Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) Read Online Free
Author: Jack Higgins
himself by knocking out a machine-gun post which had accounted for more than two dozen legionnaires and looked for a while as if it might ruin everything.
Afterwards, as he was sitting on a rock tying a field service dressing to a flesh wound in his right arm, a Spaniard had stumbled past him laughing insanely, holding two heads in one hand by the hair.
A shot rang out and the Spaniard went forward on to his face, crying out. Mikali was already turning, clutching his submachine-gun, firing with one hand at the two fellagha who had risen from a pile of corpses near by, knocking them both down.
He stood there for a while on the hillside waiting, but no one else moved. After a while, he sat down, tightened the bandage on his arm with his teeth and lit a cigarette.
Within the twelve months that followed, he fought in the alleys of Algiers itself, dropped three times by parachute by night into mountanous country to attack rebel forces by surprise and survived ambush on numerous occasions.
He had a wound stripe and the Medaille Militaire, was a senior corporal by March, 1962. He was an ancien, which is to say the kind of legionnaire who could survive for a month on four hours' sleep a night and force-march thirty miles in a day in full kit if necessary. He had killed men, he had killed women, children even, so that the fact of death meant nothing to him.
After the decoration, he was pulled out of active service for a while and sent to the guerrilla warfare school at Kefi where he learned everything there was to know about explosives. About dynamite and TNT and plastics and how to make an efficient booby trap in dozens of different ways.
On 1 July, he returned to the regiment after finishing the course and hitched a lift in a supply truck. As they passed through the village of Kasfa, a hundred pounds of dynamite, detonated by some form of remote control, blew the truck in half. Mikali found himself on his hands and knees in the village square, miraculously still alive. He tried to get up, there was a rattle of a machine pistol and he was shot twice in the chest.
As he lay there, he could see the driver of the truck twitching feebly on the other side of the burning wreck. Four men came forward carrying assorted weapons. They stood over the driver, laughing. Mikali couldn't see what they were doing, but the man started to scream. After a while there was a shot.
They turned towards Mikali, who had dragged himself into a sitting position against the village well, his hand inside his camouflage jacket where the blood oozed through.
'Not too good, eh?' the leader of the little group said in French. Mikali saw that the knife in the man's left hand was wet with blood.
Mikali smiled for the first time since Katina's death. 'Oh, it could be worse.'
His hand came out of the blouse clutching a Smith and Wesson Magnum, a weapon he had procured on the black market in Algiers months before. His first shot fragmented the top of the man's skull, his second took the one behind him between the eyes. The third man was still trying to get his rifle up when Mikali shot him twice in the belly. The fourth dropped his weapon in horror and turned to run. Mikali's final two shots shattered his spine, driving him headlong into the burning wreckage of the truck.
Beyond, through the smoke, villagers moved fearfully from their houses. Mikali emptied the Smith and Wesson, took a handful of rounds from his pocket with difficulty and reloaded very deliberately. The man he hit in the stomach groaned and tried to get up. Mikali shot him in the head.
He took off his beret, held it against his wounds to stem the flow of blood and sat there against the well, the revolver ready, daring the villagers to come near him.
He was still there, conscious, surrounded only by the dead, when a Legion patrol found him an hour later.
Which was all rather ironic for the following day, 2 July, was Independence Day and seven years of fighting was over. Mikali was flown to
Afterwards, as he was sitting on a rock tying a field service dressing to a flesh wound in his right arm, a Spaniard had stumbled past him laughing insanely, holding two heads in one hand by the hair.
A shot rang out and the Spaniard went forward on to his face, crying out. Mikali was already turning, clutching his submachine-gun, firing with one hand at the two fellagha who had risen from a pile of corpses near by, knocking them both down.
He stood there for a while on the hillside waiting, but no one else moved. After a while, he sat down, tightened the bandage on his arm with his teeth and lit a cigarette.
Within the twelve months that followed, he fought in the alleys of Algiers itself, dropped three times by parachute by night into mountanous country to attack rebel forces by surprise and survived ambush on numerous occasions.
He had a wound stripe and the Medaille Militaire, was a senior corporal by March, 1962. He was an ancien, which is to say the kind of legionnaire who could survive for a month on four hours' sleep a night and force-march thirty miles in a day in full kit if necessary. He had killed men, he had killed women, children even, so that the fact of death meant nothing to him.
After the decoration, he was pulled out of active service for a while and sent to the guerrilla warfare school at Kefi where he learned everything there was to know about explosives. About dynamite and TNT and plastics and how to make an efficient booby trap in dozens of different ways.
On 1 July, he returned to the regiment after finishing the course and hitched a lift in a supply truck. As they passed through the village of Kasfa, a hundred pounds of dynamite, detonated by some form of remote control, blew the truck in half. Mikali found himself on his hands and knees in the village square, miraculously still alive. He tried to get up, there was a rattle of a machine pistol and he was shot twice in the chest.
As he lay there, he could see the driver of the truck twitching feebly on the other side of the burning wreck. Four men came forward carrying assorted weapons. They stood over the driver, laughing. Mikali couldn't see what they were doing, but the man started to scream. After a while there was a shot.
They turned towards Mikali, who had dragged himself into a sitting position against the village well, his hand inside his camouflage jacket where the blood oozed through.
'Not too good, eh?' the leader of the little group said in French. Mikali saw that the knife in the man's left hand was wet with blood.
Mikali smiled for the first time since Katina's death. 'Oh, it could be worse.'
His hand came out of the blouse clutching a Smith and Wesson Magnum, a weapon he had procured on the black market in Algiers months before. His first shot fragmented the top of the man's skull, his second took the one behind him between the eyes. The third man was still trying to get his rifle up when Mikali shot him twice in the belly. The fourth dropped his weapon in horror and turned to run. Mikali's final two shots shattered his spine, driving him headlong into the burning wreckage of the truck.
Beyond, through the smoke, villagers moved fearfully from their houses. Mikali emptied the Smith and Wesson, took a handful of rounds from his pocket with difficulty and reloaded very deliberately. The man he hit in the stomach groaned and tried to get up. Mikali shot him in the head.
He took off his beret, held it against his wounds to stem the flow of blood and sat there against the well, the revolver ready, daring the villagers to come near him.
He was still there, conscious, surrounded only by the dead, when a Legion patrol found him an hour later.
Which was all rather ironic for the following day, 2 July, was Independence Day and seven years of fighting was over. Mikali was flown to
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