The Count of the Sahara

  THE COUNT OF THE SAHARA

  WAYNE TURMEL

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2015

  © Wayne Turmel

  The 1925 Franco-American Sahara Expedition

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Hoggar Province, Algeria

  February 20, 1926

  The Commandant stuck the tip of his little finger in the bullet hole and spit a curse between his teeth. “C’est des conneries.” It was, indeed, bullshit. In the old days, the Tuaregs would stage a raid, wave a few swords, put the fear of God into the locals, and disappear back into the desert. Now they had rifles and a disturbing lack of respect for French authority.

  Commandant Beaumont examined the hole in the fender of the truck and its twin punched into the door panel. Another couple of years, he thought, and they’ll learn how to use them. Then the real trouble will start.

  Squinting into the sun, he saw the culprit waving his rifle in the air and shouting his war cry. It never seemed to occur to these idiots that if they were close enough to shoot at the Legion troops, they could shoot back.

  “Should I?” asked a fat Belgian sergeant. The muzzle of his rifle lay flat against the hood and he had a clear shot, clearly itching to take it. A six foot man in bright blue robes and a foot-high turban atop a seven foot camel made an awfully tempting, and almost un-missable, target.

  “Hell, no. You’ll probably hit the camel, then we’re really screwed. Just let him do his little dance and go home.”

  That’s what this job had come down to. If you killed a man out in the desert, no one said much of anything—it was the natural order of things. Kill a camel, though, and you have to listen to the bureaucrats and the local tribesmen and their women wailing and whining until you ended up paying reparations to the very people trying to kill you. It might be tempting to teach the idiot a lesson by making him trudge home in the sand and heat, but it wasn’t worth the aggravation or the paperwork.

  Commandant Count Henri de Beaumont allowed himself a moment of nostalgia for the days when the Foreign Legion could do its job like men, instead of pansy shop clerks, then sighed and barked out, “The show’s over. Let’s get back”.

  His men were spoiling for a fight, and he heard them grumble as they climbed aboard the two vehicles. Complaining was one of the few rights Legionnaires were free to exercise, as long as it didn’t reach the level of true insubordination. He was tired of these nuisance raids, too, but that’s all they were, just a flea bite. Let them gripe.

  His head hurt, and he laid it back against the seat in hope of catching a nap on the way back to the fort. The young driver, a skinny, almost toothless private named Lemonde, wasn’t about to let that happen.

  “Monsieur le Commandant, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Why stir up trouble now? Things have been pretty quiet for a while. Is it the Communists?”

  Beaumont chuckled. The idea of King Akhamouk believing anyone the equal of a Tuareg, let alone sharing anything with others, was ludicrous. There was no danger of the Red Menace extending this far into the Sahara. “No. It was the Americans.”

  “What did they do?”

  “Grave robbing, mostly. But they managed to piss off every tribe, Arab and inbred Pied-Noir between here and Algiers.”

  “So why are they shooting at us?”

  “Who else?” Beaumont’s shrug ended the conversation.

  Lemonde slowed the car to twenty as they approached the village of Abalessa. Then he dropped to ten as he saw the herd of scrawny, scabby goats in the middle of the road. Hoping he wouldn’t have to come to a complete halt before the goats got out of the way, he let out a long blast of the horn. The animals just stopped in their tracks and looked up, annoyed at the soldiers’ impertinence.

  Beaumont looked around him, bored. There was nothing special about this collection of dry brown huts and sullen dark faces. Like so many other villages in this part of Algeria, Abalessa was made up of share croppers; the descendants of slaves captured in blacker parts of Africa. Now they worked their own mostly useless land, paying a percentage to the Tuareg King and considerably less to the legal Algerian authorities. In many ways their status hadn’t changed one iota, although everyone seemed happy enough to pretend the tribute was now simply a condition of employment, and not actually indentured servitude.

  He sat up straighter as Lemonde ground the car to a stop. He could hear the rumbling engine of the troop transport behind them, but not much else. Usually at this time of day it was mostly women and children in the village. The men should have been out hunting or inside the huts drinking and smoking, rather than out in the sun. As a rule, the soldiers were greeted with mild interest when they passed through places like this. Today, though, Beaumont saw something too much like defiance in their eyes.

  Two long, slow, baritone blasts on the horn failed to scatter the livestock. “Goddammit.” Lemonde wrenched on the door handle and stepped out of the truck.

  “Private, stop right there.” Lemonde froze where he was, with one boot still on the running board.

  The commandant winced as doors slammed behind him. The second truck was already emptying out. He slid over to the driver’s side and leaned out the door to see half a dozen soldiers with rifles at the ready.

  “Back in your vehicle. There’s no problem,” he shouted. The men, led by the fat Belgian sergeant, hesitated for the briefest moment, then reluctantly turned back to their truck. Looking back only a moment to ensure obedience, Beaumont glared at Lemonde. “Get your ass in here.”

  The soldier shot the goats and their owner one last dirty look. From behind the crowd, Beaumont thought he heard a faint shout.

  Lemonde must have heard it too. As the young private looked behind him, his eyes suddenly darted upwards and a jagged stone bounced off the side of his head. He fell to his knees in the dust next to his blood-stained kepi.

  Beaumont heard the screaming of women and the angry roars of soldiers erupt around him as he climbed down from the vehicle to check on Lemonde. The skinny soldier was already rising and dusting himself off, oblivious to the blood streaming down his temple.

  “I’m okay, I think.”

  Beaumont nodded, but grabbed the young man by the chin and took inventory. Dust and sand mixed with blood in a muddy brown mess, but it wasn’t gushing. Lemonde’s eyes were as clear as they ever were, and he had as few teeth as he started with. He’d be okay.

  The commandant turned his attention to the rest of his men. Five of them stood in a semi-circle, guns waving back and forth at the assembled villagers. He didn’t see the sergeant, Baldewijns. Where was that fat, Flemish bastard?

  “Monsieur le Commandant”, came a shout from forty meters away, “I’ve got him.”

  The soldier stood next to a reed-thin boy of no more than twelve who thrashed like a fish on a line. The lad broke free for a moment, but the older soldier reached out with a his ham-sized hand and, not having a shirt
to grab onto, wrapped his fist in the boy’s black hair until there was a single yelp, and no more resistance.

  Beaumont waved him over, then took a close look at the black faces surrounding him. Most showed surprise, a few appeared legitimately horrified. Only a handful of men actually looked angry and that was probably aimed as much at the little troublemaker as the Legionnaires. This wasn’t an insurrection; it was just a kid playing big-shot. That was easier to deal with.

  Huffing and sweaty, Sergeant Baldewijns brought the rock thrower to his commander. He curled his fist to tighten his grip on the young man’s hair and pulled him to his knees. “Stay there, you little bastard.”

  The young African knelt in the dust, trying to lock eyes with Beaumont in a warrior’s death stare, but his defiance was too mixed with fear to be convincing, and his gaze finally dropped to the ground in front of him. Something—tears or snot or both—made coin-sized wet patches in the sand.

  “If you want to fight soldiers, you have to act like a man.” Baldewijns swung the butt of his rifle into the back of the kid’s head.

  “Sergeant!” The fat soldier grudgingly stood to attention, offering a conciliatory salute.

  From behind him, a woman wailed. Beaumont turned to see an emaciated figure, likely the mother, sobbing into the shoulder of another, older female. A tall, grey-haired man stood next to her with his arms crossed. He gave her a withering look that shut her up, then returned his gaze to the Legionnaire.

  Beaumont addressed the crowd in French, knowing that only a handful of people would understand him, but hopeful the village chief was among that number. “You saw, he attacked us unprovoked. He has to come with us.” He locked eyes with the older man. “Yes?”

  The boy’s mother began another round of wailing, eliciting sympathetic murmurs from the other women. The chief said nothing for a moment, and then gave a single, silent nod.

  “Bring him with us,” Beaumont told the Sergeant. Baldewijns gave an ugly sneering smile.

  “Get up, scum.” Taking the skinny youngster by the neck with his meaty hands he turned towards the troop truck. With a shove, he bounced the boy off the rear fender of the Commandant’s car, then led him towards the half dozen or so grinning soldiers waiting there.

  “Baldewijns, he can come with us in the car.” The fat soldier hesitated only a disappointed moment before leading his charge back to the commandant. His eyes challenged the officer but he obeyed and took two steps back.

  Beaumont opened the rear door and pointed. The lad hung his head, took a brief look back to his mother, and climbed inside without another word. The heavy door slammed behind him.

  “Are you okay, Lemonde?”

  The soldier nodded unconvincingly. Beaumont ordered him back to the truck with the others, and called for another driver. Then he climbed in his own side of the vehicle, his eyes continually scanning the crowd for more trouble, but gratefully saw nothing worth worrying about.

  “Let’s get out of here. But pull out slowly,” he ordered the driver.

  “Oui, Commandant.”

  As they pulled away, Beaumont stole a glance over at the sniffing, huddled youngster rocking silently in the back seat. On top of everything else, now he had to figure out what to do with this rock throwing brat that wouldn’t make things worse.

  Brooding silently most of the way back to the fort at In Salah, he thought about what a complete cockup this had become. Who could have known? The Americans seemed harmless enough, but in a few short weeks they’d left a trail of chaos and damage no sandstorm could match. The tribes were dangerously unruly again. Every week new creditors crawled out of the dunes demanding satisfaction. The regional authorities, always a boil on his ass, would be even whinier and more demanding, if that were even possible.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the face of the expedition’s leader. If he ever met the arrogant son of a bitch again, he’d wipe that smug grin right off his face. What was his name? It was the Count something or other. Then he remembered.

  The bastard’s name was de Prorok. Count Byron de Prorok.

  Brooklyn, New York

  January 18, 1926

  Dearest Byron,

  I actually mailed this letter the day before you left, in the hope that it will be waiting for you when you arrive in Cedar Rapids. That is, if the Pony Express is still running that far west. Ha Ha.

  You’ve only left, and the girls and I miss you already. Please be safe, and come home to us in one piece. Seeing my folks is wonderful and all, but I think I’d go mad if I had to live in Brooklyn again and can’t wait to be back in Paris with just our own petite famille. See, I am really learning French, no matter how much you nag me about it.

  I know you’ll be brilliant. You are so smart and you are so talented. You’re too good for those Iowa bumpkins, but I know that you have to “break in the act” so that it’s perfect. I guess it’s like how Broadway plays open in Hartford or Buffalo before becoming smash hits. Those people will love you as much as I do. Watch out for those Professors’ wives, I’m not there to protect you from them. Ha Ha.

  Marie Terese is waving to her Papa, and little Alice is missing her big strong daddy, as am I. Come home to me soon, my darling. And dress warmly, I hear it gets really cold in the Midwest this time of year, even colder than New York, although I don’t know how that’s possible.

  Lots of love and kisses,

  Your adoring wife (how I love saying that)

  Alice

  P.S. Mother and Daddy say hello.

  Chapter 1

  Grinnell, Iowa

  January 23, 1926

  The lecture hadn’t even started, and my cousin Bob and I were already in awe of Count de Prorok. After all, not everyone could use a grey chunk of rock to score some co-ed tail, but he was doing it. The girl—all dewy eyes and virginal goose bumps—hung on every word. So did we from the comfort of our hard wooden chairs on the end of the aisle.

  “You see, even three thousand years ago, women knew that men were… susceptible to their charms. Quite at a disadvantage. Not much has changed.” De Prorok gave her a boyish smile and leaned forward intimately. She leaned into him, a total goner. It was like Lillian Gish falling prey to some cad in the pictures.

  With a smoothness born of practice, the Count offered her a vaguely rounded chunk of fossilized clay and she took it, her eyes asking permission first. He nodded paternally, perfect teeth gleaming. She cupped it in both sweaty hands as if it was the good holiday china, instead of some old piece of rock. The way she oohed and aahed you’d think it was the Crown Jewels or something.

  I’m surprised Bob didn’t pull out a steno pad and take notes. He was quite the ladies’ man, if he did say so himself and frequently did, but he was in the presence of a master. “Geez, this guy’s good,” he said, emphasizing it with an elbow to my ribs when, as usual, my attention wandered.

  Count Byron Khun de Prorok was something to behold. He was tall, as tall as me probably. Six feet at least, but lean where I was beefy, and… graceful I suppose. Not in a sissy way. He was more Douglas Fairbanks than Valentino, if you know what I mean. The pith helmet he wore certainly added to the whole look, as did the khaki jacket, complete with jodhpurs poofing out at the knees and gleaming black boots.

  It wasn’t what you’d call normal attire for a bitterly cold January night in the middle of Iowa, but that exotic look was why the auditorium was so crowded. Every respectable person within driving distance of Grinnell stewed in their heavy coats and sweaters waiting to see “the Discoverer of Ancient Carthage”, the “Scourge of the Saharan Tuaregs,” the “Finder of the Legendary Queen Tin Hinan”, and he came exactly as advertised.

  I was there because my aunt sent me to deliver a care package of cookies, clean laundry and, I suspect, money my uncle knew nothing about to Bob at school. I made the drive in their Ford from Cedar Rapids, was supposed to spend the night in Bob’s dorm room, and come back the next morning with another bag full of dirty laundry. The lecture was a w
ay to kill time—Grinnell’s only movie theater was showing some programmer I’d already seen half a dozen times. The price of all that service was Bob had to host his poor idiot cousin for the night.

  My original plan, before my Aunt decided to make me useful, was to see “That Royle Girl” at the Strand. At least that was a D. W. Griffith picture and had W.C. Fields in it. It was a serious movie, not really my thing, but it had to be better than some boring lecture at a college I wasn’t even attending. Worse, I had to tag along with Bob. But, the alternative was going back to Milwaukee with my tail between my legs and without a job, so here I was. At least until my burns, and my feelings, healed.

  A distinguished old guy in a blue suit came over and politely “harrumphed” in the Count’s ear. Without taking his eyes off his prey, the younger man nodded politely, whispered something back and patted the old guy’s back as if dismissing a servant. The older gent started a bucket brigade of waves and nods… he to the kid at the projector, the kid at the projector to the guy in the back who flicked the auditorium’s lights off and on.

  Showtime.

  With great dignity, the old guy climbed the stairs to the stage and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. From the smile on his puss they obviously knew who he was, and he knew that they knew, and it made him very happy.

  “That’s President Main,” Bob whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Real stick up his ass.” Bob felt the need to sprinkle cuss words into his speech periodically so he didn’t look like a snob to the poor relations like me. Since I assumed everyone with money had a stick of some size lodged somewhere—Bob and his folks included—I wasn’t much surprised.

  The old guy’s voice was lighter than I expected, but he perched his glasses on his nose which made him look more president-like. “Good evening everyone. As you know, I’m the president of Grinnell College…” a smattering of applause was quickly doused with a benevolent, upheld palm and a satisfied smirk. “Thank you, but that’s certainly not why you’re here tonight. No, we are honored to be the first audience this year outside the Eastern Seaboard to host tonight’s speaker.”