The Best Ye Breed

V BEY-AG-AKHAMOUK

They had cornered the remnants of the forces of Colonel Midran Ibrahim, of the Arab Union, in a wadi, not far north of Tazerouk which boasted one of the few wells of potable water which the colonel’s forces had still held at the time Fort Laperrine and Tamanrasset had been taken by storm by the Taughi and other rampaging tribesmen of El Hassan.

The more proper name of a wadi is oued since it implies a fissure in the earth which channels off water when there is any and that is seldom in the Ahaggar, the land of the Tairog Tuareg and possibly the most desolate area on earth save Antarctica. When the occasional deluges of rain precipitate—and there can be years between when not a single drop is seen—the wadi becomes a rushing river, sweeping everything before it and woebetide he so foolish as to have placed his encampment at its bottom. Otherwise, it is dry, baked hard by the sun, and for this reason often used as a road through the erg, the shifting sand dunes of the Sahara, or the reg, the areas of the desert covered by gravel. The wadis split up the land into deep, and sometimes wide, cracks and fissures and are somewhat the equivalent of the arroyos of the American Southwest and of Mexico.

Bey-ag-Akhamouk and Kenny Ballalou, both of El Hassan’s immediate staff, with a force of local Tuaghi and Teda tribesmen from the south were having little in the way of difficulty. The Egyptian colonel, obviously shaken by his defeat and trying desperately to escape north, had entered the wadi to obtain greater speed. He had a half dozen desert lorries, two hover jeeps and two light armored cars. Bey and Kenny were not sure of the exact number of infantrymen, but it probably numbered several hundred. Certainly, no more.

They were whip-lashing the Arab Union force, up and down the wadi for a distance of approximately a kilometer. Bey-ag-Akhamouk, with a flac rifle and two heavy machine guns and perhaps a score of riflemen, were dug in beyond a bend in the wadi, to the south. Behind another bend to the north was Kenny Ballalou with another flac rifle, another machine gun and another score or so of tribesmen.

The flac rifle was probably the most universal hand portable firearm ever devised. It combined the virtues, if virtues they could be called, of the recoilless light cannon, the bazooka, the heavy machine gun, and a light anti-tank gun. The clip held twenty rounds, which were armor piercing and explosive. Short of a heavy tank, they would take any motorized military vehicle. And the ergs of the Sahara do not lend themselves to even medium tanks, not to speak of heavy ones.

In short, the flac rifles were competent to hold anything that Colonel Midran Ibrahim had at his command.

Almost from the moment the ambush was sprung, the Arab Union forces dissolved into hysteria. They had already been fleeing for long hours from the debacle they had left behind them, in terror of being flushed by the hordes of Tuaghi camelmen. The Tuareg! The Forgotten of Allah! The Apaches of the Sahara! The Sons of Shaitan! And El Hassan’s most devoted followers—to a man. The Arab Union trucks were insufficient to carry more than their water and supplies and a few wounded officers. Their tanks, their artillery, the gun carriers, the Soviet Complex equipment that had been their pride as the crack regiment of the Arab Union, had all been abandoned at Fort Laperrine and Tamanrasset. They were fugitives in an area that has been named the end of the world and their refuge was the better part of a thousand miles to the northeast.

For the first hour or two, Bey and Kenny had whip-sawed them back and forth, up and down the wadi. Spurred on by officers and non-coms almost as terrified as they were themselves, the Arab Union soldiers would charge up the wadi, only to be met by a curtain of fire they could not resist. Back they would head in the opposite direction, only to be met at the next bend by another sheet of flame.

Individuals and sometimes small groups would attempt to scale the wadi banks but to do so they could carry with them naught but holstered handguns, or rifles or submachine guns slung over their shoulders, their hands needed to climb. At the top they would be knocked off as soon as they appeared by Bey-ag-Akhamouk’s snipers, settled comfortably behind rocks or thorny bush. The tribesmen were at a pinnacle of glee. Now this was the manner in which to fight the Arab Union and the Arabs who for long centuries had come south to conduct their razzias, to round up the men to be herded north for the slave markets, to violate the women and steal the goats and camels. “Yes, this was the way to fight them, rather than to dash wildly into the fire of their automatic weapons, their tanks, or to submit to the bombings of their aircraft. Wallahi! But El Hassan and his viziers would sweep the Sahara of the troops of the Arab Union and bring the Peace of Allah to all.

Bey groaned inwardly. Like the veteran combat man he was, he did not like indiscriminate, useless slaughter. Victory was necessary but to the extent possible the fewer casualties inflicted the better. But he knew why the crazed enemy failed to surrender, though confronted with an impossible situation. They were more terrified of falling into the hands of the Tuaghi alive than they were of death. They, when they were successfully advancing across the Sahara, in their strength, with the support of their armor and motorized artillery, had not conducted themselves exactly as benevolent liberators.

And now it came to a head. In a final desperate frenzy, they were charging again, and this time, one of the armored cars gingerly edged its snoot around the bend in the wadi. Bey, who was himself manning the flac rifle, winged a couple of shots at it, deliberately aimed to bounce off the side. He didn’t want to destroy the vehicle. The forces of El Hassan could utilize it to advantage, later. It took the message and hurriedly backed up around the wadi bend.

This time, the full force of the remaining infantrymen were charging, wild-eyed. A last desperate attempt to break out, and, for a moment, Bey wondered at his ability to hold them. A flac rifle, no matter how universal, held but a twenty-round clip, and wasn’t meant to be utilized against individual foes. It was meant for tanks, armored cars, machine gun nests, pillboxes, foes intrenched in buildings, even aircraft under certain conditions, but not hundreds of frantic charging infantrymen. The two machine guns flanking him, mowed down the attackers, but they continued to advance, on the run.

One of his machine guns fell silent. The gunner had obviously been hit by one of the random shots being fired by the advancing elements. It soon started up again, as one of the others took over, but less accurately now.

The frantically charging enemy had nearly reached Bey’s emplacements when from behind came the pounding of hundreds of the pads of hejin racing camels, the sound of the ululating war cry of the desert, Ul-Ul-Ul-Allah Akbar!

He swung his eyes about from the Arab Union soldiers who had only yards to go to reach his gun’s nest.

Behind him, up the wadi, at full tilt, swarmed the Camel Corps of Guémama, war chief of the Kel Rela clan of the Tuaghi. Some shook modern rifles at the skies, some ancient long barreled muzzle-loaders, some brandished the Tuareg, Crusader-like broadswords, with their two edges, their round points and their flat, rectangular cross members. Some were armed only with long bladed spears, though all had strapped to their left arms the traditional razor sharp arm daggers of the Tuareg.

“Sweet Jesus,” Bey groaned at the sight.

Some of the Arab Union troopers were near enough that Bey could make out their bugging eyes. It was the end. They dropped rifles and submachine guns, turned, yelling their fear, and ran, some of them with arms held high.

Bey jumped to his feet and to the middle of the wadi and held up his arms, in desperation. He had little real hope of preventing the massacre. In fact, he was in considerable danger of being trampled to death.

Guémama himself, a submachine gun held high in one hand, led the charge. His face was a mask of excitement but at least he wasn’t frothing at the mouth as were some of those behind him.

To Bey’s relief and actual surprise, the young chieftain came to a halt, only a few yards before him and held up an arm to restrain his rampaging followers.

“Why do you halt us, O Bey-ag-Akhamouk! Insh’Allah, we shall slay all these Arab Union giaours, may they burn in Gehennum!”

The others were shrilling their war cries behind him, shaking their weapons, firing their rifles into the air, in anticipation.

Bey said, keeping his voice impossibly even, “I have heard from El Hassan on the Roumi device which allows one to talk at great distance. He desires that all the remaining dogs be spared, until he can put them to the question and learn greatly of what goes on to the north.”

The Tuareg scowled but the orders were from El Hassan himself and they made considerable sense. Besides, what could be more pleasurable than to herd the pigs of the Arab Union back to Tamanrasset to be put to the torture at leisure?

He held up an arm again and shouted to his men in Tamaheg, the Berber language of the Tuaghi.

Bey, disguising inward relief said, “Let your men go forth then, and relieve the remaining dogs of any weapons they may still retain, though seemingly they, in their great cowardice, have thrown them away. Round them up and put them under guard.” He laughed contemptuously, as was expected by the tribesmen and said, “Few guards will be necessary. Women could guard them. Put the rest of your men to gathering up their weapons and put them in the lorries which they have abandoned. Do not kill the wounded you find, especially the officers. El Hassan wishes to question them all. Put those among the dogs who understand how to drive the Roumi vehicles to the task and escort them back to Tamanrasset with the loot.”

“Bilhana! with joy,” Guémama blurted and though obviously disappointed at not being able to conduct the slaughter which he’d had in mind, turned and shouted orders to his men.

He struck his hejin camel with his mish’ab camel stick and barked in command, “Adar-ya-yan,” to bring it to its knees. The camel went through its awkward, rocking motion and subsided to the sands.

The young warrior jumped to the sands, his face in great glee. He was dressed in standard Tuareg garb; baggy trousers of dark indigo-blue cotton cloth, a loose, nightgown-like white cotton shirt and over this a gandoura outer garment. On his feet were red leather fil fil boots and over his head and face the teguelmoust, the lightweight cotton combination veil and turban. It was indigo blue and some ten feet long and a Tuareg man was never seen without it, for the Tuareg, unlike the other tribesmen of the desert, go veiled, while the women are veilless. Traditionally, it is to protect their complexions from the sun, since the Tuareg considers himself a white man, though as a whole they are as dark as the Belas whom they enslave.

“Wallahi! O Bey-ag-Akhamouk,” Guémama chortled. “Bismillah ! Thus it should be! These are the last of the Arab Union dogs to be rounded up.” Next to El Hassan himself, whom the Tuaghi chieftain worshipped, Bey-ag-Akamouk was his favorite among the new leaders of the tribesmen of North Africa.

Bey-ag-Akhamouk clapped him on the shoulders, with both hands in an American gesture, usually not acceptable to a Surgu noble, but now, in the full glow of victory, received with a triumphant laugh.

Kenny Ballalou came up, dragging a .10 caliber Tommy-Noiseless by its sling and followed by a Teda tribesman with his flac rifle. He looked, and was, exhausted. He still wore bandages from the wounds he had taken at Fort Laperrine.

He said, in English, “What the hell happened?”

And Bey said, in Tamaheg, for the benefit of Guémamaa, “They attempted a final desperate charge in effort to break out. Guémama with his valiant warriors arrived at the last moment, and the cowardly Arab Union dogs broke and ran.” Kenny had just passed through the portion of the wadi that had been cordoned off, so Bey added, “How many of them are left?”

“About two hundred unwounded and walking wounded,” Kenny cleared his throat and looked at Bey. “The boys seem to be polishing off those hit so badly that they can’t stand.”

Bey turned to the Tuareg and said, “It was the wish of El Hassan to return to Tamanrasset with all the captured. See what you can do, O Mokkadam of men.”

Without further words, Guémama was back onto his camel and off up the wadi.

Approaching them, his face wan and his once beautifully tailored uniform torn and disheveled, was Colonel Midran Ibrahim, his hands tied behind his back and escorted by two of the veiled camel corps men. Neither of the two Americans had ever seen the Egyptian officer before, but they recognized him through his insignia.

Without words, Bey went behind the other, reached out and drew the arm dagger from the sheath of one of the Tuaregs. The tribesman made no motion to resist the taking of his weapon, assuming that his commander was about to use it to the best advantage on the colonel.

However, Bey cut the rope binding the other and returned the knife to its owner.

He said gently, in Arabic “I was astonished, Colonel, not to see you in the advance of your men in the various attempts to break out of our ambuscade.”

The colonel rubbed his wrists to restore circulation, and said contemptuously, “We are taught at the military institute that a commanding officer must not risk himself. His guidance of his men is more important than heroics. Would Napoleon or Wellington have exposed themselves at Waterloo?”

“It’s been done,” Kenny said mildly. “Our Stonewall Jackson died at Chancellorsville. Even Big Mouth Custer, didn’t get back from the Little Big Horn.”

Bey said, “We’ll return to Tamanrasset immediately. Your wounded will be placed in the lorries and in and on the armored cars. Do you have any medics with you?”

The colonel was evidently taken aback. Like the tribesmen who had brought him up, he had expected immediate execution. He said, “We have one doctor, slightly wounded, and two of his nurse-assistants.”

“Good,” Bey said. “Dr. Smythe, of our Medical Corps, will be able to use their aid.” He looked at Kenny Ballalou. “How about rounding up the fastest of their trucks? We’ll get going soonest. They ought to be faster than our hovercraft.”

“Right,” Kenny said, and went on up the wadi.

Colonel Ibrahim said, not attempting to disguise his suprise, “You do not mean to kill us?”

Bey laughed sourly. “It will give us good marks in world opinion if we refrain from butchering our prisoners—in the manner that has been the wont of the Arab Union.”

The colonel, at least, had the decency to flush. He said, stiffly, “In which vehicle will I ride?”

“You won’t,” Bey told him. “You’ll walk, with your men. The vehicles are needed to carry the wounded.”

Bey made a motion to a couple of the riflemen who had backed his flac rifle and the machine guns and instructed them to return the colonel to the column which was to take up the return march to Tamanrasset and Fort Laperrine.

Kenny came up in a hover jeep. Bey-ag-Akhamouk recognized it cynically as one of the Skoda models from Czechoslovakia in the Soviet Complex. In spite of supposed world detente, the great powers continued to supply the smaller with the tools to slaughter each other.

Kenny came to a halt next to him and said, “This was as fast as anything they had and it leaves more room for the wounded than if we’d taken a truck. Those trucks are going to have to go slowly, or they’ll bounce anybody inside with a bad hit to death.”

Bey could see the flac rifle the other had tucked into the back of the jeep. He lugged his own over and put it in too and then the remaining cannisters of clips.

Kenny Ballalou said, “Should we take Guémamaa along with us?”

And Bey said, “Hell, no. If we did, not a single Arab Union trooper would make it back to Tamanrasset. As it is, he wouldn’t disobey an order of El Hassan under torture.”

They started up, heading back down the wadi in the direction from which the Tuaghi camelmen had come only a short time ago.

Kenny said, “That’s the most gruesome sight I’ve ever seen. There’s more dead than alive in that wadi and more wounded than whole. How many did Guémama’s men knock off when they came up?”

“So far as I know, none.”

Kenny looked over at him from the side of his eyes, even as he wrestled the vehicle down the winding way. “Then why’d you give him all the credit, Bey?”

The other grunted and said, “Because he’s the nephew of Melchizedek, the chief of the Kel Rela clan of the Kel Rela tribe. But that’s not all. The Ahaggar Taureg consist of three tribes each headed by a warrior clan which gives its name to the tribe as a whole; the Kel Rela, the Tégéhé and the Taitog. The chief of the Kel Rela clan is also chief of the Kel Rela tribe and automatically paramount chief, or Amenokal, of the whole confederation. That’s Melchizedek, and though he’s supposedly fighting chief, he’s too old to take the field. Guémama, who’s the apple of his eye, is also his nephew and the son of his favorite sister. Descent among the Tuaghi is in the matriarchal line. Guémama will become Amenokal when the old boy dies. And that’s not all, either. The kid’s the most popular character going among the young Tuaghi. They’d follow him to hell and gone.—And he’d follow Homer the same way.”

Kenny Ballalou looked over at his companion. “How in the hell do you know all this?”

Bey grunted in self-deprecation. “I thought that you knew I was born a Tuareg. A missionary took me to the States when I was only three years old. However, I am a member of the Taitog tribe, which makes me a subject of the Amenokal, in spite of the fact that I hold a doctorate in Political Science from the University of Minnesota.”

Kenny took him in from the side of his eyes again. Bey-ag-Akhamouk was a handsome physical specimen in the Tuareg tradition. It was debated among anthropologists whether the Tuaghi were of Berber or Hamitic descent. In fact, the more far-out contended that they were descendents of Crusaders who had never made it home from the Holy Land. Be that as it may, he was tall, as the desert men went, wiry and strong, and his well featured face lighter in complexion than was usually found, even among the Tuaghi. Kenny wondered about that missionary. Was Bey his natural son?