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the grate. His stick and revolver followed.
    â€œNow, you yellow camel,” snarled Boch, “that’s Sergeant Boch out there, see? And this in here, this is So-and-so Boch, see? And what are you going to do about it?”
    Grant stirred restlessly, his mind flashing out a warning signal to him that this was some kind of trap. He looked at Boch’s throbbing neck muscles, at the hard, red face.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” thundered Boch.
    Grant stood up. He took an uncertain step forward. Lipinski drew in his feet and melted into the wall. Boch’s eyes held a flame; his hands were clenching and unclenching. Grant took another step.
    Suddenly Boch struck. The smack of the blow was loud in the cell. Boch struck again. Tottering, Grant lashed out with both hands, striving to seize the towering hulk he saw in a blur before him.
    But Boch had known what Grant would do. Boch seized the slighter man, gripped his throat and slammed him back against the wall. Savagely, Boch banged Grant’s head on stone, time after time. Grant sagged slowly, his eyes rolling white, his knees buckling. A thin course of red went down his neck and disappeared into the uniform collar.

    Boch grunted and dropped the limp body. Then he whirled to the door and bellowed: “Corporal of the guard! Come down here with a bucket of water for this cur !”
    The corporal came and, a moment later, Grant came uncertainly to, staring up at the raging man above him.
    Boch grunted again, reaching out for his tunic and putting it on. “So you’re not so tough now, hein ? Not so tough anymore. I heard what you were saying down here. You won’t say it again. No, not ever again. I’ve got a tasty little detail for you, Legionnaire Grant.”
    Grant, his whole body a flaming ache, lay still, listening.
    â€œYou,” continued Boch, “are going out with Muller and his squad—to spot Tuaregs . Intelligence work, mon brave . We have ways of ridding ourselves of such as you.”
    â€œIntelligence?” said Grant, hoarsely.
    â€œIntelligence,” repeated Boch. “You’re going down to the Ahaggar Plateau to spot Tuaregs. And I doubt if you’ll get back alive when I tip the word to Muller. Now get up! Clean yourself. Be ready to march tonight!”

Chapter Two
    C RAWLING down through the narrow defile, Larry Grant spat out a mouthful of dust. That ricochet had been close. The snap and scream of bullets bouncing off the rocks over the head of the patrol was far more deafening than the spiteful sniping fire which had been going on for an hour.
    Last in line, he could see Muller’s back ahead. Muller’s back was coarse and the khaki shirt was black with sweat. Muller’s tunic was lashed to his pack. The others of that miserable patrol were too far gone to think. They merely crawled and hoped they’d get out alive.
    Lord, how far this was from the tan parade grounds of the US Army. For an instant Grant was puzzled. What was he, Lieutenant Stephans, doing here? It was all a nightmare, unreal. He was half minded to stand up. Then a slug spanged close to his head and he groveled lower into the choking dust.
    Sergeants! How he hated the beasts. It seemed to Grant that he had spent his life avoiding them, being mauled by them, obeying them: the sergeant he had accidentally shot in the States, the drillmaster at Sidi, and Boch. Now he had to deal with Muller.
    Exhausted, half crazed with thirst and hunger, he raised himself to stare again at the back up ahead. Muller was a martinet . Everything was duty. To be slapped about by such a brute of a man seared Grant to the core.
    He caught sight of Sam Ying’s yellow cheek. Sam Ying crawled in Muller’s wake, like a dog. The Chinese was completely subjugated. He was like an automaton. The thought of it made Grant shudder.
    Filth, cursed orders, imminent death—Grant had a way of escaping from this. Some night he’d blast