John Robb - Zone Zero

The war had been over for more than seven years when he decided to attempt an atonement. Something which would salve his raw conscience. He was working as a waiter in a cafe at Toulouse at the time. The big Foreign Legion recruiting depot at Marseilles was only three hundred miles away.

He bought a one-way rail ticket.

The Legion helped him. Basically, he found it much the same as the British army. In some respects the discipline was more severe, but in others it was comparatively lax. Certainly there was little of the fiendish bullying which popular but ill-informed opinion had led him to expect.

He found a new comradeship among the strange medley of nationalities. Men accepted him as another man—and no one enquired too closely about his past.

He had spent a few months fighting the rebels in Indo-China. And there he had been astonished and delighted to find that he no longer wanted to run in the face of danger. He had even managed to carry on for a full day with an undressed leg wound. It was that wound which had caused him to be invalided to a base hospital in North Africa—then to garrison duty at Fort Ney.

Yes, the Legion had helped. There had been times since he joined it when he almost forgot that once he had broken faith.

But the memory was never quite dead. It was always there. Always insidiously jabbing at him. Always sapping at his confidence.

He was a tragedy, was Legionnaire Keith Tragarth. He believed himself a coward, when in fact he had been too brave. His only crime was that once, years ago, he had carried on beyond the point of nervous endurance—and paid the penalty with a complete moral collapse…

And as the morning light grew stronger, Keith twisted to look at the floor of the bunk room in Fort Ney.

There, on the smooth stone, was the huddled figure of Lieutenant D’Aran.

D’Aran had been bound and thrown into the room with the rest of them.

Keith saw the wound on the officer’s shoulder. It was unbandaged—a black mess of congealed blood over a ripped tunic.

He said: “Are you all right, mon officier ?” But D’Aran did not answer. He did not hear the question. He was temporarily unaware of the pain in his shoulder; unconcerned by the plight of the garrison.

D’Aran was thinking about fifty thousand francs. And about Lucinne…

The Brazilian consul-general at Tala Baku was giving a reception when a friendly staff major came up to D’Aran and said: “You’ve been watching that woman Lucinne Ranoir a lot this evening. Take my advice, and don’t bother much about her. She can only bring trouble.”

D’Aran had felt indignant. It was an unwonted piece of interference. But a junior lieutenant, if he is wise, does not show indignation to a field officer. So he had merely said: “She’s very beautiful. One can hardly avoid looking at her.”

The major had laughed as he put a hand on D’Aran’s shoulder.

“So long as you only look, you’ll come to no harm,” he had said. Then he had moved away across the ballroom.

D’Aran wished the major had not departed so quickly. He wanted to ask questions.

Why should such a lovely creature as Madame Ranoir imply trouble? It was preposterous! He watched her as she whirled in a waltz. Dieu ! Such raven-haired gaiety, such electrifying charm. True, she was a widow and no doubt had known deep personal tragedy. But, in D’Aran’s eyes, that only served to magnify her attraction.

He forgot the major’s warning. Before the reception was over he had contrived an introduction. And five minutes before the orchestra played the Brazilian anthem he had asked her to dine with him. She accepted without any pretence of hesitation. She was a forthright woman, was Lucinne.

They met the following evening and went to Baku’s only fashionable restaurant—a pleasantly discreet place with palm-lined balconies on the edge of the desert.

Many other Legion officers were there, but mostly of senior rank. It was seldom that a lowly lieutenant could afford such a place. And D’Aran was shocked to find that his bill deprived him of nearly half a month’s pay. But it was worth it! Ah , oui ! A thousand times it was worth it, to be in the company of such a happy, such a fascinating, such a glorious creature.

Lucinne talked a lot that night in her rich and racy voice, emphasising each sentence with vivid gestures.

She told him that she was a Parisienne. It was in Paris that she had studied art—but without much success.

“In that I had no talent,” she said with gentle lowering of long lashes over green-grey eyes. And D’Aran had felt a new surge of excitement. There was a wealth of suggestion in that simple admission.

They returned to the restaurant later in the week. And Lucinne told him about her husband. He had saved her from penury as an artist by his offer of marriage.

But, Lucinne told him, it had not been a happy marriage. He was a Bolivian in the consular corps and much older than she. That was how she came to Tala Baku. And it had been in Baku that he died suddenly a year earlier.

Why had she not returned to France?

Because she liked Baku—liked the vibrant life of the Legion base.

This peculiarity of taste was beyond D’Aran’s comprehension. To him—as to all soldiers—Tala Baku was a dust-blown apology for a town. Much the same as all military bases, except that it was infernally hot by day and bitingly cold at night. A place in which there were far too many men and lamentably few women…

But D’Aran did not worry much about this strange choice. It was enough that Lucinne was there.

Before he could meet her for the third time D’Aran had to borrow money.

He was not a habitual borrower. His normal tastes were simple enough. Therefore one of his fellow subalterns was a trifle surprised when D’Aran asked for ten thousand francs until the end of the month. But the money was borrowed without difficulty.

At the end of that particular evening D’Aran tried to explain to Lucinne.

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to come out again for a couple of weeks,” he said, blushing deeply. “You see… I’m a bit short of cash.”

Lucinne regarded him levelly. Her joyous effervescence had diminished. But D’Aran did not notice.

“You have no private income?” she asked.

“No—I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“But surely—most officers don’t rely entirely on their pay.”

“This one does…” He hesitated, then added with a rush: “I’m not one of the fortunate ones. My parents died when I was young and they were not wealthy.”

“Then how could you afford to become an officer? The St. Cyr military academy is expensive, is it not?”

“I did not go to St. Cyr. Most Legion commissions are granted from St. Maixent and I won a government grant to pay for my training there.”

She stubbed out a cigarette thoughtfully.

“You must be very clever,” she said.

“ Non , I don’t think so. It was just that I had always wanted to serve France in the Legion, and to win a state scholarship was the only way. A man can get almost anything if he really wants it.”

“Including a woman?”

The question was so sublimely sudden that he was momentarily confused. Before he could evolve an answer, she was adding: “I like you, Andre. I like spending the evenings with you, for you are a welcome change from the fat and old men. But I did not know you were poor. It is not fair to you that I should spend your money at such a place as this, is it? I think it is better that we do not meet again.”

He felt as if she had slapped his face. Yet he was not annoyed with her. But, for the first time in his life, he resented his poverty. And he was ashamed of it.