The sands were hot under his feet. The leather of his shoes might be melting. He wasn't quite sure. The rock he was hiding behind was burning up, but it was better than being shot at out in the open. A few shots whizzed above his head. Another slammed into the rock, chipping a few pieces away. He coughed. The bullets were kicking up the sand. The September sun blazed overhead.
It was supposed to have been easy. 10,000 Moroccan troops would cross the border and put down the disorganized Barbary states. With the Ottoman empire distracted, there would be no reinforcements. Resistance had been heavier than anticipated, and the Moroccan soldiers had been bogged down.
He reached for a cigar. A peculiar time to smoke, but a habit was a habit. Besides, if he was going to die, he might as well die happy. The aroma swelled up in his lungs, and carried him away. The sound of gunfire evened out into a relaxing lullaby. He smirked. They could say that he died with class on his tombstone.
He puffed a few smoke circles through his nose, then tossed the cigar butt aside. It was oddly peaceful. He considered springing the hundred yards to the sea. It might be nice to take a swim before he met his maker. He peeked over the rock. The enemy was still there, slowly advancing. Then he took a double take. Cresting over the dune was a strange flag. Then it hit him.
"Thalatta! Thalatta!"
"Hell in a handbasket boys, we've done it!"
It was the Stars and Stripes. The men crossed over the ridge and he took a closer look. A more ragtag band it would be hard to find. Some men were wearing German clothes, some Turkish. Some were wearing ragged US uniforms. He could see fezs and loose pants, Bedouin robes, even lederhosen. Aside from the Americans, there were Albanians, Bosniaks, Croats, Serbs, Greeks, Armenians, Egyptians, Italians, Austrians, Germans, and even a Chinaman. There were horsemen, and riflemen, and men with standard muskets.
A few of them assembled into a line on the ridge, and the rest charged, horses and men all. It was a chaotic thing, boisterous and loud. The pirates looked, then immediately broke and fled. The leader then ran over to his little rock.
The US officer stretched his hand out, and he shook it.
"Sergeant Oscar C. Rates, United States Marines, happy as a hatter to meet you! Never thought the goshdarned Tripoli shore could be so beautiful!"
He was a loss for words. He scrounged his brains to find the appropriate way to say it, keeping in mind the limitations of his own English.
"Where in hell did you come from?"
"It's a long story, and you wouldn't believe me if I told ya. I'd be pleased as peach to tell you, though, just as soon as we find a base around here."
He nodded. Allah was merciful indeed.