Along the road, dense, reeking hovels transitioned to gleaming white buildings, exotic in their combination of Algerian and French art deco architecture. The road widened into an avenue lined with palm trees, Boulevard de Mascarad on the map. Mosques with soaring minarets, cathedrals, and stolid government buildings loomed over housing and markets.
Still no people, though. Oran appeared to be a ghost town.
Then a Berber boy emerged from a tenement and froze. Gaping at the tanks in wonder, the kid threw Austin a fascist salute and yelled, “God bless George Washington!”
Apparently, he didn’t know if the invading force was American or German and had decided to cover all the bases.
The commander smiled and flashed him a victory sign with his hand.
Then he glanced at his map. “Driver, right stick at the next intersection.” The Boulevard Paul Doumer.
“Roger, Boss. Hope we get there soon. We’re running on fumes.”
As Boomer turned the corner, Austin heard the music.
Boissau’s headquarters was located at the eastern edge of a large public square. There, a military band played a rousing march as if the American gasoline cowboys were visiting dignitaries and not an invading army.
A platoon of African soldiers with rifles fixed with yard-long bayonets flanked the arched entrance, where a group of French officers waited.
“What do you want to do?” Russo asked him.
“Wait, one.” Austin switched to RADIO. “Bears 3 Actual, this is Bears 3-5. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Looks like some kind of welcoming committee. Park right out front like you own the place, Five. Out.”
“Roger that, out. Shorty, you heard the man.”
“All Bears 3, deploy on Boomer,” Whitley ordered.
The column slowed to a halt in a line with their guns facing the French headquarters. The armored infantry dismounted from their halftracks and trucks and fanned out to cover.
The lieutenant leaned on Betty’s hatch frame and waved at the French officers. “How do you do, gentlemen?”
The officers saluted and waited for him to return it. A grizzled colonel called out in heavily accented English, “Welcome to Oran. You will wait here.”
“What are we waiting for?” Whitley called back to the French.
“General Boissau is negotiating an armistice with your commander.”
With that, the officers turned on their heels and withdrew into their headquarters, leaving the African troops coolly sizing up the Americans with slitted eyes.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Whitley. Then he grinned. “Bears 3 to Bears Actual… Cap’, the Frogs here say they’re on the phone with General Fredendall. I think they’re surrendering.”
Russo said, “We just seized a city. Is that cool or what?”
“Bears 3, the captain says to remain in place,” the lieutenant said. “We’re not to shoot unless somebody shoots at us first.”
“Roger,” Austin said. “Boys, you heard the LT. Stay in place until the big wheels make a deal.”
“Can we open the doors, Boss?”
The commander thought about it. “Yeah. Let’s be friendly. Swanson, secure the gun.”
Russo and Clay raised their hatches and seats to scan the area.
Clay leaned into his .30-cal. “Contact.”
“Relax, bog,” Austin said. “It’s just cits.” Cits, short for citizens. Civilians.
People were emerging from the buildings around the square for a closer look at the American show of force. Berbers, mostly, men in white robes and red fez hats and their veiled women, along with a handful of their French masters.
Clay released his hold on the MG. “I really thought today was the day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” the bog sulked. “Forget it.”
Austin shook his head, sorry he’d asked.
“Vive l’Amerique!” one of Frenchmen called out. Others echoed the shout.
“Wow,” the driver said. “Do you hear that, Boss? They love us.”
Swanson surfaced from his hatch and looked around. “I’ll be damned.”
The citizens of Oran lost their timidity as their numbers grew into crowds. Soon, around the M4s, they milled in their native garb and suits and dresses, smiling and handing out tangerines.
Swanson accepted a cigarette from one of the locals and took a puff. “It ain’t that bad.”
“You’ll smoke anything,” Russo said.
The loader pulled off his helmet and slicked back his thick black hair, eyeing up the French beauties. “Right now, I’ll fuck anything.”
“Swanson,” Austin growled.
“I can look, can’t I? Or is that not allowed too, Sergeant Killjoy?”
A bearish man in a fez hat appeared in front of the bog and launched into some grand speech in French.
“What’s he saying?” Clay asked. “Shorty, you speak Italian. Isn’t it similar?”
The driver giggled. “I think he’s the mayor. He wants to surrender Oran.”
Clay shot Austin a panicked glance. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him, ‘Sure, pal.’”
Clay leaned out of the hatch to shake the man’s hand, and to the kid’s credit, he gave it all the diplomatic gravity he could muster. “I accept your surrender.”
“Oui,” Russo translated for the man.
“C’est merveilleux!” the mayor yelled.
“What’s that mean?” Clay asked.
“Wait a minute, mister,” said Russo. “Did you say, ‘C’est merveilleux’?”
The man nodded, his fez bobbing. “C’est merveilleux! Oui! Très bien!”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Jeez. What a weird custom. You’re in for it now, Eugene.”
“What?” Clay demanded. “You told me to say it!”
“He says now you have to take him to America with you.”
“What?”
Russo chuckled as French women threw hibiscus flowers in the air like confetti. The colorful petals fluttered across Boomer’s front deck. “Take it easy, I’m just kidding.”
Austin couldn’t help but laugh too.
Wade’s head popped up from the loader’s hatch. “Wow, look at all this.”
A gang of French officers exited the headquarters and addressed the crowd. Bells tolled across the city, drowning them out. The people broke into wild cheering.
“Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3,” Whitley said over the radio. “All units stand down and say howdy to our new allies.”
“I guess that’s it,” Austin said. “Peace.”
The operation was over. He couldn’t believe it.
“What now, Boss?”
He had no idea. “Wait for orders, I guess. I expect we’ll be shipping out to invade France at some point, but that could take a while.”
“We’ll be in Tunisia fighting the Germans in no time,” Wade said.
Swanson snorted. “For somebody who’s supposed to be smart, you don’t know anything. The Brits are gonna take that shithole. We’re sitting pretty.”
“Africa is Europe’s back door. Hitler isn’t going to let us just take it. He’ll gamble and send everything he’s got to Tunisia, which, if you ever looked at a map, can be easily held if they get to the mountain passes first. The British don’t have enough men to do it on their own.”
Austin frowned. The gunner was talking sense. One thing he’d learned in the U.S. Army, promises didn’t mean anything. Circumstances changed.
Swanson said, “Did we get orders to ship out? Did I miss something?”
“No, I’m just—”
“Then shut your trap, and let’s enjoy this while it lasts.”
“Do you really think they’ll send us to Tunisia?” Clay asked.
Austin knew the gung-ho kid wanted to go. “We’ll have to see.”