Gao Base, Mali — February 18th 2015, 09:15 hours.
— “He… he exists?”
Corporal Dubois struggles to hold the officers’ gaze.
His hands tremble. The bandage around his head feels too tight.
Dark circles hollow his eyes — the night before was filled with nightmares.
— “We know. He’s not just a rumour from the mess hall,” says Colonel Saint-Clair of the DRM, arms crossed, voice low and steady.
— “Thank the President. He’s the one who authorised his intervention.”
Across the table, Colonel Desmoulin, commanding officer of the 21st Marine Infantry Regiment, leans forward, jaw clenched.
— “Start from the beginning, soldier. We need to know why three of ours are dead and others have lost their limbs. No omissions.”
Outside, the whine of a departing NH90 fades into the desert air.
Dubois swallows, inhales, and begins to speak.
The FENNEC Column — The Day Before, 14:20
Three armoured vehicles advance northwards in tight formation, engines roaring through dust and heat.
The track is cracked, half-erased by tongues of sand.
To the left, a grey-black field of stone. Beyond it, an endless plain.
To the right, a ridge of jagged rock climbing toward the sky.
In the lead — a VBL light armoured vehicle. Inside:
Lieutenant Armand Lemaire, 34, a Saint-Cyr graduate, veteran of Afghanistan, voice full of fury through the intercom:
— “What the hell were those desk idiots thinking? I’d like to see them on this damned road!”
— “They send us into this mess with no backup… incredible!”
Beside him, Corporal Julien Marchand, 24, his loyal driver, focuses on the steering, lips pressed tight.
Behind, a VAB armoured troop carrier rattles forward, its 12.7 mm gun glinting in the sun.
Inside: ten men.
Sergeant Thomas Perrin, 36, group leader, grizzled veteran.
Radio operator Malik Benali, 21, sharp-minded.
Corporal Rémi Gauthier, 28, and his “two kids”: Karim Bensaïd (23) and Aimé Koffi (25), both AT-4 rocket operators.
At the rear hatches, Corporal Nicolas Faure, nicknamed the Watchmaker, commands two sniper brothers from the Vosges, Lucas (27) and Adrien Martin (20).
At the front: driver Vincent Morel and Corporal Dubois, scanning the horizon.
Trailing them is the ARAVIS of the engineers, bulky, bristling with antennas against IEDs.
Driver — Corporal Marc Delorme; beside him, Chief Corporal Jean-Luc Roussel; at the back, Sergeant Chef Xavier Dubreuil, with soldiers Kader Belkacem, Stéphane Olivier, and Thierry Roux.
Dust clouds rise behind them.
The desert is still — too still.
A sudden blast tears through the silence.
The VBL flips onto its side in a cloud of smoke and sand.
— “CONTACT!” shouts Perrin over the radio.
The VAB brakes hard to avoid collision, slides, bogs down in soft sand.
The ARAVIS halts, its heavy gun barking in reply.
Figures emerge from the rocks.
PKM machine-gun bursts. AK-47 fire.
RPGs streak through the air.
Inside the VAB, Dubois slams his radio button:
— “Contact! All crews — disembark! Enemy right side, coming from the mountain!”
Perrin grabs his talkie:
— “Xav’, cover our exit with your Browning. We’ll regroup behind the armour!”
— “Roger that,” answers Dubreuil from the ARAVIS. “We’re checking the VBL.”
On the loudspeaker, Dubreuil calls it in:
— “Gao, this is FENNEC-2! We’re under heavy fire! VBL down, crew status unknown! Over!”
Bullets hammer the VAB’s hull; one cracks a window.
The men prepare to exit.
Gao answers through the static:
— “Ground reinforcements en route, ETA four hours. Hold position. Air support TIGER ETA twelve minutes. Two Rafales in flight from N’Djamena. Over.”
— “Received, Gao. FENNEC-2 holding. Out.”
The gunner on the VAB opens fire, cutting down two insurgents closing in.
The rear team dismounts under fire.
— “RPG gunners, two hundred metres, that way!” shouts Adrien Martin.
Corporal Gauthier points: “AT-4! Fire!”
The rocket slams into the rock, obliterating the position.
“Next target, two-eighty metres, five men!”
Another AT-4 whooshes — misses.
They keep shooting, sheltering behind the VAB.
At the same time, Roussel yells from the ARAVIS:
— “Left side! Debark! Enemy to the right!”
His team spills out, taking positions.
A RPG explodes a metre behind the VAB.
One man goes down screaming.
Koffi drags him back — Karim, hit in the arm.
The firefight intensifies.
A second RPG blasts near Gauthier; he’s thrown back, badly wounded.
The Martin brothers crawl to him under fire.
Perrin radios:
— “Gao, FENNEC-2. Two casualties, one serious. Request MEDEVAC. Over.”
— “Copy. Can you secure a landing zone?”
— “Negative. No safe area. We need reinforcements.”
Static.
Explosions drown the reply.
Moments later:
— “Alouette ETA five minutes. Over.”
— “Received. Out.”
Perrin crawls to the snipers.
— “How’s Gauthier?”
— “Not good, sergeant.”
— “Adrien, get to the VBL. Check on the crew. And bring me some good news.”
— “Yes, sergeant.”
Adrien Martin runs.
Behind him, the Watchmaker follows, covering him.
They reach the overturned VBL.
Adrien climbs, peers inside — two bodies, motionless.
He signals back: not good.
Then — shouts — a group of rebels crossing the road to encircle them.
The distant thump of rotors.
Two TIGER helicopters burst from the valley, guns blazing.
Radio:
— “FENNEC, this is ALOUETTE. Visual on moving targets north of your position. We engage. Stay down.”
Thirty-millimetre shells rain on the rebels.
Those who survive scatter into the rocks.
— “FENNEC, we’re out of ammo and fuel. Returning to base. Gao reports incoming units PANTHER, PIRATE and two Special Forces teams. ETA ten minutes. Out.”
Perrin’s shoulders sag.
Despair creeps in.
He calls Dubreuil:
— “Send men to extract Lemaire and Marchand from the VBL.”
— “On it!”
Under cover of fire, the wounded are carried toward the ARAVIS.
Explosions echo all around.
A radio crackles:
— “AIGLE-1 to FENNEC-2. One kilometre south of your position. We can make one pass.”
— “Roger, AIGLE-1. Fire at will.”
The Rafales swoop low, dropping bombs on the advancing column.
Fireballs light the desert.
— “AIGLE-1, several vehicles destroyed, two still moving. We’re RTB. Good luck, FENNEC.”
— “Thanks, AIGLE. Out.”
Perrin exhales.
“Move the ARAVIS to cover the wounded! It can’t go alone!”
— “Agreed,” answers Dubreuil.
They reposition.
Another mortar lands — the VAB shakes.
Debris, screams, blood.
Roussel is badly burned inside the ARAVIS; Delorme and Roux drag him out.
Dubois shouts:
— “I’m out of ammo! Can’t reload without cover!”
He steps out into chaos — smoke, cries, dust.
Karim slumped, bleeding.
Gauthier motionless.
Too many wounded, too few alive.
— “Gather ammo! Make every round count!” he orders.
Minutes stretch.
Magazines empty.
Hope fades.
The radio crackles again:
— “FENNEC-2, this is GAO. By order of the President, cell OMBRE is activated. Reinforcements imminent. Over.”
Distant explosions to the south.
— “PANTHER to GAO, in contact with PIRATE and Special Forces. Three enemy vehicles destroyed.”
No reply from FENNEC.
Silence.
The Arrival of OMBRE
Two TIGER helicopters slice through the sky, unleashing rockets on rebel positions.
From the north, a Caracal helicopter drops into the dust, side guns spitting fire.
Five men jump out — one breaks off, charging straight towards the enemy.
Above, a PUMA PIRATE hovers, its 20 mm cannon raining cover fire over the convoy.
Brass shells tinkle down on the helmets below.
The Caracal lifts off; the sky turns quiet again except for the gunfire.
The five-man team reaches the VAB.
Dubois looks up — blood trickling down his temple.
A man kneels beside him.
— “I’m Colonel Delmas, French Army Medic. Don’t move. You’re wounded.”
He turns to his men:
— “Taz, Ghost, Bear, Fox — secure the area.”
Over the radio:
— “GAO, this is OMBRE. FENNEC radio is down. We take command. Out.”
— “Copy, OMBRE. Special Forces will handle evac. Ground convoy ETA three hours. Out.”
Dubois blurts:
— “Colonel, I want to fight! Don’t leave me behind!”
— “I understand, son. It’s not that bad. Hold still.”
Delmas wraps his head, pats his shoulder.
Dubois reloads a magazine with shaking hands and takes position beside Karim.
Then they see him.
Across the ridge — a man in desert camouflage, cloaked in sand-coloured fabric and leaves, FAMAS rifle steady.
He fires once — one man falls.
Again — another.
Panic spreads among the rebels.
Cries in Arabic ring out:
— “Adu Shaytān! Adu Shaytān!” (Shadow of the Desert! Demon!)
They flee into the rocks.
The TIGER and PUMA helicopters finish the rest, steel and fire in the dust.
Dubois watches the lone figure move with inhuman precision — one shot, one kill.
Above, a NH90 hovers; men from the 1st RPIMa jump out, followed by another group from the 13th RDP.
Delmas delivers the grim report: Lieutenant Lemaire, Sergeant Perrin, and Benali — all KIA.
Dubois barely hears it.
Only the echo of explosions and the voice that shouts:
— “Forward, Corporal!”
A Special Forces sergeant, Bailly, from the 13th RDP, grabs him.
Short, solid, weathered by wars.
— “You want to fight? Then move!”
Dubois snaps back to life, ammo in hand.
Karim and the Martin brothers follow.
They advance up the ridge under cover of sniper fire.
The Ridge
At the top, Dubois spots him again — the man in camouflage, crouched behind a rock, observing the valley.
A combat team joins him — the OMBRE cell, the same called in by radio.
Below, helicopters rise with the wounded.
Dubois shivers as the CARACAL lifts off.
The Watchmaker and the others arrive — Koffi, Morel, Delorme, Roux.
They form a line of tired men under the sun.
Dubois issues orders instinctively:
— “Nico, snipers on that ridge! Everyone else, with me. Once they’re set, we charge!”
But before they can move, the Special Forces signal to hold.
It’s over.
The battle is done.
Aftermath
Sitting on a rock, Dubois touches the bandage on his temple.
Blood still seeps through.
Around him, the survivors open ration packs.
The Special Forces order them to rest.
They’re at their limit.
Fatigue takes its place — its rightful throne — upon the backs of exhausted men.
Sergeant Chef Bailly approaches.
— “About fifty rebels dead. Hell of a fight.”
He glances at the wrecked VBL and the crippled VAB being towed away.
— “The hardest part is doing nothing. No one understood this mission. A mess from the start. Who the hell sent us here?”
Dubois answers vaguely, eyes empty.
He searches for something — someone.
A CARACAL approaches, wind and dust blinding.
— “No report, no blame. That’s official.”
The helicopter lands. The OMBRE team boards, last among them — the demon himself.
The rotors lift him away into the desert sky.
Dubois watches in silence.
He wonders if another unit, somewhere, is now fighting the same hopeless battle.
Below, the wrecks are hauled onto trucks.
Another lorry waits for the survivors.
Time to leave this cursed place.
Far away, a name echoes in his mind — the name whispered by the men who saw him:
NIGHTWISH.
End of Anecdote 2 — “He Exists.”
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real-world contexts.
It was conceived and written by Raulgarth, with the support of Sergeant-Chief Marcel1 for editing, documentation, and narrative development.
Translated with grit and caffeine by Sergeant-Chief Marcel.
Apologies for any translation errors that may have occurred.
You can find the original French version of this story at raulserv.fr.
To be continued… Somewhere in the dark :
Side Stories :
- ChatGPT of OpenAI ↩︎
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