The Fort is Silent

THE SILENT FORT

5. THE FORT IS SILENT

Chapter 1

THE SILENT FORT

It looks exactly as if the sand dunes are swimming and floating in the heatwaves, as if the earth’s crust is moving up and down, forming long, swaying folds like a boiling mass stirred by the heat.

And it is already late afternoon here in the south-eastern Sahara. But this has been a terrible day, surely one of the worst that even this hardened group of men marching through the sand has ever experienced here. It feels as though the soles of their feet are already cooked, for all day long the relentless heat of the sand has burned through their thick boots. Their backpacks feel like lead upon their backs, and they can no longer see clearly from their eyes, so much have the heat’s glare tormented their vision and the sweat burned them. It seems to them as if they left Dini Salam months ago, though it has only been a few days. As they march onward now, it feels as though they have no future and no tomorrow. In this moment, they feel dead to the world, devoid of energy and interest.

“If a bunch of Arabs showed up now, they could knock me dead with a cow’s tail,” sighs Private Fritz Mundt, the biggest man in the French Foreign Legion. “They could do whatever they want with me, and I wouldn’t offer any resistance.”

“If I were to lie down now, I’d sleep for a whole blissful week,” says Private Teuns Stegmann, the tall, blond South African walking beside Fritz. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so utterly exhausted in my life. This is murder, this kind of marching in this dreadful heat. Looks like the Sahara wants to punish us too, as if the Legion isn’t punishing us enough already.”

“Give me a Wiener Schnitzel and a huge flask of Italian Chianti, straight off the ice,” speaks Jack Ritchie, trudging along in the same row as Stegmann and Mundt. “After that, you can bury me...”

The other two glance quickly and surprisedly at the blond Englishman as if he has committed an offense by uttering those words and conjuring that vision before them.

“I think you’ve got a screw loose, Englishman,” snorts Teuns Stegmann, “otherwise you wouldn’t talk such nonsense in these circumstances and at this moment.”

“Are you stark raving mad, Englishman?” bursts out Fritz. “Don’t you know we’re heading to Fort Laval? Don’t you know we’ll be living there for three months on dry biscuits, tinned meat, and dried fruit? They should make a law against you fellows talking about food and cold wine when a man is dying of hunger and thirst.”

“They should put them against the wall and shoot them,” opines Teuns.

“I was just dreaming out loud,” says Jack apologetically. “If a man can’t eat and drink, he can at least dream, right?”

“Next time, dream your dreams so that we can’t notice them,” grumbles Fritz, spitting an old quid of tobacco into the sand. Then he takes down his water flask and holds it to his mouth, but it is futile, for not a drop remains.

“You don’t have to make that gesture every time you want to drink, Fritz Mundt,” Jack Ritchie chides him. “Why don’t you ask for water if you’re thirsty?”

The big German smiles at Jack, who holds out his water flask to him. “You might as well finish this little bit of water too, since you’ve already drunk all of mine,” says the Englishman.

“You have such a good heart, they ought to give you the Croix de Guerre,” teases Fritz, taking the water flask and drinking one mouthful. “Anyway, we should be at the fort by dusk. Then we can drink water again and eat our delicious, nutritious biscuits and crackers.”

“There’s only one solution for you, Field Marshal Rommel,” Teuns says to the German, “and that’s for them to bring along a pack mule with two barrels of water every time you accompany a patrol. You always drink all our water, and still, you haven’t had enough.”

“Or two barrels of beer,” says Jack Ritchie.

Fritz kicks the Englishman on his calf. “Stop it!” he orders, wiping the sweat from his large face. “Talking about wine is bad enough, but beer! If you mention beer again, I’ll smash your skull in.”

“It’s all your fault that the three of us are walking here, Fritz Mundt,” concludes Teuns, adjusting the straps of his backpack because they feel like they are cutting his shoulder blades in half. “If you hadn’t beaten that filthy yellow-belly to a pulp the other night, we wouldn’t be on this patrol heading to Fort Laval now.”

“Yes, he’s always out of line,” Jack Ritchie adds condemningly. “Can’t keep his paws off the Arabs.”

“That was my business,” roars Fritz. “I didn’t ask you two to help.”

“If we hadn’t helped you, that mob in the wine tavern would have torn you limb from limb,” Teuns reminds the big German.

“And now we’re facing the music,” Jack continues. “Three months in this pestilential little fort, at the ends of the earth and dozens of kilometres from Dini Salam.”

“Someone has to relieve the garrison,” Fritz tries to defend himself, although he feels guilty that the three of them are also being sent to Fort Laval as punishment for getting into a fight with the Arabs and beating the lot of them.

“Yes, but it didn’t have to be us,” Teuns insists. “There are enough scoundrels in Dini Salam who could have come to relieve the garrison here.”

“We’ll get you yet, Fritz Mundt,” threatens Jack. “Even if we have to put magic potion in your food one day.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” Fritz laughs hoarsely, wiping his face again. “What are you worrying about? We can rest here for three months, because there’s bugger all to do here. I’ve been here before. Here, you just swat flies and crush sand fleas. Otherwise, you just sleep and dream of the wonderful world out there passing by while you sit here dying of misery.”

“What does one do for three months in this godforsaken place?” Teuns wants to know.

“Nothing,” the German replies. “I’m telling you, nothing. That’s why they send us here for our little sins. In the Sahara, boredom is the greatest punishment, my brothers. That’s why they send us here.”

“I don’t like this mess,” groans Jack Ritchie. “This little place is too isolated. What can a small garrison of thirty men do if the Arabs get uppity here?”

“Nothing,” interjects Fritz. “You can just die for folk and fatherland, and the moment the Arabs are done with you, the vultures come peck at your stomach. But don’t you worry, Englishman, with the white liver. Nothing will happen while we’re here. We’ll just play with our toes and get on each other’s nerves, because the Arabs are quiet.”

“I’m not so sure,” says Teuns. “They’ve been quiet for too long for my liking. I think something’s brewing again.”

“If they come bother us, at least we’ll have something to do,” says Fritz.

“And what exactly are we going to do if the mob attacks us here? We’re a miserable thirty men,” complains Jack Ritchie.

“We’ll catch them with birdlime,” teases Fritz, and then they halt, because Lieutenant Juin, the young French officer with the pale face and bright eyes, has raised his hand.

They stand on the edge of a high sandy plateau that slopes gradually down before them to an infinite sandy plain, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“Hooray!” says Fritz Mundt. “Here before us lies our tranquil destination, the oasis at the end of our eventful journey, Fort Laval, outpost of the French Foreign Legion! Look there, fellows, so you can regain your courage.”

Far below on the flat expanse of the sandy plain, they see the small fort, looking more like an anthill from this distance than an outpost of the French Foreign Legion.

“Beautiful landscape, isn’t it?” says Fritz as he observes Teuns and Jack Ritchie, who are staring with apparent interest at the desolate world before them.

“What a dump!” mutters Teuns. “I thought there was an oasis or something near Fort Laval?”

Fritz laughs deeply from his belly. “You were sorely mistaken, mon ami,” he says to the South African. “There isn’t a blade of grass within 150 kilometres of Fort Laval, let alone an oasis with water and trees.”

“Where do they get their water from then?” asks the Englishman.

“There’s a seepage well inside the fort,” answers Fritz. “A peculiar business, but it’s there. That’s why the fort was built on that particular spot, although from a military perspective, it’s hardly the best location. Here where we stand now, on the edge of the plateau, is the most suitable place. But of course, there’s no water here.”

“We will rest for ten minutes,” Lieutenant Juin’s clear voice cuts through the silence. “Then we march the final stretch to Fort Laval. I see the Tricolour is still flying from the flagpole, mes amis,” he says to the thirty men with him, as if trying to encourage them.

“If the Tricolour is still flying there, it means the garrison is at least still there,” grumbles Teuns Stegmann.

“Why do you say that?” asks Jack Ritchie. “What could have happened to the garrison?”

“Don’t know,” answers the South African. “This is such a dreary world that it seems almost strange to me that we’ll soon be seeing other members of the French Foreign Legion. I’m already imagining that there’s no one left here who’s still breathing.”

Fritz looks at the South African with a strange expression on his face, but he doesn’t speak. However, he too has a peculiar feeling within him. He doesn’t know why himself. But in his long career in this desert, he has faced so many setbacks that he is hardly ever at ease. He always expects some misfortune or other to befall them, as if some disaster lies just around the corner.

Fritz squints his eyes against the glare of the desert light and vaguely sees the white and red of the French Tricolour as it flutters there on the fort’s tall pole.

Then they sit down in the warm sand and drink their last water.

* * *

It is deep dusk when the small column finally approaches the fort. Fort Laval is small and built round, from sandstone brought by the French from somewhere in bygone years. It is one of the smallest forts of the Foreign Legion and also one of the most remote. It can accommodate fifty men at most, but in peacetime, the French never keep more than thirty men, a lieutenant, and a sergeant here, who are relieved every three months. Because the fort is so small and so remote, really not much more than an outpost, it is built particularly sturdy and particularly high, making it extremely difficult to conquer from the outside, even though the garrison is very small. The intention is for the small garrison here to hold out until it can be relieved. It does have radio communication with Dini Salam.

It is a veritable hellhole. The garrison is relieved every three months precisely because the loneliness here is so immense, the men quickly become irritable, and because the heat here is so intense. Due to the high walls, Fort Laval is baked like an oven early in the morning by the Sahara’s deadly sun.

Although the men know what awaits them in Fort Laval, there is now a slight uplift among them. Where for the past four days they had merely trudged head down through the hot sand, they now whisper amongst themselves. They even make jokes, because however unpleasant Fort Laval may be, it cannot be worse than the torment of the barren desert. In the fort, they can at least drink enough water again.

Suddenly, Juin brings the small group of men to a halt again.

He looks intently at the fort.

“There’s a big screw loose here,” says Fritz Mundt, for his eagle eyes have also spotted what Juin has seen.

“What’s wrong now, old Father Job?” asks Teuns mockingly.

“The Tricolour is flying, what more do you want? Or do you expect them to roll out a red carpet for us?” Jack Ritchie wants to know.

Fritz gestures in the rapidly increasing dusk towards the high battlements of the fort. “Do you see what I see?” he asks his two comrades.

“What do you see that’s strange?” asks Teuns teasingly.

“There are no guards on the battlements, just a few vultures...”

“So help me!” says Teuns, now also staring intently through the dim light.

“They’re preening their feathers for us,” says Jack Ritchie.

“Hmm!” comes from Fritz. “That is devilishly peculiar. Could they be keeping vultures as pets?”

“Perhaps they’ve tamed a few vultures just to have animals on the premises,” Teuns jokes further, then drinks the last drops from his water flask.

“There are no guards on the battlements, mes amis,” says Lt. Juin. “I cannot understand what this means. Rifles off shoulders!”

The men sling their rifles off their shoulders and stand there expectantly.

And then the men notice something else.

Two vultures suddenly hop off the battlement and spread their wings wide. They each make a short turn and then settle back down on the battlement.

“Someone apparently startled them,” says Fritz. “Whether he meant to, I don’t know, but they definitely made way for someone.”

“Apparently, you have a good knowledge of the psychology of a vulture,” mocks Jack.

Fritz snorts. “In this desert, a vulture can teach a man many things, Englishman, and sometimes even save your life if you are observant enough.”

“Someone disturbed those vultures,” says Lieutenant Juin, and there is suddenly a military sternness in his voice.

“Perhaps the things just sleep here at the fort at night, mon Lieutenant,” Teuns suggests.

“Perhaps, mon ami,” says the lieutenant. “Perhaps not. Of one thing I am certain. Lieutenant Pierre Rousseau would not allow his fort to be shared with vultures.”

“Pierre Rousseau,” says Fritz, annoyed. “He received the Croix de Guerre for bravery, and then they send him to this hellhole, just because he got drunk one night in Dini Salam when he received news that his fiancée had left him.”

“Load rifles!” commands Juin.

In the sharp twilight, steel clicks on steel as the men quickly c**k their rifles and push in the cartridges.

“Forward!” commands Juin, and then there is again the soft crunch of heavy boots through the sand, which now stretches dark and ominous around them.

They veer slightly and then veer again so that they can march straight towards the gate of the fort.

They walk right up to the dark gate.

“Peculiar!” whispers Juin to himself. “The gate is wide open!”

Fritz and the other men notice it too. They had barely registered it, because here in the desert, darkness falls quickly, just as the day comes quickly. It is no longer twilight now, for they are already staring through the first darkness of the night.

“This isn’t like Lieutenant Pierre Rousseau,” says Fritz Mundt to the other two. “He knows much better than to leave the gate open at night. He could even be court-martialled for this, without a valid reason.”

They move a little closer, and then Juin brings them to a halt again.

He peers through the gate, searching for any sign of life, but there is nothing.

Only the strange, ominous, and unsettling silence.

Then there is a sound. It jolts the men. It is the hoarse cry of vultures. And above the cries and croaks, the swishing of their large wings is audible, soft and whistling.

Juin’s heart pounds in his throat. He cannot bear this peculiar silence. He would prefer someone to shoot at them rather than stand here so uncertainly before a ghost fort, deep in the desert, seemingly devoid of life.

What on earth? Could Rousseau perhaps have taken his garrison on an expedition? Surely not, not now that he and his thirty men are due to be relieved. Besides, if that were the case, he would surely have left men behind here. He wouldn’t just leave with the entire garrison and abandon the fort to the mercy of the vultures.

Juin takes a few more steps closer. He is now under the high walls of the fort, almost in the gateway. There he stops again and listens intently, but his ears ring with the silence, and the only interruption is the fluttering and croaking of the vultures.

“Attention!” Juin suddenly calls out in French. “Who is here? The relief garrison under Lieutenant Juin has arrived! Attention!”

No answer and no sound. Only the singing feathers of the vultures.

“Attention!” Juin calls out again.

Still, deathly silence prevails.

Then he draws his revolver and fires one shot into the silent night. Could this lot possibly all be asleep? Towards the end, when this garrison is nearly due for relief, discipline often slackens, and the men frequently do things that would normally be unheard of.

But not Pierre Rousseau. He is different. He knows the relief column is supposed to arrive tonight. Besides, he and his column should be ready to depart tonight. They certainly won’t stay here an hour longer than necessary.

Juin fires another shot, actually more out of helplessness and uncertainty than anything else.

The blast slams against the inner walls, is flung away, and echoes repeatedly inside the fort.

Then there is silence again!

Juin turns around. He has had enough of this affair now.

“Private Mundt and Private Stegmann!” commands the lieutenant. They come to attention. “You will enter the fort with me. Sergeant Catroux, you take command of the remaining men. Hold yourselves ready. Do not enter the fort until I summon you. Is that clear?”

“Clear, mon Lieutenant,” says Catroux, the greyish little Frenchman who has grown old in the Foreign Legion.

Juin, Teuns, and Fritz walk through the dark passage. Their boots crunch loudly through the sand.

They walk side by side. Juin with his revolver in his hand, the other two with their rifles c****d in their hands.

All three are hardened men. Not one of them has a cowardly hair on his head.

But at this moment, they feel a cold streak down their spines and their ears grow warm. It feels to all three as if a door is closing behind them, cutting them off more and more from their freedom and safety with every step.

Just inside the gate, Juin and the others halt again. All three listen, every sense alert. They look up at the battlements and against the faint glimmer of the last daylight fading in the west, they see only the dark shapes of the vultures. But down here in the shadows, along the high walls, nothing is visible. They cannot even make out the other side of the fort’s inner courtyard.

“What do you make of the situation?” Juin asks whisperingly.

“The garrison is clearly not here, mon Lieutenant,” says Fritz.

“Clearly not,” whispers Juin back.

“They haven’t been massacred either, otherwise we would have found out soon enough,” says Teuns.

“Correct,” answers the lieutenant.

“When was Dini Salam last in contact with them?” inquires Fritz.

“The other day, the day before we left. Captain D’Arlan spoke with Lieutenant Rousseau by radio then. Everything was still in order then, and they were awaiting our arrival.”

“I cannot understand it,” Fritz ventures again, whispering.

“A very peculiar and mysterious situation,” concludes Juin, and then they walk on.

In the darkness, they reach the arched entrance to the long corridor usually lit by oil lamps.

But tonight, there is no light to be seen here.

Their footsteps echo deep and hollow down the empty corridor. It is about ten paces long before it turns sharply left towards the commander’s quarters. Then there is a shorter corridor that ends dead at the office and sleeping quarters of the fort’s commander.

They creep left around the corner of the corridor and continue onward.

Juin stops so abruptly that the other two collide with him from behind.

Through the small window above the door of the commander’s office, light shines.

“Someone is in that office,” says Juin unnecessarily.