Sunday Post - 22.12.1940, Blaðsíða 5

SUNDAY POST
5
*
by
Georges Sordez
TTE small mom, a cube of
whitewashed walls, seemed
to have become very still, the
Saharan heat to have grown
more oppressive. Captain Gress-
ard, recently appointed to comm-
and the 10th Squadron, First For-
eign Regiment of Cavalry, watc-
hed the lieutenant’s finger resting
on the black and white designs
of the large-scale regional map.
“From there we go to the Men-
sif Pass, mon capitaine", the
crisp voice continued. “We usu-
ally get sniped at there, as they
somehow contrive to dodge our
point scouts and lurk in wait for
officers". Involuntarily, Gress-
ard’s eyes lifted. But there
had been no irony intended;
the smooth-faced young fellow
was looking down at the map.
“We’re big game for those chaps,
you know. Obviously, we can’t
blame them.“
"Naturally not", Gressard ad-
mitted.
His trained eye scanned the
map. i
“Unless I am mistaken, Lieut-
enant", he observed casually,
“that is where my predecessor
was killed." '/
“Right, Captain. On our last
patrol in that direction". The
young officer paused, then re-
sumed: “Two shots, head and
throat. He was the third in eigh-
“Thnee officers, almost in the
same spot", Gressard repeated.
“And all for want of a bit of
khaki cloth over their kepis, eh?“
"Precisely, Captain. Foolishness
isn’t it?" The lieutenant’s voice
was lightened by a ring of hum-
our. "Imagine yourself a sniper,
Captain, lying hidden somewhere.
You see a file of cavalrymen
coming along. Naturally, you
aim at the one who attracts your
attention first..
teen months to go out within a
stretch of four or five hundred
yards. There had been Captain
Chaupas. Yes, Captain Roubaux
was the third. You see, he would
not wear a kepi ©over‘“like the
rest of us. I argued with him
again and again, but he was an
old Legionnaire, you see, and as
long as the others had not cov-
ered their bi]aid, he wouldn’t".
"Naturally".
Without looking Up, Gressard
knew that his subordinate had
cast a glance towards the cap-
tain’s 'kepi, suspended from a
hook stuck in the plaster. That
kepi was covered by a khaki
hood.
"That will be all the informat-
ion shall need now, Lieutenant.
Thank you. Have the men ready
in ten minutes."
"All right, Captain."
The door opened and closed.
The young man was gone; Gress-
ard was alone.
“Mensif Pass," he mused. „Un-
bealthy spot for this squadron’s
commanders. Three in eighteen
months. I am the fourth. And
Just because some ass — that
poor devil of Chaupas proba-
bly — set the style for discard-
ing the cover, I am supposed
to. Nonsense!"
He, Gressard, was not a middle
aged schoolboy in uniform, anx-
ious to parade his oourage. Cour-
age? The palms and stars on his
War Cross should be a guaran-
tee. And even these Legionnaires
must suspect that he had not
picked up the red ribbon for
valuable contributions to French
arts!
Gressard was a temporary Leg-
ionnaire. With any luck, he
would pick up the rank of maj)or
out here. Unless designated for
bullets by a glistening kepi, a
man did not run much risk. There
would be almost one hundred
targets to pick from, and he was
enough of a gambler to risk such
odds carelessly.
He folded and cased the map,
glanced a last time at the reports
on forage, water, and ammuni-
tion. This was a patrol, an ord-
inary patrol, like any other he
kept repeating. Perhaps the gho-
sts of Chaupas, Mongarret, Rau-
baux would be somewhat shock-
ed that he did not imitate his
predecessors.
He knew that the Legionnaires
The British Royal Family, sharing the dangers and
trials of war with their people, have been drawn
closer than ever to them by bonds of sympathy.
In this picture King George VI and Queen Elizabeth
are seen in the gardens at Windsor Castle with
Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret Rose.
British Royalty
>
at Home
arly loved a dose of elegant
foolishness in their chiefs.
But why acoept their stand-
ards? They were lost men —
good soldiers, surely; but vain-
glorious, childish fellows. Gress-
ard would not risk his life for
their admiration.
"I’m no sucker", he grumbled.
Then he passed a hand over
his eyes. The heat must be aff-
ecting him, for he experienced a
sort of vision.
1 O N
would be disappointed. They der
He saw a half-naked, bearded,
brown-skinned man stretched in
the lee of a boulder, three hund-
red yards above Mensif Pass.
The man was peering down at
a long file of mounted men on
the trail below, his eyes seeking,
seeking, as he unwound oiled
rags from the breech of his rifle.
And Gressard saw him grin, saw
him whisper to a comrade behind
him:
“They have a new leader. One
not af the Legion."
For the sniper would know that
at onoe. Not of the Legion, for
a captain replacing the three who
had died would not have worn
a kepi cover. Gressard shook
himself together whith an effort.
He buckled on his pistol holst-
er, reached for his kepi and
moved towards the door. It would
open and he would see the
squadron assembled before him,
men standing by the heads of
their horses, ready to start. To
start towards the Mensif Pass,
where three captains had been
killed in eighteen months. And
all of them would look at his
head immediately!
“Fools," he murmured. His
hand was on the handle.
Then he was outside, in the
full light, and he saw their eyes
centring upon him. And he saw
their expectant anxiety melt, saw
them relax into confidence, saw
his young officers smile. He cross-
ed towards the horse that his
orderly held for him, hastily stuff-
ing a khaki cloth into a pocket.
On his head, the only patch
of brilliant colour in the assem-
bled detachment, he wore his full-
dress kepi, shorn of any covering.
It was tilted at a rakish angle,
the broad leather peak shone,
and around the black and red
crown circled the triple loops of
braid that branded him as the
chief and the target; puerile, def-
iant braid that glittered in the
dazzling light.
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