Fouche / Haasbroek The Tracks are Calling

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 9
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-928498-86-5
Verlag: Pieter Haasbroek
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 121 Seiten

Reihe: Sahara Adventure Series

A single clue in the blood-soaked sand.

For one legionnaire, it's a mission.

For the woman he's never met, it's her only hope.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. French Foreign Legionnaire Teuns Stegmann and his patrol are used to the Sahara's brutal emptiness. But when they stumble upon the remains of a slaughtered caravan, a single, elegant powder compact hints at a truth more sinister than any battle. A white woman has been taken captive by the desert's most ruthless tribe.

The trail of clues leads them deeper into hostile territory, where the hunters become the hunted. Outnumbered and facing a cunning enemy armed with a captured machine gun, Stegmann knows that failure isn't just an option. It's a sentence of agonizing torture and death, while the woman he seeks faces a fate worse than any grave in the sand.

A relentless classic adventure packed with the tension of a modern thriller, this story of survival and courage will grip you from the first page. Perfect for fans of Wilbur Smith and Alistair MacLean. It's a high-stakes mystery set against the unforgiving backdrop of the Sahara.

Step into this unforgettable ninth Sahara adventure now!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fouche, Meiring

Haasbroek, Pieter

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ai

Haasbroek, Pieter

Leseproben

Chapter 2

VOICE IN THE EVENING

Catroux and Teuns Stegmann stood there in the sun for quite a while, without really knowing what to do next. Until Teuns finally asked, “Are you planning to investigate this incident, mon Sergent?”

Catroux looked somewhat despondently out over the glistening sand. “Investigate? What should we investigate? That there apparently was a woman in this fight? Where are we going to search and who are we going to search for?”

“Shouldn’t we move a bit in the direction of the oasis Harba, mon Sergent?” asked Teuns. “I notice that the tracks lead there from here.”

“How many?”

“I estimate there are about thirty animals, Sergeant. I think one can assume that the ten camels whose tracks I identified belonged to the caravan. It seems to me there are about twenty riders in the group that ambushed the caravan here.”

“And they headed towards Harba?”

“The tracks lead straight towards Harba.”

“We might as well head towards Harba for a bit and see if we spot anything further. This is a disappointment. I thought we could safely head back to Fort Laval.” He looked up at the South African and saw Teuns’s eyes sparkle. “You’re always looking for adventure, Private Stegmann, aren’t you?”

“Adventure is always interesting after all these boring days we’ve spent on this patrol march, mon Sergent,” said the South African, smiling broadly. “And who knows, perhaps this is a pretty damsel we need to rescue.”

Catroux’s wrinkled face crinkled into a smile. “Well then,” he said with a bit more enthusiasm. “Let’s go look for the fair mademoiselle. I’ll die laughing if she’s a plump Arab auntie.”

“I am quite sure that is not the case, mon officier,” said Teuns with great certainty. They turned and walked back to where the others were lounging in the sand.

“We’re heading to Harba,” Catroux ordered curtly.

The men stood up, groaning and disgruntled. They wondered what expedition the sergeant intended to launch now.

But their lack of enthusiasm quickly vanished when Catroux spoke again. “It appears there was a lady in this fight. I believe she must be a white lady, and this needs to be investigated. We will march as far as Harba and ascertain what is going on.”

Fritz Mundt suddenly brushed imaginary lint off his sleeves. Petacci took off his kepi and pretended to smooth his dark curly hair, and Podolski adjusted his uniform slightly.

“She is corn-blonde with long braids,” Fritz announced. “She comes from Bavaria, I’m sure of it. And since I’m the only man here who can speak German, she’s mine.”

“She is a dark senorita with thick, black hair and such beautiful ankles,” Petacci opined. He pursed his lips and pressed his fingertips against them.

“I bet she’s a yellow-billed girl from one of the tribes,” laughed Jack Ritchie, stumbling over a camel thorn bush.

“No, she’s not,” Teuns related. “I’m sure she’s white, and I have a feeling she’s of high standing. We picked up her powder compact. It’s pure gold.”

“What?” asked Fritz Mundt, astonished, stumbling over his own feet.

“The scoundrels must have abducted her,” Podolski reckoned. “I swear it’s Doelaks.”

“Not Doelaks, but Berbers,” Teuns corrected Podolski.

The men all looked up surprised, their eyes wide and thoughtful. Berbers, they knew the cruelty and cunning of these mountain tribes. No member of the Foreign Legion wanted to get mixed up with these barbarians. They would rather fight against any other Arabs than against these bloodthirsty creatures.

“Berbers,” sighed Fritz Mundt. “Then we can definitely expect trouble.”

“Stop talking and keep your eyes open for any signs,” ordered Catroux from the front.

They descended the steep dune and followed the tracks of the riders and camels which, just as Teuns had said, headed straight for Harba. They reached the flat plain, and then Catroux set a brisker pace. The fellows’ boots crunched loudly as they marched, their water flasks slapping against their sides, the leather straps of the rifles and packs creaking in the scorching heat.

“What kind of signs could there possibly be?” grumbled Fritz, shifting the strap of his rifle on his shoulder.

They watched the distant horizon, but it was completely empty. There was no movement on this wide flat plain stretching slowly down towards Harba. But before Harba lay rather high dunes, so they could not yet see the welcome green of the oasis.

“What do you think this young lady looks like, Stegmann?” asked Fritz as they walked.

“No idea,” answered Teuns. “But I don’t care. Just seeing a woman again will be a wonderful experience. Can you imagine how it will feel to see a woman again, brothers?”

“When did I last see one, I mean a white one?” said Jack Ritchie, scratching his bearded chin. “Let me see now. I think it was about eight months ago when those tourists were in Dini Salam that time. Those silly Americans who came to see what the Sahara looked like.”

“The last woman I saw was that one in Algiers when we were on leave that time,” Petacci related. “I don’t have pleasant memories of her, because she stole my wallet clean empty.”

“What makes you think there was a white woman with these Arabs?” asked Podolski suddenly with a troubled voice.

“The golden powder compact,” answered Teuns.

“It’s the most likely thing in the world that that wretched powder compact belonged to an Arab,” the Pole opined.

“There are initials engraved on it,” said Teuns defensively.

“What does that matter,” said Fritz Mundt. “Those scoundrels steal everything they lay eyes on. It’s not at all impossible that it’s a stolen item, and here we are struggling through the sand and heat, searching for a woman who might be an Arab with a long black beard.”

“Perhaps even one of those the vultures got hold of back there,” Jack Ritchie suggested. “This is what we call in English a ‘wild goose chase,’ I’m as sure of that as I am walking here now.”

Fritz rolled the plug of tobacco around in his cheek. “A bunch of Berbers ambush a caravan. The next thing is we’re made to believe there was a white woman among them. What on earth makes you think that a white woman would have traveled with a bunch of stinking Arabs through this part of the Sahara, South African?”

“It’s unbelievable,” said Podolski. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Of course it’s unbelievable,” Jack Ritchie agreed. “This walking is just plain useless. Mundt, talk to the sergeant so we can turn back. This is madness. Stegmann is trying to play detective of the Sahara again.”

“Yes, besides, where are we going to run into these Berbers if they do have a white woman with them? It’s ridiculous. They must be far from here by now.”

“I tell you it’s a white woman,” Teuns insisted. “What Arab would want to carry a powder compact around?”

“They like powder and things,” Petacci concluded. “Gold is gold. Why wouldn’t an Arab steal a golden powder compact and carry it?”

“I’ll tell you,” Podolski spoke mockingly. “It’s the white woman of the Doelaks, Madame Brigitte Bonnet!”

“I tell you there are initials on the compact and they are not Madame Bonnet’s,” Teuns retorted heatedly.

“Well, I tell you this is madness,” said Fritz Mundt loudly enough for Sergeant Catroux to hear him.

The sergeant swung around quickly. “Who gives the orders here?” he asked sharply, and suddenly there was silence. “If any of you opens his mouth again because we are marching to Harba, I’ll break his jaw. What has become of the discipline of the Legion?”

The men were instantly silent. Not one made a sound, for they knew Catroux’s temper and they knew well they had gone too far now. Fritz took revenge on Teuns anyway by kicking the South African’s ankle with his enormous boot. Teuns initially wanted to punch the big German in the stomach, but he didn’t get that far.

Instead, he stopped so abruptly that Petacci ran into him from behind. The next moment, Teuns swerved out of the short line. He walked away diagonally. The fellows looked at him astonished. Catroux brought the small column to a halt with a raised hand and also watched the South African in surprise.

They saw him bend down. He picked something up and stared at it for a moment. Then he walked back. He had something in his hand, but they couldn’t quite make out what it was.

“Since when do you break ranks without permission, Private Stegmann,” Catroux reprimanded the South African when he returned to them.

Teuns immediately snapped to attention, saluted, and apologised.

“What is that?” Catroux asked sharply.

Teuns handed the object to the sergeant.

It was a white paper handkerchief, soft and delicate. The kind women so liked to use.

Catroux looked wonderingly at the piece of white paper.

“It got caught on a camel thorn bush, Sergeant,” Teuns explained unnecessarily.

Catroux brought it to his face. It seemed his eyes closed in rapture. The perfume wafting from the paper handkerchief was sharp, exotic, tantalising, and for a moment, there in the hot sun, Catroux imagined himself in one of Paris’s nightclubs where the white backs of beautiful women glistened under the dim lights.

But this delightful image held him in rapture for only a brief moment, then he turned to the men. “Well then, you unbelievers,” he...