I KNEW GEORGIE WAS dead before he hit the ground. I knew it was a well-practiced routine, the hand gesture to the sweaty guy, the sudden, unexpected violence. I knew that it had a purpose, and that Villard enjoyed it. He smiled at us.
“The penalty for treason is death in your army too, I believe, Major Harding?”
“Yes, Captain, it is. If a legally constituted court martial finds the defendant guilty.”
“In this national emergency, some legalities must be put aside,” Villard said as he shook his head sadly. He casually threw Georgie’s revolver down by his body, and continued as if nothing had happened.
“Search him,” he ordered one of his men, who turned out Georgie’s pockets and tossed his wallet onto the ground. As Villard watched them search, I looked down at the piece on the ground, then around me. The German caught my eye, and shook his head no, ever so slightly. So this was part of the routine too. I looked at the sweaty guy and he had his rifle aimed right at me. Nice little game the Algiers cops had going here.
“But, where are my manners?” Villard said, after the search turned up nothing of interest. “Major Harding, allow me to introduce Herr Major Erich Remke of the German-Italian Armistice Commission. It is his job to insure that all parties adhere to the terms of the armistice that ended hostilities between France, Germany, and Italy. This includes resisting invasion by foreign armies.”
Remke snapped to attention and made a slight bow in our direction. “Major Harding, you and your aide will accompany us into Algiers to the Gardes Mobiles headquarters. Captain Villard has given me permission to question you before I depart.”
His English was excellent, better than mine almost. He didn’t sound like a psychopath and I wondered if we’d be better off with him than with Villard.
“Like he questioned Georgie?” I asked. My gut was churning as I thought of how alive and excited Georgie was just a minute ago. I told myself to shut up if I wanted to get through this in one piece. There’d be time to even the score later, when a bunch of killers didn’t have the drop on me. Later, when I had Villard alone and a loaded .45 in my hand. The thought calmed me.
Villard laughed and looked at his men, translating my question as if it were a good joke. They all thought it was hilarious.
Remke locked eyes with me. “My duty here is to insure that the representatives of Vichy abide by the terms of the armistice, and to report on enemy movements to my superiors. I have no intention of shooting you, if that is your concern. As to this . . .” He glanced down at Georgie. The blood on his chest was already drawing flies. “. . . action, I have no authority to intervene in purely internal Vichy politics. Nor any wish to.”
He spun around and issued orders in French. I didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear enough. Everyone jumped to, except Villard, who gave him a dirty look and got back into his vehicle. Maybe these guys weren’t such pals after all. A couple of goons took our side arms, gave us a quick check for hidden weapons, and then swiped our wristwatches for good measure. They tossed us into the back seat of our car and Remke and a driver sat in the front.
As the driver headed back to Algiers, Remke turned and gave the slightest hint of a smile. “You are new to war, you Americans. You should prepare yourselves for far worse than this. Did you really expect these Vichy French to welcome you with open arms?”
“Name, rank, and serial number is all you can expect from us,” said Harding.
“You are not my prisoners of war, Major. I think it far more likely that I will end up your prisoner before the day is through.”
“Well, what are we then?” I asked, eager to get back to the subject of my own future.
“You are detainees of the Gardes Mobiles, along with quite a number of very enthusiastic young Frenchmen whose ideals, unfortunately, outweigh their military prowess. Also, several American and British agents who have been apprehended with them.”
“So the uprising failed?” I asked.
“Totally. There was some initial confusion, but they were all easily overcome once the sun rose and the Americans were nowhere in sight. Except for yourselves, of course.” Again, that slight smile played across his face, as if this were all very amusing.
“Too bad,” Harding said.
“For a number of them, like the young lieutenant back there, yes. Scores are being settled, and this is a very useful pretext.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must be aware there are many factions among the Vichy. There are those who favor joining the Reich as a full ally, to fight against the British. They hate them. There are those like General Mast, Colonel Baril, and their followers who prefer to avenge France’s defeat in 1940 and join the Allies. Personally, I find the most honorable men here among those two small groups.”
“What about the rest?” asked Harding.
“The rest? The rest are either too frightened to act or are like Villard, and act only in their own interest. And the worst of them all is here in Algiers now.”
“Who are you talking about?” demanded Harding, who was suddenly taking a bigger interest in this conversation.
“You don’t know?”
Harding shook his head.
“Americans,” Remke laughed. “You are in for a very long war, I’m afraid. You really need a better intelligence service if you need me to tell you that Admiral Jean Darlan, Deputy Premier of Vichy France, is in Algiers.”
Harding sat there like he had been whacked with a two-by-four. Hot air from the open front windows blasted us as the driver accelerated. Remke removed his cap and mopped the sweat from his temples with a handkerchief.
“So, Major, do not feel too badly about the failure of your mission,” Remke said, putting the sun-bleached cap back on, adjusting it to a jaunty, roguish angle. “General Juin would never have gone over to you with Darlan so close. With Petain’s own deputy in Algiers, he would not dare to disobey orders.”
“If you’ve got everything under control,” I said, “and Darlan is in charge here, then why did you say you might be our prisoner by tonight?”
“Excellent question, Lieutenant . . . ?”
“Boyle. Billy Boyle.”
“Well, Lieutenant Boyle, it is because Darlan is the biggest opportunist of them all. He will stop this plot to join the Allies precisely because he has no role in it, and if it succeeds he would become a prisoner of General Mast or of Juin himself. Darlan is also smart enough to know the Vichy divisions here cannot hold out against the Allied forces, which seem formidable. He will find a middle ground that will ensure his own safety.”
“Meaning he’ll cut a deal with us and come out on top?”
“Cut? Make a deal?”
I nodded yes.
“I would wager my Knight’s Cross on it. He will align with the winning side, which I must admit will be yours. Here in Algeria, in any case.”
“What did you mean about Villard acting in his own interests?” I asked.
“He has many connections with Vichy politicians and the local underworld. He certainly hopes to benefit no matter who wins.”
“What happens next?” I asked, still not clear on where I’d be tomorrow.
“We have a little chat at headquarters, and then I leave for Tunisia.”
“Back to the Afrika Korps, Major?” Harding asked.
“Perhaps you now wish to exchange a little more information than name, rank, and serial number, Major Harding?”
“Just curious,” Harding answered with a grin, “as one professional soldier to another.”
Remke nodded. I noticed that he didn’t nod at me. I was relieved to know I still looked like a civilian in uniform.
“I was sent here on light duty to recover from a leg wound, courtesy of the British Eighth Army. I am due back at Wehrmacht headquarters in Tunisia shortly. I think we will be quite busy there in the near future.”
“We’ll do our best,” said Harding.
“Of that I am sure,” said Remke, “and you will need to.”
That pretty much ended the conversation, and I realized that Remke had avoided saying what would happen to us after he left.
We drove by a three-story brick building, home of the Gardes Mobiles. There were armed police and SOL all around it. A crowd of Arabs watched from across the street, wary of the police, but curious. The car turned down a side street and entered a large walled courtyard at the rear of the building. The sun was rising in the midday sky, and it was getting hot. The car braked to a halt, stirring up a cloud of dust that settled down lazily over the hood. The driver opened Remke’s door as other guards pulled us out, gripping our arms, and hustled us toward the back door.
We weren’t the only ones in the courtyard. A group of about twenty young guys and a couple of girls sat in the dust. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and more than a few of them had bloody faces. Next to them another truck was being unloaded, with more of the same. Armed guards surrounded them.
“Are they being detained, too?” I asked Remke.
“Unfortunately, they are now political prisoners, and whatever happens with the Allies, the Gardes Mobiles will not release them.”
“I’m sure their release will be part of any negotiation,” said Harding.
“Major Harding, America has been at war for less than a year, and North Africa is your first engagement. I have been in combat since 1939, in Poland, Holland, France, Libya, and Egypt. I tell you now, those brave, helpless young men and women are already casualties, and there is nothing you or I can do about it.”
I looked at the faces staring up at us. I wondered if Remke was trying to scare us, or if he just took a dim view of human nature after three years of fighting. Or, if maybe he knew what he was talking about, and I’d be joining them out in this dusty courtyard before the day was over. Or somewhere worse.
I walked by another row of prisoners, the guard holding my arm in his meaty grip. I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, something familiar yet out of place here. I turned my head and tried to focus. Then I saw. I couldn’t believe it.
At the end of the row, her long blonde hair framing a dirty face with a bloodied lip, sat Diana Seaton. Diana, who I hadn’t seen for nearly two months since she’d received her orders to report to the Special Operations Executive for her next assignment.
Diana.
I looked over to Harding. He shook his head, then shouted at me, “Boyle! Name, rank, and serial number, nothing else!”
I looked at Diana, and saw that she had heard Harding. She sat up a little straighter but, except for her eyes, she didn’t betray a thing. Those eyes hooked me and held on as the guard pulled me along, into police headquarters, leaving her and the others in the dusty courtyard. I wondered what kind of nightmare I had stumbled into.
My stomach felt like I’d been punched by Joe Louis. I couldn’t catch my breath, and my heart was pounding so loudly I thought the guards might hear it. Beads of sweat dripped down my temples and my face felt red-hot. Diana. Here. Hands tied behind her back. Helpless. What was I supposed to do? What could I do?
The guards bundled us into a tiled entryway, with one set of stone steps descending below ground and another going up to the floor above. Remke gave us a lazy salute and went upstairs.We went down. Our guard rapped on a thick wooden door braced with rusty ironwork with a small, barred window face-high. There was a rattle of metal and the squeak of straining hinges as the door opened. A couple of rough shoves propelled Harding and me inside as the door swung shut with a thud.
A figure rose from behind a small wooden table. The narrow hallway was lit by a string of bare electric bulbs hanging from the curved ceiling. No windows, nothing but stuffy concrete dampness.
The jailer was an impressive guy, if bulk and smell counted. His blue police uniform was stained and faded to the color of a three-day-old bruise, and his mustache hung down on either side of his mouth, blending in with the stubble on the double chin erupting over his collar. One hand held a revolver, motioning us to move on down the hall. The other wiped at his mouth, clearing the remains of a meal caught in wiry facial hair. There was a newspaper spread out on his little table, and some sort of gooey cheese made little grease stains across a front-page photograph: Darlan himself.
We moved down the hall, trying to stay ahead of his odor, a combination of garlic, sweat, and rotten cheese. Another small set of stairs led to a corridor with two cells on either side, all empty. The first cell door was open and he pushed us in, jabbing the snout of his revolver in my back. The door slammed with a hard, final
clang
and he reached down and produced a large ring of keys, which had been hidden by the flab hanging over his belt. He locked the door, belched, and went back upstairs.
Just like every guy I’ve ever thrown in the slammer, I went up to the bars and rattled them, just in case he’d forgotten to give the key that final turn. No dice. I looked around. The cell was about six by ten, with high walls and a small barred window way above my head. No furniture, just a bucket that I didn’t want to get close to. I could see some sky and hear bits and pieces of shouts from the courtyard above.
“Something’s going on,” said Harding.
The shouting grew louder, there was a shuffling sound and dust spilled through the cell window.
“Give me a boost, maybe I can spot Diana,” I said in a rush. “Sir. Please.”
“Don’t call out her name, for God’s sake,” said Harding as he cupped his hands and braced his back against the wall. I put my right foot in his grip and pulled on his shoulders as he lifted me with a grunt. I got my left foot on his shoulder and pushed off, not caring how Harding felt with the tread of my combat boot digging into his collarbone. Rank be damned. I had to see Diana.
I got one hand around a bar and tried to steady myself as I put my right foot on his other shoulder. My face was plastered against the gritty concrete and as I pulled myself up I could feel my skin rubbing raw against the rough surface. I had both hands on the bars now and I could see out of the window. My legs were shaking, and Harding felt wobbly underneath me, but I clung to those iron bars.