Lagaillarde regarded the Gaullist “antenna” with detached contempt, remarking to Nez-de-Cuir at an early stage that he wanted “to have nothing to do with the Punch-and-Judy coup d’état of M. Chaban-Delmas”. His fellow members of “The Group of Seven” went even further in their antipathy to de Gaulle. In this they were representative of the deep-seated Pétainist inclinations of the pieds noirs, inherited from the internal conflicts of French North Africa during the Second World War. Moreover, the immediate goals of the “Seven” and Delbecque’s comité de vigilance differed radically both in range and breadth. The “Seven” wanted the army to take over in Algeria to preserve Algérie française, to give them independence from the French parliament in its present mood, but without any suggestion of going so far as Ian Smith in Rhodesia. There was no thought of “What then?”; and—which was typical of the inward-looking and insular mentality of the pied noir—no thought about France’s own predicament above and beyond the problem of the Algerian war. For the Gaullists the whole “State of France” was what was at issue, of which Algeria was but part. It was admittedly a very large part, but the progressive revelation of its relativity in the mind of de Gaulle himself was to be the source of the bitterest and most dangerous disillusions in the years to come. Thus to maintain harmony between two such uneasy bedfellows was to require the utmost diplomacy and adroitness on the part of Nez-de-Cuir—greatly aided by the unexpected turn of events.
… and de Gaulle
In all this there remains one essential and enigmatic actor—the King over the Water himself. Twelve years had passed since he summarily abandoned the presidency on the mystical motivation of preserving “the spiritual national investment” from being sullied by party politics. It had been his determination to wait, and “for whatever length of time was necessary, let the party system display its noxiousness once more, determined as I was not to act as a cover or a figurehead for it. So I would depart, but intact.” During these long years he had withdrawn to live in a state of genteel poverty as squire of Colombey-les-Deux-Églises with his wife and handicapped daughter, Anne. At one time in financial straits, he had been helped out with a loan arranged by a banker named Pompidou. From his lofty vantage-point he had observed with a mixture of disdain and despair “the convolutions of this absurd ballet…seventeen prime ministers, representing twenty-four ministries”. In 1952 the Gaullist R.P.F., feeling abandoned by the leader, had split; as one of their number explained: “To wait in immobility for the national catastrophe, assuredly without wishing for it, so that General de Gaulle can be called to power, seems to us an insufficient plan of action.” De Gaulle in turn felt “betrayed” as the faithful accepted ministries under the Fourth Republic. That same year he had renounced public life in its entirety, and settled down to write his memoirs. Publication of the first volume, coinciding with the outbreak of the Algerian war, had been a spectacular success, but most of the sixty million (old) francs of royalties he was to receive were spent on a foundation for children suffering from the same malady as the adored Anne, who had died in 1948. By May 1958 he was at work on volume three, Le Salut, announcing to his publishers that he expected to deliver that October.
In those years of withdrawal he had read voraciously and eclectically—Saint-Simon, Châteaubriand, Bergson and Bismarck, manuals on gardening and saddle-making, and even Françoise Sagan and Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, with whose hero he affected to identify himself. He had travelled a little, and wherever he had stopped in the French Commonwealth warmest enthusiasm had greeted him. But above all he had thought, abstractly and with the objectivity that distance lends. For de Gaulle these were years of contemplation and spiritual regeneration, comparable to St John the Baptist in the desert, Lenin in exile, Winston Churchill in the political wilderness of the 1930s, and Konrad Adenauer at the monastery of Maria Laachs as a refugee from Nazism. It was this detachment which was to enable him to time to perfection the moment when, as he phrased it, “I would release the deus ex machina, in other words make my entrance.”
He had also grown old, resentfully—for, as he had remarked of Pétain, “Old age is a shipwreck.” As far back as 1948, ten years previously, Janet Flanner had commented unkindly: “Time, weight, and, evidently, the General’s glands are giving his visage a heavy, royal outline; he looks more like a man of dynasty than of destiny”. In order to preserve his deteriorating eyesight, he had given up smoking, but had still had to undergo recently an operation for cataract. This gave him a kind of agoraphobia, and made him uncertain in public without spectacles at hand. The belly had sagged, the face was greyer, the voice had lost something of its resonance. He was sixty-seven. But, as he had flatteringly been told by a youth movement delegate on the day Gaillard fell, “Stalin was older than you!” By the beginning of 1958 he may have seemed to the world at large a forgotten man, a legend but no longer a potential saviour of France; however, over all the years he himself had not abandoned the belief that France would call for him one day. He had not for a moment doubted “that the infirmity of the system would sooner or later lead to a grave national crisis”. But there had been times when, after so many years in the wilderness, the flame of hope flickered low. As late as April 1958, resorting to the majestic third person singular in which he habitually referred to himself, he had remarked gloomily to Delbecque: “They will create a burnt earth, they will wait until there is nothing left before calling for de Gaulle! I shall never come back to power in my lifetime.”
In response to the importuning of the Gaullist conspirators, their pressure mounting powerfully since the fall of Gaillard, he had remained characteristically aloof and enigmatic. France would have to want him very badly. Hints had been dropped; in January he told Tournoux that he considered the French government to be no longer legitimate, in that “it could no longer assure either its defence, or the security of its territory”—a clear reference to Algeria, for those who wished to find one. His price for returning, clearly implied, was the complete replacement of the system of the Fourth Republic; he would only come back if a vast majority of the French nation wanted him; he would not come back as the prisoner of any one faction, especially not on the bayonets of the army. Apart from this, all the rest was pure conjecture—and ambiguity. In despair at the state of France, pressed by the perils of the moment, his supporters permitted themselves to read into the delphic utterances what each wanted for himself. Over Algeria the ambiguity was particularly pronounced—the source of much heart-searching in the years to come. In the Second World War days in North Africa, Harold Macmillan recalls of de Gaulle that his “whole purpose” was to “sustain the spirit of France and to preserve the integrity of the French Empire”. But by France’s non-white subjects he was also revered as the “man of Brazzaville” in memory of his historic speech there of January 1944, when he declared that it would be French policy “to lead each of the colonial peoples to a development that will permit them to administer themselves and, later, to govern themselves….” He viewed “integrity of the French Empire” as an adjunct—and therefore secondary—to the mystic grandeur of France, rather than something with any more practical value in itself. That elephantine memory, unforgetting and unforgiving, had unhappiest memories of the Pétainist establishment in wartime Algiers; he had little instinctive sympathy with the self-made grands colons, any more than he could identify himself with the aspirations and anxieties of the petits blancs. After an interview with him in 1958, Edmond Michelet and Maurice Schumann both came away with the impression that de Gaulle’s desire for peace went as far as being prepared to “do a deal” with the F.L.N.; to an astonished Austrian journalist close to the F.L.N., Artur Rosenberg, he had declared in April, “Certainly Algeria will be independent.” Meanwhile, the army, Soustelle and the rest were convincing themselves that de Gaulle would stand unfalteringly for Algérie française. Louis Joxe, one of de Gaulle’s closer confidants, was perhaps nearer to the truth when he noted in conversation with de Gaulle shortly before h
is return to power that “he spoke of everything but Algeria—because he didn’t want to come back for Algeria only”. As Brian Crozier aptly remarks in his biography of de Gaulle: “For the army and the settlers, Algérie française was all; for him, it was only one element in the complex picture of his deferred ambitions….”
9 May: Salan’s telegram
In the midst of all the plotting, the news on 9 May of the execution of the three French soldiers hit over-excited Algiers like a whip across the face. The spontaneous pied noir reaction was, “So these are the kind of assassins Pflimlin wants to negotiate with…!” The army was enraged and outraged. It was the last blow that it could take. Already earlier that day General Salan, who had hitherto turned a prudently cold front equally to the clamour of “The Group of Seven” and to the manoeuvrings of the Gaullist “antenna”, had despatched a long telegram to General Ely, the Chief of the General Staff, in Paris.
The present crisis [it began] shows that the political parties are profoundly divided over the Algerian question. The Press permits one to think that the abandonment of Algeria would be envisaged in the diplomatic processes which would begin with negotiations aiming at a “cease-fire”….
The army in Algeria is troubled by recognition of its responsibility towards the men who are fighting and risking a useless sacrifice if the representatives of the nation are not determined to maintain Algérie française….
The French army, in its unanimity, would feel outraged by the abandonment of this national patrimony. One cannot predict how it would react in its despair….
I request you to bring to the attention of the President of the Republic our anguish, which only a government firmly determined to maintain our flag in Algeria can efface.
It was a clear-cut ultimatum. Virtually for the first time since Napoleon’s coup of the 18th Brumaire a French army was about to intervene directly in national politics.
Lacoste leaves
Salan followed up this telegram by announcing that, on 13 May, there would be a ceremony at the monument aux morts to render homage to the three dead soldiers, and requested that the anciens combattants organisations should take part. That evening, accompanied by Generals Jouhaud, Allard and Massu, as well as Admiral Auboyneau commanding the Mediterranean fleet, Salan presented himself to Lacoste to show him the telegram. That same day Lacoste had come under heavy pressure from Sérigny to publish a signed article in the Écho calling for a committee of public safety. At first Lacoste appeared favourably inclined; but overnight his Socialist principles asserted themselves, and on the 10th he informed Sérigny that what he asked was tantamount to requiring him to break with the Socialist party; and that was “as if you were asking me to leave my wife after thirty-two years of marriage”. Instead, Lacoste promised that he would personally convey the request to the President of the Republic, “since that is just about all that’s left”. His last words were, “Avoid violence.” Then Lacoste left Algiers, like a thief in the night, in marked contrast to the flamboyant departure of his predecessor, Soustelle, saying that he would return after his consultations with President Coty, but sensing that he never would.[3] Behind him he left the ruins of the never-to-be-enacted loi-cadre, and all the aspirations of his twenty-seven months in office. In Algiers there was now no governor-general; in Paris, no government. A chasm gaped enticingly.
Pflimlin hopes: Lagaillarde decides
With Bidault, Pinay, Mollet and Pleven all having failed even to form a new ministry, Pflimlin was hopefully awaiting his investiture by the Assembly on the night of 13 May. Already on the 8th Sérigny had remarked to Soustelle and Delbecque that, if this were to happen, “We are lost,’ and this was one factor with which all the various conspirators agreed as the temperature mounted. Disappointed by Lacoste’s tergiversation on the 10th, Sérigny (always in consultation with Soustelle) was pushed into committing a desperate editorial act. On the 11th, a Sunday, he printed in the Écho’s weekly sister, Dimanche Matin, an unequivocal call to de Gaulle to intervene, under the clarion headline PARLEZ, … PARLEZ VITE, MON GÉNÉRAL. Coming from such a long-standing Pétainist, the article had—in Sérigny’s own words—“the effect of a bomb in Algeria”. Delbecque and the Gaullists were delighted by this powerful acquisition to their cause, but the “Seven” were thrown into a turmoil. On the evening of the 12th a meeting was held in Dr Lefèvre’s villa. The Chergui, the wind from the desert that exacerbates passions and distorts reason, had been blowing for two days. Amid an atmosphere tense with febrile rumours, the pied noir leaders allowed themselves to be persuaded—wrongly—that Delbecque was all set to launch a coup in the name of de Gaulle the night following the morrow’s demonstrations, and before Pflimlin could be sworn in. Therefore the Gaullists had to be beaten to it.
Lagaillarde, the student prince and no doubt with the image of his martyred ancestor before his eyes, now stepped forward.
Tomorrow [he declared], I am going to seize the radio and the Gouvernement-Général, and I shall throw the files out of the windows. We shall perhaps be shot up, but Salan will be obliged to take power. As for me, I swear that I shall not leave the demonstration before getting into Lacoste’s office!
A majority of the “Seven” supported Lagaillarde. Enter Nez-de-Cuir on one of his liaison rounds. When informed of Lagaillarde’s intention, the colonel was horrified and told the “Seven” that they were “madmen”. The next morning he repeated his warning, adding, “The army will fire on you…. You will lose Algeria through your folly.”
To which Martel retorted: “You can’t fire on us. And at least you will have been informed.”
One of the surprising aspects of the “spontaneous” events of 13 May is that so many people were informed about what was going to happen, and nothing was done to stop it. On the 12th, the correspondent of Le Figaro had cabled back to Paris: “It is probable that tomorrow afternoon the Gouvernement-Général will be invaded by the mob.” Returning from Paris that same day, the former secretary-general of the Algiers police, Paul Teitgen, warned an impassively disbelieving Salan of the impending invasion, telling him that the paras would do nothing to stop it. He then sent a warning to Pflimlin, via the curiously circuitous route of the United States consul-general, the State Department and the Quai d’Orsay. But by the time it reached Paris it would be too late in any case.
13 May
The monument aux morts squats, like some hideous Aztec sacrificial altar, at the top of flights of steep steps. These, descending, lead through the gardens of the Plateau des Glières which bisect the centre of Algiers, and eventually to the sea. Just above it towers the Gouvernement-Général, a great white sepulchre of a modern building, adorned in its entrance by a bust of Marianne, a reminder of the authority of the republic. Surrounded by protective railings, it looks out on to the vast open space known officially as the Place Georges-Clemenceau, but more familiarly as the Forum, normally a parking area, and a favourite rendezvous of children on roller-skates. It was at 6 o’clock on Tuesday the 13th that General Salan was due to lay the army’s wreath on the monument in memory of the three executed soldiers. In preparation, European Algiers had imposed on itself a total shutdown. All through the morning pied noir farmers from the Mitidja, whipped in by Martel, poured into the city. Cars raced through the streets, sounding out on their horns the now familiar tattoo of AL-GÉR-IE FRANÇAISE. The university had been thoroughly organised by Lagaillarde, and a special “commando” detailed to stand by in readiness outside the railings of the “G—G”. Shortly after midday Lagaillarde appeared at the Otomatic (now recovered from its bombing of the previous year) and announced dramatically to the students there: “From now on I consider myself an insurgent.” By early afternoon the Rue Michelet and its tributaries were a solid mass of demonstrators and banners, an estimated 20,000 strong (Salan says 100,000). As passions rose, a first victim—ritualistically as in almost every civil upheaval since 1945—was the American Cultural Centre, sacked by an angry detachment of pieds noirs. At about
4 o’clock the dense crowds thronging the approaches to the monument parted like the waters of the Red Sea as a grim-faced Lagaillarde, clad in full para regalia, strode through. Preceding him was a personal bodyguard of four tough-looking Muslim harkis in battle kit and carrying sub-machine-guns.
Arriving at the monument, Lagaillarde leaped nimbly up on to the plinth and, flanked by other leaders of the “Seven”, vehemently harangued the crowd: “Are you going to let Algérie française be sold down the river? Will you allow traitors to govern us? Will you go to the end of the line to keep Algérie française?” The massed pieds noirs roared back their responses. It was abundantly clear that Lagaillarde had them completely under his spell by the time Salan and his party reached the scene. Accompanied by shouts of “L’armée au pouvoir!” “Massu au pouvoir!”, Salan laid his wreath; the crowd observed respectfully a minute of silence, then joined him in a frenetic singing of the Marseillaise. Now, immediately after Salan had departed, Lagaillarde took over with a shout of: “Let’s go! Everybody to the ‘G—G’ against this rotten regime!” The mob surged up to the Forum, led by Lagaillarde’s “commando” some five hundred strong. The C.R.S. fired a few gas canisters, then retreated behind the railings of the “G—G”. Conspicuous by their absence were Trinquier’s paras, who had ruled the streets of the Casbah so ruthlessly the previous year; when they did arrive they stood by apathetically, much as Teitgen had predicted the previous day, without doing anything to prevent what was impending. As stones shattered the windows of the imposing edifice, Lagaillarde’s storm troops brought up a truck and rammed the iron grille gates. Lacoste’s military adviser, Ducournau, tried to temporise with Lagaillarde, telling him “You’re mad, you’ll wreck everything!” But the mob surged on into the building, hurling down the bust of Marianne in the foyer. In a matter of moments Lagaillarde was realising his ambition of the night before. Students appeared at every window, flinging out sheaves of documents and dossiers. Standing on the roof of the central balcony that was to become the focus of world attention over the next few days, Lagaillarde was greeted in the midst of this snowstorm by wildest applause. A kind of euphoria seized the crowd, and was to hold it in its grip for many days to come.
A Savage War of Peace Page 41