Hell's Legionnaire Read Online Free PDF

glittery eyes were slightly worried.
    The flaps of Harvey’s helmet had been standing up like a
police dog’s ears. He pulled them down, fastened the buckle and folded the
white scarf against his chest.
    The Caudron rolled down the loose sand runway. The
Moraine-Ditrich thundered. The spreading wings throbbed in the dead, rocky air,
then they were soaring up against a metal blue sky and a copper sun.
    The olive trees went under them slowly and then the
ground began to inch up toward their spindly undercarriage—although the Caudron
was climbing at a steep angle.
    Harvey sat back and watched the
High Atlas play the usual trick of receding as you approached. The black
compass bowl swung back and forth, influenced by several billion tons of
unexploited iron ore, which now served only one purpose: to throw troops off
their route. A shadow fell across the instrument panel; the machine guns
pointed west. Harvey used the shadow as a guide. A Legionnaire lost and downed
in the Atlas was a dead Legionnaire.
    Almost invisible, even in this hard, brilliant air, he
could see Mt. Tizi-n-Tamjurt hundreds of miles away, fourteen thousand feet
high. Looking back, he could have seen the Mediterranean, but he avoided that.
Men sailed away from there via the sea.
    The Caudron forged onward, higher and higher, reaching
back into Berber country. Below, Moorish barbs toiled along a twisting road
beneath the weight of native riders. One of the riders shook a rifle and his
dark face opened to give vent to a challenging but unheard yell of defiance.
    The machine guns racketed with harsh violence. Harvey jerked around to look at Rubio. The Spaniard was smiling as he swiveled the guns
back, locking their butts.
    Far below the man and the barb were struggling feebly in
the hot, dry dust.
    â€œFor France,” said Harvey to himself and flew steadily
onward into thinning air.
    The country was upended, twisted and gashed, offering
only ravines and craggy cliffs in lieu of landing fields. An occasional ridge
flattened out and ran crookedly for a space of a mile or more, to dip off into
a gully and disappear.
    When they made the world, thought Harvey, they took all
the stones and rubbish which were left over and dumped them into northern Africa.
    Rubio was slapping his helmet, pointing down. Harvey circled, one wing pointing steadily at the ground. Heat and wind lift combined in
their effort to upset the ship. Rubio was pointing at a tight huddle of dirt
houses. Down there men were running in circles, shouting, waving their guns.
    Rubio cocked the machine guns and let drive. Small
patches of gray white did not move again.
    â€œThe empire of Caid Kirzigh.” Harvey told himself.
    He flew on, deeper into the hills. His eyes raked the
ground as he searched out the impossible—a landing field. He had been ordered
to land and give the barbarians a lesson. Perhaps he could follow his orders.
    Flying at half throttle, buffeted by blasting currents
of rising air, he came back toward the village. Rubio was slapping his helmet
again.
    A canyon sliced a straight dark line across the world
for almost two miles. It was not wide, never more than a hundred yards, and
generally less by half. Boulders studded the flat floor. Harvey frowned and
dived two hundred meters. Yes, there was one place where no boulder existed. A
runway, about fifty yards wide and a thousand yards long.
    Lift was careening up from the steep canyon sides. The altimeter needle was unable to react, seemingly paralyzed by the task of
recording their rapidly varying height.
    Harvey sent the Caudron toward
the canyon end, did a wingover and came back. Cutting the Moraine-Ditrich down
to idling, he shot toward the one cleared space. The roar of the engine was
replaced by the shrill whistle of wires.
    A bump struck their right wing. Harvey fought the stick and
righted the plane. A heat area came under them and bounced them fifty feet
before Harvey could once more nose down.
    It was an