Six Good Men by Georges Surdez

Book Details

Six Good Men – two stories of combat as men of the Foreign Legion do what they must to fight and survive.

Six Good Men (1922)- “…go to your Gawd like a soldier” a novelette in four chapters.

The Living Lose (1935) – As a captain in the Foreign Legion, he forgot duty, loyalty, and his officer’s code— and dreadful was the bitter price he paid
Chapter I – The Finest In The Battalion
Chapter II – Corbet Reports
Chapter III – A Hiss In The Night
Chapter IV – A Man Can Make Mistakes
Chapter V – A Confession
Chapter VI – Posthumous Citation

Georges Surdez (1900-1949) is one of the acknowledged masters of stories about the French Foreign Legion.

Six Good Men has 6 illustrations.

Files:

1. SixGoodMen.epub

Excerpt: The Living Lose

Chapter I

The Finest In The Battalion

AS the morning mist lifted, the crests of the distant Atlas Mountains appeared rose and white against the metallic gray sky. The combat group of Legionnaires advanced slowly up the slope, in single file, eleven shadowy silhouettes bristling with the rigid lines of rifles.

The detonations which had been frequent throughout the night swelled into a steady fusillade, echoing from ravines and gullies, slapping on the rocks, reverberating until they seemed to come from all directions at once. Somewhere, an automatic rifle ripped out suddenly, hammered a few seconds. It was silent, then resumed again intermittently. From the fog-swathed valley came confused sounds of wheels and hoofs, of heavy boots and shouts, as mountain batteries shifted positions.

“Sure of your direction, Askaroff?”

“Sure, Sergeant.” The corporal halted, took breath and lifted a hand to indicate: “The Mortar Section is on the left, in the woods. Just above here, the soil flattens out for a space. I was there yesterday afternoon, on liaison, so I know.”

“I don’t want to march right into the thick of those swine,” Richard Corbet explained in slow, precise French. “They’re doing pretty well just now.” He motioned to resume the climb and added: “I guess the runner must have been killed.”

“Very likely,” Askaroff agreed.”

The runner dispatched by Captain Langre to the Mortar Section of the Legion Battalion had left at dawn, nearly two hours before. Maintaining liaison between units in Moroccan mountain warfare is seldom a safe occupation. Here, in the Jebel Medawer, with thousands of natives, elated by the prospect of success, it would prove exceedingly dangerous. So dangerous that Langre had decided to send a full group on the mission.

The Jebel Medawer! Corbet felt a sense of wonder that he was treading its ground. As the French Mobile Group, of which his battalion was a part, had pushed its way southward through the dissident tribes, into the Middle Atlas, he had heard the name repeated constantly, surrounded with definite prestige, as if it marked the ultimate goal of men. It must be conquered. Judging from what had occurred the preceding afternoon, it would not be the easiest undertaking.

Mistakes had been made, of course. The commander-in-chief, a youngish general eager to report success to the Rabat Staff, had under-estimated his opponents, started an infantry attack too soon, over little known terrain. The Jebel Medawer proved a maze of crests and ravines and mountain streams. A methodical advance would have been needed, and a single, headlong push had been tried.

Corbet had surmised, when night had caught the units of the Mobile Group scattered, dislocated, isolated on various positions, that the morning would see an attempt to coordinate the front lines. And shortly before dawn, orders had come for the Legion to leave the sector it occupied, retire some distance to be launched again against a weaker point.

As instructed, Captain Langre had sent a liaison runner to the Mortar Section, the detachment handling Stokes and thirty-seven millimeter cannon, with the order to retire toward his company, preceding complete evacuation of the zone.

The Mortar Section, commanded by Lieutenant Legros, was believed to be but a thousand meters to the left and four or five hundred yards ahead. The runner had started, before full light. A man wearing light equipment could cover the distance in ten minutes, fifteen at the most, if he kept up a good pace. Consequently, the Mortar Section had been expected to return within an hour. But nothing had come.

WAITING for daylight and for arm signals meant that the natives would learn of the planned withdrawal and start counterattacks as the various units were on the move. Corbet had been sent then, with his whole group, to warn the Mortar Section, and find the runner if possible. Langre had made it a point to mention this:

“Keep your eyes open for Ardenar —we don’t want to leave bodies behind—” and he had seemed unusually worried.”

The officer had not selected Corbet at random. For several months, while on outpost-garrison duty in the hills, the American had been second in command of a raiding group led by the famous Lieutenant Ferrial, the ace of night patrols.

Corbet—he had given his name as Corbett on enlistment, but stubborn regimental clerks had refused to double the final T so stubbornly that he had accepted their version—had been in the Legion six years. He was a dark, compact chap of medium height, nearing thirty. He showed an alert, calm confidence in his bearing which had given him the reputation of being cocky, perhaps because of his war service with a regular regiment of the U. S. Army. But as he usually carried out the jobs given him, he was forgiven for his pride.

He considered that his company was the finest in the battalion. Captain Langre was one of the oldest captains in the Corps, within two years of the age limit for the rank. Up from the ranks of the Legion, it was no secret that he had held a commission in the cavalry before some catastrophe had hurled him to Africa.

Excerpt From: Georges Surdez. “Six Good Men.”