TWELVE

 

The battle at Philippeville seemed to be winding down. There was still sporadic gunfire when French forces cornered one of the FLN commandos. The commandos were exceedingly brave. They did not surrender but chose to fight to the death.

 

 

Trinquier stood in a café with his unit commanders and his staff gathered around. The café was a pied-noir bistro owned by an older Spanish couple that had been running the establishment for over thirty years. Their bodies lay on the tile floor. The man had been disemboweled and the woman violently raped until she died of shock.

Trinquier had left the bodies in place to make his point. “I cannot let this stand,” Trinquier said to his men. “If you love France as I love France you will not let this stand. The FLN and their Muslim collaborators have murdered your brothers and sisters; French citizens. They have murdered the colonists we have sworn to protect. They have murdered their own kind for remaining loyal to the French cause. They have murdered police officers for doing nothing more than their duty. They have attacked our garrison. This uprising will not stop unless we stop it. Here. Now. We cannot let this stand. You are authorized to use all measures at your disposal to bring justice to this city. We must retaliate ten-fold for what they have done if we are to bring peace back to this community. They must know that France will fight fire with fire. That our judgement is swift and complete. We will not let this stand. Vive la France!”

“Vive la France!” said the men.

“You have your orders. Dismissed,” said Trinquier.

The officers saluted and moved off. The captain of the paratroopers that Bruno had jumped with was slow to leave. Trinquier took note. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable if your orders came from Colonel Bigeard?” said Trinquier.

“No, sir,” said the captain.

“Do you duty, Captain,” said Trinquier with an unwavering firmness.

“Yes, sir,” said the captain saluting and moving off with more zeal in his step.

 

 

The paratroopers had seen the carnage on the streets and in the homes of the pied-noir neighborhoods. Many were sickened by it. Others enraged. Their commanders repeated the words of Massu and Trinquier, “We will not let it stand.” and ordered them to use all means necessary. They were unleashed like hounds chasing a fox and their vengeance was complete.

The FLN leaders knew the French would retaliate against the Muslim citizens of Philippeville. They had planned on it. The mujahideen put up a token resistance just so they could say they tried to stop the French. But that was not what they wanted… to stop the French. Philippeville would become the symbol of French oppression. It would reveal the true nature of the French and the pied-noir. Newspapers would focus on what the French had done not the FLN. The FLN were rebels. The French were civilized or at least that is what the world had thought until Philippeville.

The final body count was never reported. The French admitted to twelve hundred Muslim citizens being killed. The Muslims claimed ten times that number. The truth was somewhere in between. But it wasn’t the number of Muslims killed that shocked the world. It was the way they were killed.

Bullets and grenades were not the weapons of choice that day. They were the bayonet and the rifle butt. The French paratroopers used the same methods the Muslims had used against the pied-noir and some additional methods they had learned from the Viet Minh. Nobody was safe within the Muslim neighborhoods and nobody was spared when caught. Those that could, fled the city. Those that could not, died.

The paratroopers did not set fire to the city as the FLN and Muslims had done. They did not want the fire to spread. Fire was indiscriminate, the paratroopers were not. Their focus against the Muslim community was sharp as a razor’s edge.

 

 

When Trinquier called Massu on the phone to give him the final report, Massu stopped him before he started and said, “Colonel, I have been following the reports from our intelligence group and I am well aware of the situation. I think it would be best to accurately detail your attack on the mujahideen on the hillside and the fellagha attack against the garrison and the pied-noir communities.”

“And what followed?” said Trinquier.

“Less detail in the official report on the actions later in the battle would be prudent,” said Massu.

“Perhaps you are correct, General,” said Trinquier.

“You can give me your report in person when you get back,” said Massu. “But even then it is not necessary to report every last detail. You are the commander of your battalion and your discretion is accepted.”

“Very well, sir,” said Trinquier. “I look forward to seeing you, General.”

“And I you, Colonel.” Massu hung up.

 

 

Several hours later, Trinquier received Bruno’s phone call to report on the events of El-Halia. Trinquier repeated Massu instructions about leaving out unsavory details and assuring Bruno that his command of the platoon and their actions were acceptable. “You are saying that I should lie in my report?” said Bruno with his usual frankness.

“No. Of course not. But the world and the French public may not understand the actions needed to keep the peace,” said Trinquier.

“I will not cower under the umbrella of ignorance. Your men and I have performed as you requested with honor. We have nothing to hide. My report will reflect the truth of the events and nothing else. You may do with it as you wish.”

It is as I feared, thought Trinquier. Bruno is going to be a problem.

 

 

A formal dress laid on the bed. Brigitte had six pairs of shoes sitting on the floor in front of the dress. Nothing seemed to match. She was not usually this picky about what she wore. She liked to look attractive but was often too busy to spend time fussing. She had learned to be a minimalist when it came to hair and makeup. She never wore perfume in combat for fear the enemy might pick up her scent, endangering herself and the men around her.

She had worn the dress before to receptions at several embassies and government functions but this was different. She was to be the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the soon-to-be president of Egypt, Nasser. She decided to leave early to the airport and pick up a new pair of shoes on the way. It is a special occasion and requires special shoes, she thought.

Coyle had offered to accompany her but then got the call from Bruno asking him to fly the paratroopers into Algeria. She understood the importance of his mission and said that the dinner was nothing more than a gathering. She lied. She was hoping Coyle would see through her deceit and demand to go with her. He didn’t. She was disappointed when he told Bruno he would take the mission. She hid her emotions from Coyle. She was good at hiding emotion. She believed it was what a professional woman needed to do to be respected. She believed it was one of the reasons Coyle was attracted to her. She could stand toe-to-toe with anyone, man or woman.

She glanced at her wristwatch and did a quick calculation in her head. There was plenty of time before her flight for a quick shopping trip downtown. She could leave her luggage in the taxi and have the driver wait while she ducked into her favorite shoe boutique. She knew she was overestimating her decision-making ability when it came to shoes but she didn’t care. This was important.

She called a cab and asked the dispatcher to have the driver come upstairs to her apartment to help with her luggage. She was quite capable of carrying her luggage down to the street but this was Paris not the northern highlands of Vietnam. She did not want to break a sweat before shopping and the long flight to Egypt. She finished packing.

 

 

The taxi driver loaded her luggage into the trunk while Brigitte climbed into the back seat of the cab. The driver climbed in and said, “Airport, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes, but first I need to make a quick stop downtown to pick up a pair of shoes.”

“Very well, but I will run the meter,” said the driver.

“Do as you please. I will only be a few minutes.”

“Of course. It is just a pair of shoes. Yes?”

“You are being impertinent.”

“I am a taxi driver and that makes me a realist,” he said starting the engine and pulling into the street.

Brigitte did not see the sedan pulling out and following the taxi. The driver was a young Algerian man. Marwa sat in the passenger seat. She reached down and pulled a submachinegun from a canvas bag and laid it in her lap. There was not enough room on the street for two cars to drive side by side in the same direction. She would need to be patient and wait until the taxi pulled onto the four-lane boulevard that led to the airport.

A few minutes later both cars pulled onto the boulevard just as the assassins expected. The driver of the sedan changed lanes and accelerated to parallel the taxi. Marwa rolled down her window and chambered a round into the submachinegun just as Saadi had shown her.

Brigitte was completely unaware of the danger as the sedan gained speed and moved closer. She was thinking about Coyle. How could he be so dense and not see that she needed him by her side? Yes, his mission was important but this was a dinner in her honor being hosted by the leader of Egypt for Christ’s sake. If he was going to be in a relationship with her he would need to learn to make sacrifices.

She reflected for a moment and softened. She thought about Dien Bien Phu where Coyle had risked his life to parachute into the garrison in hopes of protecting her. He was almost killed by enemy fire. McGoon, Coyle’s best friend, was killed during the flight. Tom has sacrificed for me, she thought. He has lost a great deal and it still haunts him. I must admit… I did tell him that the dinner was not important and that he should go on his mission. After all, he is just a man not a mind reader.

The sedan pulled up alongside the taxi. Marwa placed the barrel of the submachinegun out the window and rested it on the doorframe. She pointed the gun at Brigitte’s head and reached for the trigger.

Brigitte was lost in thought and oblivious to what was happening.

It was only sheer luck that the taxi driver turned down another intersecting boulevard along the shopping district before Marwa was able to fire her weapon. The sedan drove past the intersection. Marwa screamed in anger. The young driver was startled and slammed on the taxi’s brakes skidding to a halt. He jammed the gearshift into reverse and attempted to back into the intersection. The traffic was too heavy. Cars honked and blocked his way. He shifted into first and made a U-turn but it was too late. The taxi carrying Brigitte had disappeared in the traffic and all the taxis appeared the same. Marwa was furious and let the young driver know her anger in no uncertain terms cursing him with every oath she knew. She had lost her opportunity to serve Allah and Saadi. Shoe shopping had saved Brigitte’s life.

 

 

Nasser was hosting a traditional Egyptian dinner in Cairo’s Presidential Palace. He and his guests were seated on short stools with thick pillows around a hand-woven carpet. A roasted lamb surrounded by rabbits and pigeons made up the centerpiece. Ful medames with hard boiled eggs and slices of lemons, kasari with its mix of rice, lentils and chickpeas topped with a spicy tomato sauce, and kofta – meatballs of minced chicken and beef mixed with regional spices and onions - were laid out on the platters sitting on the carpet. There were no individual plates or utensils. As was Arab tradition, guests were expected to use aish baladi - the Egyptian pita bread – to scoop up mouthfuls of the various dishes and eat with their fingers.

As the guest of honor, Brigitte was seated next to Nasser. She knew that Nasser was a man of the 20^th Century and that the traditional feast was for her benefit. Nasser was trying to impress her. Why, she did not know. Her past articles about Nasser and Egypt had been considered disparaging by the Arab community. “If you wish I can arrange for a fork or spoon. We are not complete barbarians,” said Nasser.

“No. This is fine. The food is excellent,” said Brigitte scooping up a piece of pigeon with her pita bread. “Your excellency, there are many in my country that feel your pan-Arab rhetoric is stoking the flames of revolt in Algeria.”

Nasser chuckled at the question, “Imperialist powers rarely see nationalistic points of view as anything but reactionary.”

“But isn’t pan-Arabism just another form of union such as currently exists between France and Algeria?”

“Yes but between Arab nations not the Western nations that have enslaved them. The Arabs have common traditions and cultures. Only Arabs can truly understand Arabs.”

“You believe the Algerian people should be allowed self-determination?”

“Of course. Shouldn’t we all.”

“I don’t have to remind you that Algeria has been part of France for well over one hundred years.”

“Time does not equate justice.”

“And the Israelis… shouldn’t they be allowed self-determination?”

“The Israelis have stolen their nation from the Palestinians that they now enslave.”

“Not according to the United Nations.”

“Ah, well… I doubt the United Nations can agree upon anything when pressed.”

“They agree that the Suez Canal and the Straits of Tiran should remain open to the ships of all nations, including Israel.”

“Yes but the Suez does not belong to the United Nations. It is Egypt’s.”

“Britain and France would disagree. French investors built the canal and Britain purchased Egypt’s interest long ago.”

“A consortium of western investors is allowed to profit from the canal through an operational company but the canal itself has always been owned by Egypt. As a nation we will continue to protect Egyptian soil and water.”

“So it is Egypt that determines who has the right to use the canal?”

“Yes. We will do with it whatever we see fit.”

“Including denying Israeli ships freedom of navigation?”

“If it is our desire.”

“And is it?”

“Yes. For the time being. Until Israel finds a just solution to the Palestinian problem… or ceases to exist. Whichever comes first.”

“Back to the Algerian question. The French military claims you are sheltering the FLN and giving them aid. Are you?”

“The French military makes many claims. Their generals all want to become politicians. They say what the people want to hear.”

“So, you deny helping the FLN?”

“Algerians are free to come and go as they please in our nation. We welcome all Arabs.”

“Do you allow them to broadcast on your radio stations?”

“You know we do, Mademoiselle Friang. I would think a journalist like yourself would appreciate the right to express one’s views.”

“Even when that view promotes violence?”

Nasser smiled instead of answering the question and said, “Have some more roasted lamb. It’s an old Arab recipe and quite tasty.”

“Your excellency, why am I here? You know my views are not sympathetic toward Egyptian claims and pan-Arabism.”

“Mademoiselle Friang, you have become the latest flavor of ice cream to the French public. They read your articles. They listen to you. Egypt does not seek confrontation for the sake of confrontation, especially when journalists are involved. I believe your negative attitude toward Egypt is because you have never understood Egypt. The same goes for Algeria.”

“You believe I do not understand my own country?”

“Have you ever been to Algeria?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t mean the French façade built in the European quarters of Algiers. I mean the real Algeria; the Muslim neighborhoods and the shantytowns, Algerian schools and hospitals. They are… a different world than the world you know. They will challenge your assumptions. As a journalist in search of the truth, don’t you feel they are worth a visit?”

“Perhaps. But what does that have to do with Egypt?”

“We are all Arabs. The way your government treats Algeria reflects on France’s relationship with the rest of the Arab nations, including Egypt. The Arabs want peace but only through respect and dignity… which can only be offered when you truly understand us. Peek behind the veil, Mademoiselle Friang. Peek behind the veil.”

A messenger walked into the hall and approached. He handed Nasser a message. Nasser’s countenance darkened as he read in silence.

“I hope everything is okay,” said Brigitte, probing.

“I am afraid not, Mademoiselle Friang. You will have much to write when you return to Paris. There has been an uprising in Algeria. French troops and colonist militias have just slaughtered twelve thousand Muslims in Philippeville and the surrounding communities,” said Nasser. “I fear the time for understanding has passed.”

Brigitte was crestfallen. She had to remind herself that Nasser was a shrewd politician and was not beyond orchestrating an intricate lie to further his intentions. She would need to find the truth for herself and she couldn’t do that sitting on an expensive rug eating pigeon. “Your Excellency, if you will excuse me, I must leave,” she said.

“Of course,” said Nasser. “I will have my limousine take you back to your hotel.”

Brigitte could feel her hands shaking and did her best to hide them as left the room.

 

 

A taxi pulled to a stop in front of Cairo’s International Airport. Brigitte exited the cab. She waited until the trunk was unloaded and her luggage was handed off to a porter before paying the driver. She was irritated and curt with everyone that came in contact with her. Her mind was racing considering the angles of what Nasser had told her about the massacre. She could not allow herself believe it and decided to not pass any kind of judgment until she investigated.

Brigitte did not notice the sedan pulling up behind and dropping off a man dressed in a suit without luggage. The man looked Egyptian with coal black hair, dark eyes and a dark complexion but could have been Algerian or even French. His suit was not expensive and he wore a black tie over a white shirt. When Brigitte entered the airport the man followed her at a discreet distance.

Brigitte approached the airline counter and spoke to the ticket agent, “I’d like to change my ticket to include a stop in Algiers.”

“Yes, ma’am. How long will you be staying in Algiers?”

“Just the day,” said Brigitte. “I’d like an afternoon flight to Paris the following day.”

“Very well. The flight for Algiers leaves in twenty minutes. You will need to hurry,” said the agent.

“That’s fine,” said Brigitte.

The agent changed the ticket and collected the increase in fare before handing her the two new tickets. She watched the porter tie the destination tag onto her luggage and hand it over to the ticket agent. She tipped the porter and moved off toward passport control.

The man tailing her watched her move through passport control. He walked to an employee gate and showed the guard his badge. The guard let him pass into the international waiting area of the terminal without a passport. He followed Brigitte to the gate and waited until she boarded her flight. Then he went to a nearby payphone and called Nasser on his personal phone line. Nasser did not want a journalist like Brigitte loose in his country, especially not now. The time for his bold move was drawing near and Nasser knew that secrecy could very well determine his success or failure.

 

 

Trinquier sat waiting in the reception of Massu’s office. He was still wearing his battle fatigues from earlier that morning in Philippeville. He noticed a small speckling of blood on his left pocket. “Do you have a tissue?” said Massu to the lieutenant sitting at the desk.

“Of course, Colonel,” said the Lieutenant and handed Trinquier a small stack of tissues from a drawer in his desk.

Trinquier wet one of the tissues with his tongue and cleaned the specks of blood off the pocket as best he could. I should have taken the time to change, he thought.

Bruno entered the reception area and saw Trinquier. He did not salute as was the custom to a senior officer. Trinquier and Bruno were both Lieutenant Colonels but Trinquier had received his promotion first and was therefore considered senior. Trinquier could have been considered Bruno’s commanding officer because of his temporary command of the paratroopers in El-Halia but Bruno chose not to see it that way. “I am afraid you will have to wait your turn,” said Trinquier, standing.

Bruno grabbed Trinquier and pushed him against the wall, “Is it true? Twelve thousand?”

“Come now, Bruno. You knew there would be blood,” said Trinquier.

“Yes but not in rivers,” said Bruno. “And not women and children.”

Trinquier smiled and said, “Your report of El-Halia was quite telling.”

“I did my duty as ordered,” said Bruno.

“And what makes you think I did not do mine… as ordered?”

Bruno was stunned by the revelation that Massu might have ordered the killings.

The Lieutenant at the desk ducked into Massu’s office without knocking. Major Aussaresses was sitting across from Massu. “I’m sorry, General. There is an… incident in the reception area that you may wish to supervise. Colonel Bigeard has arrived,” said the Lieutenant.

Massu knew immediately what the Lieutenant meant and moved quickly into the reception area.

Massu saw Bruno with his fists clenched around Trinquier’s uniform. Massu gave a quick glance at the Lieutenant. “Attention,” said the Lieutenant. “The general has entered the room.”

Bruno released Trinquier and saluted. Tringuier straightened his uniform and saluted. They remained at attention. “Colonel Bigeard, I do not know your last commander but I seriously doubt he would have approved of such comportment. I am technically not your commanding officer and am not required to report such an event. However Colonel Trinquier may feel otherwise,” said Massu. “Colonel Trinquier?”

“It was just a misunderstanding between fellow officers, General,” said Trinquier. “No need to report anything.”

“Very well. At ease, gentlemen,” said Massu. “We shall resume our conversation in my office.”

Bruno and Trinquier followed Massu into his office. They sat. “Before we get started I want to make it clear to both of you. I am not interested in body count at this point in time. You are commanding officers in the French Army. I trust you have exercised proper restraint over the men under your command and have only done what was necessary to fulfil your missions,” said Massu. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Trinquier.

Bruno took a moment to consider Massu’s words. Massu was sweeping the entire affair under the carpet including Bruno’s own actions in El-Halia. Bruno knew he was part of it all, whether he agreed with it or not. He did not doubt his actions in El-Halia but questioned how the public would interpret what he and his men had done, should they find out. What Trinquier had done was on a completely different level of barbarity. But what did Bruno know for sure? He had only heard rumors of the events. He had left Philippeville before the massacre. And now Massu was ordering them both to remain silent. Perhaps Massu was right. These were extreme times that called for extreme measures. Bruno believed that one should fight fire with fire. He responded, “Yes, General.”

“Good. Now that we understand one another,” said Massu. “It is important to recognize that blood runs hot during and after battle. We are warriors and we are required to inflict violence on our enemies. I will wait until I read your full reports on the events of the preceding days before making any recommendations or commendations but I want you to know that I understand you both did what you needed to do. The insurgencies in Philippeville and El-Halia have been turned back and peace has been restored. France owes you both a debt of gratitude.”

Massu took pause to let the words sink in and then continued, “Colonel Bigeard, I am offering you command of the 3rd Colonial Parachute Regiment. Your mission, should you chose to accept it, is to take the battle to the countryside and root out the mujahideen rebels hiding in the mountains, the desert and the forests. You will have a fleet of helicopters at your disposal that should be used for your initial attack and followed up by para drops that will bring in additional units to support the attack. Speed and maneuverability will be your allies and help ensure your success. Do you need time to consider, Colonel?”

“No, General. I am honored and I accept,” said Bruno.

“Excellent. You will be under the command of Colonel Trinquier, who is being promoted to full colonel,” said Massu.

Bruno tried to hide his wince on hearing that Trinquier was to be his commanding officer. “Major Aussaresses and his unit will provide the necessary intelligence as to the enemy’s whereabouts. Congratulations, Colonel Bigeard. You are once again the tip of France’s lance.”

 

 

Bruno was leaving the headquarters compound when he saw Brigitte at the main gate arguing with the sergeant in charge. “I am a member of the French press. I have a right to ask questions of the general and his staff,” said Brigitte.

“You can ask all the questions you wish, Mademoiselle Friang, when you have an appointment,” said the sergeant.

“It can take over a week to go through proper channels to get an appointment,” said Brigitte. “By then this story will be old news.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t read much,” said the sergeant.

“Clearly not,” said Brigitte.

“Brigitte, what are you doing here?” said Bruno as he approached.

“Oh, thank God,” said Brigitte. “Bruno, please ask the sergeant to let me pass.”

“I am afraid that is not possible,” said Bruno.

“Not possible?” said Brigitte.

“The complex is on lockdown. There have been several terrorist attacks.”

“That’s why I am here. There is a wild rumor that French forces have massacred twelve thousand Muslims in Philippeville. I just want to get the facts so I can dispel the rumors before things get out of hand.”

“I understand, Brigitte. But I cannot let you inside the compound without the general’s permission.”

“So, go get the general’s permission,” said Brigitte.

“It’s not that easy, Brigitte. The general is a busy man. Perhaps you could ask for an appointment through his office?”

“If anyone says appointment to me again, I swear I will claw their eyes out with my fingernails.”

“Is that a threat?” said the sergeant.

“She’s not threatening anyone, Sergeant. She is just venting her frustration.”

“Sounded like a threat to me,” said the sergeant.

“Tell the sergeant you were just venting, Brigitte.”

Brigitte stood her ground and remained silent. “Tell the sergeant you were just kidding or he will arrest you and throw you into the brig, Brigitte,” said Bruno. “I do not have the keys to the brig and it will take me some time to get you out. Perhaps a week or two.”

Brigitte still stood her ground.

“I understand there are cockroaches and the occasional rat in our brig,” said Bruno.

That broke Brigitte’s silence, “While I have faced much worse than cockroaches and rats, I will admit that I may have overreacted in my comments.”

“Not much of an apology,” said the sergeant.

“Let it go, Sergeant,” said Bruno.

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

Bruno stepped past the gate and pulled Brigitte to one side, out of earshot of the sergeant. “Brigitte, what in the hell are you doing? You can’t just barge in and ask questions about ongoing operations like you did in Vietnam. Things are different now.”

“Why should they be different? I am just trying to get at the truth, Bruno.”

“I am not so sure that is a wise idea,” said Bruno.

“What are you talking about? Of course it’s a good idea. I am a journalist. The people have a right to know what their military is doing.”

“Do they?”

Brigitte was taken aback by Bruno’s question. She considered the implications and said, “The rumors are true then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. But your silence infers it is so.”

“You can suppose whatever you wish. As you have always done.”

“Just answer the damn question, Bruno. Did French troops kill twelve thousand Muslims?”

Bruno considered long and hard before answering. He knew Brigitte was like a dog with a bone when it came to researching a good story. “There was an action at Philippeville. I do not know the exact number of casualties. I left before…”

“You were there?”

“I wasn’t part of what happened in the city. I was part of the battle on the hillside overlooking the city. Then I was ordered to another place.”

“They didn’t want you to see what they were planning?”

“I don’t think they were planning anything. They were reacting. Things may have gotten out of hand. I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it happened, Brigitte. I swear it.”

“How could they do such a thing?”

“There are two sides to every story, Brigitte. The Muslims slaughtered pied-noir families including woman and children.”

“How do you know? You said you weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t. But one hears things.”

“Just more rumors?”

“I suppose. Yes.”

“That’s why I have to get in and interview the general, Bruno. He knows the truth.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?”

“A general will only hear what he wants to hear.”

“He’s going to try and sweep twelve thousand Muslim deaths under the rug like bits of dust?”

“I don’t know what he is going do. He’s a general. I’m a colonel. I obey orders.”

“That is a sorry excuse, Bruno.”

“Yes. But it is the only one I have. I am sorry, Brigitte.”

“I will not let this stand. Not until the truth comes out… all of it,” said Brigitte.

“I wish you luck. I really do. But I must go now,” said Bruno moving off and leaving Brigitte in front of the gate.