Author Unknown

Jan laid down his musette bag, lit a Gauloise, and watched the cab disappear up the road toward Djibouti, then turned toward the guard post and surveyed the garrison.  It didn't look like much.  The customary yellow line across the road, the sign warning not to cross it without permission, and the brick guard shack were standard; duplicates of the security measures in Corsica.  Behind the masonry wall, topped with jaggedly broken glass, austere and grimy buildings loomed.  The French Territory of Mars and Issas.  Shit.  They could at least have sent me to Tahiti, Jan ruminated moodily.  He flipped the butt into the road, shouldered his bag, and walked up to the yellow line where he waited for the guard to wave him on to the orderly room.

The duty officer, a lath-thin, surly Yugoslav, rifled through Jan's orders and service records.  "Quite a story here, Kubisev.  Court martial, four months' Penal Battalion, and transfer to the 13th Demi-Battalion, Djibouti.  Well, you'll find we have short shrift with troublemakers here.  Whatever you did in Corsica doesn't matter here.  What does matter is how you shape up with the 13th.  You were broken from sous-sergeant; we'll need two corporals if the current trouble with the Somali guerrillas keeps up, so keep your ears flat and maintain a low profile, and maybe you'll make out all right.  See Sergeant Diestl in Barracks 2 for your bunk assignments, then get checked in." Jan remained impassive through the officer's speech, nodded his thanks, and walked out into the blazing tropical sun toward the barracks.

The bunkroom of the first floor was filthy, and a listless Italian perfunctorily pushed a broom to and fro.  Jan sidestepped him and began stowing his uniforms in an empty locker.  "Fresh meat!" a cry went up; the few Legionnaires in the room came up to Jan and began introducing themselves.  There were mostly Germans and Balts, with a smattering of southern Europeans and a Scandinavian or two.  Sergeant Diestl came out from his cubby-hole office and roared, "All right, all right, there's plenty of time to get acquainted.  You men get ready to fall out for patrol; you too, Kubisev.  No kepi; we wear the beret here.  See me to draw your weapon before you go." Jan was finished quickly.  His larger bag was coming in on Air Afrique the next day.  Bastards, he griped.  Don't even let a man get settled.

After drawing his weapon, a Spanish 7.62 CETME, and a bandolier, Jan hopped in a Jeep with Corporal Montori and a Spaniard he hadn't met.  The three sped out of the garrison south-east, in the direction of the border.  Montori explained, "We've had a lot of problems with guerrillas coming across from Somalia.  There's dope and ammunition following them, and we spend most of our time trying to run down the convoys.  You'll get sick of it after a while.  I'd rather be back in Dienbienphu, myself.  Kubisev… seems I've heard that name before.  Corsica?" Jan nodded.  "Why did they send you here?"

Jan snapped out the magazine of his CETME, rammed it back in its slot, and folded the sheet-steel stock.  "It got a bit hot for me.  We were questioning some prisoners and I got carried away.  Found out what we needed, though."

Montori laughed, showing a mouthful of broken, grimy teeth.  "Hell, son, they'd decorate you for that here!" He shook his head, still laughing.

"They did.  I got a medal, a court-martial, four months in the P.B., and a posting here." Jan fell silent and watched the dunes flash by.

The sun was sinking now, spreading long shadows across the rippled surface of the desert.  Montori signaled the Spaniard to stop.  "No sense going on in the darkness," he explained.  "We'll bivouac here, and continue in the morning.  If we don't spot anything by noon, we'll head back to Djibouti.  One day patrol, two days garrison is how we work it here.  You'll like the city.  It's pretty cheap, and you'll manage to put a lot of money aside before you're through." He removed a portable tin stove from the back of the Jeep, added fuel pellets, and soon the three were drinking strong Arab coffee laced with Zibib while strips of a gray, unidentifiable meat sizzled in a pan.  The Spaniard, Guitterez by name, spoke up, a worn pipe drooping from his teeth.

"Five lousy patrols and nothing more than a bhang merchant without a permit.  This isn't getting us anywhere, Monti."

"The hell!" retorted the corporal indignantly.  "In the city, they've confiscated more weapons last week than in the two previous months.  No, son, it's coming in from somewhere.  Even if we don't score, at least we can make it harder for the sons of Allah to get their goods in.  And if we're lucky enough to have Jan, here, with us in case we do stop any runners, he'll manage to find out where in Somalia the guns originate.  What about it, Jan?  Want to tell us about your fun and games in Corsica?"

Jan's hands set up a small tremor as he lifted his mess tin to his lips.  Setting it down, he took a deep breath, then began.  "We took three prisoners, all women, who were trying to collect information for one of the Corsican dissident groups.  Couldn't have been l'Union Corse, or the one wouldn't've broken.  Anyway, we wanted to know who was paying them, so we could trace it back from him.  While my officer was questioning two of them, I took the other to an old barn and started in.  What I did was to tie her hands behind her and suspend her from them.  She gave me most of what we needed, but when the bitch called me a Russian pig and spit in my face, I guess I lost control.  The lieutenant heard her screaming and ran in after a while.  By then, she wasn't much to look at.  Both her shoulders were almost dislocated, but her face..." Jan broke off suddenly, turning sharply to his left.  "Monti!  Those look like headlights.  Six of them.  Three trucks, headed this way." The group quickly threw sand over the fire, jumped into their vehicle, and started in the direction of the lights, their own turned off.

Jan worked the bolt of his rifle, jacking a shell into the chamber.  In the rear, Guitterez pushed a 57mm projectile into the breach of the recoilless rifle, and Montori swung the Jeep around directly in the path of the trucks, now about three hundred meters away.  "Let 'em get to about a hundred, and get the lead truck," he rumbled, readying his own weapon.

The roar of the recoilless echoed over the sand hills, and the first truck in the column exploded in a roiling ball of orange fire.  Montori gunned the motor, bringing the Jeep closer, and the three exited the Jeep at a run, their automatic rifles low on their hips.  The other trucks disgorged four or five Somalis apiece, and they quickly lined up against the trucks with their hands high, glancing fearfully at the soldiers warily approaching.

The corporal motioned with his head.  "Jan!  Get on the radio and call for another unit and a truck for prisoners." Nodding, Jan ran to the Jeep and switched the R/T on.  He had barely time to give the necessary information when a sudden rattle of gunfire boomed across the night air.  He threw the microphone down and sprinted back to the group around the trucks.  Guitterez was training his weapon on the prisoners, who were now lying on the sand, hands clasped on their necks.  Montori's rifle was at his shoulder; he lowered it, squinting intently into the distance.  He spat.  "Bitch got away.  I creased her either in the upper arm or the shoulder.  Let's clean out one of the trucks and load the rest of 'em in.  Can't afford to let any more run."

Several hours later, their prisoners delivered and the contra-band destroyed, the patrol was on its way back to Djibouti.  Narrowing his eyes against the morning light glinting metallically against the dunes, Monti grumbled, "Jan, cheer up a bit, lad.  So, you didn't get anything out of the bastards.  Forget it.  Leave the mess to the boys in M.I."

Jan tilted his canteen and finished the last of his Pinard, the cheap acidic wine which quenched thirst better than water and which, in this godforsaken place, was actually cheaper.  "Da, what the hell.  Why don't you show me the city when we get off this afternoon?  Maybe a few liters of wine and some womanizing will do the trick; I'm in a funk for sure."

The Kepi Blanc, even at five in the afternoon, was packed with Legionnaires and colonial officials.  The miniscule bar had space for only eight or nine people, but the barroom itself was huge, requiring several waitresses, and a smaller patio in the rear held the overflow.  Jan, Montori, and Diestl sat at a table there; it was already littered with several empty bottles.  Diestl raised one to his lips and blew sharply across the neck, producing a piercing whistle.  "Pass' auf!" he roared.  "Noch dreimahl Wein!" A wizened Issa woman appeared, cleared the empties, and returned with a fresh round.  Jan reached in his pocket, but Montori brought him up short with a glance.  "We don't do it that way here," he cautioned.  "In the 13th, senior man buys until he runs out.  Then the next man buys, and so on." Jan shrugged, tilted the fresh bottle to his lips, and a quarter of the liquid disappeared.  He turned to the sergeant, who was watching in admiration.

"Where are the tarts?" he slurred.  "'s what I need right now.  I hope you're not going to try to pay for that, too."

Diestl chortled.  "You're going to work out all right, mec!  I'll get a selection over here, and you can take your pick—and pay for it.  Women cost the same as a liter; they're not too clean, but what is in this place?" His lip curled a fraction.  He beckoned a waitress, whispered to her, and a few moments after six women, ranging from 15 to 35 or so were standing by the table, professionally warm smiles on their lips.  Jan studied them intently.  Crushing out his cigarette stub, he jerked his thumb at one on the end.  "You, sweetheart.  What looks good to you, Monti?"

The Italian shook his head.  "I'm getting old, son.  Rather just sit here and let my liver corrode.  Go ahead and have fun.  We'll meet you here when you're done."

"Buy me wine?" the whore simpered.  She tried to look seductive; it was ludicrous.  The other women trooped off to wherever they'd come from.

"It doesn't look like you need any," Jan retorted.  "Let's go." He followed her across the dirt street into a filthy stucco building and up a winding flight of stairs.  Reaching into his hip pocket, he savored the cold slickness of the handcuffs.  The sensation comforted him, and he smiled grimly, remembering the Alsatian guard he'd stolen them from in the Penal Battalion.  The bastard probably had his wine ration stopped for losing them, he told himself.  He brought up the rear as the woman entered a room at one side of the landing.

She opened the drapes partway.  As she began taking off her clothes, Jan glanced out.  A minaret loomed at the end of the street, and four floors below Jan could look into the patio of the bar, where Montori and Diestl were singing, their arms about each other's shoulders.  He turned back to the cluttered room, tossed his beret on a chair, and began removing his khakis.

The whore was nude now, her arm bandaged with a dirty rag.  She licked her lips and jutted her jaw out, still attempting her notion of sensuality.  Jan grunted, removed the cuffs from his trouser pocket, and spun her around, pulling her thin arms behind her.  She looked over her shoulder with knowing expression.  "Ah!  You enjoy the bond?  Okay.  Tight, tight.  You have prisoner now." Jan had linked the cuffs together before snapping them over her wrists, to allow lesser play between them.  He took a sharp breath as his erection began.  It was better than he'd hoped for, somehow.  Koroshcho!  The Corsica episode had awakened something within him, and he relished it.  Now he pushed the woman on the bed and began rummaging through a bureau until he found a bra.  He wound and twisted it tightly into a firm, compact roll; the prostitute watched him closely.  "I scream, Legionnaire," she teased.  "You don't..."

Her words died to a mumble as Jan rammed the cloth into her mouth, between her teeth, and tied a hard knot at her neck.  Her hair was off her neck, French fashion, and the unyielding material dug into the soft flesh at the nape.  He rolled her onto her back and mounted.  Quickly, urgently, he pierced her and began slow grinding motions as the fantasy began to take hold for him.  The whore, realizing his needs, pretended struggle and screamed softly through the gag.  Jan's tempo gained rapidity.  In...  out..  in...  A wave of heat coursed through his head, passed through his straining body, and centralized in his vitals.  It rose to an unbearable level, and suddenly Jan felt himself release.  He scrabbled madly at her upper arms, which he held rigidly to the dirty mattress as she simulated desperate resistance.  The rude bandage loosened and fell off; he barely noticed it.  The savage rush of his climax had ebbed to a series of gentle pulses.  Finally, he withdrew, rolled off.  He lurched unsteadily to his feet, the wine in definite control now, and stumbled into the bathroom.

As he finished washing, Jan suddenly turned to the commode and retched once, twice, into it.  He spit the sour bile remaining and cursed.  The tepid water from the tap was little help.  Maybe a beer later… He returned to the bedroom.  She was sitting up now, twisting her wrists slightly and craning her head against the harsh pull of the improvised gag.  Jan dressed hurriedly, ignoring her.  She murmured something to him against the muzzle.  When he was dressed, Jan reached behind her head and released the knot, pulling the cloth free.  "You finish strong," she giggled coyly.  "Undo me now, then you pay.  150 francs."

Jan took her upper arm in a viselike grip.  "What happened here?" he hissed, his eyes riveted on the ugly red trough gouged into the flesh.  It was already turning purple at the edges.

She smiled nervously.  "I have a fight with my husband.  He cut me." Jan shook his head.

"A knife causes a narrow wound.  This is too wide.  A bullet, perhaps?  Yes, a bullet." His mind went back to the previous night and Montori's words.  I creased her either in the upper arm or the shoulder.  He pushed the cloth back into her mouth.  The knot he tied was far tighter than the previous one; the knot almost disappeared into the flesh, and the cloth scored deep furrows in her cheeks.  She wailed in anguish.

Jan stepped to the window and threw it open.  He picked up a bottle from the floor, wiped off the filth, and blew across the neck as Diestl had to attract attention.  Again, and again he blew, until the pair below looked his way.  "A moi, la Legion!" he screamed.  "Vite!" Montori and Diestl grabbed their berets, threw a bill on the table, and ran out across the street.  Meanwhile, Jan rolled the now earnestly struggling whore on her stomach and used his belt to secure her feet.  His necktie drew her ankles up to her wrists.  The P.B.  had been hell, but he'd learned effective ways of tying a prisoner from it.  As he pulled the final knot into place, out of reach of her fingers, the door flew open and his friends rushed in.

He gestured toward the writhing captive on the bed.  "Is this her, Monti?  There's a fresh bullet crease on her arm; she lied about it."

Montori rolled her over and studied her intently.  "I don't know how I could have missed her in the bar," he admitted, "but I did.  It's the one." He turned to the sergeant.  "You stay with them.  I'll call a duty man." As he turned for the door, Jan restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I've got Corsica to make up for, remember?" he said softly.  "Just stick with me and don't let me get out of hand." He reached in a side pocket and extracted a four-inch flick knife, which he opened with a snap of his wrist.  Gently he rested it under the woman's chin as he released the gag again.  "Now, slut, I want a name.  One name." The point disappeared, and a ruby drop appeared in its place.  She shook her head gingerly.  "Not—not understand," she choked.  Jan withdrew the blade.

"You don't understand," he agreed.  "If I don't have a name, and the one I want, it's going to be very unpleasant and very messy.  Who supplied you people with the TS-62 rifles?" He grabbed a handful of her upper calf muscle and squeezed, very hard.  "Ahhhrrr!" the whore shrieked.  "No rifles—don't know!"

"We'll do it another way, then.  This is my favorite," Jan responded happily.  With the aid of Diestl, he untied her ankles from her wrists and seated her in a chair.  With strips cut from the girl's dress he tied her motionless in place and gagged her again.  Finally, he tied another strip of cloth over her eyes.  Silent, sightless, totally impotent, she sat awaiting the next development.  Jan was gone several minutes.  When he returned, he poured a double handful of a granular substance between her upper thighs, whispering to the others in the Legion polyglot of German and French.  "Not gunpowder, boy!" protested Montori.  "You'll kill her…"

Jan laughed wildly.  "And why not?  Now, woman, I've put a fuse in this mess.  You don't know how long it is or when I'm going to touch my cigarette to it.  I might already have done so.  If you have what I want, you'd better give it to me while you can." She fought the shackles and cloth strips, screaming garbled pleas, while the trio sang loudly to drown her out.  Long moments later, she nodded her head frantically.  Jan removed the muffle, and she sobbed, "Hamil—Al Hajj Hamil.  Please, you put it out now.  No burn me!"

Removing the blindfold, the young Russian laughed.  "What do you mean?  Sand doesn't burn!" A heap of yellow-gray dirt from the road lay clumped between her thighs.  She cursed in French until her vocabulary failed her, then in the coarse Issa dialect.  "Good acting, copains!" Jan crowed.  "Monti, you go for that duty man now."

"There's time for that in a while," Montori snorted.  He began to untie the whore from the chair.  "Since you've gone to all this trouble, I may as well sample the wares.  Loan me your belt, Diestl."

The bondage once completed with the group's belts, Jan retrieved his handcuffs and returned to the bar with his sergeant.  From time to time, one or the other would tug his pants into position and break into laughter.  "You did fine," Diestl muttered at length.  "How would you like some fresh stripes?" As Jan's eyebrows climbed, the German admitted, "I thought the 26th gave you a pretty rough deal, but we can begin to correct that here.  I'll talk with the captain tomorrow with a full report on today—no, an almost-full report—and he'll go along with what I recommend."

Jan set his liter down and clapped the sergeant on the shoulder.  "Thanks, Rolf.  Is there anything I could do for you?  This means more to me than I can say." His voice rasped a bit.  It's the wine, he tried to convince himself.  Just the wine.

Diestl's stubby fingers poked vainly in his billfold.  "Matter of fact, there is something, lad." He smiled sheepishly.  Jan picked up an empty and whistled across it.  The waitress came at the double.