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out his brains. Or would he? He had too much stage presence to go out that way, acknowledging that sergeants had whipped him. Maybe there was some other method.
    His thoughts were hacked off by a flash of white lightning which ripped across his shoulders and hammered him flat into the dust. A small sound escaped his lips and then he compressed them tightly. He was numb, unable to move.
    When he could think again, he knew this was his way out. Plugged by Tuareg bullets.
    Rustling came to his ears. A rough hand ripped his pack and rifle and tunic away. Muller grunted, pawing at the wound.
    â€œGet up, you salopard !” grated Muller. “Get your ugly face out of the dust and crawl. You’re not hurt. You’ve got a scratch a real soldier wouldn’t feel.”
    Grant rolled his eyes back, trying to collect himself. He saw Muller’s coarse face through a haze of pain. He could feel the raggedness of the wound. He could feel the blood coursing down inside his shirt.
    â€œGet up,” roared Muller. “Want to leave me in the lurch, that it? Trying to get hit on purpose, weren’t you? You filthy pig, get up and crawl!”
    The flame of rage licked up and devoured the fires of pain which racked Grant.
    Slowly, summoning every ounce of nerve, he struggled forward. Muller slammed the rifle across the wound and tightened its sling.
    â€œDamn you,” spat Grant.
    Muller went back to the head of the small column. He was searching for more rugged terrain where they could stand up and fight the Tuaregs off. If they came to open ground they would have to cross it with Tuareg rifles cutting them down like ducks in a shooting gallery.
    Grant crawled in their wake, swallowing their dust, his squinted eyes on the hobnails of the man in front. He was dull from the shock of the bullet. The hot feeling of the blood was terrifying.
    He knew that he was not playing a very noble part in all this. The question of his courage did not enter into it at all. He was just a bayonet unit, a private soldier. Once he had been an officer. Once he had been able to hold up his head—but not now.
    Thirst tortured him; but he knew better than to drag at his canteen. Thirst would have to be worse before he could do that.
    How long had he done this? Hitch, gather himself up and drag. Those Tuaregs had been on their trail since dawn and now it was almost sunset. To make it worse the moon was already up, almost invisible in the onslaught of the sun’s scorching rays. There’d be no escape by night.
    Presently the column stopped. Grant sank into the dust, listening to the snap of stray slugs and the undercurrent of Muller’s voice.
    After a short rest, Grant felt better. The wound was clogging up; the bleeding was stopping by itself. The pain was less. He became enough interested in the proceedings to raise himself very cautiously and stare ahead.
    Instantly he knew that their number was up. A flat plain two miles wide was just ahead. They’d have to cross it. The Tuaregs would swoop in upon them and tear them to pieces. This was the end.
    Muller was pulling the machine gun from its carrying case. “Attention, you idiots,” cried Muller. “Around this point is a small circle of rocks. I’m going to cover your retreat. If any of you get back to base, tell them this.”
    He stared at their uplifted faces, spat deliberately into the dust, and continued: “The Tuareg tribes are massing for combined resistance to France. But the keynote is a shipment of ammunition which is coming through a pass to the north.
    â€œGuarding that pass is a platoon of the Legion. Their position is a puzzle to the Tuaregs. All of you know the whereabouts of that platoon. Under no circumstances are you to go to it, understand? You will be followed and the platoon will be attacked and the ammunition will get through.
    â€œGet it straight; remember it; and if I don’t come through, you know what to tell them at