Café Wars

by David Lee Corley

  Trinquier was issuing orders to his company commanders when his radioman approached. “Colonel, I’ve picked up a distress call from a pied-noir colony at El-Halia mine twenty kilometers to the east. It seems there has been an explosion. Many settlers were killed and wounded. They are requesting military assistance.”

  “Jesus, can’t these people do anything for themselves?” said Trinquier.

  Trinquier considered for a moment and looked over at Bruno standing nearby. He did not want Bruno around to witness what was going to be required in Philippeville. He turned to the radioman and said, “Tell the miners we will be sending help.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the radioman.

  Trinquier walked over to Bruno and said, “Hell of a morning.”

  “Yeah. Hell is a good word to use,” said Bruno. “Do we know who did it?”

  “We have our suspicions. We will find out,” said Trinquier. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “As you can see, my hands are quite full here with this mess. We just received a distress call from the El-Halia mine complex. I was hoping you could take a platoon up there and investigate.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bruno.

  “Excellent,” said Trinquier.

  It was late in the afternoon when the five truck convoy carrying Bruno and a platoon of paratroopers rolled up the hill toward the El-Halia community. Black smoke rose from the mining complex. The fire inside the mine was yet to be extinguished and would probably burn for several more days until the surviving workers sealed off the entrance and air vents to starve the fire of oxygen.

  The neighborhood next to the mine was quiet. Bruno found it strange that there was nobody on the street, not even children. Communities usually pulled together with families visiting each other for comfort after a disaster such as the one reported. But here… there was nothing… not a soul in sight.

  The first truck pulled to a stop on the edge of the community and Bruno stepped out. He motioned for the sergeant to deploy the men. The paratroopers were formed into six fire teams and moved on to the community streets. Still nothing. The sergeant motioned for a corporal and his team to enter one of the houses.

  The team moved up and the corporal knocked on the front door. There was no answer. He looked back at his sergeant and shrugged. The sergeant motioned for him to be more assertive. The corporal kicked in the front door and the team entered. Two minutes later they came back out. Another shrug from the corporal revealed that the house was empty.

  The paratroopers kicked in doors and entered houses until they finally came upon a door that they couldn’t kick in. They moved around the back of the house and found the back door too was blocked from the inside. They continued around the house until they found a bathroom window. It was too small for anyone on the team to fit through. They called the smallest paratrooper in the platoon to the house, broke the window with the butts of their guns and boosted the small paratrooper in through the opening.

  He fell headfirst into the bathtub under the window. Fortunately, his helmet protected his skull from cracking against the porcelain. He gathered himself and cautiously moved through the house. He saw the problem right away. Someone had stacked all the furniture in the living room up against the front door preventing it from being opened. The same was true with the back door.

  He moved down a hallway and opened the door to each room until he found one that was locked. He kicked it in, breaking the doorframe. He entered. It was dark, the curtains drawn tight. He moved around the end of the bed and saw a European woman huddled with her two small children. She looked terrified like she and her children were going to die. He tried to reassure her that he meant no harm. She asked one simple question, “Muslim?”

  The paratrooper shook his head. She seemed to take a breath but kept her children tight in her arm. “I am going to get help,” he said in French.

  Her eyes went wide again and said, “Muslims?”

  “No,” he said. “No Muslims. I promise.”

  Tears streamed down her face and she heaved out a cry of relief. The paratrooper could not help but feel for the woman. He moved back into the hallway, wiped the tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his uniform and cleared the furniture from the front door.

  Within an hour, Bruno felt he had a pretty clear picture of what had happened in the little community of El-Halia…

  When the dust had cleared from the initial mine explosion, the security guards found the body of the dead sapper. He was clearly North African and the Quran in his pocket demonstrated that he was a practicing Muslim. There were no other identification papers on the man and no way of knowing who, if anybody, had sent him to destroy the mine. But the guards and the pied-noir that gathered around the corpse had already drawn their own conclusions.

  The peaceful relationship between the Muslim miners and the pied-noir miners had been disintegrating over the last year, especially as the cry for Independence increased. The pied-noir were afraid that Independence in a Muslim state would mean the destruction of their way of life and potentially the death of their families. The Muslims had argued that they all could live in peace once the French had gone. The pied-noir believed they knew better.

  The French government had taken the best farms away from Muslim families that had lived on them for generations. The Muslims were compensated but not until after the land was auctioned off at a sharp discount to the colonists as an incentive for settling in Algeria. The Muslims were not allowed to bid on their own farms in a public auction.

  Once Independence was achieved the Muslim families would surely want their land back. The pied-noir had worked hard to improve the land and weren’t about to give it back to the Muslims. It would mean civil war in which the pied-noir militias would be vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

  Fist fights had broken out between the miners and had to be broken up by the mine’s security guards. Things had gotten so bad that the mine owner had demanded that all weapons within the community be locked up until things had settled down. He was the only one with the key.

  In a weekend boxing match sanctioned by the mine as a way to blow off steam the Muslim community pitted their best fighter against the pied-noir’s best fighter. The pied-noir fighter was a mountain of muscle from Northern Germany. He beat the Muslim fighter to a pulp before the referee and three other pied-noir pulled him off the unconscious fighter. The Muslim fighter died two days later.

  The pied-noir were smug. They had made their point. And it was the Muslims that now feared them. So much so, they had blown up the mine with a large portion of the pied-noir inside so they could even the odds in the village. It was obvious to everyone. It was also untrue. The FLN had sent the sapper with the mission to blow up the mine and divide the community. He had succeeded.

  The pied-noir were enraged by the attack and had retaliated against the Muslims killing several in a most brutal manner. The Muslims vastly outnumbered the pied-noir. A mob of over one thousand Muslims descended on the pied-noir community and killed everyone they could find. Only six Pied-Noir families had survived by barricading themselves inside their homes and putting out the fires from the Molotov cocktails hurled through the windows.

  The European woman’s husband tried to sneak out and go for help. He had been caught in the streets and torn apart by the Muslims. She wept over his remains when she finally found what was left of him. It was more than she could take and later that night when she was alone in her home, she hung herself in her kitchen orphaning her two small children.

  Bruno radioed in his report to Trinquier. He told the colonel the story of El-Halia as best as he could piece it together. After the massacre the majority of the Muslims had fled the town and hidden in the hills afraid of French Army reprisals. Slowly, they were coming back and occupying their homes. They were very wary of the paratroopers that patrolled their streets. The Muslims’ anger had turned to fear.

  Trinquier repeated t
he words he had been told by Massu, “We cannot let this stand.”

  Bruno knew what he meant. Justice needed to be swift and overwhelming to keep the Muslims from being emboldened and continuing their attacks on the pied-noir community, and to keep the Independence movement from growing.

  Bruno was a patriot and loved his country of which Algeria had been a part for over one hundred years. It was not unlike the American Civil War where a large segment of the country had grown distasteful of the union and wanted to go their separate ways. He believed in democracy and the right to self-determination. They were principles that had made his country the envy of Europe and the world.

  He had fought the Viet Minh in Indochina because they wanted to leave the French Union. Cambodia, Laos, Tunisia and Morocco were in the process or had all already left the union. But Algeria was different. It was considered part of France not just a colony. And now the Algerians too were fighting for their freedom. France was falling apart. It was at war with itself, fighting against the very principles on which the new Republic had been founded.

  Bruno knew that he needed to act quickly if he was going to take action. He avoided letting his desire for a combat command influence his decision. He was not afraid to disobey orders from his superiors if he thought they were unjust or just plain stupid. In fact, Massu and Trinquier were not his commanders. He was still considered an observer. Part of him wanted to go back to Paris and forget this ever happened. But that was a coward’s path and Bruno was no coward.

  As the sun rose the next morning, Bruno issued orders to the platoon to round up as many of the Muslim men as could be found. Within an hour, one hundred and fifty prisoners were herded into the town square.

  The trials were quick, often only lasting a minute or two. Evidence was shallow at best. Blood stains on the hands or shirt were enough to convict a man. Bruno ordered them all to be hanged.

  The women wailed and shrilled their tongues in unison as they watched the French paratroopers carry out Bruno’s orders. Bruno stood at parade rest the entire time with eyes staring straight ahead and his face solemn and unmoving… except for a slight twitch on the left side of his face that he could not control. He was showing the Muslims French justice and determination. He was the face of France.

  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.