Twelve Desperate Miles (16 page)

It was just one of a number of tensions and disputes that had been building between Moroccans and French colonists since the late nineteenth century, when the swapping and partitioning of African lands had begun among European nations. France, which had already assumed control of neighboring Algeria and Tunisia, cast its eye on Morocco in the northwest corner of the continent in the last quarter of the century.

Morocco maintained a shaky independence through the end of the
century, loosely governed by its sultanate, which had been established in Fez way back in the seventeenth century. The Alaouite dynasty became even shakier in the early years of the twentieth century under the rule of Sultan Abdelhafid, whom native Moroccans considered little more than a pawn of French interests.

European horse-trading in North Africa grew intense during these years, primarily through the prodding of Germany, whose colonial aggression in the region prompted France, Great Britain, and Italy toward agreements that would solidify already established interests. Libya became a protectorate of Italy when the Italians agreed to let France dominate in Morocco. Similarly, France agreed to let Britain control Egypt in exchange for keeping hands off its interests in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco.

The French had already established and were developing a number of commercial ties in Morocco. Wool and tea were among the chief exports of the country. The process escalated in the wake of its agreements with the other European powers. As French entrepreneurs, workers, and colonialists began to descend upon the African nation, there were a number of clashes with local residents who felt, quite rightly, that their land was being usurped by Europeans.

The troubles that began in 1907 and prompted the appointment of Marshal Lyautey to the region turned out to be a giant step toward making the sultanate of Morocco an official protectorate of France. That happened in 1912, when the sultan had his arm twisted into signing a treaty with the French government in Fez. At the same time, France made an agreement with Spain, which allowed that country to maintain interests in a sliver of Morocco long controlled by the Spanish, just across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain. Thus the sultanate was divided into two protectorates, French and Spanish Morocco, each of which would turn out to be more linked to its European protectorate than either was to the other. Tangier, located in Spanish Morocco, was left an open city.

Lyautey was named to the post of first resident general of French Morocco. He encouraged an influx of French and European citizenry to
the nation, and they came in droves. The city of Casablanca, a modest port on the Atlantic ocean with a population just over ten thousand, ballooned by 1920 to a modern city of 110,000. Lyautey encouraged and supported civil talent. Education, health, and transportation systems in Morocco were built up or modernized and became widely admired. Aside from constructing the coastal highway system upon which the Americans and Malevergne were now traveling, Lyautey also built the artificial seaport (which would be named for him upon his death in the 1930s) on the River Sebou on the road to Tangier. He also oversaw the construction of the airfield adjacent to the seaport and had it paved so that it became the only concrete-based strip in North Africa.

The native population, however, was far from quiescent at these drastic changes. Tribes in the mountainous regions of north Morocco called the Rif had maintained some degree of autonomy throughout the colonization process. When Spain encroached on these territories in 1921, the Berber tribes in the region organized under the leadership of a Spanish-educated journalist named Abd el-Krim. In a stunning defeat for the European power, just three thousand native fighters routed an army seven times as large, killing eight thousand Spaniards and chasing the remaining thirteen thousand back to the safety of Spanish Morocco’s coastal communities.

The southern portions of the Rif extended into French Morocco. The colonial powers there were made uneasy, to say the least, by the presence of a rebellious force just to the north and established a series of outposts along the southern edge of the Rif. These were periodically attacked and taken over by the forces of Abd el-Krim, which only added to French disquiet. By 1925 the French government, military, and colonial administration had had enough. Marshal Henri Philippe Pétain, the hero of World War I, was sent to Morocco with a large French army that, combined with the Spanish forces that joined it, created an army of 250,000. Soon they were in the field, chasing the Berbers of Abd el-Krim in a brutal ten-month campaign that included the use of mustard gas against the tribal
forces. In 1926 Abd el-Krim and his forces surrendered, effectively bringing an end to the war of the Rif.

Dissent among native populations did not die, but its form became more political than militaristic in the years leading up to World War II. A nationalist movement evolved, but its weapons were primarily editorials, petitions, and other means of nonviolent suasion of French colonial authority. But French commercial, agricultural, and civil influence in Morocco continued to grow as more and more
colons
arrived in North Africa from France, looking for opportunity.

It’s doubtful that any of this Moroccan history was on the minds of Browne, Holcomb, or Malevergne as they cleared Casablanca and headed north out of the city toward Rabat. For the men in the Chevy, the principal concern was the health of their passenger in the trailer, specifically, the damage the carbon monoxide he was inhaling might be doing to the Shark’s brain. They stopped soon after they hit the open road north of the city to check on him. “
Tout va bien—pas trop de monoxide,” Malevergne told them when asked how he was. As if to reward him for the answer, Browne and Holcomb decided it would be safe to let the Frenchman ride in the backseat of the Chevy, at least until they neared the Spanish Moroccan border. With his head down and a couple of rugs piled on top of him, René Malevergne assumed a more comfortable position in the car itself as they continued on their trek.

It was half past five when they went through Rabat. From beneath his rugs, Malevergne could hear the noise of the city, could feel the starts and stops and intensity of the traffic. There was little conversation between the travelers, but the Frenchman could tell they’d cleared the city when the sounds of the road lessened. Now he was in his home territory, the forests south of Mehdia, the route that he’d bicycled just a few days earlier after visiting Germaine for a final time. He buried himself beneath the rugs once more as the car neared Port Lyautey.

North of the River Sebou and Souk el Arba du Rharb, the three men paused at a wide spot in the road and shared a tin of ham, biscuits, and some fruit juice that King had supplied for the journey. They were about twenty miles south of the border and decided to stop here to let the setting sun catch up with their plans for arriving at the frontier after dark. It was also a good time to review what lay ahead, since Malevergne was headed back into the trailer, probably for the duration of the trip.

To the pair of young Americans risking freedom to haul Malevergne out of Morocco, he must have seemed a somewhat unimpressive prize for the Allied cause. A short, middle-aged Frenchman with a ready smile and amiable manner but little to recommend him in terms of appearance—and what else had they to go on, given the language barrier?—as a crucial element to the war effort. Yet here they were, in the middle of hostile Morocco, about to enter the most dangerous part of the journey to bring this little guy to the powers that be. Oh, well. Have some more ham.

The word from King was that the French border-control officer was one of his contacts and would be tipped off to help expedite their crossing. But the border had both French and Spanish officers, and there could be no certainty of what might happen with the Spaniard. A little bit of baksheesh might be helpful, but who knew?

Beyond the crossing, within Spanish Morocco, were five checkpoints on the highway to Tangier. This was a rough and mountainous path, and it would have been nice to be able to pull Malevergne from the jouncing trailer every now and again along the road; but Browne and Holcomb knew the specific locations of just four of the five stops. They couldn’t risk putting the Shark in the backseat if there was a possibility they might bump unexpectedly into a team of Spanish
Regulares
—the native Moroccans employed by the Spanish army—at that one unknown checkpoint. So they prepared Malevergne as best they could for a trailer trip all the way to Tangier.

While Holcomb held the diplomatic passport, which he’d been given through his work in the attaché office, the Chevy belonged to Browne,
who was driving. It was a fairly well-known vehicle at stops on the road between Tangier and the various sites in the French Moroccan interior that Browne had been studying for several years. He was a Harvard-trained archaeologist who spoke Arabic and had studied the Moroccan interior for several years before the war with well-known anthropologist and fellow OSS agent Carleton Coon. Browne’s studies were his cover. They’d allowed him and Holcomb the trip to Taza prior to landing in Casablanca. The trailer and gasoline drums were also familiar to the authorities. Traveling through the interior of Morocco was not like traveling Route 66. There weren’t Sinclair stations every ten miles; it was necessary to haul your own gas. Unfortunately, as it turned out, Browne and Holcomb
had exhausted the supply in the trailer and were near to exhausting the supply in the Chevy itself.

As he and Holcomb once again prepared Malevergne’s nest in the trailer, covered the Shark with the gunnysacks, and tied the tarpaulin over all, Browne rehearsed in his mind how he would casually describe the work he’d been doing if he were asked. Just another exploration into Moroccan history.

It probably helped that, except for an athletic build through the chest and shoulders, Browne had the look of a scholar: wire-rimmed glasses, quizzical cast to his eyes, thinning hair slicked back on his head to reveal a broad forehead. He remembered how once he and Coon, his usual companion on these road trips, had been asked by Eddy to gather typical Moroccan stones found on the highway to bring back to Tangier. The idea was that some U.S. Army explosives expert would craft plaster of paris models of these rocks, pack them with powder and projectiles, and set them out as booby traps for Vichy or Nazi vehicles happening down the road. The only problem was that the stones on the French Moroccan roads were pretty easily avoided.
It was Coon’s idea to collect a far more prevalent road hazard: mule turds, which they subsequently gathered and placed in the very trailer now occupied by Monsieur Malevergne. They drove them back to Tangier on these same roads and past these same checkpoints. Oddly, no one inquired about their purpose.

The terrain near the border above Larache was more rock than dung, and Browne and Holcomb felt bad for the poor Frenchman being pounded in the trailer. Unfortunately, there was little they could do to help, except try to avoid the ruts in the road. That was easier said than done, now that darkness was descending over Morocco. They pulled to the side of the road one more time just to ask how he was doing, and once more Malevergne called out, “Tout va bien—pas trop de monoxide.”

A moment later, the Chevy’s headlights illuminated the border offices and the barricade separating the protectorates. Browne took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm a racing heart. He and Holcomb could see the guards rousing from a quiet early evening to see who was coming down the road. A dog started barking as the car approached, and Browne braked slowly, feeling the jolting push-push-push of the trailer on his own back as they came to a creaking halt.

Both Holcomb and Browne climbed out, stretched, and were greeted by the French officer and his dog. Holcomb already had their passports out and in hand as he climbed from the car, and together he and the Frenchman walked into the station. The Spanish guard stayed outside with Browne, walking around the car and trailer and asking what was beneath the tarpaulin. Browne rapped on the empty cans and gave him the usual answer: gasoline for their explorations into the Moroccan interior. He tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, stretching and bending like a man near the end of a long car journey, as the guard, followed by the old dog, a pointer with a whipping tail, made a circuit around the vehicle and its haul. Then, with an approving nod of his head, the Spaniard veered off toward the office to join the French officer and Holcomb.