By Sempad Shahnazarian

Chapter Fourteen (Continued)

  After embracing and shaking hands, Beto said with surprise: “Why in the world are you wearing this Kurdish outfit?”

  “Let Sempad tell you all about that,” said Petros.

  “Are you as naive as Sempad about all these military operations?” said Beto. “I believe we are shedding our blood for what the Allies have on their minds and not for what we have on ours!”

  “We must, however, continue to cooperate with them until we find if we have been wrong in our judgment,” said Sempad.

  “I must go now,” said Petros. “I am sure my men are already looking for me.” 

  He bade them farewell and disappeared into the darkness.

  Lieutenants were going back and forth giving orders. Sergeants were seeing  to it that the orders were carried out. Suspense was in the air and everyone was waiting for the order to move on.

  After the necessary preparations and consultations with the guerrilla band, the column began to move. Through the meandering paths and passages of the wooded ridge, the Legionnaires constantly helped the mules in carrying the heavy machine guns and light artillery pieces.

  At about midnight, after hours of walking and arduous work, an order came down to return back to Ayran tunnel. This was because of the unexpected heavy enemy concentration on their projected road.

  In the morning the column was trudging along the crest-line of one of the ridges on their way to Marash. The sun, just up from its sojourn, beamed with beauty and freshness. The distant plains and valleys were still slumbering under the thin veil of the morning mist. A nation had been crucified on these mountains!! Who cares? The mountains are still standing erect, the trees are still luxuriant, the grass still plays to the tune of the zephyr and the clouds roll gracefully in the blue sky with the multicolor rays of the sun.

  At noon the column reached Bel-Pounar, a small village, squatted behind a hill connected to the Taurus Mountains.

  A mobile front was immediately established. The Armenian Legion d’Orient deployed its units on the lower outer limits of the forest. The Senegalese extended its line far down into the plain. A platoon of Algerian Spahis cavalrymen was out in the forefront in the direction of Marash. It was an impressive sight. The line advanced slowly and cautiously, with bayonets shining brilliantly in the clear sunlight.

  Sergeant Sempad, leading his men, advanced through the woods alert to every movement and sound. Bent slightly forward, he moved on, casting a smiling look at Beto, every now and then.

  “How is the world treating you, Sempo?” he asked with sweet cynicism in his voice.

  “Just fine!” answered Sempad. “And you?”

  “To tell the truth, I am beginning to like it. Look at this beautiful sight, the slowly and cautiously advancing column against the yet unseen enemy. The gleam of the bayonets, the thud of footsteps on the silent earth, the taut nerves and the rigid faces of the Legionnaires, and above all, the uncertain future that keeps hanging in the air, cynically grinning. It is really beautiful!”

  At sunset, the column reached El Oghlou, a village situated at the foot of a gigantic mass of overlapping ridges and folds.

  The patrol was informed that the village had been evacuated and the population had evidently taken refuge in the upper folds of the mountain. The plain, which extended from the outskirts of town to the distant horizon was dotted with plowed, as well as still unharvested wheat fields. A part of the column entered the town and the rest took their positions at strategic points around it. Sempad’s section entered a stable, the floor of which was littered with fresh manure and wisps of hay.  Their clothes, rifles and other equipment were covered with dust and perspiration. They had hardly been there for a minute, sitting and stretching their legs when a group of Kemalist guerrillas entered from nowhere.

  Cursing, screaming and pounding with rifle butts converted the stable into a veritable slaughter house. When the daggers and bayonets were unsheathed and thrown into action, blood began to flow all over the place. Beto was struggling with a husky, hairy beast who had pulled his dagger out of the scabbard and dashed it upon him. This happened exactly at the time when Beto had managed to thrust his bayonet through his belly...completely through his body!! With his powerful hands, the Turk had grabbed the rifle tightly, with the bayonet still through his body, sputtering filthy words. Against that dynamic tug, Beto was struggling, in vain, to pull the bayonet out, when he decided to pull the trigger. When he did, the bullet went through the Turk’s body and Beto pulled his bayonet out. The Turk staggered and collapsed on the manure.

  In the middle of this carnage where five guerrillas were killed and three Legionnaires were wounded, an uproar came from outside. Three guerrillas who had been hiding in a barn next door, had been captured and disarmed. They were dazed and shivery. Blows by some Senegalese had knocked them down into the street’s dust. Vartan, a volunteer from Buenos Aires who was born in Russian Armenia and had served in the Czar’s armies, rolled up his black mustache ceremoniously. He bent down over a granite millstone lifted it up to his knees and let it drop with a thud on one of the Turk’s heads. His brains splattered out upon his shoes while other Turks were crawling and writhing in the street under the blows of the Legionnaires.

  A tall Senegalese soldier, who towered over a Kemalist guerrilla, raised his right foot and with savage mockery on his face crammed the heel of his boot down with a tremendous thud to his temple. He had to shake his foot sharply, to get his heel from out of his skull.

  A dozen Kemalists had been captured. They had bands of cartridges crossing their chests and were wearing black headgear and shalwar, Anatolian pants.

    A long ditch was dug. With their hands tied behind them they were lined up in front of their common grave, blindfolded, under the command of a French captain. A squad of Algerians stood with their rifles about fifteen feet from the ditch, ready and silent. The captain gave the order: “Ready...aim...fire!” The salvo broke the silence followed by the sounds of dying bodies collapsing to the ground. The captain administered the coup de grace with his pistol and ordered to have them pushed into the ditch and covered with dirt.

  At sunset the cattle began pouring in from the fields. Cows, oxen and water buffaloes were moving toward their stables when they suddenly came to a startled stop at the entrance to the barns. They peered in and were puzzled at all the strange faces around. They seemed to be trying to determine what had happened to their homes and began to cry, bitterly. The entire village smelled of cattle and milk. The odor of the fields, the smell of frequent excretion and urination from fear and excitement filled the air. A chorus of puzzled and terrified animals swelled under the gaze of the towering mountains in quest of what had happened to their homes.

  The soldiers came out from the stables with their axes and hatchets to kill some of them for supper. Ditches were dug in the streets and fires were built in them. Carcasses were skinned, dismembered and barbecued. Huge kettles filled with fresh milk, boiled, exuding the most tantalizing fragrance they had experienced in a long time... 

  The night passed quietly. In the morning the Turks attacked. Sergeant Sempad’s section had dug-in during the night on the crest line of a ridge overlooking the town. They became a hot target for the Turks from higher ground. The Senegalese machine guns began rattling from the ridge close to where Sempad’s unit was located. The Algerian Spahis cavalrymen canvassed the fields to clear the way to their destination, Marash.

  It was interesting to see Sempad in the battlefield leading his men fearlessly on and on. He was not the usually silent and dreamy fellow anymore. He shouted his orders and kept his men’s enthusiasm at a fever pitch. He could hear encouraging voices coming from the officers down below near the village. They were watching the fighting with binoculars.

  “Adjutant Ardash got hit!” someone hollered.

  “Pull him down into the ditch, it’s safer there!” said Sempad keeping up with his uphill climb. On the left of his deployed men were the Senegalese and on the right was a French machine gun unit. They formed an unbroken line on the crest-line of the ridge overlooking the town and extending down to the plain where the Algerian cavalrymen were working.

  They clung to their positions for three days and three nights, with frequent clashes until it became somewhat quiet. The order then came to proceed on to Marash where the situation had been getting critical by the withdrawal of the English garrison there.

  When the column reached the southern gate of Marash, all of the Armenian inhabitants, survivors of the genocide, had come out to welcome them. Their venerable white bearded priest led the procession and blessed the marching Legionnaires ceremoniously with his silver Cross.

  Lined up on both sides of the road, people began applauding their would-be liberators in a storm of cheers. They craned their necks to spot friends or relatives among them and upon finding one, excitedly called his name.

  There!... There!... Hagop... Armen... Stepan, with tears rolling down their cheeks. 

  “Vive la France!” they would yell, then, say in Turkish: “Yashassen Ermeni Askerler, Long live the Armenian soldiers.” This was meant evidently for the Turks to hear. To this greeting another group would yell: “Helbetta yashassen, of course, of course!”

  French officers were eager to know what they were saying. Upon learning the meaning of those outcries, they would advise the Legionnaires to make them stop such provocative outcries, by saying: “Tell those damn fools to cut out that nonsense. We are soldiers! Here today...gone tomorrow!”

  That night, the French, Algerian, Senegalese and Armenian Legionnaires were allocated to various strategic points of the city. The Armenian battalion was installed at the formerly Turkish casern at the outskirts of the city near the Zeitoun Mountains.