This was the mujahideen prisoner’s fifth session and Aussaresses was hopeful. The man had been allowed to eat and drink between sessions. Aussaresses wanted him to retain his strength and for his body to regenerate so that it could endure more pain. It was usually the fifth or sixth session when the prisoner realized that the torture would continue indefinitely unless he was to give up the information his captors desired. The prisoner realized that he was being kept alive not because it was the humane thing to do but just the opposite – he was allowed to live to feel pain. He was like a man washed overboard in a storm. He was alone. There would be no rescue. Wave after wave would hit him as he struggled to stay afloat. Each time coughing out the seawater only to be hit by another wave. It was the fifth and the sixth sessions when most men began to feel deep despair and break. Although he had complete faith that the men under his command would do their duty, Aussaresses decided to attend the session personally.
After the ninth crank of the generator, the mujahideen blurted out a phrase, “Djebel Aïssa.” The interrogator exchanged a glance with Aussaresses. Aussaresses looked at a map of the surrounding mountains. Djebel Aïssa was the highest peak in the Ksour Range in the western most part of the Saharan Atlas Mountains. The Berber caravan trails passed below the peak. It made sense that the mujahideen would locate their camp in such a place.
Aussaresses motioned for the torture to stop. He needed to know if the man was lying to avoid pain or if he was truly broken. Aussaresses removed a large envelope from his briefcase and removed the contents – three photographs. He walked over to the prisoner and showed him each photograph – one of his wife, one of his daughter and one of his son. He had the translator explain that his family had been picked up from his home in Ain Serfa late last night. They had been brought to this prison where they were waiting in the next room to meet him as a reward for telling the truth. If he was lying they would suffer the same fate as he was suffering until they were dead. He however would not be allowed to die and would continue living in pain and knowing what happened to his family.
Aussaresses and the translator waited for a moment as the prisoner heaved up his breakfast. The translator asked the prisoner if Djebel Aïssa was the location of the mujahideen camp. The prisoner’s eyes filled with tears and he nodded. He knew he had just betrayed his country, his brothers and his God. Aussaresses knew he was telling the truth.
It was early morning when the sixteen helicopters lifted off from their staging area. Bruno’s fleet was flying at full capacity and carried over two hundred paratroopers into battle. The twelve Shawnee troop carriers were flanked by the four Sikorsky gunships nicknamed “Choctaws.” The Choctaws were each armed with a 20mm cannon, two rocket pods and two 12.7mm machine guns mounted on the sides of the fuselage. There was also a 7.5mm machine gun for the door gunner. The armament and ammunition overloaded the underpowered Choctaws and they had trouble keeping up with Shawnee troop carriers. While they were slow, they did provide a powerful mobile punch.
The helicopter pilots stayed close to the ground as they flew over the hills. They had learned from experience that flying low gave the enemy on the ground less of a chance to get a shot off. The Shawnee with their dual engines were heavily armored and tough. They were known for taking multiple hits and continuing to complete their missions. In addition to being slow, the Choctaws were also under armored. A single well placed bullet could put the aircraft out of action.
The mujahideen hidden on the slopes of Djebel Aïssa had no idea that the French were coming that morning. They had just finished their morning prayers and were preparing breakfast when they heard the sound of helicopter blades. At first they didn’t know what to think. They had never heard the heavy whopping sound of a helicopter’s blades.
The Choctaws swooped in and opened fire on the camp. The mujahideen scattered, many without their weapons. There was little cover on the mountainside. The mujahideen that remembered their weapons fired back until they learned that firing back at the Choctaws revealed their position and made them an instant target of the gunships.
While the Choctaws kept the enemy pinned down the Shawnee dropped off their troops on a small plateau on the opposite side of the mountain peak. It was a tricky maneuver. Only one helicopter could unload at a time and it took twenty minutes to complete the drop. As always Bruno was the first soldier out the door of the first helicopter. Two hundred paratroopers had been placed in the heart of the battlefield and there was nothing the enemy could do about it. Bruno was growing very fond of his helicopters.
Bruno radioed Coyle and gave him the go to take off with another two platoons of paratroopers. Bruno figured that Coyle’s C-119 would arrive just as the mujahideen made a run for it. Coyle’s drop of paratroopers would be the trapdoor to cut off the enemy’s escape. But first Bruno needed to figure out which way they would run. He ordered his men forward.
The French attacked from the two sides of the mountain peak in a pincer movement. Bruno was gambling on surprise by breaking his force in two. The mujahideen outnumbered the French two to one. But the French paratroopers understood the value of aggression and speed. They poured fire into the mujahideen, still unorganized and hiding from the helicopters. Most of the Algerian fighters broke and ran for the valley below. The paratroopers swept up anyone that stood their ground.
At the base of the mountain the mujahideen regrouped and formed battle lines. The paratroopers had the high ground and the advantage. The four Choctaws swooped into the valley one after another. They unleashed the last of their ammunition in strafing runs down the mujahideen’s lines. When the Choctaws finished and headed for home, the paratroopers charged down the hill. The mujahideen had had enough. They broke and ran.
Coyle flew overhead in his C-119. He didn’t need instructions from the ground on where to drop his load of paratroopers. It was obvious. He chose a hilltop at the end of the valley directly in the path of the fleeing enemy. The mujahideen lost all heart when they saw the parachutes floating down and cutting off their retreat. They threw down their weapons and surrendered to the French closing in on all sides.
Bruno was pleased with his first air mobile cavalry assault and made sure his men were well rewarded with plenty of wine, cigars and beef steaks that night.
Zaki, the shoeshine boy, was putting the finishing touches on a pair of loafers worn by a Swiss man on vacation. He didn’t have any requests that day from his FLN handler but he still kept a close watch on the passport control exit gate. He saw Brigitte following a porter carrying her suitcase on a luggage cart. Zaki had no specific instructions to watch for the famous journalist but he knew what she looked like from the newspapers and he thought his handler would want to know that she was in Algiers. He took his time and finished the Swiss man’s shoe. The Swiss man paid for the shoeshine but didn’t leave a tip.
Zaki told the shoeshiner next to him that he was going to the toilet and would be back in a couple of minutes. He wanted to make sure he didn’t lose his place in the queue for customers. Zaki walked to the payphone and made a call. He told his handler about Brigitte and was told that the information would be passed on and that he was correct in reporting it. He hung up the phone.
It was only forty-six kilometers from Brigitte’s hotel in Algiers to Blida but it took almost four hours to reach by taxi because of the traffic and goat herds blocking the road. Brigitte was convinced the driver was taking her the longest way possible to run up the fare as he weaved his way through the streets avoiding the congested boulevards.
Brigitte hated to be taken advantage of by anyone but when she was finally dropped off in front of Blida Military Prison she decided not to argue with the driver. Instead she asked him to wait until she was finished so he could take her back to Algiers. He happily agreed but asked for payment for the first trip so he could refuel his taxi and get something to eat while he waited. She paid him.
Brigitte did not have permission to visit the prisoner and it was not the French Army’s custo
m to allow non-military visitors for soldiers waiting for court martial. She was forced to use every trick she knew to win approval from the French captain in charge of the prisoners.
Brigitte sat in an interview room waiting for over an hour while the prisoner, Corporal Garbis La Torre, was processed and brought into the room. His wrists and ankles were shackled. A separate chain was attached between the ankle and the wrist shackles. The short chain prevented the prisoner from taking a swing at a guard. The MPs sat him down and locked his ankle shackles to a steal ring in the floor. “Is that necessary?” asked Brigitte.
“Just a precaution, Mademoiselle,” said the MP. “Corporal La Torre is going to behave himself. Aren’t you, La Torre?”
La Torre didn’t respond. The MP pulled out his baton and gave La Torre a light rap in the back of the head. “Aren’t you?” said the MP.
“I’m always a gentleman with the ladies. You know that,” said La Torre.
“Best stay on your side of the table, Mademoiselle,” said the head MP as they exited the room and closed the door.
“Thank you for seeing me, Corporal La Torre,” said Brigitte.
“Do you have any cigarettes?” said La Torre.
“Yes. Of course,” said Brigitte pulling a carton of cigarettes from her purse and placing them on the table. She opened the box and pulled out a pack. “They’re American. I hope that’s okay?” she said opening the pack and handing him a single cigarette.
“It’s fine,” he said.
She lit his cigarette with her lighter. He took a deep draw and she could see that he enjoyed it. “You’ll leave the carton,” he said.
“Let’s see how the interview goes,” she said.
“You think you can buy me with a carton of cigarettes? I’m not a whore. I’m not like you.”
Brigitte knew to be careful. She had to maintain control of the conversation if she was ever to find out what he knew. “No. I don’t think I can buy you for a carton of cigarettes or with anything else. I don’t think I need to buy you at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you want to tell your side of the story.”
“The story? I didn’t do it. The bitch wanted it. Things just got out of hand. It was an accident.”
“I’m not here about the rape and murder.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Philippeville.”
La Torre chuckled, “Figures. You’re a bleeding heart liberal that cares more about a bunch of ragheads than your own people.”
“I care about the truth.”
“The truth? What the fuck do you know about the truth of Philippeville?”
“Why don’t you set me straight?” said Brigitte moving the open pack of cigarettes across the table. La Torre reached out and grabbed her hand. Brigitte pulled her hand back gently so as not to cause him to resist. He let go. “Your skin is soft… like hers,” said La Torre.
“Tell me about Philippeville, Corporal La Torre. What happened at Philippeville.”
“We taught those ragheads a lesson. That’s what happened.”
“And no one tried to stop you?”
“Tried to stop us? We were under orders.”
“Someone ordered you to kill civilians?”
La Torre laughed and said, “That was a day to remember. That’s for sure. The French beast was unleashed.”
“Who ordered it… unleashed?”
“I ain’t saying.”
Brigitte considered her next words carefully. “Do you believe in God, Corporal La Torre?”
“God? What’s God have to do with that bloody mess?”
“If you are convicted of the rape and murder of the Corsican girl, you will hang. I would think you would want to clear your conscience before you face the Almighty’s judgment.”
“The Almighty’s judgment? You’re a little late for that, sister. The devil already has a nice room reserved for me.”
“Don’t let the truth die with you.”
“I ain’t gonna die. They’ve got nothing on me.”
“Then do it for France.”
La Torre stopped for a moment and considered. “I did do it for France. Like I said… we were under orders.”
“Tell the world that. Let that be how you are remembered… as a patriot serving your country. Serving France.”
“Show me the pink,” said La Torre.
“The pink?”
“Your tits. I bet your nipples are pink, not brown.”
“You’re an animal.”
“I am what your God made me. You want to know what happened at Philippeville? Show me your tits.”
“Who gave you the order?”
“Fuck you, bitch. We’re all whores. I demand payment if you want the truth.”
“I hope they do hang you.”
La Torre jumped up and lunged forward at far as his chains would allow. He was just a few inches from Brigitte’s face. “Let me bite your nipples, whore,” said La Torre snapping his teeth.
The MPs heard the commotion and rushed into the room. They grabbed La Torre and pulled at him. He was strong and did not move.
Brigitte spit in his face. He licked her saliva off his upper lip with his tongue. “That a girl,” he said.
The head MP pulled out his baton and hit La Torre behind the knee. His leg buckled. He elbowed one of the MPs in the nose with a loud crack. The MP fell back and blood flowed from his nostrils. The head MP hit La Torre again and again with his baton. The second MP rejoined the fight and helped wrestle La Torre to the floor. La Torre continued to struggle. The MPs beat him with their batons. “Tell me who gave the order?” shouted Brigitte above La Torre’s grunts. “Was it Colonel Bigeard?”
“Bigeard’s a pussy. He wasn’t even there when it happened. Besides, he didn’t have the balls to give an order like that,” said La Torre as the MPs kept whaling on him with their batons and he kept struggling, throwing his elbows.
Brigitte was relieved but she still didn’t have the truth. “Who was it then? Who gave the order?” said Brigitte.
“I’ll tell the devil when I see him. You can ask him,” said La Torre. “Come on, boys. You’re hitting like girls. Show me what ya got.”
The head MP struck La Torre hard across the head and it stunned him. He collapsed. It was over. They unlocked his shackles from the floor ring and dragged him out of the room. Brigitte picked up the carton of cigarettes and left, stepping between the pools of blood on the floor.
Brigitte flew back to Paris the morning after her conversation with Corporal La Torre. She had considered surprising Coyle in Algiers but after what she had heard at the prison she was in no mood for romance. Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted Coyle to know everything about the story she was putting together. She trusted Coyle with her life but there were times she felt he was a little naïve. It was one of the things she liked about him. He was like a breath of fresh air when the gloom of reality clouded her mind. But she thought he might inadvertently say something to Bruno or one of the other French officers. It was better just to stay silent on the matter or, if he pushed her, to change the subject. She was good at changing the subject. Especially with Coyle.
She sat in Damien’s office, having just told him about the interview with La Torre. They both were silent as if reluctant to speak. The path forward wasn’t clear. “I think I need a brandy,” said Damien.
“Pour me one too,” said Brigitte.
“I’ve never known you to be a morning drinker,” said Damien.
“I am. I just hide it from you.”
Damien shrugged, poured Napoleon brandy in two snifters and handed one to Brigitte. “You of course realize the danger in reporting the story,” said Damien after taking a long sip.
“Yes. I think I do.”
“You would have to make sure you have all your facts well documented.”
“I will.
“The magazine also has exposure. We could be shut down for national security reasons… or at t
he very least they could censor us.”
“They won’t dare.”
“They might. The government is very sensitive at the moment. The empire is falling and nobody can seem to stop it. The generals and politicians are circling the wagons as the Americans would say. They will not appreciate an attack on their reputations.”
“I don’t really care what they appreciate or don’t appreciate. The French Army killed thousands of Muslims. Somebody needs to take responsibility.”
“Right now you only have the word of an accused rapist and murderer. You need more than that if the magazine is going to stand behind you.”
“I’ll get it,” said Brigitte.
“All right, said Damien sipping the last of his brandy to muster his courage. “What do you need?”
Trinquier sat with Massu finishing breakfast on the patio of Massu’s office. It was a casual conversation. More catching up than planning. “And how is morale?” said Massu.
“The men are in good spirits. There is a feeling that they are making a difference,” said Trinquier.
“That’s good, and they are. The number of attacks on the pied-noir communities have been greatly reduced in the last week. Things seem to be calming down a bit.”
“Let’s hope so. I don’t think any of us want a repeat of Philippeville.”
The mention of the incident at Philippeville produced a tick in Massu’s face. It was as if it was a taboo subject and by bringing it up Massu’s body had reacted unconsciously.
Trinquier found Massu’s reaction curious and took note of the tick. Even though the two had never discussed the details of what happened, Trinquier was sure that Massu’s intelligence group was giving him updates on what they learned about the incident. He is as much a part of it as I am and he knows it, thought Trinquier. He feels responsible. I may be able to use that in the future. Trinquier decided to change the subject. “Were you aware that Brigitte Friang visited the prison at Blida?” he said.
Café Wars Page 16
