There were no bullets or kisses waiting for us on the Beer Green beach, both of which suited me fine. The GIs struggled in the soft sand with the big Harleys as the first faint glow of false dawn drifted up over the low rolling hills ahead of us. Dunes rose up from the beach, and for every three steps forward we took one back, as we struggled with heavy loads in the yielding white sands.
"Come on, men!" Harding yelled, "Put some muscle into it!"
He was rewarded with grunts and groans and a dirty look or two from the GIs as they pushed and nearly carried the motorcycles through the dunes. Harding was anxious and when he was worried, he yelled. I knew we didn't have much time to make contact with the French officer who was supposed to be waiting to surrender the fort and join up with us. If we didn't get there before he received direct orders from Algiers to resist the invasion, he might change his mind. That would be curtains for a lot of guys following the first wave, especially at full light. Even in the dark, those new thermal detectors could target a blacked-out troop transport and send a thousand soldiers and sailors to the bottom of the Mediterranean.
Harding got to the crest of the next dune and signaled everyone to halt. He knelt and scanned the horizon. I hustled up next to him and looked around. It was still pretty dark, but I could see that the sand dunes gave way ahead to scrub-pine woods that rose gradually from the beach.
"What is it, Major?"
"Shhh!" Harding swiveled his head, listening, then pointed to the left. I didn't hear a thing.
"Truck," he said. Then I heard it. The distant sound of an engine and of heavy tires on a gravel road. "Running with no lights."
The sound came closer, and rose as the truck passed in front of us. I could see a dark shape moving through the pines on the low ridge- line dead ahead.
"The coast road." Harding smiled. I realized that in the five months I had known him, I had never seen Harding smile this much. He looked so natural behind a desk, frowning, that I had never thought about him as a combat soldier. He gave a hand signal for the GIs to move forward, as if he'd been longing for this moment.
I put on my goggles and checked the safety on my. 45 caliber Thompson submachine gun. Harding had an old. 30 caliber Springfield M1903 bolt-action rifle. He said he preferred 'aimed fire' to automatic weapons. Me, I preferred to put a twenty-round clip from a Tommy gun between Mrs. Boyle's boy and anyone looking for trouble.
Harding revved his bike and glanced at me. I nodded, and played with the throttle of my Harley just to hear that rumble. It felt as if I were home, on motorcycle patrol for the Boston PD. We took off, spitting gravel and dust, toward Cape Sidi Ferruch. Harding was in the lead. I dropped back a bit and rode in the middle of the road, looking back as often as I could to see if anyone was following us. There was only the wind, dancing the dust our bikes kicked up, swirling it around in sudden clouds before it settled down again, unimpressed with our mission.
I don't know what I expected North Africa to look like. I'd imagined lots of sand, and there was plenty of that. But as we followed the road along the coast the land became greener and we passed cultivated fields. We sped through a small village: whitewashed buildings and tall trees lining the road. The houses were thick-walled, with rounded corners and smooth surfaces. Not a clapboard wood frame house in sight. I was a long way from South Boston.
A curve appeared down the road and I watched Harding slow and lean into it, his right foot out as if to hold up the weight of the bike. Then he straightened and gave it full throttle. The man could ride. I remembered a picture of my Uncle Frank sitting on his 1912 Harley, a rookie cop in Southie with his life ahead of him, a big grin plastered over his face, his gloved hands gripping the handlebars. My uncle never came home from the trenches of the First World War. I was glad my Dad and my Uncle Dan didn't know about this Harley ride. Thinking about them and how far apart we actually were made me feel lonely. I turned my head again. The road behind me was empty.
I tried to stop thinking of home. I had to notice everything around me, as if I were following a shooter up the rear stairway of a tenement with no backup. This was Indian country, after all. There were vineyards all around now, rows and rows of neatly planted grapevines, their wooden stakes looking like grave markers casting their shadows downhill as the sun rose. The ground sloped toward the sea on my right but there were rolling hills on the other side. The air was full of the ripe smell of grapes. Algeria didn't look anything like what I'd imagined. War sure is educational.
As we passed some buildings, I saw a few heads peek out of windows and doors and wondered what the locals were thinking. It might not make a whole lot of difference to them whether the French, Germans, Italians, or Americans ran the place. Whoever it was, they'd end up with the same short end of the stick We might come as liberators, but we weren't planning to give the country back to the original owners.
Harding slowed as we came to a crossroad, and leaned hard right. I followed. We had been running without lights, but now he turned his on and rode just fast enough to control the bike. Ahead, car lights flashed on and off, twice. Harding signaled back, like in the movies.
A young French lieutenant jumped out of the car and waved his arms. "Bienvenu, mes amis Am e ricains!" he welcomed us. He grabbed Harding's hand and pumped it like a politician on St. Paddy's Day, then planted a smack on both his cheeks. I swung my Thompson around and casually held it pointed at the car. There might be surprises inside, or maybe I'd have to defend myself if he tried to kiss me. He jabbered some more French I didn't understand, and then Harding replied slowly enough that I could pick out a few words. I had booked enough Canucks back in my Boston cop days to know a bit of the lingo.
"Where is Colonel Baril? Did he send you?" Harding had asked.
"Oui, oui," the lieutenant answered and then added, in pretty good English, "I will take you to him. You are expected, Major Harding. My name is Georges Dupree, and I am at your service."
"Very well, Lieutenant," Harding answered. "This is my aide, Lieutenant William Boyle."
"Welcome to Algeria, Lieutenant Boyle." He made a slight, graceful bow.
"Call me Billy. Everyone does." I gave him my best Billy boy-o, happy-go-lucky smile.
Harding grimaced and shook his head. Dupree looked at Harding, then back at me. He had thick, wavy black hair slicked back, big dark eyes and a thin Ronald Colman mustache. Not my style, but it looked good on him.
"Everyone? We shall see."
He got into the car, turned it around, and set off. We followed, and within minutes were at the gate of the fort. It looked old and worn, as if it had been there since the days of the Barbary pirates. The outer ring was a mud-brick wall with large double wooden doors that swung open as the car approached. One of our General Lee tanks could've plowed right through it.
We drove into the courtyard. I could see that the place hadn't been built for defense from a land attack. Cape Sidi Ferruch jutted out about a mile from the mainland, and we were at the tip of the cape. There was enough light to see that the fort dominated the coast on both sides, and that the big 155mm artillery pieces in their emplacements could pound anything that ventured up or down the coast. There was no shortage of targets. On both sides of the cape, hundreds of landing craft, transports, destroyers, and larger warships were spread out on the water, looking like toy boats on a dark, distant pond. Crews stood at their guns. It would be a turkey shoot if someone gave the order to fire.
We sat on our bikes for a few seconds, engines idling, taking the scene in. I hadn't liked the idea of hitting the beach in the first wave but Harding had pushed his plan through and ordered me to come along.
He had contacts among the French who were friendly to our side and wanted to get back into the war against the Germans. I hadn't understood why we'd had to rush ashore before the infantry cleared the area, but now I did. Harding had been right. But that didn't make me like taking risks any better and I was glad this mission was almost over.
I killed the engine and stepped off my bike, the Thompson gun still slung from my shoulder. Harding did the same and we stood there, waiting for something to happen. Dupree got out of the car and nodded to a group of soldiers standing near the entrance to the main building. Six of them trotted over and stood in front of us. Their rifles weren't pointed at us exactly, but they held them at the ready. Six other guys appeared in back of us, idly holding their rifles and watching Dupree carefully. Something told me this wasn't an honor guard.
"What's the meaning of this?" Harding demanded. "Take me to Colonel Baril, now!"
"Very good, Lieutenant Dupree. This is the right man." A voice spoke up in English from inside the entranceway. "I would recognize that loud American voice anywhere."
The French soldiers in front of us shouldered arms and stepped aside. Dupree gestured us toward the entrance, where a tall man stood in the shadows, watching us. Harding squinted, trying to see him clearly in the dim light.
"Jean, is that you?" Harding asked.
The man walked through the granite archway and down two stone steps. He was tall and lean, and wore an elegantly tailored uniform. He smiled tentatively.
"It is I, Samuel. If indeed that is who you are. The loud voice sounds the same but I do not remember the gray hairs."
Harding grinned and walked toward him. They exchanged a manly hug and a couple of those double cheek kisses that gave me the willies. We didn't do a lot of that in Southie and I was sure I'd make a fool of myself if I had to try.
"Jean, it has been almost ten years," Harding said. "I see time hasn't made you more tactful!"
"Samuel, one of your best qualities is your voice. It is well suited to the battlefield. Authoritative and distinctive. I remember it from our days in the trenches. It was, however, less well-suited to duty with your embassy in Paris. Neither of us was meant for the diplomatic service, I think. Forgive the dramatics," he said, gesturing toward the guards standing at attention, "but the times call for caution."
"Caution kept us both alive in the last war, too." Harding said to me. "Colonel Baril and I were lieutenants together during the First World War. He was attached as a liaison to my unit. He showed me the ropes when we first went into the trenches and saved a lot of our boys from getting killed right off."
"Samuel is too modest. He also saved my life, you know," Baril responded. "But let us save reminiscences for another time. We have much to discuss. Come inside."
We sat around a conference table in Colonel Baril's office next to a large window overlooking the bluff and the beaches beyond. The sea was filled with our ships and landing craft. The fort's guns were quiet. Arab servants in white coats served us thick, black coffee in little cups with handles you couldn't fit a finger through. I looked at Harding and somewhat grudgingly admitted to myself that he had really pulled off something spectacular. I was impressed with the fact that I had personally invaded North Africa and now was having coffee with these nice Frenchmen, as opposed to being blown to bits by them. I decided the survival of Billy Boyle deserved comment.
"Nice job, Major," I said to Harding, gesturing at the scene below. No need to go overboard with praise for the boss.
"Pay your compliments to Colonel Baril, Lieutenant Boyle," Harding said rather curtly. "He's the one who has put his head on the block to make sure this fort doesn't oppose our landing."
"My colonel also suggested the beach below for your landing site," Lieutenant Dupree volunteered. "It provides good access to roads and the seas are somewhat quieter here."
"So this plan has been in the works for a while?" I asked. I felt left out, like the last kid picked for a baseball team. Harding had chosen me to accompany him just two days ago, when I arrived in Gibraltar, fresh from leave in England. I was still in the dark about his mission. I sort of worked for Major Harding, who was General Eisenhower's deputy intelligence chief, except for when the general had a special job for me. Usually something involving low crimes in high places, crimes that had to be kept quiet for the sake of the war effort and Allied unity. Right now, things were pretty quiet in the military crime field, so here I was keeping the major company until Ike needed me again.
"For some time, yes, Lieutenant Boyle," Baril said. "There are many of us here who do not support the Vichy regime and wish to strike back at the Germans, instead of collaborating with them. Are you not fully aware of the situation here?"
He studied me as he asked that question, then looked at Harding with a glance that seemed to ask if I was some country bumpkin along for the ride.
"Lieutenant Boyle has been recuperating after completing a secret mission, and only joined me recently," Harding explained. I mentally thanked him for the boost, and the white lie about the secret mission. Well, it had been a secret, except that I had kept it a secret from him as well as everyone else. But I'd managed to return from Norway, where the mission had taken me, so here I was, available for duty.
Baril and Dupree exchanged glances, taking Harding at his word, even though the evidence in front of them, namely me, still gave them pause. I sipped some coffee. It was really strong, and sweet, which gave me the opportunity to try to move the conversation away from the shortcomings of yours truly.
"Wow. This joe could peel paint." Except for a roll of Harding's eyes, everyone ignored me, which is the way I liked it when I had to hang around with senior officers. They had a way of thinking up ideas that got you killed and them promoted.
"Jean, what's the situation here?" Harding said.
Baril gestured for the servants to leave. He waited several seconds after the doors closed behind them.
"General Mast, my commanding officer, is on his way here. He is with us, and will give orders to the outposts along the road to Algiers to not resist the Americans. He is attempting to stay out of touch with General Alphonse Juin, commander of all French forces in North Africa, until sufficient American forces are in place." Baril sat back, nodded at Dupree, and took a sip of coffee, letting the younger officer fill in the details.
"General Juin is anti-German, but he is a professional soldier, and will obey whatever direct orders he receives from the French government, even if that government kisses the boots of the Boches," Dupree said with disgust.
"What are your government's orders likely to be?" I asked.
"To resist any invader. Period."
"So, Colonel Baril, you and your men are risking your necks to help us?"
"No, Lieutenant," Baril answered. "We are doing it for the honor of France. Many fine young men like Lieutenant Dupree have been working to carry out this coup so we can strike back against the occupiers of our nation."
"Billy, my friend," Dupree said, "we are not risking our necks, but rather our heads. If we fail, the best we can hope for is the guillotine. If we succeed, I hope to be fighting the Germans by your side very soon."
I was impressed with these guys, so impressed that I didn't even mention that, personally, my hope was to get back to headquarters in London and my nice room at the Dorchester Hotel as soon as possible. Hell, what I really wanted was to be back home on the force in Boston, but that was too much to hope for.
"Sure, George…"
"Georges," he corrected, giving it that Gallic uplift I'd never master.
"Okay, Georgie. What's next, Major?"
Harding looked at Baril. "Your lieutenant goes right to the point. I must prepare to meet General Mast. When can we expect Allied forces to reach us here? If orders to resist the invasion come from Algiers first, my men may have to obey them, especially if they are delivered by an armed force."
"A detachment of British Commandos is making its way up the bluff now," said Harding, checking his watch. "They should be here within ten minutes. You can turn the fort over to them, and then follow us into Algiers."
"Algiers?" I asked. "Before the rest of the Army gets there?"
I was so happy at having made it this far that I wanted to enjoy the feeling for a while.
"Our job has barely begun, Boyle," Harding said. "We need to make contact with our agents in Algiers who are working with the friends of Lieutenant Dupree."
"There are over four hundred insurgents active at this moment. They are taking over police stations, government offices, even the official residence of General Juin," Baril explained as he strode to the door. "They need to keep orders from going out to countermand those of General Mast. If they succeed, your forces will be in Algiers before anyone can resist. You must leave quickly. Georges will drive you. He is very well informed and can put you in contact with the insurgents."
We shook hands; I felt like one of the Three Musketeers. It was one of those moments that led to guys getting killed for the greater good.
"How'd you get mixed up in this, Georgie?" I asked as we piled into the staff car.
"My younger brother, Jerome, and several of his friends are involved. He took me into his confidence, and knowing that Colonel Baril was in favor of the Allies, it was only natural that I became his liaison. It means a great deal to us, to be able to join the fight against the Germans."
"Is your kid brother in the army too?"
"The army? Oh no, he is a student at the university. He is studying philosophy. You will meet him this morning. He is one of the leaders of the students."
Now, I always thought I had a good sense of the odds for or against me when things got tough. Back in Boston, when I was walking a beat, they were usually in my favor, unless I did something stupid, like walking alone in Chinatown after rousting a couple of tong boys. In England, I'd kept a low profile when I could. I did make a side trip to occupied Norway, but that was personal, so it didn't really count. But as we got into the car, I began to calculate. There was me, Harding, and this French kid who probably spent more time trimming his moustache than cleaning his rifle. We were way out in front of the U.S. Army, heading into an enemy capital, to help a bunch of spies and college kids-philosophy students, no less-take over a military headquarters. I did the math as best I could, and determined that our odds of survival were roughly equivalent to that of the Red Sox winning the World Series.
"Are you a baseball fan, Major?" I asked Harding.
"Sure. Ever since West Point I've been a big fan of the New York Yankees."
"Figures."