CHAPTER IV—Anfa Conference (January-April, 1943)

January 25, 1943. Now that it can be told, or at least some of it, here are a few minor side lights on the three-ring circus which yesterday closed a successful engagement at the Hotel Anfa.

To go back a bit, on New Year’s Eve I made another trip to Casablanca to report to Percy. Dinner at his Chinese apartment with Bunny and P. Warburg. After dinner, Percy having (1) got rid of the cloak-and-dagger butler for the remainder of the evening, (2) carefully closed the doors of the salon, and (3) inspected the chandelier, among whose ornate convolutions he had the previous week discovered an ingeniously concealed microphone, motioned us to gather around him.

“Here is the dope,” he said. “Top Secret, naturally. The Hotel Anfa, in the suburbs of Casablanca overlooking the ocean, together with a certain number of villas to be requisitioned, has been designated as the location for a very, very high-level conference to begin in about ten days and last about ten days. General Alfred Gruenther, General Clark’s Chief of Staff, is responsible for organizing the party. General Patton will be responsible for military security. Plans are already drawn for surrounding the Anfa and satellite villas, in fact the whole hilltop on which they are situated, with rings of barbed wire and gun emplacements. Washington feels that this is as safe a place as any, and that the main problem will be to conceal the presence of the V.I.P.’s from local spies and enemy agents.”

“The V.I.P.’s?”

“The President”—Percy lowered his voice—“Churchill, possibly Stalin, the Joint Chiefs, the Combined Chiefs, everything but the kitchen stove. Oh, yes,” Percy went on, “also de Gaulle and Giraud. This is where you come in, Codman. You are to report here for the duration of the conference and be available for interpreting or other odd jobs in connection with the French visitors.”

It was past the witching hour and the arrival of the New Year when we finally turned in. We were all sleeping soundly when the sirens began their insistent wail. My wrist watch marked 3:10. Slipping on overcoats, we went out onto the balcony. Searchlights prodding the overcast. The antiaircraft guns making an unholy racket. The Casablanca acoustics seemed to amplify them out of all proportions. Two dull explosions, quite far off. Nothing more.

“I wonder how Washington will feel about that,” Warburg said.

At breakfast we got the complete if meager report. Four four-engined German bombers had dropped a like number of medium-sized bombs. Very little damage to military personnel or property. One bomb landed in the Medina, killing more than a score of Arabs.{13} The A.A. people think they got one enemy bomber over the harbor. Not confirmed.

 

A few days before the conference was due to start I was having family supper with Captain and Madame de Battisti and their son Christian, a nice, if rather shy, boy, in his teens. I had been trying to think of an explanation consistent with security as to why I was leaving the Villa Mon Repos for a week or ten days. No explanation was necessary.

“Ah, you are off to Casa,” Battisti said with a twinkle. “Doubtless you will be attending the Anfa Conference.”

“The what?” playing dumb.

“Ah, non” Madame de Battisti laughed, “do not bother to pretend. It is no secret, not even Polichinelle’s.”

“What is no secret?”

“That Anfa is soon to be the meeting place of everyone in the world of any importance.” Suzanne was really going strong now. “Your President, Monsieur Churchill, Generalissimo Stalin, His Holiness the Pope, General Marshall, General Eisenhower, everyone, even de Gaulle.”

“Voyons, Suzanne,” Battisti said, “let’s not exaggerate. Of course,” he continued, “once you started requisitioning the villas, every one of which has Arab servants, the cat was out of the bag. Mohammed sees your people installing ramps for a wheelchair in the best villa on the hilltop; he compares notes with his friend Mahmoud of the villa across the way, who has been watching with interest the arrival of cases from England containing the favorite brandy of the Prime Minister. Soon the news is all over Casa and half a day later every servant in Rabat has a complete list of all the vedettes. Our Amar recited us his list yesterday.”

“You all know a lot more about it than I do,” I said, attempting, doubtless unsuccessfully, to hide my discomfiture.

 

On the tenth I moved into Casablanca, i.e. Percy’s apartment. Paul Harkins arranged for some desk space for me in his office at the Shell Building and from there I commuted daily to Anfa. Paul himself, responsible for setting up practically the entire conference, was out there early and late, ministering to the at times temperamental needs of the V.I.P.’s. By the twelfth, most of the big shots, except the President and his party, had dropped from the sky and been whisked from the airport to the hilltop in limousines whose windows, heavily plastered with mud, concealed the exalted personages from the gimlet eyes of Mohammed, Mahmoud, and Amar. On the fourteenth the President’s C-54 slid into the field and he was conveyed swiftly, smoothly, and without incident to the star villa, Dar es Saada (“House of Truth”), complete with a huge sitting room, air-raid shelter, protective steel shutters, and swimming pool. Dar es Saada also lodged Harry Hopkins, Elliott Roosevelt—and a few days later young Franklin Roosevelt—together with a bevy of secret-service boys. Mr. Churchill’s abode, the Villa Mirador, only slightly less luxurious, housed his son Randolph and certain members of the P.M.’s staff. Next morning General Eisenhower arrived, looking and sounding as though he had a very bad cold—he had—and in the afternoon, direct from his desert headquarters, General Sir Harold R. L. G. Alexander, Commander of the Middle East Forces, whose fiery sunburn and three-day beard in no way impaired the fine features of his arrestingly attractive face.

Seated in one of the deep leather chairs of the Anfa Hotel’s lobby, a very familiar figure, Freddy Wildman,{14} talking earnestly to an Englishman in shorts and a two-day beard.

“Well, for God’s sake.” We pump one another’s hand, and Freddy introduces me to the pleasant, unassuming Britisher, Air Marshal Sir Arthur Tedder.

The Air Marshal listens attentively and apparently sympathetically to Freddy’s sales talk on close air support. After a while he passes his hand over his chin, looks at his watch, gets up. “Meeting with the Combined Chiefs in ten minutes. Better go and shave this thing off. Cheerio.”

“What is your function, Freddy?”

“I am the eyes and ears of General Arnold,” Freddy said. “The old man is upstairs taking a bath. After this shebang we fly on over to the Pacific theater.”

A harassed waiter, French, dashes through the lobby with a tray. In hot pursuit, Paul Harkins, who catches him by the coattails and signals to me.

“Tell this bird that Admiral King has again complained that for the third day running his breakfast coffee is undrinkable.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Cold and weak.”

I explain to the waiter.

“Entendu, plus chaud, plus fort,” he says, releasing himself from Paul’s clutch.

That was my first job at the Anfa Conference. My second was interpreting for General Somervell, top Supply Chief, and General Giraud.

Had just got the latter installed in a nice pink villa halfway up from the compound entrance to the hotel when the call came from General Marshall’s assistant, Colonel Frank McCarthy. “General Somervell will come there,” he said. “Thinks it will be quieter than up here.”

General Somervell is quite an impressive figure. If he weren’t a General he would be a big business tycoon. I filled in General Giraud on who he was and by the time he arrived Giraud’s eyes were gleaming in anticipation of the equipment which would be forthcoming for the newly formed French forces. General Somervell made a brisk, businesslike entrance, shook hands all around, then in a genial but down-to-brass-tacks tone turned to me. “I want you to begin,” he said, “by telling this Frog that Uncle Sam is no Santa Claus.”

“Mon général, le Général Somervell voudrait établir qu’en principe I; Oncle Sam et le Père Noël, ça fait deux” I started. No, that would merely puzzle him. Taking a chance on General Somervell’s knowledge of French, or rather lack of same, I transposed things a bit, trying to get across to Giraud that he would be wise to be modest in his demands and build up gradually. After a few exchanges things went well and you could see that both Generals were getting to rather like one another. Upshot, General Somervell said he would recommend virtually all of General Giraud’s requests—subject, of course, to confirmation by the Joint and Combined Chiefs.

The next job, on the following day, was a good deal more formidable. Memo from Frank McCarthy: “General Marshall presents his compliments to General Giraud and invites him to attend formal session of the Combined Chiefs of Staff at 5:30 today in the conference room of the Hotel Anfa. General Somervell will call for you both at 5:25. Explain to General Giraud that those present at the meeting will be the following: General Marshall, Army; General Arnold, Air; Admiral King, Navy; General Brooke, Army; Admiral of the Fleet Sir Dudley Pound, Navy; Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles Portal, Air; Vice-Admiral the Lord Louis Mountbatten, Combined Operations.

At 5:25 to the second, General Somervell’s car drew up to the entrance of the pink villa and at 5:29 we entered the conference room of the Hotel Anfa. The Combined Chiefs, already assembled, rose to greet General Giraud, who was then placed about halfway down the long conference table, with General Somervell on his right and me on his left.

General Marshall opened the meeting. “On behalf of the Combined Chiefs of Staff, General Giraud, allow me to welcome you to this conference and to express our pleasure at your being here.”

Why the hell can’t I think of the word for welcome? A pause. Across the table Lord Louis smiling quizzically.

“What is the French word for welcome, sir?” I said in what was supposed to be a whisper but which was perfectly audible up and down the table.

“Bienvenue,” Lord Louis said, his smile broadening.

“Of course. Thanks. Mon général, le Général Marshall vous souhaite la bienvenue et tient à vous exprimer de la part des Combined Chiefs of Staff tout le plaisir qu’ils ressentent,” etc., etc.

After that it went fairly smoothly except for one impassioned harangue towards the end during which the General galloped along for five minutes without drawing breath. My translation of what I could remember of it took only two minutes, but if there were a few omissions—and there certainly were—no one seemed disturbed, least of all le général. I think Giraud made a good impression on, and will obtain favorable action from, this exceedingly meticulous and realistic jury.

The next day I accompanied General Giraud to the Villa Mirador, where the Prime Minister wanted to see him alone. We rang the garden-gate bell and almost instantly Mr. Churchill emerged from the front door and hurried down the path, at a trot. Why is it that if one is familiar with the likeness of a great man only from photographs, the great man himself invariably seems smaller than one had imagined him? It is fair to say that if Giraud towered over the Englishman like a colossus, it was, as expected, Mr. Churchill who, in a matter of seconds, completely took over. Soyez le bienvenu, général, entrez, entrez. Very affable, full of steam. The evening before he had given his own Security Police heart failure by escaping from the compound.

Eventually he was found strolling by himself in the moonlight along the beach in the direction of the El Hank lighthouse.

“Interesting sea shells in this part of the world,” he chortled, patting his bulging coat pockets.

 

Most of the Anfa evenings were taken up with dinner conferences at the President’s villa or in the hotel. On a number of occasions a group of the top-layer V.I.P.’s dined with General Patton at the sumptuous Villa Mas, into which he had recently moved. It is situated on the slope below the Anfa compound and reflects the dubious taste—and character—of its owner, Casablanca’s richest newspaper magnate. Percy, for his part, played host to various old friends or conferees momentarily out of a job. In the former category we had last evening Brigadier General A. C. Wedemeyer. He has come up fast and reportedly enjoys the high esteem of General Marshall, whom he accompanied to the conference. I liked him immensely, and so will you when—as he has promised to do—he looks you up on his return to the U.S.A.

Standard procedure for visiting firemen is a carefully guarded tour of the famous Casablanca bousbir—red-light district to you—conceived and constructed by Lyautey.

“If there must be a quartier réservé,” the Marshal had observed, “and I suppose there must, let it at least be a thing of beauty.” It is.

Situated in a corner of the Old Medina, or native quarter, it constitutes a complete walled city in itself with its own police, hospital, prison, shops, and all the rest.

Self-contained and containing, the bousbir engulfs its citizenesses in perpetuity. Only two possible ways out, by purchase or by marriage. Curiously enough, both occur not too infrequently.

Well, here we are at the arched portal. Another sight-seeing party, headed by Lord Louis Mountbatten, arrives simultaneously. We join forces, led by a French supervisor, and closely surrounded by an armed platoon of M.P.’s of the United States Army, we march down the gentle incline of the stone-paved street curving between shadowy houses whose ogive doors and windows are blankly dark. And now an open square, dimly discerned, silent but for the splashing fountain at its center. A cloud passes from before the face of the moon. Did Lyautey arrange for this too—the silvery rings of the fountain into which the unveiled Arab girl is dipping her earthen jug, the slender shimmering columns of the enveloping arcades against which robed figurines out of Scheherazade lean, watchful, waiting, one eye on the lookout for the potential client, the other appraising the ghostly couples gliding through cobalt shadows?

“By Jove”—Lord Louis’s voice—“this is something, as you Americans say.”

The supervisor leads the way to the other side of the square to the arched entrance of a narrow street plunging steeply downward. The moon is now framed in the center of the arch, doing unearthly things to the descending colonnades and the roofs spread out below. The street twists and turns. A light behind a shaded window. “Shall we take tea?” the supervisor says. No one demurs. The supervisor enters. We follow. A small bare room devoid of any furniture save the heavy floor matting and a low table set for tea. Seated behind it on the floor, an Arab girl in simple white robes. Very young, seventeen, eighteen perhaps. Pretty, except for the scar on her left cheek. Big brown eyes, frankly curious but traditionally diffident. The supervisor rattles along as she prepares the customary sweet mint tea. Statistics, tariffs, the special police problems involved. She hands us our glasses one by one, prettily, with complete self-assurance, simplicity, and dignity. Through the supervisor we ask her questions, most of them foolish, all of them childish. She smiles easily, cheerfully, quite contented with her lot, it would seem. The gaze she turns on each questioner is frank, open, but she never holds it long. A matter of politeness. Time to go. She does not rise. We bow and thank her. She smiles, keeping her eyes down.

The moon is in and out. Halfway up the street in the angle formed by two houses a couple of girls are chattering together. At our approach they burst out laughing, throw their skirts over their heads, and go into a violent invitational pantomime. “They are kidding us,” Percy said. And why not? Surrounded by our armed guards, we must, in our beribboned uniforms, look fairly silly.

We recross the square and approach the entrance. The supervisor is reeling off more statistics. “Disease, yes, a serious problem. Before our arrival the venereal rate in all Moroccan reserved districts remained absolutely steady.”

“What was the rate?” General Wedemeyer asked.

“One hundred per cent,” the supervisor said. “However, by applying heroic measures we have reduced it—slightly.”

“Bully for you,” General Wedemeyer said. And to the M.P. sergeant, “O.K., Sergeant, you can dismiss your men now.”

We made our way to Percy’s car. Behind us the incisive tones of Lord Louis again. “Good show,” he was saying. “Scenically, the finest I’ve ever visited—except, of course, Bhamawaddy in Upper Burma.” “Quite.” In the darkness another very British voice. “For sheer purity of line nothing can touch good old Bhamawaddy, can it?”

 

Last Thursday, January 21, a trip to Rabat was organized for the President so that he could review, and be seen by, the U.S. divisions in that region. Security in and about the compound, already very tight, was stepped up several more notches. The presidential party had left without untoward incident, and it was mid-afternoon. In the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff at the Shell Building, where I was covering for Paul Harkins, the telephone jingled.

“This is Corporal Brundage, Corporal of the Guard at the Anfa compound entrance. There’s a Frog officer here, big guy, says he’s a General, wants to go in town to do some shopping. He is unable to show the new pass, the blue one. Wants us to contact Major Codman. He’s kinda sore.”

“General Giraud?”

“That’s him.”

“Send someone up to the Anfa, on the double, and have his pass issued. Meantime, let me talk to him on the phone.”

General Giraud was fuming. “No one told me of a new pass,” he said. “I arrive here at the gate to go into Casa to buy a pair of babouches for my wife and find myself virtually under arrest. It is inadmissible.”

“I agree, mon général. A most unfortunate mistake. All of us are desolated. In a few moments everything will be arranged.”

After a while he calmed down. All things considered, he was pretty nice about it.

Detailed written report to Percy on the incident. 5:45 P.M. NO one around. Quiet day. Lock up desk preparatory to leaving for Percy’s apartment. Lock office door. Start for elevator. Back in the office the telephone rings insistently. Return and pick up the receiver.

“This is the Anfa entrance gate. Corporal of the Guard speaking.” “Corporal Brundage?”

“No, this is Corporal Farino. We relieved Corporal Brundage and his guard about fifteen minutes ago.”

“What’s on your mind, Corporal?”

“There’s a French General here, big guy, big mustache, says he lives here. Wants to be passed in but is not in possession of the new pass, the brown one.”

“The brown one, what’s the matter with the blue one?”

“That expired with Corporal Brundage’s guard—fifteen minutes ago.”

“Listen carefully, Corporal. This is Major Codman, Acting Deputy Chief of Staff. I order you to pass General Giraud in immediately.” “Sorry, Major, no can do. My orders are from Colonel McCarthy in writing. No one other than U.S. personnel to be admitted during my tour without the new brown pass.”

“Where is the General now?”

“In the guardhouse,” the corporal said, “and he’s good and sore.” Motor pool. A car. Step on it. By the time I got there matters had been clarified. Nevertheless, the corporal was right. General Giraud was not pleased. “Je sors pour faire des emplettes, on m’arrête. Je retourne, on m’arrête. Je me demande si je me trouve au Maroc, Protectorat Français, ou en Allemagne”

It took longer than the first time, but finally he calmed down and we proceeded up to his pink villa, where we had a Pernod. Under its influence he told me all about his escape from Germany. It’s a good story and telling it made him feel much better.

This week the Anfa Conference really went into high gear and most of the future military naval and air operations are being assigned their various priorities. Overhanging the immediate picture like a cloud, however, is the bedeviling question of French politics. It would seem essential to get Giraud and de Gaulle together to form a Provisional French Government, but Giraud is hazy as to what basis would be acceptable and de Gaulle has withdrawn into a deep freeze.

 

During the evening of January 21 we received a signal announcing General de Gaulle’s arrival by air the following morning. It was laid on that Colonel Wilbur, who had been with de Gaulle at the École de Guerre, would meet him and escort him to Anfa. About ten minutes after Wilbur had left for the airport I happened to be walking down the Shell corridor past General Patton’s office. Was a few feet beyond it when the door was thrown open with violence and the General himself hurried out into the hall.

“Codman,” he shouted, catching sight of my back, “where is Wilbur?”

“He has gone out to the airport to meet de Gaulle, sir.”

“Pursue him, overtake him, catch him. Tell him to drop everything and report to Anfa at once” the General said. “The President is waiting to present him with the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can take over de Gaulle,” the General added.

A good peep and a good driver. We are really making time. Approaching the airport there is a long straight stretch of dusty road. Sure enough, there is Colonel Wilbur bouncing along at a fast clip. But what the hell is that procession of rather disreputable civilian cars, their windows plastered with black mud, coming from the opposite direction? Did de Gaulle and his party get in ahead of time? If so, there was no one other than the civilian drivers to greet him at the airport, another snafu due to that damned double daylight-saving business.

Have caught up with Colonel Wilbur and together we come to a stop, bumper to bumper, directly in the path of the now halted cortege. I jump out and deliver General Patton’s message to Wilbur.

“All in good time,” he says, striding up to the leading limousine. No mere order, whether from General Patton or the President himself, is going to rob the Colonel of his big moment. Seizing the door handle, he opens it and leans into the darkened interior.

“Mon cher camarade”—the Colonel’s rather rigid French is tinged with genuine emotion—“quelle joie d’enfin retrouver mon vieux copain de l’École Supérieure de Guerre.”

A pause. A long-fingered hand removes a pipe from beneath a dimly perceived mustache. From the recesses a very British voice. “I’m afraid there’s some mistake,” it says. “Here, Harold Macmillan.”{15}

Slamming the door shut, Colonel Wilbur rushes to the second car, opens its door, leans in.

“Mon cher camarade, quelle joie d’enfin retrouver mon vieux copain de l’École Supérieure de Guerre.”

This time from the further corner a French voice. “Pardon” it says. “Il y a peut-être erreur. Ici le General Catroux.”

At least the Colonel is getting warmer. The third car proves to be the jack pot. “Mon cher camarade,” the Colonel begins. At which point two long legs emerge through the door and seconds later we are in the presence of General Charles de Gaulle. We salute, he salutes, stiff as a ramrod—and, I may say, twice as grim as General Giraud in the guardhouse.

Wilbur apologizes for the mishap in meeting him. From de Gaulle no answer other than an imperceptible inclination of the head. Wilbur offers to ride with him in his car. With one hand on the door handle, de Gaulle, with the other, indicates the blacked-out windows. “I do not like to think,” he says, “that the purpose of this camouflage is to conceal my presence in North Africa from my com-patriots and from the people of Morocco.”

“No, no, mon cher camarade” the Colonel puts in hastily. “Entirely for your protection. It was the same with the President, Mr. Churchill, all the really important ones.”

Finally we get going. Wonder how long the President has been waiting. At the Anfa entrance the guards throw back the gates and we sail through. No passes required today, blue, brown, or otherwise.

The villa assigned to General de Gaulle is a hundred yards or so above the entrance gate. Before it the procession stopped and everyone got out. Nose in air, the General looked about him. With a cold eye he viewed the barbed-wire barriers and the Army guards. He didn’t say anything, but a rather officious member of his entourage came up and hissed in my ear.

“Is the General to conclude that for the time being he is virtually a prisoner here?” he asked.

“No more so than the President of the United States, the Prime Minister of England, and—” I added injudiciously—“General Giraud.” General de Gaulle must have good ears. His nose tilted higher. “And where, may I ask, is Giraud’s billet?” he said.

“The pink villa, mon général, almost immediately across the way.” With care and concentration de Gaulle’s steely eye measured the distance from the pink villa to the Anfa Hotel, or rather to the entrance of Dar es Saada. A like estimate of the distance between his own villa and the throne didn’t help things at all. Barking a few sharp words to an aide, he turned on his heel, folded his arms, and in haughty silence surveyed the fields of the plain below.

The aide, the same hissing guy, stalked up to me again. “The General will be unable to occupy the villa assigned to him.”

“Why?”

“It is not satisfactory.”

“Why?”

“It is inadmissible that General de Gaulle should accept lodgings that are inferior to those occupied by some casual French officer.”

“As a matter of fact, his villa is larger and in much better condition than the pink one.”

“Nevertheless, in the hierarchy of villas its location is secondary, if not inferior, to that of General Giraud.”

“An optical illusion. I am prepared to furnish you with blueprints showing that General de Gaulle’s white villa is, in fact, two and a half meters nearer our headquarters than is the pink villa of General Giraud. Furthermore, at any moment now, the President will be sending his special representative to escort General de Gaulle to the Villa Dar es Saada. The President would be deeply disappointed if his envoy should find General de Gaulle’s villa empty.”

The hissing boy approached the solitary figure still studying the landscape. The confab lasted for some minutes. Finally the General turned with a shrug and started towards the white villa.

“Dans ces conditions, j’accepte,” he said.

 

Sunday, January 24, 1945. Midmorning: ran into Bob Murphy, Averell Harriman, and Harry Hopkins strolling together near the Anfa Hotel. Murphy seemed pleased.

“The President has been talking turkey to both Giraud and de Gaulle,” he said, looking at his watch.

“It shouldn’t be long now.”

“What shouldn’t be long now?” I asked.

“The strains of that old-fashioned shotgun wedding,” Harry Hopkins said.

By now you have probably seen the pictures of the bride and groom’s “chalorous” handshake.

So that’s that. The Anfa Conference is over. The President and the Prime Minister are off for a day or two of relaxation at the Villa Taylor in Marrakech. Bunny is down there now conferring on security.

 

January 26, 1943. Went back to look at Rabat today and had a lovely time—in fact, was rather overwhelmed by the reception I got. General Noguès put me next to him at lunch and said some very pleasant things. He is attractive and Madame even more so. She, full of life, very downright, forthright, and maybe upright for all I know, as against his almost native subtlety and finesse. Just a bit player, of course, compared to the vedettes I have been bumping into lately, but quite a boy nevertheless.

 

February 4, 1943. Local note: Fast car driven by nicely turned-out Moroccan in European clothes is stopped by American M.P. on the main road.

“Pull over to the curb. Where’s the fire?”

The Moroccan takes it calmly.

M.P.: “Your name?”

Moroccan: “Sidi Mohammed Ben Youssef.”

M.P.: “Your profession?”

Moroccan: “Fonctionnaire.”

M.P.: “What function?”

Moroccan: “Sultan of Morocco.”

Tableau.

 

February 25, 1943. I am still at Rabat as liaison officer to the Protectorate, though technically I am farmed out to General Clark’s Fifth Army, which has taken over all liaison business in Morocco. Have been joined by two associates—very congenial ones—my classmate Trevor Swett, and Ridgeway Knight, formerly one of Bob Murphy’s vice-consuls, and now a major in the Army.

Have seen very little of General Patton. Once at a lunch at the Residence, for Governor Boisson, again at a lunch for Juin, and during a couple of visits to the Sultan’s palace. Among my side jobs seems to be that of setting up audiences with the Sultan for visiting V.I.P.’s, ranging from General Clark to Archbishop Spellman. The last is perhaps a typical example, since at the final moment the audience was called off. Reason, Sultan and Archbishop each being a spiritual leader and a prince of his respective church, the protocol experts were unable to arrive at a clear-cut decision as to who outranked whom.

One of General Patton’s visits to the Sultan—I think it was on the occasion of the fifteenth anniversary of His Majesty’s ascension to the throne—was enlivened by the following alarum or excursion. We had been through the business of being received at the palace entrance by Si Mameri, Chef de Protocol—and incidentally my favorite Arab—ascending the marble stairs to the long, narrow throne room on the top floor, marching the length of same with three halts and three bows from the waist before reaching the royal dais. At this point the Sultan goes democratic, rises from his throne, shakes hands with everyone. Greetings over, he slips back—eight or nine centuries—onto his throne again, indicates with a gracious wave of one hand that we are to be seated in the stiff-backed chairs adjacent to the dais, and with a peremptory gesture of the other, lets it be known that he is prepared to receive the homage, together with the customary gifts (i.e. customary, or better, or else), of his pashas and caϊds. This ceremony, which must be seen to be believed, consists in each pasha and caϊd being individually hustled and rushed the length of the throne room by a couple of the gigantic black palace slaves, who, arrived at the dais, hurl the supplicant sprawling at the feet of the Sultan. If the sprawl is not sufficiently ignominious to suit the slaves, the visitor’s head is pounded, repeatedly and hard, on that portion of the floor where the rugs end and the bare marble begins. A suitably chastened frame of mind having thus been induced, the prone pasha, or caϊd, as the case may be, is then allowed to kiss the Sultan’s toe and withdraw in a backward crawl. Meanwhile, his nervous retainer, bearing a tray loaded with interesting-looking sacks of various sizes and shapes, delivers same to the Sultan’s retainers, who disappear with it behind the curtains. I imagine each sack is very carefully checked before the donor is allowed to take off for his own domain in town, plain, or mountain fastness.

It was after the last chieftain had made his crablike exit and General Patton had bid the Sultan adieu that the unprogramed incident occurred. Those remaining were standing around in small groups exchanging small talk. I was conversing with the Grand Vizier, El Mokri, who is now in his middle nineties, bright as a button, and, except for rather thicker spectacles, unchanged since we met him here in Rabat over fifteen years ago.

“He is formidable, your General Patton,” the Grand Vizier was saying.

“C’est le cas de le dire.” Si Mameri, who had joined us, bared his golden teeth in a twenty-four-carat smile. “Doubtless your Excellency has heard of his fantastic exploit at the Glaoui’s boar hunt last week. Formidable, yes. The Glaoui and General Patton are waiting for the beaters to drive the ferocious animals from their lairs. There they come. Three huge beasts with blazing eyes and dagger tusks break their way through the bushes and charge across the open space directly at the waiting huntsmen.” With a pantomimic gift second to none, Si Mameri in turn becomes the Glaoui, the General, the beaters, and the wild boars.

“‘You first,’ the Glaoui says to the General. General raises his gun and takes aim. He waits. Nearer and nearer hurtle the terrifying brutes, their gleaming fangs flecked with the foam of madness. The General is impassive. So, too, the Glaoui, but you can feel the itching of his trigger finger. Has something gone wrong? The spectators are petrified. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three shots. Three hideous bodies sliding and slewing in a cloud of dust. A moment of frightful uncertainty. The dust settles. Three dead boars. The bloody head of the largest is resting on the toe of General Patton’s boot.” And as Si Mameri, invoking the classic image of sleep, places his palm-joined hands to one cheek and gently closes his eyelids, there are seen to rise from the corner of his mouth one or two discreet bubbles of delicate froth.

Then it happened. Two rifle shots. Each sharp crack seemed to come from above and not too far away. In a flash, Si Mameri was at the Sultan’s side. I don’t remember seeing him move. One instant he was talking to us, the next he was at the elbow of his sovereign. The Sultan, perfectly composed, whispered a few words to his Chef de Protocol and together they disappeared without hurry through the curtains behind the throne. The Grand Vizier, the other viziers, and the attendants behave as if nothing had happened. Minutes went by. Five, perhaps. The curtains rustled. The Sultan and Si Mameri reappeared. The manner of each was calm, leisurely. The Sultan reascended his throne. Si Mameri rejoined us. The politeness of the cultivated Arab is boundless. How natural it would have been for him to draw the Grand Vizier aside or at least to mutter a few private words in his ear. Not at all. Pulling with thumb and forefinger at his rather sparse white beard, he beamed his high-priced smile upon us both. “It was nothing,” he said. “All is well.”

We murmured our relief.

“These things are bound to happen from time to time,” he continued. “One of the ladies of the royal harem was taking the air on the roof. She failed to notice that the breeze had partially unfurled her long silken scarf and that the end of it was hanging down through the ventilator which aerates His Majesty’s zoo. The panther is a playful creature. Zikah is no exception. Seeing the pretty silk dangling from the hole above, Zikah leapt. A superb leap, since it carried him to the level of the roof. No lion could have done it, nor any of the other panthers. Hearing screams, Mizpah, the eunuch, hurried to the roof with his rifle. Rolling over and over, locked in close embrace, were Zikah and the lady of the harem. With great presence of mind, Mizpah confined both shots to the moments when Zikah was on the rise. The second shot accomplished the necessary.” Si Mameri nudged me gently in the ribs. “General Patton would certainly have dispatched the matter with a single shot.”

“How is the lady?” I asked.

Si Mameri seemed surprised. “Why, very well,” he said. “A few scratches, a few weeks in the hospital, and she will be none the worse for her play hour with Zikah.”

“His Majesty will be sad about the passing of Zikah,” the Grand Vizier murmured. Si Mameri’s mien momentarily took on the expression of a bereaved bloodhound.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “It is indeed a sad loss.” Then, brightening, “It is the will of Allah. And besides,” he added, “I have already suggested to the Pasha of Mogador that the gift of a pair of fine young panthers would be in order.”

 

PLANS FOR SICILY

“On 5 March, General Patton, who was then at Rabat, received a telephone message from General Eisenhower to depart at once for the front to take over temporary command of the II Corps. Conditions were not good in the area of Fa’id Gap, Kasserine Pass—in fact, all along the line. Gafsa had been abandoned by the American forces. The difficulty was not with the Commanding General of the II Corps, but rather in that the Army commander, General Anderson, British Army, had insisted on splitting the American forces into little groups and scattering them on a 150-mile front. General Patton’s job was an unenviable one, but in the end it worked out very, very well. The key battle was at El Guettar. Victory went to the American forces. A strange incident made this possible. An enlisted man in the Signal Corps of the United States Army picked up a message in German stating that the German attack would be delayed six hours. This enabled General Patton to shift a battalion of tank destroyers (antitank) and two battalions of artillery, so that when the German attack took place, they were stopped before they got started. Then the 1st Infantry Division, under Major General Terry Allen, completed the rout of the German forces.

“On 14 April at Gafsa, General Patton turned over command of the II Corps to General Bradley, this in accordance with a prearranged plan made by General Eisenhower. This plan had been made at the Anfa Conference in January 194], when it was decided that an amphibious landing would be made on Sicily. The American forces were to be under the command of General Patton and to be known as the Seventh Army.

“Just prior to departing Gafsa, General Patton, Colonel Gay, and Sergeant Meeks stopped at a little barren cemetery, and there General Patton placed a very small wreath of wild flowers, which he had picked, on the grave of his aide, Captain Jenson, who had been filled just a few days before. The night of the fourteenth was spent in Constantine. The next day, General Patton, accompanied by General Spaatz, flew to Algiers, where a conference was held with General Eisenhower, and on the next day he flew to Rabat and took charge of planning the invasion of Sicily.”

March 2, 1943. Did I write you that I had gone to see the Glaoui? I did—alone, with a Moroccan lawyer friend of mine. For the first ten minutes he pulled the business about not speaking French, then broke down and was charming. He’s aged quite a lot.

To your last question, has the sun helmet from Abercrombie and Fitch arrived, the answer is No. On the other hand my promotion (to Lieutenant Colonel) came through last week. With the African spring and summer just around the corner the helmet may well prove more vital than the promotion. The wearing of any unorthodox form of headgear requires special authorization. My immediate superiors at Fifth Army Headquarters, Colonels Arthur Sutherland and Charley Saltzman, two very fine and friendly guys, are going to take care of this with the understanding that no mention will be made of my Limited Service sun allergy, since I do not want to suddenly find myself back in the shade of the Munitions Building.

“Perfectly simple,” they said. “We’ll just say that you get sunstroke at the drop of a hat.”

 

April 6, 1943. Big news. Stunning news. Yesterday Colonel Gay sent word that he wanted to see me at the Rear Echelon Headquarters of I Armored Corps. An interpreting job probably. Guess again.

“Sit down, Codman.” The Colonel’s manner was brisk. As usual he came right to the point.

“You have heard about Dick Jenson?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“He was killed in action in Tunisia on the first day of April,” the Colonel said. “He was killed instantly, a direct hit by a German plane. General Patton is returning from Tunisia to continue with the planning and preparation of the next amphibious assault, which, as you know, was decided upon at Anfa. He would like to have you for his A.D.C.”

Surprise, combined with a tingling of the spine at the thought of trying to keep up with the human dynamo that is General Patton, left me stuttering rather incoherently.

Colonel Gay eyed me with a certain wintriness. “Want time to think it over?” he said.

“No, sir”—pulling myself together—“I am deeply honored and accept with pleasure. When do I start?”

“That’s better.” Colonel Gay smiled. “I will communicate with Gruenther and you will probably receive orders within a few days to check in at Oujda and from there proceed to Mostaganem, where you will report direct to General Patton.”

“Mostaganem?”

“Between Oran and Algiers. Headquarters of First Armored Corps Reinforced. Within a reasonable distance of the training centers and beaches.”

 

April 28, 1943. I’ve had a sort of strange day, wistful, exhilarating in a way, and instructive too. It’s been a day of goodbyes and I’ve been a little overcome by the unquestionably sincere regrets of quite a number of the boys and girls. In some cases the downright disbelief in the possibility of my displacement was almost comic, and in others, some of the things that were said—and God knows how well the French can say things when they really mean them—got me once or twice off balance.

I’m afraid that with all its superficialities and shortcomings I am attached, or was becoming attached, to Rabat. Hence, if for no other reason, I am sincerely glad I’m going onward and upward. Not that this phase has all been lotus eating. Some of the things that came out today made me realize how much the trait d’union of us “anciens de la dernière guerre” means to the sincerely patriotic boys. So there it is. It’s simply time to move on and I’m glad of it, though I’m a trifle ashamed to say I shall miss it. What will really be fun will be to come back here with you.

My first visit was to General Noguès, who was so upset that on behalf of His Majesty he decorated me on the spot, so that from now on I will circulate Inchallah with a rather noticeable rosette on my Abercrombie and Fitch tunic. It doesn’t mean much, but it’s probably good business all round.

So here I am in bed at the Villa Mon Repos for the last time and thinking of some people who touched me quite deeply by some of the things they said today.