THE ROAD TO CASABLANCA REMINDED ME OF CALIFORNIA 101 that runs north and south between the high desert on one side and the blue Pacific on the other. Except this was the moody Atlantic. Still, the sun was shining brilliantly, there were no clouds in the sky, and the landscape was familiar-looking, greens and light browns, scrub trees and the bush the French called maquis, and in the distance to the east, the peaks of the Atlas Mountains. There was still some snow on the highest peaks, and I supposed it must be there year-round.
All in all, the country had become beautiful, and I began to lose the feeling of being a stranger in a strange land. It didn’t look anything like the desert scenes in Beau Geste, thankfully.
I couldn’t help noticing that the surf was very strong in places—sometimes ten to fifteen feet—and I wondered how a landing craft would be able to get safely through it, unload its troops, and then retract and go back to a transport ship for another load. Simply getting turned around would be risky in these rollers. The navy cox-swains handling the boats would have to be very good at their jobs. Maybe the brass would find beaches where it wasn’t so rough. And we were still a couple of hundred miles from Casablanca. Maybe it would be better there. But this was the Atlantic, and it was far more unpredictable than the Pacific.
There weren’t many vehicles on the road, but here and there we would pass a mule-driven wagon loaded with wares and driven by a dark man in a striped robe and a kind of turban.
“Berber,” said Moshe. “A merchant headed for market. Perhaps to buy, perhaps to sell—and certainly to cheat, if possible.”
“You don’t think much of the Arab locals.”
“I think of them exactly what they think of me. We have a mutual admiration society. It is in the blood of all Semites to bargain and look for an edge. And to be nimble when someone is not looking. It is expected. There is no fault attached.”
“All Semites? I thought only Jews were Semites.”
“Many people think that. But, no. Arabs are Semites, too. We are very close relatives. That is one reason why we don’t get along.”
“So when someone who hates Jews claims to be an anti-Semite, he is being narrow-minded and limiting himself.”
“Well, let us just say he is missing a lot of opportunities. You watch. When Hitler and the Nazis finish with one tribe, they will move on to the next. When it comes to hatred, they know what they’re doing.”
“Then why are some Arabs giving Hitler a hand in the Middle East? They are, you know.”
“Yes. And why? If you are sitting on an anvil, make friends with the hammer.”
“That sounds vaguely biblical.”
“It is from the Book of Moshe.”
“I thought you were going to say the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
“That, too. But it is not as colorful.”
We came to the border checkpoint and passed through the Spanish side with no trouble. Our papers were entirely legitimate, after all, and issued by the American Consulate. The guards on the French side were a little less polite, I suppose because we were coming into their country, instead of leaving it.
I noticed that Moshe seemed nervous. The border guards were native troops and looked at him with suspicion and distaste. He was sweating pretty freely as we presented our papers. He did not look the guards in the eye, but I was pretty casual and polite with them, which is easy to do, when your papers are good. Otherwise, it’s not so easy. I imagined Moshe had plenty of memories of crossing hostile borders with only the flimsiest of documents. But we got through after only a cursory search of our vehicle.
“I don’t like policemen,” said Moshe, as we accelerated away from the checkpoint. “They have always been birds of ill omen. And often they have been the omen come true.”
“Maybe you should wear a fez and native clothes.”
“Maybe, but that would be going against our tradition.”
“I thought you said God didn’t care.”
“Yes. I believe that. But what if I’m wrong?”
“Good point. And if more people in the world asked themselves that question now and then, we’d all be better off.”
“You are a philosopher, Lieutenant.”
“Not really. I’m a Presbyterian from Hollywood by way of Ohio.”
He smiled and was quiet for a few minutes. He was thinking about something.
“I believe the Presbyterians are Calvinists,” he said, finally.
“That’s the rumor.”
“And they, meaning you, are therefore members of the Elect?”
“So they say.”
“It must be very comforting.”
“That’s why I seem so relaxed.”
“Maybe when I get to America, I will convert. It would certainly remove a lot of worrying.”
“Maybe. But what if your people were right all along, and all those rituals you observe were correct and mandatory? What then? You’d be like the professional athlete who left his team in disgust just before they went on to win the championship.”
“Even so, I wonder if they’d have me.”
“Who, the Presbyterians? Why not?”
He looked at me and smiled knowingly.
“You know why not, Lieutenant. If you cut down a tree and saw it into timber and build a house with it and paint the house white, the house is still made of wood, the very same that made the tree. And if there comes a great flood and the house is washed away, as it floats downstream, it is still wood. Or if a great storm comes along and blows the house to pieces, the pieces are scattered, but they are still wood. It is only when it is burned to ashes or eaten by termites that it ceases to be what it was and becomes something else.”
“And what is that?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t know. Nothing. A memory.”
“Thank you for adding a touch of gloom to an otherwise lovely day, Moshe.”
“I apologize, Lieutenant. It is my penance for the library books, I suppose. Perhaps when I send a check for the fines, I will become lighthearted.”
The road ran along the Atlantic shoreline for the first half of the trip but then swerved inland about six miles and followed the course of a river that was flowing almost due south. This was the Sebou, according to my map. The map showed the river making two hairpin turns. From its source in the northeast the Sebou ran south but then turned 180 degrees to flow north for a few miles. There it turned south again and ran to the sea.
At the base of the first hairpin was the city of Port Lyautey, named after the French general who more or less conquered and developed Morocco into a semi-European colony. There was a highway bridge across the river where it started its bend. The airfield sat alongside the left bank of the river as it headed back north. There were several French air force planes parked on the concrete runways and near the hangars. The city itself was modern, built only recently by the French, and it was protected by trench works and artillery and machine-gun emplacements. There were long buildings that were obvious barracks, and there were men drilling on the parade grounds in front.
Our intelligence reports said that there was at least a regiment of French troops there—natives and Foreign Legion. There was no particular attempt to disguise any of this. I had the feeling the defenses and military buildings were there primarily to forestall or counteract domestic rebellions.
Morocco had a history of Berber unrest and revolt. The Rif War in the 1920s had lasted a long seven years, with casualties on both sides running into the tens of thousands. It was a grim business, so the colonial governments of both Spain and France were well advised to take Berber hostility seriously. It didn’t seem to me that this French installation was anticipating any modern European enemy, and that therefore concealment and camouflage were not thought to be necessary. In fact, maybe they thought the more powerful the facilities were to the naked eye, the more intimidating and discouraging they would be to potential native rebels. The town and airfield were also protected by a marshy lagoon between the city and the coastline, which was six miles away as the crow flies.
As I looked at the formidable installations in Port Lyautey, I wondered—just as all the senior military planners were wondering—if, when we landed here in force, the French would fight. Or would they greet us with kisses on both cheeks and bottles of champagne? They were supposed to be our allies; weren’t they? Then I remembered Mers-el-Kébir.
From Port Lyautey the river wound twelve miles to the outlet in the Atlantic. And near the outlet of the river, on the north bank, there was a hillside fort called the Kasbah. Despite the scent of romance around the word, it really just meant “fort.” There was another one in Casablanca. The Kasbah at the river mouth was an ancient pile built centuries ago by the Portuguese when they were here, trading and running things. The fort was there to protect the river entrance and the little trading village of Mehdia on the opposite bank.
I couldn’t see the fort from where we were, but it was marked on the map. I thought ruefully of my code name. Was the Foreign Legion guarding that fort? Was there an evil Russian sergeant there terrorizing the Legionnaires? I remembered that scene in the movie when he shouts to the men, “Keep shooting, you scum! You’ll get a chance yet to die with your boots on!” Did the Legionnaires all wear those hats with sun flaps? I was only mildly curious and would not be unhappy if I never found out. And then I remembered listening to a record of Edith Piaf singing a song called “Mon Légionnaire.” I wondered how she was dealing with the occupation of Paris.
I could tell nothing by looking at the river. That was too bad. Life would have been far easier if along some stretch of the river there were rapids that indicated rocks or even riffled water that showed shoaling. But as far as I could see in both directions, the water was smooth and dark, from bank to bank. A flyover photo couldn’t reveal anything of value; the water was too black—maybe from an excess of silt, maybe from discharges upstream. Maybe from minerals. Who knows? All I knew was that it was black.
On the other hand, the city was called Port Lyautey, which indicated that it was capable of receiving shipping. But how large? What was the maximum draft? The French had built it in this spot. Why? Was it because of the terrain and its natural defenses, or was it because it had sufficient depth to receive deepwater vessels? Or both?
But maybe it really wasn’t a “port” after all, not in the sense of being an active commercial hub. From what little I knew about Morocco from my hasty reading, a large commercial port in this spot seemed hardly necessary, since only sixty miles or so south lay Casablanca, which had been built by the French into a modern and very busy port—the same port that sheltered the French navy ships, including the massive battleship Jean Bart. Maybe the only function of “Port” Lyautey was the airfield and the military installation. The town and base there could be supplied by river barges and by the roads and the railroad that ran strategically from Marrakesh through Casablanca to Port Lyautey and then headed east toward Fez and Algeria. Commercially, there didn’t seem to be any reason for Port Lyautey to exist. Militarily, however, it made some sense.
Given the heavy military presence and the fact that the river itself gave absolutely no clues about its depth, I was a little discouraged. The only shipping I could see was in the form of lighters and barges, most of which could have floated on a wet lawn. Worse, as far as I could see, there were no channel buoys. If it were possible to navigate this river, anyone bringing foreign ships of any size from the ocean twelve miles upstream to this port would have to know the river in all its tidal moods, curves, and shifting bottoms. He would have to be a river pilot. All ports servicing foreign shipping have local pilots living and working at the entrance, and they board the visiting ships and guide them into port. There was not a modern port worthy of the name in all the world that did not have such men available. It was in the interest of all parties not to have shipping running aground and clogging or tearing up the channels. In almost all ports the visiting vessel had no choice in the matter; it was the local law that you must use the local pilot.
But those rules did not apply during war.
“I see that you are very interested in the situation around Port Lyautey, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I’m a tourist at heart.”
“Of course.”
I hadn’t been briefed on the overall plan of the North African invasion. My orders were simple—find out about the river. But it was clear that this spot, which was maybe sixty miles north of Casablanca, would be one invasion point. It was also clear that the primary objective of the whole campaign was the city of Casablanca itself, not just because the French navy was there, but also because it was a modern Atlantic port that would be vital for landing supplies and reinforcements. Those supplies were important not just for this operation but on an ongoing basis as we pushed east, evicted Rommel, and made plans to cross the Med for Europe.
So if the planners wanted Port Lyautey, it could only be part of a larger plan to capture Casablanca. There would be a coordinated attack on both locations, and perhaps others, too. We would not want these French troops or French air force planes coming south to oppose an amphibious landing that would be tricky enough going against Casablanca’s existing defenses. Port Lyautey would have to be neutralized, one way or the other.
That gave me a slightly uncomfortable feeling. I had diplomatic immunity of a kind, but if I should get arrested, snooping around the Sebou, even the dullest Gestapo agent could put two and two together and draw the same conclusions I did. They wouldn’t even have to get out the pliers or hot tongs. My simply being there would probably tell the tale.
In less than two hours we arrived in Casablanca. You could see why it was called that, although from a distance some of the buildings were a little off-white from age and weather. Still, the modern buildings were shining in the afternoon sun, and the overall impression was of a white city shimmering in the heat beside the blue Atlantic. I wondered if the producers shooting the movie would bother getting any location shots. It would look good, but I knew they wouldn’t bother. Hollywood could build a replica cheaper than sending a camera crew to North Africa.
French general Hubert Lyautey was responsible for turning Casablanca into a modern European-style city—at least in the sections that surrounded the old Arab town and the Jewish quarter. He was the first provincial governor, and he knew what he wanted and how to do it. So over the years of the early part of the century he had built wide boulevards and graceful government buildings, hotels, and businesses that looked more like Nice’s white-wedding-cake architecture than Arab North Africa. Rather than let the natives spoil the scene, he built walls around the Arab quarter, which was called the medina, and around the adjacent Jewish quarter, called the mellah . These were not ghettos in the Hitlerian sense; people were not sealed in them. But the walls did indicate to the locals where their place was and where their homes were to stay. These sectors retained their Old World narrow streets and winding alleys, their dark corners where intrigue was expected, their cafés and open-air shops that made much of the medina seem like a shadowy, congested bazaar. Arabs and Jews could come and go freely throughout the entire city; Lyautey just didn’t want their teeming, unhealthy masses to ooze permanently into his lovely new design. Local color was fine, but only up to a point. He also built the port into a modern commercial center and constructed extensive breakwaters and a jetty that protected the port from the whims of the Atlantic. The good marshal did all of this in about a dozen years, from 1912 to 1925. And Casablanca’s population of Europeans, mainly French, of course, grew from almost none to half of the city’s total of 350,000.
We drove around the medina and the mellah into the new European suburb of Anfa.
“Colonel Eddy wanted me to take you first to Mr. King’s villa,” said Moshe. “From there I assume I will take you to the Anfa Hotel, which is new and very fine. There, if you look to the right, you will see it. It looks like a ship that has wandered onto a boulevard.”
I knew this was the plan, and I knew David King was expecting me. His code name was Markoff.