the best detectives in the world,” Teuns opines. “If they want to find out who hid the Sabre, they will find out, of that you can be very sure, Signor Petacci.”

The Arab watching them most intently is a small, ridiculous little man with sly eyes and pockmarks on his face. His garment is different from those of the other Arabs. It is of a dark blue, rough fabric, and the hood is much longer than that of the ordinary Arab, so that he can conceal his face very deeply if he were to pull the hood fully forward.

“To which tribe does he belong?” asks Fritz, while glancing sideways again at the little Arab who is watching them so fixedly.

“Must be one of the tribes in the far south,” says Teuns. “The tribes near the border of Libya wear that type of clothing.”

“Then the whole story regarding the Sabre of Doetra falls apart,” says Podolski, “because it is only the Doelaks who are interested in the Sabre. If this little creature comes from the border of Libya, you needn’t think he is looking at us because he imagines we know something about the Sabre of Doetra.”

“Your...