Fouche / Haasbroek Thundering Hooves

A South African Hero's Struggle in the French Foreign Legion, Book 7
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-928498-84-1
Verlag: Pieter Haasbroek
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 130 Seiten

Reihe: Sahara Adventure Series

In the heart of the Sahara, a new war is brewing.

Fought not with bullets, but with a silent, creeping death.

Sahara desert, 1940-1960. Hardened soldiers of the French Foreign Legion, Teuns Stegmann and Fritz Mundt are masters of survival in the unforgiving desert. But after a brutal encounter with a mysterious new enemy, they bring back a terrifying warning. A lethal gas weapon is about to be unleashed, a poison against which they have no defense.

The architect of this impending slaughter is the fanatical Madame Bonnet. To avenge her sister, she has united the desert tribes with a weapon of mass destruction and the legendary Sabre of Doetra, a blade that guarantees victory. Outnumbered and isolated, the Legion faces total annihilation from an army that seems to rise from the sand itself.

Their only hope is a desperate, impossible plan hatched by the cunning Captain D'Arlan. It is a deadly gambit of spies, ambushes, and bluffs, where one mistake will mean a horrific end for them all.

A gripping blend of classic action and high-stakes thriller, this explosive military adventure is perfect for fans of Alistair MacLean and Wilbur Smith.

Step into this unforgettable seventh Sahara adventure now!

Autoren/Hrsg.

Fouche, Meiring

Haasbroek, Pieter

Weitere Mitwirkende

Ai

Haasbroek, Pieter

Leseproben

Chapter 2

MAN WITH A FLAG

After D’Arlan had finished transmitting the message to Lieutenant Juin, he first went to his quarters, but he was barely there before he was summoned by the colonel. The orderly said it was urgent. D’Arlan clapped his kepi onto his head and hurried back to Colonel Le Clerq’s office. When he entered, the old man was pacing up and down in his small office like a brooding ostrich. His head was thrust far forward, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Just as I expected!” bellowed Le Clerq as D’Arlan appeared in the doorway. “Exactly as I expected! I think that lot in Algiers are becoming childish, or else they’re going stark raving mad. General Renaud,” he said with the utmost contempt. “He couldn’t command a team of road workers, let alone be head of the high command for a region like this!”

“What is the trouble, mon Colonel?” asked D’Arlan cautiously. “Serious trouble?” “Can’t you guess? They’ve landed the whole problem in our lap again. We just have to manage again. We just have to fend for ourselves again. Cannot provide assistance. We must try to negotiate with the Arabs. We must try to get hold of the Sabre of Doetra…”

“When did you hear this?”

“Just now. There lies the message. Read it yourself.”

Le Clerq went to stand wide-legged before the window and looked outside, as he always did when he was at his wits’ end in a crisis.

D’Arlan stood reading the message, and then he slowly looked up at the colonel.

“An interesting order you’ve received here,” D’Arlan said lightly, for it felt to him that Le Clerq hadn’t grasped this part of the message at all.

The colonel swung around from the window. “What do you mean? An order?”

“Apparently, you were so angry you didn’t notice it, mon Colonel.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” the old man snorted.

“General Renaud orders here that Madame Bonnet be delivered to Algiers for execution as soon as possible.” It looked as if Le Clerq would explode. He walked around the desk, swinging his arms like windmill sails. When he finally calmed down, he glared at D’Arlan as if the captain were responsible for this impossible order from the high command in Algiers.

“Is this Renaud completely out of his mind? How does he think I am supposed to extract that witch from among tens of thousands of Arabs? Should I ask them for a ceasefire so I can quickly go and arrest the madame? I have never seen such insanity in my life! To listen to them, you’d swear every last Arab was hobbled. Send a message through immediately and tell Renaud to go jump in the lake. Tell him I am not one of those superhuman beings one sees in picture books. Tell him if he wants the madame, he must come and fetch her himself.”

D’Arlan smiled inwardly at this slender, short Frenchman. In his day, he had been one of the most brilliant commanders in the entire French army, but nowadays somewhat dulled by the constant service in this hot hell of the Sahara.

D’Arlan knew him so well that he knew exactly what to do when Colonel Le Clerq’s storm had broken. Therefore, he went to the drawer, poured a glass of cognac, and gave it to Le Clerq. He swallowed it in one gulp.

“What should I tell Algiers?” asked D’Arlan very softly, almost intimately, as if speaking not to his colonel, but rather to a friend.

Le Clerq threw his hands up helplessly. It seemed as if all the fury had suddenly drained out of him. “Tell them we shall do our best in this impossible situation.”

“Oui, mon Colonel.”

Then D’Arlan fell silent and went to stand before the large wall map so Le Clerq could cool down a bit first.

“Go on, say what you want to say, D’Arlan,” the colonel said finally. “Don’t stand there as if you’re about to go on a picnic.”

D’Arlan turned slowly, and he saw the faint smile around Le Clerq’s mouth corners. D’Arlan then began to laugh, his brown cheeks creasing. “I am grateful to see you in this new mood, mon Colonel,” said the captain. “In all these trials, we always have one consolation. We always have to manage to overcome the obstacle ourselves.”

“That is the God’s honest truth, D’Arlan,” Le Clerq agreed heartily.

“And haven’t we managed to get through every time?”

“Yes, we have,” said the colonel appreciatively, “mainly due to your ingenuity and bravery.”

Even under D’Arlan’s brown skin, the blush was evident.

“But this time it’s different, D’Arlan. I don’t know how much you know about gas. When I learned how to wage war at the academy of St. Cyr, I made a study of old reports on the mustard gas they used in the First World War. And that was mere child’s play, child’s play compared to the poison gas the great powers have since perfected. If this insane woman has got her hands on that gas, we are dealing with a lethal and horrendous danger, mon Capitaine.”

There was a deep gravity in Le Clerq’s eyes, and D’Arlan saw the fine beads of sweat on his forehead. He made a helpless gesture. Then he said, “You probably want to know now what I’ve decided about these two hundred men you want.”

“Oui, mon Colonel. If I can succeed, it is our only salvation.”

“Take them then, D’Arlan. Just leave Petrof for me so he can lower the Tricolour when everything is over in Dini Salam.”

“You are pessimistic, mon Colonel.”

“D’Arlan,” said Le Clerq almost furiously, “gas is gas! It’s not merely lead. They can make you die at a distance without you being able to lift a finger.”

“I understand, mon Colonel. I understand completely.”

“When do you want to depart?”

“Tonight, mon Colonel.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Go pick out two hundred men and leave all the riff-raff for me.”

Le Clerq smiled once more, and D’Arlan was grateful for it. He stood up quickly. “My sincere thanks for the permission, mon Colonel,” he said. “I hope I shall not disappoint you.”

Then he saluted quickly, and the next moment he was out the door.

* * *

Teuns Stegmann had just turned onto his side again and was on the verge of drifting into a pleasant slumber despite the annoyance of the flies, when the door of the large dormitory burst open and a young sergeant appeared.

“Everyone fall in within five minutes!” bellowed the sergeant through the half-empty dormitory.

“Don’t talk nonsense, sergeant,” Fritz Mundt retorted, and Podolski was immediately on his feet.

“We were given permission to rest this afternoon. We’ve had a difficult time,” protested Podolski.

Teuns sat upright on the bed. “What is this rubbish? We’re dead tired and want to rest.”

The little sergeant’s face turned completely red. “Go tell your clever remarks to Captain D’Arlan. It’s his order. Everyone must fall in.”

The next moment the sergeant was gone, slamming the door hard behind him.

Fritz stood there yawning. “Pack your things, you swabs. We obviously have to go back to Fort Laval, that delightful paradise. Come on, what are you waiting for? There’s no time. We have to go save Morocco.”

“I don’t believe it’s D’Arlan who wants to send us back to Fort Laval,” said Teuns, swinging off the bed. “He’s not like that. He’s not that sort of man.”

“Who says we’re going back to Fort Laval?” said Jack Ritchie, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Maybe they’re sending us on leave, or maybe we can go mingle with the pretty girls in Casablanca for a bit.”

Little Petacci started laughing. “Have you ever seen an optimist? Then look at this blond Englishman. Casablanca! Come here, let me look into your eyes. I think the sun has got to you.”

They dressed quickly, and when they got outside, the rest of the garrison was already falling in. The men who had been drilling were only too grateful that something was apparently afoot, so they could at least stand still for a few minutes without moving in the consuming sun.

“Attention!” yelled the stout Sergeant Petrof, the Russian, as D’Arlan made his appearance. The captain walked swiftly and lightly across the sand, and the men watched him intently. This short man, so light of build, had a mind as clear as the clearest water and always captured their imagination.

He came to a halt before the men and saluted. “Mes soldats,” said the captain in his high-pitched voice, scanning the ranks as if searching for something. “A gas attack is being prepared against the Foreign Legion forts in the southern Sahara. Thousands of Arabs are currently gathered in Doetra, the capital of the Doelaks. The gas with which we are to be attacked is lethal. Furthermore, someone has stolen the Sabre of Doetra from Algiers. You know what that means.”

A murmur of voices broke out among the men, even though they stood at attention.

“Silence!” yelled Petrof, pacing menacingly up and down in front of the men. But even the menacing sergeant couldn’t entirely quell the soft susurration of voices, because the disappearance of the Sabre of Doetra was an even greater shock to the men than the news of the impending gas attack. They knew what it meant. They knew that fact would unshakably unite every Arab against his enemy.

“I need two hundred men,” said D’Arlan. “We are going to teach this Madame Bonnet, the new commander of the Arabs, a lesson she won’t easily forget. I am now going to read out two hundred names. The man whose name I call will take one step forward. Those selected here will...