The Bloody Legionnaires: An action-packed military thriller by Geoffrey Davison

Author:Geoffrey Davison [Davison, Geoffrey]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-05-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-one

Lieutenant Ducan’s quarters were marginally more comfortable than the men’s. The hut was partitioned off into a number of rooms, and there was a small dining room, but Ducan was not interested in his quarters. He had spent the whole of the previous night at a briefing session with a unit of the U.S. Air Force. He was tired and weary. All he wanted was to retire early to his room. The Sergeant-Chief reported that the men were in their quarters.

‘There is plenty of wine and food, Sergeant-Chief. Don’t stand on ceremony. Help yourself. I am going to take a shower and retire early.’

‘Yes, mon Lieutenant.’

Ducan took his shower. So did the Sergeant-Chief, but he waited until the Lieutenant had finished. Ducan went to the dining room. He would have preferred to have been alone. He had no stomach for the Sergeant-Chief’s company, but he resisted his desire to retire to his room.

Schiller joined him. There was a moment’s uncertainty. It was the first time that the two men had ever confronted each other off duty. It was the first time that Ducan had seen the Sergeant-Chief without his kepi, or any other headgear. Similarly, Schiller had always seen Ducan in full uniform. Suddenly, it was as if the two men were seeing each other in a different context.

Ducan looked tired but relaxed. His appearance was refined and genteel. His hair was dark, fine and neatly cut. He did not give any impression of the toughness, hardness and steel core that Schiller looked for in his Legion Officers. He looked the Parisian — the academic — the gentleman soldier. He was the things that Schiller did not like in Lieutenants. And Ducan felt it.

Ducan also saw Schiller differently. Schiller did not look so formidable without his headgear. He was like Samson without his beard. His hair was fair, but cropped short in traditional Legion fashion, and he had a scar at the back of his scalp. It was another reminder of his long history of service in the Legion. Schiller was the Legion, Ducan thought, but he was the old Legion. Ducan sighed. He wished like hell that Schiller had not been forced upon him. Any other sous-officier would have been preferable. He knew that there was no love lost either way. The feeling of antagonism even hung heavily in the room, as if the men’s personalities were in open conflict.

Ducan decided to bring their differences out into the open.

‘I didn’t ask for you to join me, Sergeant-Chief,’ he said.

‘No, mon Lieutenant?’

‘Then why did you come?’

‘It is a Legion matter, mon Lieutenant. I have served in the territory. The men need a sous-officier.’

‘Bah!’ Ducan snapped. ‘There are plenty of other good sous-officiers. Why you?’

‘They are my men as well as yours, mon Lieutenant,’ Schiller grunted, and stood his ground defiantly. ‘It is natural that I should want to be with them.’

‘To protect them?’

‘Perhaps, mon Lieutenant.’

‘What are you really concerned about, Sergeant-Chief?’ Ducan asked. ‘That the men will let the Legion down?’

‘The men will not let the Legion down, mon Lieutenant.

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