Georges Surdez is an author almost lost to time, which is unfortunate. After moving to the US in 1920, at the age of 20, he remained here and became a citizen, living his entire life off selling fiction to the pulps, with a few forays into the slicks. His work was a staple of Adventure magazine, and his meat and potatoes was the French Foreign Legion story, at which he was a master. Since I am a sucker for a good French Foreign Legion story, Surdez has quickly become one of my favorite writers.
"Six Good Men" is probably his second published story, appearing in Argosy in 1922. It's short and blunt, in contrast to his later writing which gets far more deft at characterization, but it's a solid (if brutal) piece, and shows that Surdez was interested in the Legion before Beau Geste made it a wildly popular subgenre.
"Six Good Men"
by Georges Surdez
I.
A thin layer of mud over the compact clay soil had rendered footing
treacherous, and for the fifth time that morning Corporal Personne
picked himself up, shifted his straps and resumed his place in the long
file of men. Then he contemplated the Indo-Chinese landscape with
disfavor.
It was February, 1884, and since December of the previous year, the tiny
garrison at Tuyen Quan, a little over five hundred men, under the
command of Major Domine, but six pieces of artillery and only six
engineers had held out heroically against a Black Flag army of several
thousand led by Luh Vinh Phuoc. Personne's battalion was the advance
guard of the column moving to the relief.
Thin veils of fog drizzled a warm rain that diluted the pipe clay on the
corporal's pith helmet, ran down his face, seeped inside his collar and
hung in drops from his bristly beard. On either side of the narrow
roadway — seldom wide enough for two men to march abreast — the rice
fields, flooded with a foot of water, sent up a suffocating moisture.
Out of nowhere, apparently, bullets sang and snapped like over-taut
violin strings. A man, just hit, pitched forward, face into the water,
his hardware clattering about him. From the rear came the cursing of the
naval gunners, in charge of the two eighty millimeter guns, coaxing the
recalcitrant mules forward.
The men were not in the best of humor. Since early morning they had
contended with narrow roads, dampness and heat and the pot shooting of
the Chinese pirates hidden in the clumps of high grass scattered over
the dreary plain. The Legionaires were ripe for a fight. Let the Black
Flags make a stand, and they would pay. That the French republic
considered her rights to the Province of Tonkin greater than the claim
of the King of Annam did not concern these hardened soldiers of the
Legion. The right and wrong of the international quarrel seemed beside
the mark with an enemy who took pleasure in torturing his captives.
But Corporal Personne remained comparatively cheerful. This was his life
work, and he loved it. Small inconveniences would soon be forgotten in
the thrill of conflict. He was an American, born and bred. Some
incident, unknown to his comrades, perhaps forgotten by himself, had
driven him first to France, then into the Foreign Legion, where no
questions are asked.
A strange lot they were! There in front of him was an ex-priest; at his
back the son of a grand duke; and by his side his best friend, Pat, an
ex-street sweeper from Dublin. And he himself had enlisted under the
name of "Personne," which is French for "Nobody." These Legionaires,
from the corners of the earth, became part of a solid unit, welded
together as they were by the "*esprit de corps*" — the soul of an army.
From the confines of the Sahara, from the town of Sidi bel Abbes, the
"home" of the Legion, France had called her adopted sons to Indo-China.
As the column reached the lower slopes of a range of hills the day
suddenly brightened. The sun, breaking through the mists, picked out the
metallic ornaments on the uniforms with vivid sparkles of color. The
song-bird, the son of an Arab peanut dealer in Dakar, started a popular
ballad, and the men picked up the chorus, not always harmonious, but
encouraging to the jaded officers, who feared for the morale.
When the troops reached the crest of the hill and a halt was called,
Major Epervier, command, gathered his officers about him. Away from
barracks, they were all men together, and rank, except in actual line of
duty, was not impressed. Months of campaigning forcibly creates
friendship — or hatred. At any rate, etiquette is relaxed. Through
field glasses the major had discovered the red roof of a pagoda emerging
from the tangle of bush in the valley below.
"No signs of life," put in the youngest captain, naturally the first to
talk.
"One can't always tell," the major answered.
"Why not go down and find out?" the naval lieutenant impetuously
suggested. He had been put in charge of the artillery possibly because
the guns were drawn by mules. In the general army scheme, the square
plug should always be placed in a round hole. A lawyer should rub down
horses, a blacksmith keep books in regimental offices.
"A valley is not the best strategical position for an isolated body of
infantry liable to attack by superior numbers," the major remarked
dryly. "You know what the Flags are at close quarters, where we have no
chance to use superior discipline and tactics."
"But the column must pass there either to-day or to-morrow. Why not let
me have a few men and find out?" the ardent young lieutenant went on.
The major smiled at the thought of the inexperienced officer blundering
down into the village. "I have formal instructions not to risk my
officers. I think, though, I have the man for the job. He's been in my
battalion five years, and whatever he's been given to do, he did — and
came back — "
"The pitcher to the well — "
"Perhaps — " agreed the major and turned abruptly. "Personne!"
Corporal Personne, drying his clothes by the fire, pulled his
seventy-five inches erect and came over to the major where he stood at
attention in a not overclean undershirt. In the palm of his hand he held
his pipe while he hurriedly swallowed the last of a bit of ammunition
bread. The officers smiled, but he remained impassive. His eyes even did
not flicker. Though often treated with consideration, he never relaxed
his reserve. This had given rise to the belief that he was a plutocrat
by birth. His heels together, little finger on the seam of his trousers,
Corporal Personne, the perfect non-com, now awaited orders.
The major cleared his throat with an awkward cough. "These are not
orders, Personne, You may refuse if you wish." He indicated the pagoda.
"The village down there may be occupied. It may not. I want to find
out."
"Yes, sir."
"Risky, but you and I have seen worse, eh?"
"Much worse, major," Personne assented gravely. "How many men shall I
take?"
"Five."
Personne went back to the fire. A few minutes low conversation and the
five men got up, resumed their clothing, picked up their rifles from the
stacks, tightened the chin straps of their helmets. Personne led the way
down the hill, where they were soon lost to view.
"There go six good men," the major declared. He knew some of his men
personally, was familiar with their history, played father confessor,
knew their real names that he might advise their relatives in case of
death.
"They're gone, all right — if that village is occupied," the naval
lieutenant put in, "unless we move down if we hear firing."
"I half suspect you of deliberately trying to get us into a mess," the
major observed. "You'd ask nothing better than to play with your new
pets. Whatever happens, we can't move until the whole column comes up
and I get orders from the colonel — "
"Who'll probably take three days to make up his mind," disrespectfully
added the sailor. "Whatever happens, let's hope the fellows aren't taken
alive."
II.
Personne had wisely picked his men: Mitri, the Russian; Pat; Bicco;
Sanglier, the boar, so called because of his massive shoulders and hairy
face; and Ganache, who jokingly pretended to be an English lord, though
his accent was cockney and his name French. They advanced slowly through
the high grass, the tops of which rustled several feet above their
heads. At least half an hour's time elapsed before they came in sight of
the village, a cluster of mud huts forming a street, with the pagoda
standing fully two hundred yards away.
"My mother, the milordess, would be surprised to see me," Ganache
whispered, for the silence weighed upon him. "She would never allow me
out without the maid and the fifth footman — "
Personne signaled for silence, ordered his men to wait, and himself
stepped out into the open. When no one appeared, he called the others to
join him. They searched the huts. Ashes still warm in the fireplaces,
the usual stench of the native village, a dog, a few pigs running
about — nothing more. Ganache stopped in front of a placard, ran his
fingers along the line of Chinese characters, pretending to spell out
the words: "Mr. and Mrs. Mandarin, compelled to depart for health
reasons, left the key under the mat — "
Sanglier slapped him on the back. The others joined in the laugh, more
from nervousness than genuine mirth. As Bicco bent past Genache's
shoulders, to add his comment, a shot rang out, and he sank, a bullet in
his throat.
Sanglier, his face scarlet from excitement, swore volubly in five
languages. Mitri turned and fired into the bush, nonchalantly as though
he were paying a visit to a private game preserve. Pat and Personne were
methodical. Ganache kept his eyes on his corporal, as though awaiting
orders.
"Make for the pagoda," cried Personne, and set the example. The others
followed. No sooner were they in the open than the Flags swarmed out of
the grass and pressed down upon them.
"Back to back!" Personne's voice rose above the uproar. The Gras rifles
rattled and the conflict became hand to hand.
Pat went down first, his head hacked off by a yataghan stroke. Mitri,
beaten to his knees, managed a grin before he was finished. Sanglier,
bleeding from several wounds, wept in his rage. Tears and perspiration
streaked the dirt on his face. A pistol shot smashed through both
cheeks; the blood ran from his mouth. He fell sprawled on the ground,
and groaned as steel dug into his back. Only Personne and Ganache were
left, back to back, the tall American towering above the diminutive
cockney.
"Say, big one!" the little man shouted. "Don't worry about me. Run for
the pagoda — you can make it — "
"Shut up — you damn fool — "
"Well — if you won't listen to reason — " Ganache turned the muzzle of
his piece upward, and pressed the trigger. He would not be taken alive.
Personne was alone now, his helmet fallen off, a deep cut in his scalp.
He swung his rifle by the barrel, freed a circle around him. With
desperate fury, he leaped into the midst of the assailants. He was an
American, therefore handy with his fists. And the Legion cultivates "*la
savatte,*" the art of fighting with one's feet. He was soon in the open
with a clear way. And where could he go except toward the pagoda?
The door was closed, fastened on the inside, and he found himself
cornered. Oh, for the sight of the old battalion, charging through the
filthy street, with their chin straps between their teeth! His back
against the door, he pulled a revolver from an inside pocket. With the
first shot he picked off the leader, who dropped his long barbed spear
to clutch at his stomach, and rolled over on the ground. The others
hesitated for a moment only, then, with a shout of angered
determination, closed in.
With each shot Personne dropped a man. After the fifth he lifted the
barrel to his temple. Before he could pull the trigger, in that fraction
of a second that he hesitated, the door behind him opened and he was
conscious of falling backward. The sudden drop, the deep darkness, dazed
him. But he knew that the door had closed and that he was inside.
The corporal picked himself up, laughing. He recalled many other
hair-breadth escapes. No; this wasn't his last adventure. Something was
looking after him — the thing men call "luck." But — although luck
seemed to have caused the door to swing open, whence came the positive
force to swing it shut again? Luck must have had an assistant.
He fumbled for a match. The sulphur sputtered, then flamed — and lit
up — first, a patch of silk fabric, multicolored; then a slim, tiny hand
with shining finger nails; above that, a graceful brownish throat and
the face of a girl. The complexion was rose on olive, delicately tinted
as porcelain.
The match burned his fingers, and he dropped it to the floor, reached
out and touched the girl's shoulder. The silk rustled, and her flesh
seemed cool, like polished marble.
"Thank you, miss. You sure picked the right moment — " he whispered into
the darkness.
She answered in native dialect. Personne was at a loss until the few
words he had picked up around the barracks in Hanoi came back to him.
She had been praying in the pagoda for a husband, a white husband. The
corporal laughed loudly. Women are the same the world over, something
new, a uniform never fails.
He patted her cheek. Outside the Chinese were pounding on the door.
"You poor little devil! If you've elected me you'll soon be a
widow — unless I get out of here."
His doll-like companion chattered volubly. This time he could not
understand. All was now quiet outside, an ominous silence. Perhaps they
had sent for the "bonze," or whatever they called their priest, to come
and open the door.
"How does one get out?" he urged.
She must have understood, for her soft, warm little hand nestled in his
big palm, closing around his fingers. She moved away, gently tugging at
him. After a few steps he heard her fumble with a latch of some sort. To
help, he lit another match, She sneezed as the pungent smell of sulphur
teased her nostrils and her brown eyes gleamed with amusement. He
smiled. Why shouldn't he? Would he not be soon on his way back to the
battalion?
Then a door opened. He faced about, dazzled by the sudden light, and
reached for his revolver. His mind framed the thoughts with lightning
rapidity. He had one cartridge left, and a fighting chance to reach the
open. Should he use it on himself, or take the risk? Once before he had
been about to shoot himself and something had saved him. "To the last
ditch," he muttered, and fired into the thick of the Flags, flung the
weapon in the face of the nearest, and plunged in with flying fists.
For a brief moment he hoped — then some one tripped him. Before he could
recover he was seized around the legs, by the arms, and a rope was
thrown about his neck, twisted to cut off his breath. It was only a
matter of minutes before he found himself bound and carried into the
open. The girl had screamed as though in terror. But in her eyes he read
a deep pity — and something more. Admiration — love? He would never
know.
The Flags dropped him, without undue gentleness, near a mud hut in the
center of the village. A couple of blows from a rifle butt impressed
upon him the uselessness of struggle. He remained quiet until the crowd
moved away, then managed to gain a sitting position against the mud
wall. But he had not been left unguarded. A dirty Flag, his felt shod
feet folded beneath him, looking like a particularly ugly Buddha,
noisily chewed a kaki, the blood-red fruit of the Orient. He caught
Personne's eye, grinned, and pointed to the opposite side of the square.
The five heads of his companions had been planted on stakes. Distorted,
caricatured, Mitri's face alone had conserved its look of insolent
superiority, and the bloodless lips curved slightly as though in
contemptuous amusement. Sanglier, one eye staring, the other half
closed, appeared to wink leeringly at his corporal. Personne shuddered
and turned away.
Weakened and nauseated by the loss of blood, his bruised body half numb,
the hours dragged by endlessly. The sun began to decline. The heat grew
less. Yet thirst made his tongue thick and raspy. The guard must have
noticed that he frequently licked his lips, for he called out lustily,
and a youth brought a pail of water. This was spilled slowly upon the
ground. This was repeated many times before the coolness of the night
made itself felt, and the Black Flags emerged from the bush, one by one.
Women and children materialized out of nowhere. The gurgling, shouting,
squealing multitude milled around the square, in and out of the
huts — cooked, quarreled, played games, paused in front of him and
jeered. In vain he looked for his little friend of the pagoda. And yet
why did he look? Surely she did not belong in this ill-smelling swarm.
He began to wonder what would be his lot, what refinements of suffering.
They might drag him around the interior of a bamboo cage, feeding him on
offals, loathsome beyond description, or be content tonight with a few
minor operations, tearing out his finger nails or slicing off his nose.
To-morrow they could spread-eagle him under the noonday sun, with his
eye-lids cut off and his fingers stretched open by little pegs; or they
might skin him alive, or give him the water cure, or a simpler method:
repeated blows on the soles of his feet until he went mad or died.
Personne sought to compose himself, to hide every trace of fear or
agony, when another bucket of water splashed down in front of him and
sank into the dusty soil. A fat, silk-clad mandarin spoke a few words,
gravely as a quiet gentleman orders his dinner. The corporal was lifted,
carried to the hut nearest the recently kindled fire and securely
fastened by wrists and ankles, limbs outstretched, on a framework formed
like the letter X. The Flags had a wholesome respect for the hard fists
of the Legionaire, and were careful to free him by degrees, a hand, a
foot, one at a time, attached securely before passing on to the next.
When operations were at last completed, the frame was elevated and
braced against a wall, Personne's full weight being borne by wrists and
ankles.
The crowd then gathered, jostled and pushing. The smaller boys worked
their way to the front rank as he remembered having done himself to
watch circus parades. From the swarm of yellow faces came a cheerful,
expectant buzz. The thongs cut into Personne's flesh until merciful
numbness gave momentary ease. Then his tormentors pushed his head as far
back as possible without snapping the vertebra, and fastened it in that
position with a leather strap around his neck. A round piece of wood was
then inserted between the frame and the small of his back. The strain on
the muscles was terrific. Perspiration beaded his forehead, and the
blood from his gashed wrists trickled down his arms to the elbows.
A drop of moisture on his head. His heart leaped — rain. He remembered
having cursed the rain that morning — and now — ah — another drop!
He protruded his tongue with the thought that — perhaps — But when he
understood, he smothered a groan. For hours he would feel that steady
dripping, always the same quantity at exact intervals, at precisely the
same spot on his skull, until the pain and the unceasing wait for the
next drop would drive him mad.
With sudden desperation he strained at the ropes, which drove the straps
but deeper. He could move his head a trifle, a fraction of an inch. He
would be careful to do this quietly or they would see him and take away
his last comfort. Then realization came to him that this was also
planned to prolong the agony.
The leader came close and regarded him critically. Personne spat in the
fat, yellow face, thinking to bring things to a close. But the Flag
wiped his cheek and joined the others. The drops fell — and fell. At
least an hour passed. The pain was excruciating, and he ceased to be
able to move the half-paralyzed neck muscles. His swollen eye-balls
seemed ready to burst — the yellow faces — the firelight danced and
swung before him. And he was thirsty. He thought of water — waterfalls,
foaming and crashing down deep chasms; lakes with clear, fresh water,
transparent and showing golden sand and round pebbles at the bottom; the
sea, roaring in his ears.
Now his head was a huge anvil, and gigantic hammers were pounding on it,
five-ton hammers that beat regularly and would never stop.
Thump — thump — his neck would stand a little more, he shifted a
fraction. The drop fell on that spot, and soon it, too, was being
pounded away by the great pile drivers, He laughed loudly.
III.
The Chinaman is only stolid on occasion. He knows how to enjoy himself.
The onlookers rocked with mirth. The mandarin chuckled softly. Yes, he
could make white men crazy, more foolish than the fat babies who played
with the swine in the dung. The victims usually held out longer, but
this sea devil had been weakened by his wound and the hot sun.
When they unfastened Personne he fell to the ground and lay motionless.
He was harmless, crazy. They would keep him from sharp weapons and watch
him. They laughed again when he sat up and stared around vacantly.
Unsteadily he got to his feet and wabbled about in search of water.
After having been given a drink he threw the bowl high in the air and
laughed. They. laughed with him and followed as he staggered toward the
five stakes on the opposite side of the square.
He saluted the heads of his dead comrades with a broad wave. Then he
harangued in a loud voice, pointing first to the east, then the west. He
shook his fists, groaned, spat, sobbed. Then he relived the
fight — lunged out with a bayonet, though his hand held no weapon,
ducked yataghan strokes, wrestled: with a phantom foe, ran to the spot
where the white men had formed the hollow square, and reacted every
blow, every killing. He went down in imitation of Pat, fell to his knees
as Mitri, shrieked as Sanglier had done.
The Black Flags recognized the moves, and their amusement increased.
Here was a madman with a memory. As he kicked and punched into space,
more than one rubbed his bruises gingerly. Personne turned and
approached the headless bodies of his men which had been laid out in
line, awaiting a leisurely division of the spoils.
The single Chinese soldier on watch moved back as he approached.
Personne tapped each body on the chest and loudly called out a name.
Then he straightened up with a dazed, vacant stare. Fumbling in his
pocket, he pulled out an imaginary revolver. The guard laughed loudly.
This was superior comedy. "Bang! Bang!" the corporal shouted in
imitation of the revolver's bark, and moved toward the pagoda, turning
and shouting at intervals: "Bang! Bang!"
With a few quick words the chief ordered him brought back to the fire.
The guard approached, the same who had watched over the Legionaire
earlier in the day. The corporal shrank away and laughter again rose
from the spectators. Suddenly, without warning, the sea devil seized the
Chinaman around the waist with one arm, lifted him off the ground,
placing his free hand under the chin and forcing the head back. A brief
struggle, the native's legs kicking wildly in the air, his hand fumbling
for the dirk at his belt. Then the Flag's neck snapped and he grew limp.
For a moment Personne faced the onrushing crowd, the body in his arms,
his face demoniacal in the red fire glow. Then with a mighty effort, he
hurled the dead man among his comrades, and with another crazy,
inarticulate moan, made for the pagoda.
IV.
The three officers of the advanced guard, depressed and worried, sat
around the fire.
"I feel a murderer," the major declared at length.
"War is war — " the naval lieutenant tried to console him.
"I hope they didn't take him alive," put in the captain.
There was a long silence. The major's pipe went out, and he forgot to
relight it.
"I hope Personne died fighting," he said shortly, when the oppression
grew too heavy. "That's the way he would have liked — "
The others nodded. The unpleasant topic was not mentioned again.
A sharp challenge, indistinct shouting, and footsteps approaching
rapidly. The sudden commotion brought them to their feet, startled. His
torso bare, streaked with the dark stains of dried blood, a disheveled
white man staggered into the firelight.
"Nom de Dieu!" the major exclaimed "It's Personne!"
The corporal came to attention, brought his hand to a salute. His
features relaxed into impassibility, his words were brief and to the
point:
"Corporal Personne reports the village occupied."
Now I know that other people wrote fiction about the FFL besides P.C. Wren.
Thank you for sharing that. :)