New Year's Eve in Nice was not so different from anywhere else in Europe at the end of 1943. The festivities at the Palais de la Mediterranee were in full force, albeit with mostly men dressed in German uniforms. The champagne was flowing, the ballroom was loud, and the food was plentiful, despite the war closing in on them all. The casino was busy with desperate soldiers trying to break the bank, or at least break the cycle of carnage. Everyone was missing someone, but no one allowed that to get in the way of a good time. Hitler had already given his New Year message, an apologia at the conclusion of the year, blaming the Italians, Mussolini, and everyone but himself for the building losses that the German war machine had endured. He told his people that they would have to be even stronger, and that victory was in their hands, not those of God.
Mac was ready to leave, more than ready. He had on his oilskin pants, a rag wool sweater, and his red lumberjack coat borrowed from Antonio for his trip to Nice. As midnight approached, a knock came at the door to his suite. This time there was someone there when Mac answered the door, a middle-aged Frenchman, dressed for inclement weather himself.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Are you ready to leave?” the man asked in French.
“Oui, allons-y, replied Mac, as he hurriedly closed the door behind him, entering the hallway.
“We will take the service elevator,” said the man, “and leave through the kitchen.”
Mac followed the man as instructed, as they both left the Palais without incident. As the church bells of Nice signified the stroke of midnight, the men were crossing the Promenade des Anglais amid the drunken revelers, heading toward the beach. No one seemed to care one way or another, as they made their way to the water, where a dingy was waiting. Mac jumped into the boat without being told, as the man shoved it into the surf before getting in himself. The Frenchman grabbed the oars on the floor of the boat and guided the two of them out into the harbor. No one was on the water, as fireworks erupted around them, signifying the birth of the New Year. Amid the other fishing boats, stood the “Sprite de Mer,” which was Mac's refuge for the evening. The Frenchman dropped him off, telling him to get below deck until the others arrived at daylight.
“You will be asea before the sun fully rises, monsieur. God speed.”
“Merci,” said Mac, as he did what he was told, going below deck.
The boat smelled like rotten fish, despite it being relatively clean and tidy. Nets were everywhere below deck in the wooden ship sorely in need of a coat of paint. Mac found himself a nest of tangled rope in which to rest. He lit a French cigarette, as he watched the bursts of light through the hatch of the ship, exploding above his head. He thought about Carla and his son. He thought about Sicily, and Rome, and even Chieti.
On my way home! Tomorrow, I will be leaving this war, I hope. I am going home to Carla, at last!
He butt out his cigarette, closed his eyes, and he drifted off to sleep as the fireworks raged on.
Before dawn, loud chatter on the deck awakened Mac. The fishermen were already busy readying their ship for its excursion out into the Mediterranean. Mac came from below rubbing his eyes, and began to work alongside the men, trying to fit in as a member of the crew. As the sun arose, they were off into the sea, leaving the skyline of Nice off in the distance. Despite it being New Year's Day, the harbor was bustling with other fishing boats as if it were any other day. German patrol boats interspersed among the fishermen were randomly stopping fully netted boats at their whim. As a patrol boat approached the “Sprite de Mer,” the light barely peeking above the horizon, another fishing boat sped up, garnering the attention of the German inquisitors. As the patrol boat swung around to intercept the other boat, a shot rang out from that boat, hitting nothing, but fully engaging the two boats in a tense confrontation, the Germans screaming with rifles drawn and ready. The “Sprite de Mer” was allowed to speed out of range, and away from acute danger, both from flying bullets, and from an unwanted inquisition.
Two hours out, as expected, the “Sprite de Mer” was approached by a wooden Patrol Torpedo boat, with the designation of PT-305 on both sides of the front of the ship's bridge. The boat pulled up alongside the fishing boat, its crew on deck to receive what they were only told was an important passenger.
“Commander Thomas Martin!” yelled the captain across the bow of the fishing boat.
As Mac stepped forward, the captain yelled, “Come aboard, sir! I don’t know who you are, but you are eagerly awaited back in Bastia.”
Mac boarded the PT boat to Corsica, the commanding officer introducing himself as Captain Bill Davis. Mac saluted the grizzled officer, as he was directed to the bridge. The PT boat roared away from the fishing boat, with no words spoken, or probably expected.
When they were safely away, Mac entertained Captain Davis with stories of his exploits over the past two years, including his time with the president. Duly impressed, the captain saluted Mac in appreciation for what he had been put through.
“Commander Martin, you are quite important, sir. I don’t know why they want you, but based upon what you have done, I would not be surprised if it were not another medal, sir. I understand the man himself wants to see you.”
“Oh yeah, who is that,” replied Mac, knowing full well that it was General Eisenhower who was looking to speak to him.
“Ike, Ike wants to see you, Commander. Christ, I have been on Corsica for over four months, and I have never even seen the old man.”
“Well, I am not so sure it is going to be a good thing, Captain. I am sure he is not looking to send me home to my family.”
Captain Davis laughed, knowing full well that Mac was right.
Within a few hours, the PT boat was navigating into the harbor of Bastia, on the north side of the island of Corsica. Mac first noticed the Church with two towers, looking much like Trinita dei Monti, at the top of the Spanish steps. Colorful buildings surrounded the Church, leading down into the harbor. The water held many boats of different sizes, most in place given that it was New Year's Day, and the weather was still misty.
Mac felt a sense of relief arriving in an Allied controlled land for the first time in a long while. According to Captain Davis, Corsica had only been fully in Allied hands since the past September, after the Italians signed an armistice with the Allies. Since the freeing of the island, the Allied forces had been busy building airstrips from which to attack the south of France and Italy, as necessity would dictate. There were already sixteen airstrips in various states of construction.
Patrol Torpedo Boat 305 entered Vieux Port, between the Jetee du Dragon and the Mole Genois, nestling into line with a group of other PT boats, looking more like a marina full of fancy yachts, than the ships of war docked at the Bastia's crumbled stone extended pier and in the harbor. The lining up of the ships brought Pearl Harbor to mind, Mac considering how the German or Italian planes, those that still existed, could drop tremendous damage upon the Allied plans of any subsequent invasion if they were to obtain advantageous intelligence. The streets were now busy with men in uniform, French and American, none seemingly having any care about a potential bombing from the air. The rugged coastline of the approach to Bastia gave way to gently rolling hills behind the town, with colorful houses tucked in every crevice of the verdant land.
Mac was met at the PT Boat by an Army staff sergeant, who engaged in no small talk, only giving instructions that Mac was to follow him. The men walked the waterfront to Stone Street, leading to the Citadelle on the south side of the harbor. The Citadelle was built by the Genoese to house their governors in the fifteenth century, the formidable walls of the once proud structure somewhat destroyed in the German evacuation months before Mac came to Bastia. The staff sergeant held the front door of the Palace of Governors, a stucco, three-story structure, with a stone bell and clock cupola rising high above the middle of the flat roof. Mac was greeted at the door by two soldiers dressed in their finest, M-1 rifles held across their chests, their shoes with a shine rivaling the marble floor they stood on.
“Commander Martin, please follow us. General Devers is expecting you,” said one of the soldiers, obviously having been made aware that Mac was expected before his arrival.
Mac made no comment, tipping his head at the staff sergeant that picked him up at the PT boat, and following the two formally dressed soldiers. He was led up a brown marble staircase to the second floor, where one of the soldiers knocked on a heavy, dark wood door.
“Come in,” came a stern voice.
Mac did as he was told, entering the room without the two soldiers, whereupon he came upon a rather young man, decked out with enough ribbons to tell Mac that the man was important.
“Commander Martin, welcome to Bastia. I am General Devers. It is good to have you.”
“Sir, it is good to be here. It has been a while since I have not been behind enemy lines.”
“I understand, Mac; may I call you Mac? General Eisenhower is on his way. He has the regards of the president, as I understand it. I am not sure who you are, but you must be important.”
“Of course, call me Mac, sir. Yes, I go a ways back with Mr. Roosevelt. He apparently enjoys my reports back to the States.”
As Mac was being told to have a seat, the door to the room opened without notice, requiring Mac to re-stand in mid motion. The man who walked in was crisp in his ways, and in his dress, a short brown coat, with only his name embossed across his breast. Gen. Eisenhower.
“Gentlemen,” said the Supreme Commander as he walked into the room, everyone saluting. “Sit, please!”
The three men sat in overstuffed chairs surrounding a coffee table. Three china cups sat on the silver service, along with a steaming silver carafe of coffee, and a cold creamer.
“Coffee, gentlemen?” asked General Devers, as he was pouring already.
“Commander Martin, it is good to meet you,” said General Eisenhower. “The president sends his regards. When he found out that you were stranded in Nice, he directed that you be brought to me immediately. I trust things went smoothly.”
“Yes, sir. Not much trouble getting out, it being New Year's Eve. It is good to be here, sir. I am hoping to get home to my family.”
“I bet you are, son. Hey, I hear you were a football player; is that true?”
“Yes, General. I played tight end in college. Love the game, sir. I understand you were a great coach up there at West Point, sir.”
“Well, son, being a General is a lot like being a football coach. You must see the big picture, and plan, plan, plan. It is about getting men to do what needs to be done. Do you understand me, son?”
“I do,” said Mac, realizing that he was not going home.
General Eisenhower put down his coffee, stood up, grabbing at his waistcoat. He started to pace the room, before he spoke again.
“The importance of team is everything, Commander. You lay down your life for the greater good. You do what needs to be done. Are you a good teammate, Commander Martin?”
“Of course, sir. My training, and my love for my country, would allow me to be no other way.”
“Well, son, the president has asked that you be involved with this operation we are planning here in the Mediterranean. He appreciates your special talents, and he has told me that you would be invaluable to what we are trying to do here. I am fully aware of what you accomplished in Sicily, preparing for our invasion of the southern shore. The stories of your adventures have followed you across the Tyrrhenian Sea.”
“What can I do, sir?”
“That's the spirit, son. We need you to do what you did in Sicily. Tell us what the beaches of the Riviera look like. Give us a lay of the land, from the land itself. Organize the Resistance in France to accomplish what you were able to do on a smaller scale in Sicily. We have plenty of intelligence on what and who we should be looking for. Bill Donavan saw to it that we got all the codes used by Vichy France, and what have you. We know what the Vichy French are doing before they do it. I take it that you know the woman who got those codes, Betty Pack. She came and got you out of prison, didn’t she? There's a girl that knows how to be part of a team. She will do whatever it takes to get what she needs.”
“Yes, Betty is a good lady, sir. She did save me. I would still be languishing in boredom as we speak if not for her.”
“Very well, repay her patriotism, do it for her, Martin. Go back to France; get us what we need.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad,” said General Eisenhower, as he took a seat again, and sipped his coffee. “Anyone mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all, sir. May I join you?” replied Mac, as he looked at the General's cigarettes.
The generals and the commander smoked together; they talked like men talk when embroiled in conflict. Mac thought Eisenhower looked incredibly stressed, but of course he was, just like Roosevelt. Men in charge of men, in charge of their lives, carry that stress. The best do not let it alter their course. It is always the greatest good.