Chapter 42 Chapter Forty-One

A mighty Armada is gathering on the high seas towards North Africa.Never since the Imperial Japanese Fleet dispatched to Midway had the great oceans of the earth been loaded with such a large sea power, and before that time, never in all history.Aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, troop transports, and fancy landing craft loaded with skiffs, tanks, trucks, and mobile guns; destroyers, minesweepers, submarines, and miscellaneous supply ships; An endless array of warships, horrific in shape, different in size, some painted gray, and some painted in gaudy cover colors, slowly crawled on the surface of the planet's sea water.From the British Isles they swarmed south, and from North America they sailed eastward, launching an attack across the seas of a scale and a voyage never before seen.The intelligence agencies of the Axis powers knew nothing of all this.Speculation at a dinner table on the island of Corsica was echoed aboard Hitler's Yuanjun train bound for the Nazi Party Congress in Munich.Although this big attack was launched in a democratic country full of tongues, it managed to keep it as strictly secret as the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

winston.Churchill concluded his impassioned speech after Dunkirk with a vow to continue fighting "until the hour God has appointed when the new world rises in all its might to rescue and liberate the old." Now, two and a half years later, it has become a fact, Churchill's rhetoric has become a grand and solemn reality: the arrival of a nascent sea force, backed by increasingly powerful American technology, bringing in battle-hardened The British Army and the first newly recruited American athletes.If there can be a little romance in industrialized warfare, this is a romance hour. "Operation Torch" is coming soon.

Although there were not a few people like Patton among these American invaders, as far as the tasks they were performing were concerned, they couldn't help but feel ashamed of that set of Churchillian eloquence.Professional soldiers are willing to accept the test of war and take technical risks.If this were not the case, both the generals and the little soldiers would regard "Operation Torch" and the whole war as a dirty job and quit quickly.george.Marshall was not at all in favor of "Operation Torch" as a replacement for a large-scale landing in France. The commander-in-chief of this expeditionary force himself was a novice on the world stage named Dwight Eisenhower. The decision "may go down in history as the darkest day ever".Having said that, he and his staff have received orders and have a clear division of labor.

It is a good thing to wish for more benefits for one's own side, although it is not romantic; if it can be done without bloodshed, that would be even better.So someone came up with the idea of ​​assigning a well-known French general to the Anglo-American alliance to act as a decoration, so as to induce the Vichy troops stationed in North Africa to not resist and completely ignore their rule by the Germans. government orders.Thus began a comedy no less than that of a farce writer on the boulevards of Paris, only with higher stakes. Here's a harmonica in the boom of the gunfire, Byron.Henry happened to be involved.Therefore, it is necessary to briefly explain to the readers what is going on with this farce.

London had a ready-made Charles de Gaulle who could fill the role of such a general in helmet, and he was already there as the mouthpiece of "Free France", calling on his countrymen to rebel against the conqueror.The trouble with this man de Gaulle is that none of the Vichy government's army and navy generals did not hate him.Even the Resistance Movement didn't like him very much.The anti-enemy rhetoric from a London hotel suite did not appeal to him in France at such a time.Another candidate the Allies turned to was Henry.Jilaud.Giraud fought very well against Germany in 1940, was defeated and captured, and escaped from a German prison.At this time, he was living in France. The plan of the Allies was to find him, smuggle him from his hermitage to the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, board an Allied submarine, and sail to Gibraltar to join Eisenhower.

It was an intricate plan of action, and Giraud made it even more complicated during the secret meeting.General Giraud was a mother-in-law when it came to matters of decency.The British navy had bombarded a French fleet early in the war to keep it from falling into German hands.Henry.Giraud refused to let a British submarine come to rescue him.But at this time, only a few submarines can fly the British flag.In order to pick up the Frenchman, an American captain had to serve as the nominal commander of a British submarine, coupled with several American officers, to make a fake show.The British captain and his crew, of course, steered the ship as usual; the Americans were only passengers, but they had to pretend to be busy.The "American" submarine completed its mission, picked up General Giraud off the coast near Toulon, and sent him to Gibraltar.

Giraud in Gibraltar - Let me finish with Giraud's great deeds before I get to Byron.Henry played a small role in it - was invited to meet Eisenhower in the cave at the Commander in Chief's headquarters, and he quietly expressed his gratitude to the Commander in Chief of the United States for everything he had done up to this point, and told Eisenhower Say, he, Henry.Giraud is now about to be removed from his position as commander-in-chief, and he himself will preside over the attack on North Africa.This incident took place less than forty-eight hours before the attack, when four hundred and fifty ships of all sizes were sailing to the landing beach. The details of this extraordinary secret conversation have not been recorded later. What we can learn is that Jilaude couldn't listen to the other party's opinion at all.He insisted on taking top command to save his face.But Eisenhower ignorantly declined the request for removal from office.The Frenchman has been depressed ever since, and he is indifferent to offensive operations.

As it turned out later, the Allies were not without him.Within hours of the landings beginning, Admiral Darlan fell into the hands of the invading forces.The man was the most powerful Vichy figure in the territory of north-east Africa, notable mainly for his unusual hatred of Britain, America and the Jews.The invading force held a dagger to his neck, forcing him to play the role of Giraud.He did a good job of stabilizing the French army, stopping sporadic spontaneous resistance, and establishing order under the administration of the Allies.Whether he is willing or unwilling, Darlan finally managed to greatly reduce the deaths of American and British officers and soldiers.

There was a prolonged shout in the Allied press against the unscrupulous use of such a scoundrel.A political storm arose from this.General Eisenhower contemplated resigning, and President Roosevelt endured a day-to-day press attack that was harsher than usual.Later, it was only because of another god-sent opportunity in the war that the storm was over.Darlan was shot and killed by an idealistic French youth.After a while, the Casablanca Conference was held. General Giraud could not resist all kinds of coaxing and persuasion, and took pictures with Churchill, Roosevelt, and de Gaulle with a sullen face.That's why we can see the face of this decent man today.He is tall and thin.But not as tall and thin as de Gaulle.The one with the bigger beard is him.

It was at the time of the frequent correspondence for Giraud's decency, Byron.Henry was involved.Oddly enough, his experience on the submarine had nothing to do with it.He drifted and turned like a cork in a swift-flowing stream, turning back and forth between Gibraltar and Marseilles, ignorant of the impetus, and had been entrusted with the task purely Because he is a person who has been approved to serve as a top secret mission in the United States.Gibraltar was constantly short of American couriers; the imminent attack was especially shorthanded.Since Byron met the Tudsbury father and daughter, he has been ordered to travel several times for this purpose. Although he has never been to Marseilles during those business trips, he has contacted the consulate through letters and telephones in order to inquire about Natalie's whereabouts.

Like everyone on this seaside cliff, he knew that a big move was imminent.The buzzing of wires reverberated throughout the base, the ever-increasing mass of warships and combat aircraft, the condescending presence of high-ranking officials, each bringing a swarm of pretentious staff, all of which Reminds him of Pearl Harbor on the eve of Midway.But where the target was, Africa, Sardinia, southern France or even Italy, Byron did not know.He had never heard of a Henry.General Giraud.Even now no one has spoken to him about this man.At eight o'clock in the morning, he was oily, trying to revive a dead air compressor in an old submarine moored next to the Maidstone; Putting on clean civilian clothes, again with the chain of the courier's briefcase on his wrist, and with his diplomatic passport in his pocket, he set off for Marseilles. He hadn't heard from Leslie for more than two months.Slots of paper and words.He asked the Marseille consulate again and again, but there was still no news.This time he went in person, so he wanted to find out.His instructions were to hand over the locked briefcase to one of the vice-consuls, wait for a code to call back, and bring it back quickly when he got it.He figured that he would have time to find a few people and make some inquiries.And so he finally found Natalie, though the last link was purely accidental.If she had not left Italy, and if he himself had not come to Gibraltar, such a reunion would not have been possible, but it was luck that the hurricane separation was bridged. He arrived at the consulate in cold pouring rain, untied the chain, and handed the briefcase to the vice-consul.The vice-consul's name is Sam.Jones, an indescribable face, matched with an indescribable costume; a piece of inconspicuous, good material that is just right for handling military intelligence without anyone noticing.Byron took off his dripping raincoat and asked Jones, "Lucius, is Babbage still here?" "Luke. Babbage? Of course. What?" "I'm going to talk to him. How long can I stay here?" Jones's face was lined and suspicious at the moment, which belied his plain features; the intelligence officer was peering through the shriveled vice-consul's coat. "You've got plenty of time. Luke's office is just down this corridor. There's a frosted glass door." Inside the frosted glass door is a thin-faced woman with gray hair tightly tied in a hairnet, sitting at a desk full of official documents and forms, typing away.The waiting room was packed with refugees, most of whom seemed to have been sitting there for days.The secretary gave him a icy look, which turned into a charming smile when she caught sight of his face and the American jacket and slacks he wore as a messenger .He passed her without any trouble, and went to meet Babbage. In an office inside, a life-size President Roosevelt and Cordell were cast in pale, dim light from wide windows.Hull on two framed photographs; also illuminated on one frame of "George.Washington Crossing the Delaware on a poor replica.A fat, bald man with a ruddy complexion stood up behind the desk and shook hands with Byron, his blue eyes shone brightly through the gold-rimmed glasses, "Lieutenant Henry, huh? I remember your letter, Lieutenant. I also remember your letter Few calls. Gibraltar line sucks. Famous family in America, last name Henry. Is it Patrick's family? Haha! Submarine officer, yes? My son tried to join the navy, but didn't make it. Bad eyesight .He's in the Air Force now, doing logistics. What's the situation over there in Gibraltar? I know it's fun to be a courier, but I think you should be in the Pacific. Well, sit down, sit down." Lucius.Babbage asked Byron when he was last back in the States and if he had been to any major softball league.Rocking on his creaky swivel chair, he thought the clamor for the drafting of softball stars like DiMaggio and Feller might be agitated by suspicious people.Millions of workers are producing aircraft and tanks, and there are so many big players who give these workers a break, what's wrong with that, why should they be driven to carry rifles and roll mud, making the big league team full of conscripts Disqualified or ineligible guy?While Babbage was making fun of the coconut elm, his two bulging eyes were watching carefully through the gold wire, and the back of his hand was constantly rubbing his chin and forehead, which was shaved like a priest. Son. "By the way!" said Babbage, his tone changed as if he had flipped a switch. "I remember that it was your wife you wanted to inquire about. Could you please tell me the story again, Save me from digging out your letters again? There's another uncle, isn't there?" "Yes, his name is Ellen. Jastrow, a writer," said Byron. "My wife's name is Natalie. Byron. Mrs. Henry. My son is called Louise, a child in his arms. I don't know what happened to them, but I have reason to believe that they may be in or near Marseilles. " Babbage kept nodding from beginning to end, with a noncommittal smile on his face. "Are they Americans?" "certainly." "Do you have all your passports?" "yes." "Then what are they still doing in the free zone? We sent everyone back long ago." "So they haven't come here yet/'Babbage pulled out a yellow legal pad from the drawer and picked up a pen in his left hand. With a gracious smile on his face, he nodded to Byron, Eyes narrowed into slits." Tell me all about it while you're here?When and where did you last know where they were, etc.?The more I know, the more thoroughly I can investigate. " There was an instinct telling Byron to tread carefully. "Jastrow has been living and writing in Siena since he retired from Yale. Natalie was his secretary. They got stuck there when we went to war. So—" "Let me interrupt you right here, Lieutenant, all the Americans who were placed under intensive care in Italy have been exchanged in May." Babbage raised his left hand, held the pen, and smiled when he spoke, his hands Keep reading. "So now they should be home, no problem." "Yeah, I was in the Pacific. I don't know what happened, but they weren't swapped." "It's weird." "I don't know who was the last to hear that they're trying to come to France." "You mean to come illegally." "I don't really know of any other specific circumstances." "What was her uncle's name?" "Jastrow." "Please spell it out." "JASTR-Ow" "A famous writer?" "One of his books was selected by the Book of the Month Club." "Famous enough. What book is that?" "A Jew's Jesus." This immediately aroused Babbage's reaction.His smile disappeared, his eyebrows were raised high, his eyes sparkled. "Oh, he's Jewish?" "It's breaking Jewish rules." "There are not many Jews who don't obey. The problem is that he belongs to this nation, doesn't he?" After a short break, he smiled a little complacently. "Is your wife too?" "Yes, she too." "You're not, I can tell." "right." The writing left hand stopped.Babbage nodded politely, blinked his eyes, stood up and walked to the outside room, "Please wait half a second." He went for five minutes, and Byron looked at Washington, Roosevelt, Hall and the street. On the opposite side was a row of dark, weather-beaten houses.Babbage came back and sat down behind his desk, clasping his hands over his chest. "No, they're not in Marseilles. There's no record of them being anywhere that wasn't occupied by the Germans. Have you checked with the International Red Cross? They're Jewish, and he's writing that kind of book, and they probably Sent to an Italian concentration camp." "Could they have reached Toulon, or Algiers? Do you know?" "If they had gone and reported it to the American consulate, I should have known. I keep a register of all Americans in the area. But if they're trying to cross the border in France illegally—well, we hope they don't. , Lieutenant. The French police are very cruel to absconded Jews." He smiled cheerfully. "But I don't understand why they would do something stupid like that, if they have all the papers. Do you?" "Yes." Byron stood up abruptly. "Indeed, this is a rare situation." Babbage wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "You're on a submarine, and your wife is working for her uncle, who writes left-leaning books, and now—" "What? "Jesus of a Jew" has nothing left-leaning at all." Byron also ignored the honest impatience in his tone. "It's a work of history, and it's brilliant." "Oh? Very well, I must read it then. I thought it was some kind of cliché about my Lord Jesus being a revolutionary. That's what the old leftist line is, isn't it?" "Thank you." Byron strode out, suffocated, and came all the way from Australia to such an unfortunate end: the stone wall of a bureaucratic office in the Marseille consulate exudes vile The stench of anti-Semitic mold.He had the addresses of a Quaker relief agency and a Jewish committee with him, and though it was still raining, he decided to walk to vent his anger.He had last been to Marseilles in 1939, in the days when he had dropped out of his graduate studies in Florence and wandered about, and he still has happy memories of that time, the dazzling array of windows on the Boulevard Canebiere. The goods and seafood restaurants displayed here, as well as the loud and happy people here, are very different from the gloomy French elsewhere.Rain or shine, good or bad luck, Marseilles had given him joy. It becomes much more.People look haggard, sleepy, poor.The long, wide, quiet Carnebier Boulevard is devoid of any pedestrians except for passing cars, as if it has been ravaged by a plague.In the rain-soaked window, only a few dusty goods could be seen, such as poorly made clothes, worthless Vichy propaganda books, and cardboard suitcases.The famous food market has shrunk horribly.The butchers' stalls that were closed without the bars sold the hideous offal of tails, ears, intestines, lungs, and the like, congealed with blackened dead blood.As for the vegetables for sale, there are only a few that are sparse, withered, and that look like they have worms.No fruit at all.The strange thing is that even the fish can't be seen.All the famous fish stalls that used to be filled with wet, shiny fish with sparkling eyes fresh from the sea, and all kinds of seashells matted with seaweed, are all out of business now.It was clear at a glance that the cancer of the German occupation was eating Marseilles. Outside the Quaker office, Byron encountered a large group of children crowded on the rain-fed sidewalk, blocking the gate; dozens of children, ranging from toddlers to fourteen or fifteen years old , curled up under the dripping umbrella.Inside the house, the typewriter blared incessantly amidst a cacophony of high-pitched French.A fat American lady tends the children in a line, and she tells Byron she has no time for him; Congress passes a special resolution authorizing the admission of 5,000 Jewish children to America: No Parents, Just Children, Quakers This group of children should be collected as soon as possible, fearing that Vichy would change his mind and refuse to let them go, fearing that the Germans would snatch them and transport them to the East, and fearing that a new obstacle in the State Department would prevent them from leaving.Knowing that he couldn't accomplish anything here, Byron turned around and left. The name of the Jewish office has the word "fellowship" on it, and it's on another street.The first two Frenchmen he went up to ask directions slipped away without saying a word.He looked for someone again and again before he found out the way.While he was asking for directions, he passed the house where Rabinowitz hid his wife and son; it was just another dank, gray four-story apartment house , many neighborhoods in Marseille are full of such houses.He walked past the door, hunched over the rain, and just missed it, missed his chance, like two submarines passing silently by inches from each other in the darkness of the ocean below. Unknowingly the same. The small anteroom of the Jewish office was packed, and a sunken-eyed young woman was pounding her typewriter like a madman at a desk, but Byron could not get near her; The front row formed a long queue, and this long snake circled around the room, and when it met people sitting on chairs or standing idle, they would go around it, and some people were carrying torn travel bags, and they talked about the world. All the languages ​​(maybe Byron thought so) but no one spoke English.The hearts of this group of people are full of sorrow and fear, which can be seen in their faces and heard in their voices.Byron stood against the wall, not knowing how to find someone to connect with.A fat, dark-skinned young man in a military raincoat came out from a door behind the desk, looked around hastily, and squeezed out towards the gate.He stopped in front of Byron and said, "Hi." This monosyllabic American word is as clear as a bell.Byron also replied to him: "Hi" "Are there any problems?" "That's what happened." "I'm Joe Schwartz." "I am Henry. Lieutenant Byron." The man raised his thick black eyebrows. "Have you had lunch yet?" "No." "Ever tried the gravy couscous?" "No." "Delicious, steamed wheat cake." "Row." Schwartz led him a block to what appeared to be a tailor's shop, or at least in the narrow gray window a naked mannequin with no head and a yawning one next to it. s cat.They went through the shop into an inner room where customers were eating at small tables covered with oilcloths.An unshaven man in a round cap brought them couscous, a flour cake eaten with vegetables, and a bowl of heavily spiced gravy.This time Byron acted on his instinct again and told the stranger all about him, including everything he refused to disclose to the American consul.Schwartz ate with relish and kept nodding. "Leslie. Sloter. Berne. Thin guy with blond hair and fair skin," he said. "I know him. Clever. Nervous, very neurotic, but he's a good guy. Babbage's a bad guy. There's good and bad in Marseilles. It all depends on him. There's a few good guys, The man you're looking for here is Jim Gaisel." "Who is Gaisel?" "Consul General. But he's not here now. He's at Vichy on business." "I have to go back to Gibraltar today." "In that case, maybe you could call him, or write him." "What do you do?" "I'm looking for thirty typewriters. Typewriters are what the Germans can get; they trade with the French." "What do you want thirty typewriters for?" "The joint office in Lisbon needs it. I work there. The American Consulate in Lisbon has a total of three typewriters. It's unbelievable. We can have enough typewriters from now on, and we have typists who volunteer to help us Fill out the form. That way, if a boat is secured, no Jew will be stranded in Lisbon for lack of typewriters." "If my wife passes through Lisbon, will you know?" "I should know about her uncle." Schwartz seemed to be thinking. "Jesus of a Jew. Who hasn't read it? Listen, Lieutenant. There's a good chance they've been covered by some decent Italian or French. Don't worry." "How bad is it?" "You mean the Jews?" "yes." Joe.Schwartz's speech became low and his face stiffened. "It's bad. The Jews are being slaughtered in the East, that's true, and the French let the Germans send them to the East. But"—he regained his easy-going spirit, and even smiled—"there are Many righteous Christians would risk their lives to save them. There is a way. It's complicated, and we're doing our best. Do you like this couscous? Would you like some tea?" "Very good. Thanks. The couscous is very nice." "What was he like, Ellen Jastrow?" Byron didn't know how to answer. "Very formal work habits. Totally academic." "His books show that too. Instructive. But Jesus of a Jew is a Christian bestseller. What do you say? Flat. Vanilla. Interesting. Christ always had a hard time with Jews. The Crusades, the Inquisition, and now this. Germans are Christians." "I'm a Christian. Or rather I want to be a Christian," Byron said. "I didn't mean to offend you." "No, but there's not a word in Jesus' teaching that you can relate to Hitler." "You're right, but if Jesus hadn't been born, would things like this have happened? Europe is a Christian continent, isn't it? Look, what's going on here? Where's the pope? Remember, Right here in Marseilles there's a Catholic priest who's a saint and single-handedly fighting underground. I just hope the German secret police don't kill him." He glanced at his watch and shook his head. "How do we even talk about this. Jesus of a Jew. No, it's a good book anyway. It shows Jesus from the stained glass, from the big paintings, from the tall cross—he Always dying or dead on there--down from all of that. It paints him as a poor rabbi scholar living among the Jews, a gifted child, a living Jew. This One point is important. Maybe that's enough. Would you like some more tea?" "I have to go to the consulate right away." It was windy and rainy outside, as if there were curtains hanging diagonally.They stopped at the door and turned up their collars."I know where you should go to hire a car," Schwartz said. "I'll walk. Thanks for the lunch. I want to teach you something," Byron said, looking intently at Schwartz. "What can a man like me do?" "You mean for us, for the Jews?" "yes." Thick lines appeared on Schwartz's face again. "Win this war." Byron held out his hand, Joe.Schwartz shook his hand.They parted ways in the rain. Back in Gibraltar, Byron first sent the briefcase to the Allied Forces Headquarters for delivery. By the time he boarded the "Maidstone" ship, he was already exhausted.He was going to collapse on the bunk without undressing, but a telegram spread out on his desk surprised and refreshed him. From: Personnel Bureau Attn: Captain HMS Maidstone Via: Atlantic Telecom Lieutenant Byron Henry, USN Temporarily attached to the Royal Navy Mission ends to San Francisco to USN Moray Bracket Submarine No. 345 Bracket captain check-in full stop approved second class priority boarding plane Esther! Byron had seen a list of newly-built ships and their captains in a recent U.S. Navy bulletin, among them the U.S. Navy's "Moray V Submarine No. 345)-Qatar. W. Este. Lieutenant Commander That's Esther's style, proposing to Naval Personnel Bureau the officers he wants, not taking whatever is given to him. Byron collapsed on his bunk, not to sleep, but to think. A Suddenly there came the prospect of his favorite, electrified excitement; commissioning a new Navy submarine, galloping down with Mrs. Este to compete with the Japanese again. He knew that he could decide when to leave the Maidstone.The sensitive chief hadn't asked for American technicians, didn't need them to look after the submarines, and was vaguely unhappy with the whole arrangement.If this telegram had been received a few days ago, Byron would have packed up his things and started early in the morning.But now that a date has been set for another trip to Marseilles as a courier, he is also determined to take this last trip, in order to meet Consul General Gaisel.Joe.That fellow Schwartz seemed to know the inside story, and he wasn't just talking about it.