John Robb: Zone Zero

For a few seconds he remained balanced half in and half out of the fort. Then his body disappeared over the wall.

Six other legionnaires were on duty at that time—two on each of the three remaining walls.

They, also, were being menaced by men with Lugers.

And they saw what happened to their comrades Vakasky and Toto. They knew with a hollow, uncontradictable certainty, that they would share a similar fate if they attempted resistance.

So they did as they were ordered.

They dropped their Lebels.

They descended into the compound like sleepwalkers.

And, under guard, they formed into an astonished and incredulous little group.

Twenty-two legionnaires were in the compound building. They heard the Luger shots. But they did not pay much attention to them. They were trying to adjust themselves to more personal problems.

A few of them had helped the visitors to put up their tents. Then all had returned to their bunks to sweat out what was left of the compulsory rest period.

They lay in semi-nakedness.

They watched the grease ooze out of their bodies and into the unyielding straw mattresses.

They slapped wearily and ineffectually at the fiercely droning sandflies.

They dozed and mumbled to themselves.

They remained awake and tried to believe that somewhere on earth there was a place that was cool.

And then…

And then seven men holding automatic pistols came quietly into the room.

One of them remained at the door. The others spread out along the centre aisle between the two rows of bunks. They faced alternate ways, thus keeping every bunk under observation.

The more wakeful of the legionnaires jerked themselves into a sitting position. They gazed slack-mouthed at the guns.

The man at the door said: “You will not be harmed if you do as I say. But…”

A couple of shots sounded from the ramparts. They were followed almost immediately by a choked-off scream.

The man continued: “…but you may be shot if you attempt to disobey. Don’t worry about what we are doing and why. You will know soon enough. Just obey orders. Your first order is to stand at the side of your beds, each of you with his hands on his head.”

There was no reaction—save for the creaking of bunks as the more somnolent roused themselves into consciousness. And for the sudden angry buzzing of the sandflies who were jerked off their moist bodies.

“Do as I say. Stand up \”

The last two words were pitched at a near-scream. Twenty-two perplexed heads turned towards the door and studied the man who was threatening them. They saw a man who was much the same as the other travellers—for they were all much alike. They saw a large-faced, hard man. A man who was familiar with his Luger.

More than half of the legionnaires obeyed. They smiled sheepishly, as if wondering whether it was all some subtle and obscure joke.

The rest remained still—a few because of sheer lack of understanding, others because of gathering resentment.

That legionnaire on one of the middle bunks, for example…

He epitomized dawning hostility. It showed in his slate-blue eyes, in the compression of his slightly over-wide mouth. It was even reflected in the sudden tensing of his bare shoulders, where the flowing muscles suggested rhythmical speed rather than animal strength.

Legionnaire Keith Tragarth was English. Almost typically so, but not quite.

His blond colouring and pleasantly regular features fitted his island race. So did his faint West Country accent. Centuries before, Drake had been glad to hear that accent spoken around him on the decks of the little ships. So had Frobisher, Raleigh and Howe. Clive had been reassured to hear the burr of the Devon men among those who fought at Plassey. And Wolfe, when he scaled the Heights of Abraham.

Legionnaire Keith Tragarth symbolised some of the best characteristics of his country.

Yet…

There was something else about him. Something not quite in keeping. It could be sensed rather than observed.

Perhaps it was a slightly furtive air. A faint aspect of shame, such as a man feels when he shares a festering secret with his soul. Perhaps it was a tinge of only half-suppressed fear…

Keith said slowly: “It would be a help if you’d let us know what the hell you’re supposed to be doing.”

The man at the door understood the accented English. But he answered in French as he levelled his gun specifically at Keith.

“I will count to three. If you are not standing by then, I will kill you.”

There was a momentary pause.

“ One !”

Keith glanced to the right hand side of his bunk. His Lebel stood there in its wall stand. It was within easy reach. But it was quite useless.

He would be shot down before he could lay a finger on it. And, in any case, it was unloaded. In accordance with standing orders, the magazine had been emptied when he last came off sentry duty and the cartridges had been restored to his leather pouch. All the others were in the same impotent position. A position in which, although they heavily outnumbered the men with Lugers, although they were technically armed, although they were the trained soldiers of a garrison, they were entirely helpless.

“ Two !”

Keith felt the eyes of the other recumbent legionnaires upon him. They were looking to him for a lead. They would do what he did.

Keith got slowly off the bunk and placed his hands on his head.

He knew that he had no reasonable choice. Like any other sane man, he did not want to die. And he had no intention of dying stupidly and uselessly.

There was a stir of reluctant activity as the others followed suit.

There was a mumble of astounded fury, richly laced by profane oaths in many tongues.

They were ordered to march into the compound. The oaths increased in vehemence and volume.

But they marched.

Or rather they shambled, not looking like soldiers. They were a miserable handful of humiliated men who had been vanquished without a fight.

Lieutenant Andre D’Aran wanted to vomit.

He had to fight down the bitter liquid which gushed up from his rebellious stomach.

As he stood at the window and stared out at the compound he told himself: “I’ve never seen men killed before… I’m inexperienced… only two years since I passed out of St. Maixen… never been in action… I didn’t know that men could die so easily… like that Spaniard died… It’s so simple, it’s almost disgusting… and the Russian… he’s still living… his legs are twitching…”

Gallast was directly behind him. It seemed that Gallast had heard the half-whispered phrases, for he said: “You should not be so upset, lieutenant. Death is the coinage of a soldier’s trade, is it not? And so is defeat. We all must suffer defeat sometimes.”

D’Aran did not attempt to answer. He continued to watch.

He watched the remaining sentries form into a group in the centre of the compound.

But his eyes were dragged back to the twitching Russian.

He watched the rest of the garrison emerge from the building, escorted by more men with Lugers. With their hands on their heads they looked foolish.

But he had to steal another glance at the Russian.

He saw the Russian as a memorial to something. To human cruelty, perhaps. What was his name? Ah, out , Vakasky. He had been a good soldier, had Vakasky, when he had not been serving in a punishment squad. He wore many medals, marking more than twenty years of campaigning. Vakasky had been in the Legion when he, D’Aran, had been in swaddling clothes. Now his medals were pressed into the dust. So was the red mess of his mouth. So this was how a soldier’s life could end! Without dignity, without comfort. With only agony as a companion. Dogs died better deaths…