Leon Uris (31 page)

“I don’t understand,” André continued, “why the Americans installed a Vichy officer over the garrisons or why they are so determined to keep us off the front or why they withhold recognition from Free France.”

“They do not want us fighting,” Dupont said, “or the colonies reunified so that we will have no word at the peace tables.”

“Why in the name of God do the Americans hate us?”

“Roosevelt has never forgiven France for bungling the phony war, sitting it out when Poland was attacked and then letting Germany crush us. He feels that France is incapable of leadership in Europe and intends to reduce us to a second-rate power. Only Pierre La Croix and a handful of Free French stand between the United States and its ambitions.”

“I must join Free France,” André cried. “I must get to Algeria. Will you help me?”

“Wait until you get a leave, then bolt. I’ll get the information on you back to Algiers.”

The tough, hard-nosed old colonials detested the proud young men in their ranks who longed to fight for Free France. André Devereaux was singled out for special punishment and humiliation. His nose was rubbed in every dirty detail and no means was spared to break his spirit. He was in a state of constant fatigue imposed by brutality. Somehow he continued to endure.

Finally, on a flimsy pretext, his commanding officer inflicted on him the most inhuman of punishments—the
tombeau.
André was compelled to dig a shallow trench under the flame of the desert sun, then lie in it. The trench was covered by a canvas. No food or water would be given him, nor would he leave until he pleaded for mercy.

André baked in the
tombeau
for thirteen daylight hours, and through the night he half-froze to death. The test of fortitude continued a second searing day. Through his agony his lips remained sealed. No plea came from him until a merciful unconsciousness consumed him on the third day.

When the canvas was lifted, he was carried off to the hospital. All the years back, of flight, prison, and semistarvation, had taken their toll. He was a sick young man, needing long hospitalization.

At the end of his stay he was granted a short leave. With furlough documents in his hand, André Devereaux boarded a train and fled to Algeria.

At last he arrived in the headquarters of Fighting France!

A
LGIERS ROSE FROM THE
sea, hugging the line of the bay for miles, while it climbed the steep hills in dazzling white terraces. From the Casbah with its fabled evil and twisted alleyways down to the broad boulevards that hovered over the quay lined with government buildings, public squares, and hotels, it swept up again to the university, which was now the seat of Fighting France in exile.

André turned himself in at once at the Arabian Bruce Palace that housed the Central Intelligence Bureau.

“We have been expecting you,” he was greeted.

The bureau, run by a smattering of former military intelligence personnel, interrogated him thoroughly before issuing him temporary papers to the effect he was now a member of the Free French.

André left the Bruce Palace still in a state of disbelief.

“André! André!”

“Robert!”

The comrades embraced and slapped each other’s backs sore.

“I phoned Jacques. He’ll be waiting for us at the Aletti Hotel.”

André patted the jeep bearing the Free French colors and Cross of Lorraine, and Robert pointed it downhill, babbling the while, trying to catch up in a single moment.

He had been appointed Chief of Western Hemisphere Intelligence in an organization being built from the ground up. As for Jacques Granville, he had fared even better. Jacques had been named one of Pierre La Croix’s chief liaison officers.

As they raced down toward the harbor, André drew a series of deep, deep breaths. “Oh, God, this is so great!”

“Don’t dream too much. It’s full of Vichy here, and we don’t get along with the Americans. The only real support we have is from the Jews.”

Jacques Granville cut a magnificent figure in his uniform. They greeted each other affectionately, and all three headed to the Oasis Restaurant, a large open-terraced establishment on the second floor of the Aletti Hotel. For a while all three of them jabbered at once, then Jacques prevailed. “Now, ready for some news?” he said. “Hold your breath, André. You have an interview tomorrow with the General.”

“La Croix?”

“Yes!”

“But ... but ...”

“But nothing. I told him you were the brightest fellow in all of the Loire, that you were the heart of the underground ring. It’s a great opportunity for you. We are very short of people and the sky is the limit.”

“Tell me I’m not dreaming!”

“It calls for champagne,” Robert said.

“There’s another surprise.”

“I can’t stand another one.”

“This one you’ll stand.”

The champagne came as André was recounting his life as a member of the Spahis. They lifted their glasses. He looked over the terrace and came to his feet. “Nicole,” he whispered. “Nicole!”

“André!”

A
NDRÉ WAS SO FILLED
with the weary glow of love-making he was oblivious to the chatter of Jacques and Robert as they ascended the hill to the Villa Capucines, residence and office of General Pierre La Croix. The nearby Fromentin Heights held the girls’ college, now the seat of the Free French Government.

When they entered the modest villa, one could sense the almost consecrated air of people moving about with silent urgency.

Jacques and Robert paced the outer office, alternately coming back to André to whisper suggestions as the nervous parade continued in and out of the General’s sanctum. Then booming through the thin walls came the voice of Pierre La Croix!

“The dirty sons of bitches! Inform those bastards they’ll do what is expected of them or I’ll have their balls.”

And thus, without formal introduction, André was to meet Pierre La Croix.

The voice within continued in the same lusty barracksroom vernacular, so bawdy that even Jacques Granville blushed.

“He expresses himself rather colorfully,” Robert understated.

The recipients of La Croix’s outburst fled the Office. One was pale, the other crimson.

André’s palms felt damp and his mouth dried as they were summoned in.

Pierre La Croix, the maverick of the French military, sat ramrod-straight in an ornate mahogany chair before a paper-littered baroque desk. The Cross of Lorraine on a tricolor hung on the wall behind him. He neither stood nor smiled nor gave greeting as the three advanced to his desk and came to attention.

La Croix squinted at André through nearsighted eyes.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in the manner of a king granting audience. A secretary quickly set André’s dossier before him. He scanned it for a brief moment and looked up.

“What do you have to say, Devereaux?”

“I am devoted to the cause of Fighting France. I have come a long way and I intend to prove myself.”

“France expects nothing less than this devotion,” he said. “I am assigning you to my intelligence staff. Proust here will acquaint you with your work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“France welcomes you. That is all, gentlemen.”

Outside the villa they caught their bearings as Robert pumped André’s hand long and hard.

“Well? What do you think of him?” Jacques asked.

“I’ve never seen a man like that.”

“He is France,” Jacques answered simply.

André shared an office with Robert Proust in a villa on Rue Edouard Cat, plunging into his mission and living up to the demands of the General. He proved himself so at home in intelligence matters that he was advanced rapidly to the special title of “Charge of Mission” and became one of the General’s personal advisers.

Still in his early twenties, André Devereaux was immersed in the struggle of Free France, never ceasing to marvel at Pierre La Croix, who was capable of irritating his major allies as though he had fifty divisions of troops at his command instead of a handful of regiments.

But André’s admiration was not total, as was Robert’s and Jacques’. It was tempered with the fear that if one day La Croix came to rule, his strong-man traits could become undemocratic. Furthermore, his drive for power was a mania that could be channeled effectively by the less scrupulous of his staff.

With access to top-secret documents, André was able to trace La Croix’s struggle and the wizardry he had performed in the name of France.

Free France had been shut out of all the top-level decisions in military and political planning by the Anglo-Americans. Innumerable documents seemed to bear out La Croix’s fear that the British aspired to replace France as the dominant power in several areas of the Middle East that had traditionally been in the French sphere.

In the early stages of the war, Churchill continued to bow to Roosevelt’s pressure by not arming or allowing the Free French to fight in Allied campaigns. Finally, La Croix made the blunt threat to send a division of Frenchmen to fight alongside the Russians against Germany on the Eastern Front. Only then was La Croix able to increase his military role.

His most painful affront came when the proud Frenchman was invited to Casablanca by the American President. La Croix and his staff were greeted coolly in Casablanca, without military honors. In this, a French possession, they were billeted inside barbed-wire compounds under the guard of armed American soldiers. The American President bluntly warned La Croix to place his forces under the supreme command of Admiral de St. Amertin.

But even with American backing, Admiral de St. Amertin was no match for the brazen Pierre La Croix, who outmaneuvered him at every turn. La Croix was splitting his forces from him, rallying the territories to his cause. And when negotiations opened for a merger and a national council, it was predestined that La Croix would emerge as the supreme head. No small part of La Croix’s advantage was due to the fantastic intelligence network he built, and young Devereaux was one of its driving forces. La Croix’s people seemed to have the tactical advantage and answer to every Anglo-American move against him.

Despite the ground swell of Free France, America continued to withhold recognition. Pierre La Croix had no embassy in Washington, only a mission.

Then André Devereaux obtained evidence of American intentions to “occupy” France. With the evidence at hand, he asked for an immediate and urgent appointment with the General and raced to the Villa Capucines.

“General,” André said, “we have the proof here, in their own orders, that the United States intends to install an American military government in France in much the same way they will occupy conquered Germany.”

“F
EEL THE BABY,”
N
ICOLE
said, pressing André’s hand to her stomach. “It’s kicking up a real storm today.”

André kissed her cheek and petted her as they went out to the little balcony together to watch the sunset. Nicole was starting to waddle a bit as she grew larger. He adored the wonderment of the whole thing and hoped they would have child after child.

In a moment he became pensive.

“I found some beautiful lamb. A whole rack of it, and I’m making it just your way.”

André didn’t hear her.

“It’s almost like a party when you get home for dinner.”

“The General was in a rage today. I’ve never seen him in such a vile mood.”

Nicole did not answer immediately, but her discomfort was apparent. “Darling, this is the first evening we’ve had to watch the sunset in so long. Let’s not talk about him or Free France or the war or anything but us tonight. I saw the doctor yesterday. He says it’s still safe to make love.”

“You can’t imagine how serious it’s become. If the Americans go through with their plans to treat us like a defeated enemy ...”

“La Croix,” she snapped, “La Croix! Morning, noon, and night, La Croix!”

“Nicole, without the General, France will be reduced to a puppet state after the war. The invasion of the Continent is coming very soon. It will happen in the spring or summer of this year. We have only a few months ...”

“For God’s sake, André! Darling, I have been patient, I’ve tried to understand. But we’ve been married seven months. Do you realize how few nights you’ve come home for more than a half-dozen hours’ sleep? You’re so tired most of the time I have to undress you.”

“Nicole, we promised we wouldn’t get in any fights about this.”

She turned and waddled into the small room that held their bed and was, in addition, kitchenette and parlor. She stood with her back to him, staring blankly at a needlepoint on the wall she had bought in an Arab bazaar. “I sometimes feel like a stranger. And I think, all during those hours I’m alone, which is most of the time, that you’re not happy I ran away from Spain to come to you.”

“Nicole, you know how I love you. How can you say that?”

“There never seems to be any time for me.”

“We’re in a war.”

“War! Don’t say that word again.”

“Nicole ... Nicole ... I didn’t invite the Germans to invade France.” He came up behind her, dreading to have to say his next words. “I came home early tonight in order to pack. I’m leaving with the General tomorrow for London.”

Nicole turned and faced him slowly, glassy-eyed. “You’d leave me now?”

“I don’t give the orders to General La Croix. He gives them to me.”

“You’d leave me alone!”

“You won’t be alone, darling. We have a hundred friends in Algiers. The doctor and the hospital are excellent.”

Nicole picked up a feather duster and began moving around the room nervously, flicking it at picture frames, tidying up an overly tidy room. André stood in awkward silence.

“You want to leave me,” she said.

“I think not.”

“Then do something about this rotten job of yours. You said we have friends. All right, use them. Get yourself put into some place where we can have a few moments together. It’s no sin in Algiers. Almost everyone hates Pierre La Croix for pushing them into a war against their will.”

“As a matter of fact,” André said in a resigned monotone, “I have already requested a transfer.”