JACQUES SCHRAMME. Belgian. Planter-turned-mercenary. Nicknamed Black Jacques. Formed own unit of Katangese early in 1961 and was prominent in Katangese secession attempt. One of the last to flee into Angola on defeat of the secession. Took his Katangese with him. Waited in Angola until return of Tshombe, then marched back into Katanga. Through the 1964–65 war against the Simba rebels, his 10th Codo was more or less independent. Sat out the first Stanleyville revolt of 1966 (the Katangese mutiny), and his mixed mercenary/Katangese force was left intact. Launched 1967 Stanleyville mutiny, in which Denard later joined. Took joint command after wounding of Denard and led the march to Bukavu. Repatriated 1968, no further mercenary work since.
ROGER FAULQUES. Much-decorated French professional officer. Sent, probably by French govt., into Katanga during secession. Later commanded Denard, who ran the French operation in the Yemen. Was not involved in Congolese mercenary operations. Mounted small operation at French behest in Nigerian civil war. Ferociously brave but now nearly crippled by combat wounds.
MIKE HOARE. British-turned–South African. Acted as mercenary adviser in Katanga secession, became close personal friend of Tshombe. Invited back to Congo in 1964, when Tshombe returned to power, and formed English-speaking Fifth Commando. Commanded through bulk of anti-Simba war, retired in December 1965 and handed over to Peters. Well off and semiretired.
JOHN PETERS. Joined Hoare in 1964 in first mercenary war. Rose to become deputy commander. Fearless and totally ruthless. Several officers under Hoare refused to serve under Peters and transferred or left 5th Codo. Retired wealthy late 1966.
N.B. The above six count as “the older generation,” inasmuch as they were the originals who came to prominence in the Katanga and Congolese wars. The following five are younger in age, except Roux, who is now in his midforties, but may be considered the “younger” generation because they had junior commands in the Congo or came to prominence since the Congo.
ROLF STEINER. German. Began first mercenary operation under Faulques-organized group that went into Nigerian civil war. Stayed on and led the remnants of the group for nine months. Dismissed. Signed on for South Sudan.
GEORGE SCHROEDER. South African. Served under Hoare and Peters in 5th Codo in the Congo. Prominent in the South African contingent in that unit. Their choice as leader after Peters. Peters conceded and gave him the command. 5th Codo disbanded and sent home a few months later. Not heard of since. Living in South Africa.
CHARLES ROUX. French. Very junior in Katangese secession. Quit early and went to South Africa via Angola. Stayed there and returned with South Africans to fight under Hoare in 1964. Quarreled with Hoare and went to join Denard. Promoted and transferred to 6th Codo subsidiary unit, the 14th Codo, as second-in-command. Took part in 1966 Katangese revolt in Stanleyville, in which his unit was nearly wiped out. Was smuggled out of the Congo by Peters. Returned by air with several South Africans and joined Schramme, May 1967. Took part in 1967 Stanleyville revolt as well. After wounding of Denard, proposed for overall command of 10th and 6th Commandos, now merged. Failed. Wounded at Bukavu in a shoot-out, quit, and returned home via Kigali. Not in action since. Lives in Paris.
CARLO SHANNON. British. Served under Hoare in 5th, 1964. Declined to serve under Peters. Transferred to Denard 1966, joined the 6th. Served under Schramme on march to Bukavu. Fought throughout siege. Repatriated among the last in April 1968. Volunteered for Nigerian civil war, served under Steiner. Took over remnants after Steiner’s dismissal, November 1968. Commanded till the end. Believed staying in Paris.
LUCIEN BRUN. Alias Paul Leroy. French, speaks fluent English. Served as enlisted officer French Army, Algerian war. Normal discharge. Was in South Africa 1964, volunteered for Congo. Arrived 1964 with South African unit, joined Hoare’s 5th Commando. Fought well, wounded late 1964. Returned 1965. Refused to serve under Peters, transferred to Denard and the 6th in early 1966. Left Congo May 1966, sensing forthcoming revolt. Served under Faulques in Nigerian civil war. Wounded and repatriated. Returned and tried for his own command. Failed. Repatriated 1968. Lives in Paris. Highly intelligent, also very politically minded.
When he had finished, Endean looked up. “These men would all be available for such a job?” he asked.
The writer shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “I included all those who could do such a job. Whether they would want to is another matter. It would depend on the size of the job, the number of men they would command. For the older ones there is a question of the prestige involved. There is also the question of how much they need the work. Some of the older ones are more or less retired and comfortably off.”
“Point them out to me,” invited Endean.
The writer leaned over and ran his finger down the list. “First the older generation. Lamouline you’ll never get. He was always virtually an extension of Belgian government policy, a tough veteran and revered by his men. He’s retired now. The other Belgian, Black Jacques Schramme, is now retired and runs a chicken farm in Portugal. Of the French, Roger Faulques is perhaps the most decorated ex-officer of the French Army. He also is revered by the men who fought under him, in and out of the Foreign Legion, and regarded as a gentleman by others. But he’s also crippled with wounds, and the last contract he got was a failure because he delegated the command to a subordinate who failed.
“Denard was good in the Congo but got a very bad head wound at Stanleyville. Now he’s past it. The French mercenaries still stay in contact with him, looking for a bite, but he hasn’t been given a command or a project to set up since the fiasco at Dilolo. And little wonder.
“Of the Anglo-Saxons, Mike Hoare is retired and comfortably off. He might be tempted by a million-pound project, but even that’s not certain. His last foray was into Nigeria, where he proposed a project to each side, costed at half a million pounds. They both turned him down. John Peters is also retired and runs a factory in Singapore. All six made a lot of money in their heyday, but none has adapted to the smaller, more technical mission that might be called for nowadays, some because they don’t wish to, or because they can’t!”
“What about the other five?” asked Endean.
“Steiner was good once, but deteriorated. The press publicity got to him, and that’s always bad for a mercenary. They begin to believe they are as fearsome as the Sunday papers say they are. Roux became bitter when he failed to get the Stanleyville command after Denard’s wounding and claims leadership over all French mercenaries, and he hasn’t been employed since Bukavu. The last two are better: both in their thirties, intelligent, educated, and with enough guts in combat to be able to command other mercs. Incidentally, mercs only fight under a leader they choose themselves. So hiring a bad mercenary to recruit others serves no purpose, because no one else wants to know about serving under a guy who once ran out. So the combat record is important.
“Lucien Brun, alias Paul Leroy, could do this job. Trouble is, you would never be quite sure if he was not passing stuff to French intelligence, the SDECE. Does that matter?”
“Yes, very much,” said Endean shortly. “You left out Schroeder, the South African. What about him? You say he commanded Fifth Commando in the Congo?”
“Yes,” said the writer. “At the end, the very end. It also broke up under his command. He’s a first-class soldier, within his limitations. For example, he would command a battalion of mercenaries excellently, providing it were within the framework of a brigade with a good staff. He’s a good combat man, but conventional. Very little imagination, not the sort who could set up his own operation starting from scratch. He’d need staff officers to take care of the admin.”
“And Shannon? He’s British?”
“Anglo-Irish. He’s new; he got his first command only a year ago, but he did well. He can think unconventionally and has a lot of audacity. He can also organize down to the last detail.”
Endean rose to go. “Tell me something,” he said at the door. “If you were mounting an—seeking a man to go on a mission an
d assess the situation, which would you choose?”
The writer picked up the notes on the breakfast table. “Cat Shannon,” he said without hesitation. “If I were doing that, or mounting an operation, I’d pick the Cat.”
“Where is he?” asked Endean.
The writer mentioned a hotel and a bar in Paris. “You could try either of those,” he said.
“And if this man Shannon was not available, or for some other reason could not be employed, who would be second on the list?”
The writer thought for a while. “If not Lucien Brun, then the only other who would almost certainly be available and has the experience would be Roux,” he said.
“You have his address?” asked Endean.
The writer flicked through a small notebook that he took from a drawer in his desk.
“Roux has a flat in Paris,” he said and gave Endean the address. A few seconds later he heard the clump of Endean’s feet descending the stairs. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Carrie? Hi, it’s me. We’re going out tonight. Somewhere expensive. I just got paid for a feature article.”
Cat Shannon walked slowly and pensively up the rue Blanche toward the Place Clichy. The little bars were already open on both sides of the street, and from the doorways the hustlers tried to persuade him to step inside and see the most beautiful girls in Paris. The latter, who, whatever else they were, most certainly were not that, peered through the lace curtains at the darkened street. It was just after five o’clock on a mid-March evening, with a cold wind blowing. The weather matched Shannon’s mood.
He crossed the square and ducked up another side street toward his hotel, which had few advantages but a fine view from its top floors, since it was close to the summit of Montmartre. He was thinking about Dr. Dunois, whom he had visited for a general checkup a week earlier. A former paratrooper and army doctor, Dunois had become a mountaineer and gone on two French expeditions to the Himalayas and the Andes as the team medico.
He had later volunteered for several tough medical missions in Africa, on a temporary basis and for the duration of the emergency, working for the French Red Cross. There he had met the mercenaries and had patched up several of them after combat. He had become known as the mercenaries’ doctor, even in Paris, and had sewn up a lot of bullet holes, removed many splinters of mortar casing from their bodies. If they had a medical problem or needed a checkup, they usually went to him at his Paris surgery. If they were well off, flush with money, they paid on the nail in dollars. If not, he forgot to send his bill, which is unusual in French doctors.
Shannon turned into the door of his hotel and crossed to the desk for his key. The old man was on duty behind the desk.
“Ah, monsieur, one has been calling you from London. All day. He left a message.”
The old man handed Shannon the slip of paper in the key aperture. It was written in the old man’s scrawl, evidently dictated letter by letter. It said simply “Careful Harris,” and was signed with the name of a freelance writer he knew from his African wars and who he knew lived in London.
“There is another, m’sieur. He is waiting in the salon.”
The old man gestured toward the small room set aside from the lobby, and through the archway Shannon could see a man about his own age, dressed in the sober gray of a London businessman, watching him as he stood by the desk. There was little of the London businessman in the ease with which the visitor came to his feet as Shannon entered the salon, or about the build of the shoulders. Shannon had seen men like him before. They always represented older, richer men.
“Mr. Shannon?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Harris, Walter Harris.”
“You wanted to see me?”
“I’ve been waiting a couple of hours for just that. Can we talk here, or in your room?”
“Here will do. The old man understands no English.”
The two men seated themselves facing each other. Harris relaxed and crossed his legs. He reached for a pack of cigarettes and gestured to Shannon with the pack. Shannon shook his head and reached for his own brand in his jacket pocket.
“I understand you are a mercenary, Mr. Shannon?”
“Yes.”
“In fact you have been recommended to me. I represent a group of London businessmen. We need a job done. A sort of mission. It needs a man who has some knowledge of military matters, and who can travel to a foreign country without exciting any suspicions. Also a man who can make an intelligent report on what he saw there, analyze a military situation, and then keep his mouth shut.”
“I don’t kill on contract,” said Shannon briefly.
“We don’t want you to,” said Harris.
“All right, what’s the mission? And what’s the fee?” asked Shannon. He saw no sense in wasting words. The man in front of him was unlikely to be shocked by a spade being called a spade.
Harris smiled briefly. “First, you would have to come to London for briefing. We would pay for your trip and expenses, even if you decided not to accept.”
“Why London? Why not here?” asked Shannon.
Harris exhaled a long stream of smoke. “There are some maps and other papers involved,” he said. “I didn’t want to bring them with me. Also, I have to consult my partners, report to them that you have accepted or not, as the case may be.”
There was silence as Harris drew a wad of French 100-franc notes from his pocket.
“Fifteen hundred francs,” he said. “About a hundred and twenty pounds. That’s for your air ticket to London, single or return, whichever you wish to buy. And your overnight stay. If you decline the proposition after hearing it, you get another hundred for your trouble in coming. If you accept, we discuss the further salary.”
Shannon nodded. “All right. I’ll listen—in London. When?”
“Tomorrow,” said Harris and rose to leave. “Arrive anytime during the course of the day, and stay at the Post House Hotel on Haverstock Hill. I’ll book your room when I get back tonight. At nine the day after tomorrow I’ll phone you in your room and make a rendezvous for later that morning. Clear?”
Shannon nodded and picked up the francs. “Book the room in the name of Brown, Keith Brown,” he said.
The man who called himself Harris left the hotel and headed downhill, looking for a taxi. He had not seen any reason to mention to Shannon that he had spent three hours earlier that afternoon talking with another mercenary, a man by the name of Charles Roux. Nor did he mention that he had decided, despite the Frenchman’s evident eagerness, that Roux was not the man for the job; he had left the man’s flat with a vague promise to get in touch again, with his decision.
Twenty-four hours later Shannon stood at his bedroom window in the Post House Hotel and stared out at the rain and the commuter traffic swishing up Haverstock Hill from Camden Town toward Hampstead and the commuter suburbs.
He had arrived that morning on the first plane, using his passport in the name of Keith Brown. Long since, he had had to acquire a false passport by the normal method used in mercenary circles. At the end of 1967 he had been with Black Jacques Schramme at Bukavu, surrounded and besieged for months by the Congolese army. Finally, undefeated but running out of ammunition, the mercenaries had vacated the Congolese lakeside city, walked across the bridge into neighboring Rwanda, and allowed themselves, with Red Cross guarantees which the Red Cross could not possibly fulfill, to be disarmed.
From then on, for nearly six months, they had sat idle in an internment camp at Kigali while the Red Cross and the Rwanda government hassled over their repatriation to Europe. President Mobutu of the Congo wanted them sent back to him for execution, but the mercenaries had threatened if that was the decision they would take the Rwandan army barehanded, recover their guns and find their own way home. The Rwandan government had believed, rightly, that they might do it.
When finally the decision was made to fly them back to Europe, the British consul had visited the camp and soberly told the six Brit
ish mercenaries present that he would have to impound their passports. They had soberly told him they had lost everything across the lake in Bukavu. On being flown home to London, Shannon and the others had been told by the Foreign Office that each man owed £350 for the airfare and would receive no new passport ever again.
Before leaving the camp, the men had been photographed and fingerprinted and had had their names taken. They also had to sign documents pledging never to set foot on the continent of Africa. These documents would be sent in copy to every African government.
The reaction of the mercenaries was predictable. Every one had a lush beard and mustache and hair left uncut after months in the camp, where no scissors were allowed in case they went on the warpath with them. The photographs were therefore unrecognizable. Each man then submitted his own fingerprints for another man’s prints, and they all exchanged names. The result was that every identity document contained one man’s name, another man’s fingerprints, and a third man’s photograph. Finally, they signed the pledge to leave Africa forever with names like Sebastian Weetabix and Neddy Seagoon.
Shannon’s reaction to the Foreign Office demand was no less unhelpful. As he still had his “lost” passport, he kept it and traveled where he wished until it expired. Then he took the necessary steps to secure another one, issued by the Passport Office but based on a birth certificate secured from the Registry of Births in Somerset House for the standard fee of five shillings, which referred to a baby who had died of meningitis in Yarmouth about the time Shannon was born.1
On arrival in London that morning, he had contacted the writer he had first met in Africa and learned how Walter Harris had found him. He thanked the man for recommending him and asked if he knew the name of a good agency of private inquirers. Later that afternoon he visited the agency and paid a deposit of £20, promising to phone the next morning with further instructions.
Dogs of War Page 11
