The First Wave

by James R Benn

  I stepped into him, the knife entering his ribcage as he was still trying to unsnap his holster. He kept trying to get it open but his hand flapped at his side like a bird's injured wing. I pushed him, slamming him against the wall, watching his eyes for some evidence of comprehension and remorse, or even anger at being betrayed. Even anguish would have satisfied me. Instead, there was only desperation, his hot breath in my face, his eyes wide and unfocused, his mouth gasping for air. I twisted the knife and felt a rib crack as he let out a cry. I grabbed his shoulder with my left hand and swung him around, throwing him down on the rug in front of Bessette's desk. I stepped on his chest and pulled out the knife. Blood gurgled out of his mouth as he worked his jaw trying to say something, or maybe choking on his own blood. His right hand flapped around on the floor, still vainly searching for the holstered gun. Then he was still. I squatted next to him for a minute, watching. No movement, no breath, no more bubbles of blood. No heartbeat. Luc Villard was dead. Just like that.

  I cleaned my knife on his pants and wiped my hands on his blue cape that was folded over the arm of the chair where he had been sitting. I walked out of the room and Bessette was standing in the hallway. With two of his guards, ready with a new rug to go in the room.

  "I was not entirely sure which of you would leave that room," Bessette said.

  "We both will, but he's going feet first."

  In the courtyard, Harry and Kaz were waiting in the jeep. Harry cradled a Sten gun in his lap, his eyes riveted on Bessette who nipped at my heels. I nodded to Kaz. He reached inside his sling and withdrew the notebook containing the other half of the pages.

  I handed Bessette the notebook. Good business.

  My clothes had blood on them. I changed in the tent as Kaz took the bloody shirt and pants to throw in the garbage. Harry sat outside the tent, smoking, keeping watch. No one spoke. I headed into the hotel, washed my hands, washed my face, and looked in the bathroom mirror. He wasn't the first guy I had killed, but he was the first I'd killed in cold blood. An execution. Murder, some might say. I half-expected to feel guilty, but all I felt was sad, and tired. I wanted to sleep. Or to go down to the bar and get drunk. I looked at the guy in the mirror. He didn't look any different. Was this the old me or the new me? Would Diana recognize which one I was? Could she still love me? Would the red rage return, or would it fade away with her bruises?

  I made myself go to Diana's room and knock on her door. She answered it herself. Diana reached up and kissed me on the cheek. She was still happy because of the release of the rebel prisoners. Yvette wasn't there. I went in, wondering which of us needed the other the most, ashamed that I was still thinking of myself.

  We stood there, the closed door behind us, holding each other tightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I had just murdered a man, and I was afraid that the violence still marked me, and that I'd hurt her, without meaning to. I felt ashamed to be in her presence. "Billy?"

  "Yeah?"

  "How did you manage it? To free all of them?"

  "I made a deal. Ike made his with Darlan, I made mine with Bessette."

  Diana raised her head from my shoulder. "What did it cost you?"

  "A notebook. Worthless by the time they got it, but they didn't know that. Bessette thought it was very valuable, worth both the prisoners and his partner in crime. Villard is dead."

  She tensed at the mention of his name. Her hands gripped my arms tightly. "Good," she said, finally. "Good."

  "I…"

  "What's that noise?" Diana said. The doors to the balcony were open. It was a far-off droning sound that I was beginning to know too well.

  "Goddamn it! Another air raid!" I ran onto the balcony, swiveling my head around to try to spot the source of the increasing sound. Diana was right behind me.

  "There they are," she shouted, pointing toward the horizon. I followed her finger and found them, a formation of bombers, flying low this time, heading straight for the harbor. Going after the ships docked side by side, trying to sneak in under the radar. They were dark specks, growing larger with each second. The harbor was to our left, and the formation would pass right in front of us if that was their target.

  "We should go down to the bomb shelter," I said.

  "No. Let's stay here. I don't want to run and hide."

  She hooked her arm through mine and something told me that she was right. Cowering in a basement was the last thing Diana needed to do right now. Unless those bombers were aware this was a headquarters building, that is. We stood at the balcony railing, watching the bombers draw closer, coming toward us at an angle, aiming for the harbor. Air raid sirens started to howl throughout the city, as people below us scattered to shelters and slit trenches. I shaded my eyes with my hand and tried to count them. It looked like twenty-five or so. Heinkel 111s again.

  A snarling roar came from behind us, and I ducked instinctively as four RAF Spitfires flew over the hotel, so low that the palm trees bent forward as the planes blasted past us. Diana shrieked in surprise and then we both laughed, crazily. It was like having a ringside seat at the fights, the excitement of the match boiling up inside you. Now our boys were in the ring, and I was damned glad those Heinkels wouldn't have such a smooth run this time.

  The Spitfires flew on a collision course with the bombers, aiming to break up their formation before they reached the docks. They climbed briefly, rising slightly above the Heinkels, then leveled out. The bombers grew larger as the fighters closed the distance. Suddenly the four fighters split into two groups, one pair swooping head on into the formation, machine guns blazing. The other pair looped around and came in from the side, both firing their guns at the same bomber. It exploded in a ball of fire. The fighters broke off, climbing up and around for another run, as the bombers broke formation to avoid hitting the stricken plane, which flew forward in a flaming wreck until its wings caved in and it crumpled into the water. The first two fighters hadn't brought anyone down, but their attack run had broken up the tight formation. The bombers kept on course, but now they were all over the sky, and the fighters could pick their targets without running into a hail of fire from the machine guns that bristled from their tops and sides.

  "Look!" yelled Diana, pointing with a shaky hand.

  Another bomber was down, plowing into the sea as it dove, trying to maneuver away from the Spitfire hammering it. As the lead group got closer to the docks it was met by anti-aircraft fire. The Spitfires were staying away from land, content to harass the rear of the formation, out of the line of fire from the ground.

  I stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the palm trees to the docks. I heard the first bombs explode, but couldn't tell if they hit anything. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something headed for us. A Heinkel was hurtling straight toward the hotel, a Spitfire slightly above and behind him, both barely above eye level. Machine guns sparkled on the Spit's wings, and little pieces of the bomber flew off as the pilot strained to get away. His bomb bay doors opened and I wondered if the hotel was his target, before I realized he was dropping weight, getting rid of his bombs in hope of climbing and escaping. The planes were so close I could count the bombs as they tumbled out, exploding in the ocean one after another, in a line heading straight for the shore below us. Five, six, seven hit the water and then the bomber was almost over our heads. Eight and nine exploded on the hillside and then I saw the last, number ten. Its tailfins wobbled as it sailed down toward us and the bomber rose and roared over the hotel, the fighter racing behind, chattering machine guns drowning out all other noises as I stood in front of Diana and waited for that last great crashing noise. I felt her arms around me and we both watched, transfixed by the falling bomb that seemed to take forever to reach the ground. I was sure I could follow its trajectory and see right where it would land, below us in the green, manicured gardens. We embraced and I closed my eyes.

  A sharp crunching sound, then silence. We looked at each other, amazed to be alive, but eerily calm. Smoke c
urled in the air from the direction of the harbor, distant explosions fading as the bombers ran for home. We stepped forward, looking down over the edge of the balcony railing. I gripped it hard; the feeling of cold iron steadied in my trembling hands.

  Below us dirt was scattered everywhere. An unexploded 250- pound bomb scarred the garden, its tail fins pointing skyward, its nose buried in the soft ground. It was close enough to spit on. A dud? Or maybe it was set to explode in five minutes, or an hour, who knew? We were alive. We backed into the room, holding hands, moving carefully, as if a heavy step might set it off.

  "Billy," Diana said. Her hands were trembling. She grabbed at my shirt and pressed her face to my chest. "I thought I'd never see you again, I thought I'd die there. I wanted to die, so many times."

  She pressed her forehead against my chest, as she cried for the first time since she had raised that gun to her head. I put my arms around her.

  "Do you understand?" she asked. "Can you?"

  I knew what she wanted to hear, what she had to hear from me. I pressed my cheek to hers, feeling our tears mingle. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, about everything. About everything we had both lost, about all the death and pain and suffering. About Harding's heartbreak. About Gloria walking into the explosions. Maybe even about killing Villard. But mostly about how my hatred of Villard and what he’d done had come between us. Because I had let it come between us, tainting my every thought of her. I'd gotten rid of the poison, but I couldn't help wondering at the price.

  "Do you?" she repeated, her moist eyes searching mine for understanding.

  I understood. I nodded, holding her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes and whispered.

  "Je suis désolé, je suis désolé, je suis deéolé."

  * * *

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Billy's consternation that the first Allied invasion of the war targeted French forces in Algeria and French Morocco may well have echoed the thoughts of some of his fellow American soldiers and sailors, but most thought they would be welcomed as liberators. It was a vain hope, shared by Eisenhower and other generals who had not yet learned the hard realities of war. In five days of fighting, 526 Americans were killed by French forces before they surrendered and became our new allies. The confusion with which Eisenhower's infamous "deal with Darlan" is greeted in this story is mild compared to the firestorm of bad press and political pressure that was actually brought to bear on him. In granting Jean Darlan civil jurisdiction throughout North Africa, Eisenhower believed he was cementing control of his rear areas and gaining French cooperation. But Darlan's well-earned reputation as an anti-Semite and collaborator did not sit well with the folks back home, especially those who owned newspapers. Many demanded Eisenhower's resignation. He managed to hold onto his job, and the problem went away when Darlan was assassinated two months later.

  The introduction of penicillin to battlefield hospitals is advanced by several months for plot purposes in this book. However, penicillin did make its debut in North Africa and was instrumental in treating thousands of wounded soldiers, not to mention curing thousands more of venereal disease throughout the course of the war. Discovered by Sir Alexander Fleming in 1928, it had been impossible to produce in use- fid quantities. After America's entry into the war, a number of medical labs accelerated their research. It was only through innovative production processes pioneered by one company that the drug became available in large quantities. Gambling that a deep-tank fermentation process used to make citric acid would work for penicillin, Pfizer cut back on the production of other chemicals using that process, and devoted itself to producing penicillin. It succeeded and, ultimately, the government authorized nineteen companies to produce the antibiotic using Pfizer's proven deep-tank fermentation process which the company agreed to share with its competitors: a story in and of itself.

  Finally, the incredible service of U.S. Army nurses has to be acknowledged and honored. Gloria Morgan and her actions are purely fictitious. What is real is everything she says about the position of nurses in the army. "Relative rank" meant nurses received 50 percent of the pay of male officers of the same rank. And no salutes. Disregarding these inequities, over 59,000 nurses volunteered for the U.S. Army Nurse Corps, and fully half of those volunteered for, and served in, combat zones. More than 1,600 were decorated for meritorious service and bravery under fire. Two hundred seventeen lost their lives. Some of you reading this book would not be alive today if your grandfather or father had not received life-saving care on the battlefields of Guadalcanal, Anzio, Normandy, or elsewhere on land or sea, where volunteer American nurses served in World War II.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six