by James R Benn
"I'm going below for a radio check," Harry said. "We're supposed to contact your Major Harding back at base as soon as we land." He left the bridge and Banville and I remained, swiveling our necks.
"So you knew the captain back in England?" Banville asked.
"We did a job together," I said. "But he doesn't seem too happy to see me again."
"So I noticed. But he's not been that happy about anything since he got here. Not that any of us are thrilled to be here, but we try to make the best of it. Nothing wrong with a good time ashore now and then, right?"
"Not a thing. What about Harry?"
"Keeps to himself, he does. He's a good captain, no doubt, but he holds his cards close to the chest. Doesn't pal around a lot with the other officers, either."
That didn't sound much like the Harry I'd known, however briefly, back in England. He had been cheerful and even wild, ready to take on the German Navy and the North Sea weather. He had been close with his crew, friendly, and down-to-earth. He seemed distant now: not quite aloof, but detached.
"Something must've happened," I said. "A man doesn't change that much for no reason."
"Aye. Not in peacetime, anyway."
"He said he didn't leave his boat. Any idea what he meant by that?"
Banville frowned and shook his head. "He told us about his runs between Scodand and Norway, and what that was like. Not a mention of his crew, though. I asked him about his boat, and he told me plenty about how it was kitted out, but that was all. Near as I can figure it, something happened that he doesn't want to talk about. Or think much about. Some of the boys are worried he's bad luck, but there's been no sign of it yet."
"He was good luck for me last time we were out," I said.
"Well then, maybe you'll be good luck for him," Banville said.
I knew sailors could be superstitious, so I didn't let on that I hadn't been good luck for some of his last crew. Better to let him think I was a walking rabbit's foot.
We cruised along the coast for another hour, the seas growing rougher as the wind freshened. I watched the squadron ahead of us peel off, taking up positions farther forward to cover the approach of the two destroyers. We kept on due east and then began to angle in toward the shore. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the rolling water and creating sparkles of light everywhere as waves heaved around us. I had to hang on as the waves grew larger and we began hitting each one hard as we changed course. Harry came up and trained his binoculars on the shore.
"There's Bone, dead ahead," he said. "I hope the chaps you're looking for are home."
"Me too," I said. "Me too."
Chapter Twenty-one
We watched the two destroyers cut across our wake, making for the central wharf. I could see the dome of a big church beyond the docks dead center, but other than that Bone didn't seem much different than Algiers. Smaller, sure, but with that same mix of regular buildings you'd see in any small city back home, with Arab mud brick houses around the edges. Minarets poked up around the city like fingers pointing to heaven. The destroyers slowed as they approached the docks, guns trained on the shore, seeking out any opposition hidden in the city. No one knew if the Vichy forces were going to put up a fight, or if they'd already fled.
"No sign of the enemy, French or otherwise," said Harry, lowering his binoculars. "Lots of locals standing around and watching, rather like they're waiting for a parade."
"Good," I said. "They'll pay less attention to us."
Harry scanned the shore ahead of us. We were close to a group of dilapidated warehouse buildings, one of which had half-collapsed into the water where the pier it was built on had rotted away.
"Take her in there," said Harry, pointing to a relatively intact dock between two wooden buildings. Banville guided the boat in slowly, as two crewmen stood on the port side holding lines to tie up at the dock, and two others stood at the bow, Sten guns at the ready.
The wooden dock was weathered gray, with broken planks leaving gaping holes over the dark water beneath them. The warehouse seemed to be empty, a rough wooden door hanging open crookedly, swaying on a single hinge. Its rusty corrugated tin roof looked as if the next good wind would carry it into the Sahara, but there wasn't any wind, just the stillness of heat rising from dry wood. With the sun high in the sky, the heat was unforgiving. I tossed my jacket to the deck and took off my extra wool shirt, quick. I rolled up my sleeves and while Harry and Banville fiddled with lines and barked nautical orders to the crew, I hoisted myself up onto the dock and looked around.
As I edged along the warehouse wall to the doorway, I found that the wood was soft and swollen, damp on the outside and rotten inside. The door was hanging from the top hinge, so I knelt down to get a better view, poked the barrel of my Thompson inside, and saw a dozen small forms scattering from a pile of broken crates. Rats. Rats and garbage. The smell hit me just before the flies did, and I backed off, swatting them from my eyes. I stopped myself just before I reached the edge of the dock, waving my free arm like a pinwheel while hanging! onto the Thompson with the other as I tried to fan the flies away.
I tried to ignore the laughter from the crew and make believe that my face wasn't turning seven shades of red. Harry climbed up on the dock and only stopped laughing when an insect darted into his mouth.
"Damn flies," he spat.
"Algiers isn't too bad," Banville said, "but most of these smaller towns are breeding grounds for insects and filth." He kept his hand moving in a lazy motion in front of his face. Both he and Harry had leather straps hung around their necks from which Sten guns were suspended. They had replaced their white naval caps with those soup bowl helmets the English wear. Sweat ran in little streams down their temples and necks. I was hot under my helmet, too. It felt like the heat rising from the ground was cooking my head, like cabbage in a pot.
"Let's go," I said.
We walked along the waterfront. A concrete embankment ran along the shore, with wharfs and pilings jutting out into the water, none of which looked like they could survive a normal day's work down at the docks in Boston. A small two-masted boat had sunk at its mooring, rotting strands of rope still tying it to the dock. Palm trees lining the walkway along the embankment had dropped the brown and brittle fronds crunching under our boots. A dog darted out from a shack on the pier, and turned to bark at us once before slinking off into the shade of the palms.
"Where are we headed, exactly?" asked Harry.
"To Le Bar Bleu, 410 Rue de Napoleon, off the Boulevard Fesch."
"A bar?" Banville said hopefully.
"Is this another of your stupid tricks?" Harry asked, stopping in his tricks. The flies caught up with us. I kept walking.
"Le Bar Bleu may be a rendezvous for a smuggling ring. I need to find out if anything there points to where stolen medical supplies have been hidden."
"All this for a few stolen supplies?" Harry asked, as he trotted up to us.
"It's a new wonder drug that's supposed to cure infections better than anything else, and two people, maybe three, have been murdered over it."
"Frenchies or Arabs?" Banville asked.
"French, pretty well-connected too. The Army and the Gardes Mobiles are involved."
My answers seemed to satisfy Harry. We kept walking along the embankment until it curved left and came to a road. We went on, grateful for the shade of a row of three-story buildings facing the water. They were built of stone, with fancy ironwork grills over the bottom- floor windows which were shuttered tightly, like summer homes in Gloucester when the rich folks went wherever they go after Labor Day. Now we could see the main city pier where the British destroyers were docked. The Commandos were ashore, and things must have been going well. It was quiet.
The road we were following curved away from the water as the buildings grew smaller, packed in more tightly. Stone turned to cinderblock and smooth pavement turned to flat stones, narrowing down to an alleyway marked in the middle with a damp brown stain. The flies found us a
gain. For the first time we saw people, Arabs in white robes with strips of colored cloth wound about them. A group of them came toward us, talking to each other in Arabic or whatever they speak in Algeria. They looked at us as if we were ghosts: interesting, but not of their world. A swirl of robes parted as we passed and closed up again, as if we had disappeared.
We came to a large square, filled with Arabs walking among market stalls and vendors selling leather bags, dates, nuts, melons, and lots more food I didn't recognize. Strange smells filled the air, the stink of unwashed bodies and garbage out too long in the hot sun mixing with spices from the cooking pots in the stalls. Clouds of flies rose from heaps of rotting fruit piled up against the walls. Now I knew why Arabs wore those long cloths they could wind around their faces. Barefoot kids in rags darted around us, in and out of the stalls.
Down one side street I saw two columns of Commandos doing^ double time, Sten guns held high on their chests, boots clomping to the rhythm of ready violence. We were headed in the opposite direction, moving quietly, our guns, heavy with the heat, pointed down, the grips slippery with sweat that streaked down our arms and pooled in the palms of our hands. I felt dull, hot, and thick as the air. Kids ran around us again, yelling to each other as if they were playing a game.
"Boulevard Fesch," said Banville, pointing to a blue enamel sign with white lettering fixed to the side of a building. We followed him toward the boulevard, and stopped at the beginning of the wide road. It faced the water, another row of solid stone buildings and fancy ironwork denoting the French section. I knew the Rue de Napoleon was one of the first few streets running off to the left. A couple of kids ran by us again. One looked at me and laughed. He smelled to high heaven and had open sores on his leg, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. I watched as he took off to the end of the block and stopped there.
"We're being followed," I said. "By experts."
"Who?" asked Harry, swiveling his head around. Banville turned around and raised his gun. A gaggle of raggedy kids behind us scattered.
"Them," I said. "All those kids. They run ahead and wait to see which street we take. They've been sending runners off to report to someone. I should have seen it sooner." But I hadn't. Just a bunch of dirty Arab beggar kids, nothing to worry about. Yeah, right. They must have had us from the boat.
"Let's go," I said, and broke into a trot. I knew we couldn't outrun these kids, but at least we could cut down on the warning time they gave. I saw the sign marking the first street and it wasn't ours. I ran faster and caught sight of the next street. Rue de Napoleon.
We hooked left on the run and I started watching the signs hanging in front of the shops and stores that lined the street. This was a French neighborhood, but it was closed up tight, no French ladies shopping for dresses or stopping for lunch while English Commandos roamed the streets. The kid with the sores on his legs darted into an alley on the right. That told me the bar was on that side; he was probably headed for a back entrance.
"Banville, stay here," I said. "Don't let anybody pass, especially any vehicles. Shoot out their tires if you have to." Banville looked to Harry, who shrugged and nodded.
"Aye, sir," he answered, and faded into a doorway, giving himself some cover and shade. I went after the kid, following the alley to the first left turn, and took it, figuring it ran along the rear of the shops facing the street. It was wide enough for one car, if it could make its way around the piles of garbage and empty boxes stacked up against the buildings. The flat paving stones were greasy with the remains of whatever people tossed out of their backdoors, and the smell of heated, rotting garbage rose up and slammed into my nostrils. The insects were back. As we ran by each pile of refuse, fat flies rose up, confused about whether to continue feasting on the slop or to begin to play in our eyes and ears. I tried to ignore them.
I saw a packing crate that looked like it could hold my weight and I jumped up, trying to get a better view down the alley. Ahead, just before the buildings curved to the right, I could see a truck parked, facing away from us. Behind it was a black sedan. I got down.
"That could be it up there," I whispered to Harry. "They must know we're coming, but if that kid didn't spot us, they're probably watching the front."
"And what exactly do you plan to do?"
That was just the kind of question I hated. My only plans were to not to get killed and to find out whatever I could from a contact at Le Bar Bleu. The problem was that there seemed to be more activity there than I had counted on. I knew Harry wasn't keen on this whole side trip, and while he'd follow orders, he'd be the first to point out that bursting into a nest of armed smugglers wasn't included in those orders.
"Let's see what's in the truck," I answered. I took off, staying low and taking cover as best I could as I tried to shut down my nostrils and blink away the flies swarming the sweat dripping down over my eyes. Harry followed, apparently deciding his orders covered a peek under a truck tarp.
We were one store away from the truck and the car. I could see LE BAR BLEU painted above the rear door of the building up ahead. The foul, yeasty smell of spilled wine and the sharp smell of urine mingled with the other odors in the alleyway and I had to work at not gagging. Broken bottles littered the ground and wooden barrels were stacked up against the wall in front of us. I could hear the muffled sound of voices and of doors slamming from inside the bar. Then one shot was fired. Harry and I both looked around, unsure of where the sound came from. Two shots followed, then a burst of machine gun fire, coming from out front. We looked at each other, wondering if Banville was in trouble. But what we heard wasn't the stuttering metallic hammering of a Sten gun. It was the throaty, rapid sound of a large caliber machine gun, and it was getting closer. I could hear the ricochet of bullets off stone, and the sound of pistol and rifle fire from inside the bar. From the uneven sound of the firing, I knew what was going to happen next. I rose and aimed my Thompson at the rear door.
Five seconds passed before the door flew open, and three civilians wearing black armbands spilled out, trying to get out of each other's way as they rushed toward the truck. They each carried wooden crates with "U.S. Army" stenciled on them in big black letters. That got my attention almost as much as the "SOL" on the civilians' armbands. I took a couple of steps forward, holding the Tommy gun pointed at the guy in the center.
"Halt!" I hoped it meant the same thing in French. The lead guy was almost to the truck, and he skidded to a stop as he looked over his shoulder and saw me. His two pals were a second slower and jammed up against him, knocking him off balance. He righted himself and faced me. Now the three of them were in a row looking at each other, and me.
Holding a gun on a guy with his arms full wasn't the easiest way to make an arrest. It has the value of letting you know where the guy's hands are, and that he's not holding a gun, but it does give him options, like throwing the stuff he's holding at you, which had happened to me once. This was familiar territory, except I didn't know how to say "hands up" in French, which was probably a good thing, since their hands already were up. I asked Harry if he spoke French.
"I can order a meal and a good bottle of wine," he offered.
"No thanks, not hungry."
With the barrel of my gun, I gestured to the ground so they would set the crates down. The first guy said something in French, and they began to bend. Another flurry of shots came from the front and the next thing I knew the three of them dove in front of the car and popped up, revolvers in hand and firing. Bullets hit the wall to my side and I felt one whiz by my head. Then I let go with the Thompson and at the same time Harry opened up with his Sten gun. That drove the SOL guys to ground in between the sedan and the truck. Our bullets riddled the sedan. Glass shattered and flew in every direction. We emptied our clips, then hugged the wall while we jammed new ones in. I signaled Harry to go up the right side while I went up the left. We took off and there were more shots. At least two of the SOL guys were still alive and firing through the broken front wind
shield. We let go again, stitching holes in metal from one end of the sedan to the other. Now I was mad. Shots from the front of the bar mingled with the noise from our guns. All I could hear was firing and the pounding in my head. Then there was a sudden silence when I ran out of ammo. Smoke drifted up from the car and the smell of gas filled my nostrils. As it did, I heard a thin splashing sound, followed by a much smaller sound, a tiny whump and I knew we were in for it. I dove to my right, knocking Harry down as the gas tank exploded, sending a ball of flame over us as the car rose a foot or so off the ground. The sedan settled on burning tires, choking the alleyway with thick black rubbery smoke.
I looked down and there were wisps of smoke curling up from half a dozen spots on my fatigues. I swatted at them and checked Harry. His face was black from soot but he seemed okay. Dazed, but okay. He looked at me and tried to focus.
"I think we got them," he said.
"Yeah, and the flies are gone too," I said, coughing out the last word as the smoke surrounding us grew thicker. I stood, dropped the empty clip and shoved in a new one, working a round into the chamber as I tried to see what was happening near the door. Harry yelled as he tried to get up, and held his leg, blood seeping through his fingers as he pressed his hand to his thigh.
"I've been shot," he said, his mouth opening in amazement as if he had never considered such a thing happening to him.
The door opened and three or four more figures came out firing shots in my direction. I saw a flash of long blonde hair through the smoke and flame. More shots. I had no idea where they were coming from. One guy turned and fired back into the bar, then collapsed as shots from inside found him.
"No," I yelled, "no!"
I dropped the Thompson and ran through the flames blossoming from the wrecked sedan, my right arm over my eyes as I held my breath. Red heat tore at my skin and the fire sucked the air from around me as it lashed at my bare hands. It seemed to take forever to run the length of the car. Finally, I stumbled out of the flames and dropped my arm. I saw a man in a blue uniform, the familiar Gardes Mobiles blue, right in front of me. He was holding a woman, half- dragging and half-carrying her to the truck, his left arm wrapped around her waist. With his right hand he raised his revolver and fired into the bar. As he turned to fire I recognized him. Mathenet. I saw the bit of white bandage on his arm, sticking out from his nicely tailored uniform sleeve. All I could see of the woman was her blonde hair. She was dressed in a khaki coverall, and seemed to be unconscious.
