Free Fifty-Fifty O'Brien by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

understand.
    Presently the planes came over the murette and dipped. A pilot waved his hand and then the two of them droned up and to the north, growing smaller and smaller until they were lost in the metallic sky.
    Grant touched Duval’s arm. “Take a squad and go up there to mop up the place. Destroy all the ammunition and take what prisoners might be left alive.”
    Duval saluted, “Oui, mon sergent.” He collected his men.
    Schwartz came up, clicked his heels smartly.
    â€œ Empaqueter ,” ordered Grant. “We leave immediately through the pass.”
    â€œOui, mon sergent,” said Schwartz.
    Grant took a swallow of water. He was too sick to eat. The bandage was hot against his face. He’d probably have a scar there now. Ruin his beautiful face, most likely. Well, to hell with it.
    Leaning against the murette, his attention was drawn by a Legionnaire to a small dot out on the plains. Listening to the sounds made by ammunition exploding up the pass, Grant took a pair of field glasses and studied the dots.
    If he had been sick before, he was violently ill now. That was Muller and the rest of his party. And they were heading for the pass, evidently knowing that the caravan had been overcome.
    Grant turned on Schwartz. “You will leave immediately, Corporal. You are senior now. I must join my party out there.”
    Schwartz saluted and bawled orders. In five minutes Grant stood alone in the compound, watching the party coming toward him. The sounds of the platoon receded into silence up the mountains. Their mission was fulfilled. The Tuareg threat was over.
    As an afterthought, Grant shed the sergeant’s tunic and folded it under his belt. Leaning against the murette, he closed his eyes and saw red spots dancing beneath his lids.
    That was the way Sergeant Muller found him. Sergeant Muller’s beefy face was very red with anger. He laid a heavy hand on Grant’s shoulder.
    â€œHere you are,” roared Muller. “You worthless pig! What was the idea—” He saw then that a bandage covered the better part of Grant’s face. “Oh, you’re hit.”
    Grant nodded, dully. From his belt, his fingers painfully clumsy, he dragged the tunic, sweat stained and soggy with blood. “Here’s … your … tunic … Sergeant. I—”
    Abruptly he fell flat on his face in the dust.

Chapter Eight
    A month later, in the general hospital at Sidi , Legionnaire Larry Grant sat in the warm sunshine, looking out across the parade ground.
    They had told him he’d never look the same. He didn’t care. They had told him he was damned lucky to be alive. Grant had guessed he was. They had told him that he had barely escaped court-martial. Grant knew that already, more than he could tell them.
    But all in all, he felt very complacent, sitting there. He wasn’t thinking about Lieutenant Stephans. He had ceased to do that when he found it was possible to do so without wincing. All that was dead and gone.
    Sergeant Boch passed the veranda and stopped for a moment. “Feeling better?”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Grant with a smile.
    â€œCarry on,” replied Boch, departing.
    Two officers strolled by, all gold braid and glitter. A company clerk passed them, saluting. One of the officers stopped the clerk.
    â€œDid you find out anything?” asked the officer.
    â€œNo, sir,” replied the clerk. “The platoon is in the barracks now, resting up after all that scrapping in the pass down Ahaggar way. I asked them, sir, but none of them know how to describe the fellow except that he looked more like a gentleman than a sergeant.”
    â€œThat’s a hell of a description,” snapped the other officer. “What did you say he did, Pierre?”
    Pierre slapped his riding crop against his boot and smiled. “Saved the platoon after the lieutenant and sergeant were killed. Got word through at the risk of his