James Benn: The First Wave

"Are they being detained, too?" I asked Remke.

"Unfortunately, they are now political prisoners, and whatever happens with the Allies, the Gardes Mobiles will not release them."

"I'm sure their release will be part of any negotiation," said Harding.

"Major Harding, America has been at war for less than a year, and North Africa is your first engagement. I have been in combat since 1939, in Poland, Holland, France, Libya, and Egypt. I tell you now, those brave, helpless young men and women are already casualties, and there is nothing you or I can do about it."

I looked at the faces staring up at us. I wondered if Remke was trying to scare us, or if he just took a dim view of human nature after three years of fighting. Or, if maybe he knew what he was talking about, and I'd be joining them out in this dusty courtyard before the day was over. Or somewhere worse.

I walked by another row of prisoners, the guard holding my arm in his meaty grip. I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, something familiar yet out of place here. I turned my head and tried to focus. Then I saw. I couldn't believe it.

At the end of the row, her long blonde hair framing a dirty face with a bloodied lip, sat Diana Seaton. Diana, who I hadn't seen for nearly two months since she'd received her orders to report to the Special Operations Executive for her next assignment.

Diana.

I looked over to Harding. He shook his head, then shouted at me, "Boyle! Name, rank, and serial number, nothing else!"

I looked at Diana, and saw that she had heard Harding. She sat up a little straighter but, except for her eyes, she didn't betray a thing. Those eyes hooked me and held on as the guard pulled me along, into police headquarters, leaving her and the others in the dusty courtyard. I wondered what kind of nightmare I had stumbled into.

My stomach felt like I'd been punched by Joe Louis. I couldn't catch my breath, and my heart was pounding so loudly I thought the guards might hear it. Beads of sweat dripped down my temples and my face felt red-hot. Diana. Here. Hands tied behind her back. Helpless. What was I supposed to do? What could I do?

The guards bundled us into a tiled entryway, with one set of stone steps descending below ground and another going up to the floor above. Remke gave us a lazy salute and went upstairs. We went down. Our guard rapped on a thick wooden door braced with rusty ironwork with a small, barred window face-high. There was a rattle of metal and the squeak of straining hinges as the door opened. A couple of rough shoves propelled Harding and me inside as the door swung shut with a thud.

A figure rose from behind a small wooden table. The narrow hallway was lit by a string of bare electric bulbs hanging from the curved ceiling. No windows, nothing but stuffy concrete dampness.

The jailer was an impressive guy, if bulk and smell counted. His blue police uniform was stained and faded to the color of a three-day- old bruise, and his mustache hung down on either side of his mouth, blending in with the stubble on the double chin erupting over his collar. One hand held a revolver, motioning us to move on down the hall. The other wiped at his mouth, clearing the remains of a meal caught in wiry facial hair. There was a newspaper spread out on his little table, and some sort of gooey cheese made little grease stains across a frontpage photograph: Darlan himself.

We moved down the hall, trying to stay ahead of his odor, a combination of garlic, sweat, and rotten cheese. Another small set of stairs led to a corridor with two cells on either side, all empty. The first cell door was open and he pushed us in, jabbing the snout of his revolver in my back. The door slammed with a hard, final clang and he reached down and produced a large ring of keys, which had been hidden by the flab hanging over his belt. He locked the door, belched, and went back upstairs.

Just like every guy I've ever thrown in the slammer, I went up to the bars and rattled them, just in case he'd forgotten to give the key that final turn. No dice. I looked around. The cell was about six by ten, with high walls and a small barred window way above my head. No furniture, just a bucket that I didn't want to get close to. I could see some sky and hear bits and pieces of shouts from the courtyard above.

"Something's going on," said Harding.

The shouting grew louder, there was a shuffling sound and dust spilled through the cell window.

"Give me a boost, maybe I can spot Diana," I said in a rush. "Sir. Please."

"Don't call out her name, for God's sake," said Harding as he cupped his hands and braced his back against the wall. I put my right foot in his grip and pulled on his shoulders as he lifted me with a grunt. I got my left foot on his shoulder and pushed off, not caring how Harding felt with the tread of my combat boot digging into his collarbone. Rank be damned. I had to see Diana.

I got one hand around a bar and tried to steady myself as I put my right foot on his other shoulder. My face was plastered against the gritty concrete and as I pulled myself up I could feel my skin rubbing raw against the rough surface. I had both hands on the bars now and I could see out of the window. My legs were shaking, and Harding felt wobbly underneath me, but I clung to those iron bars.

The prisoners in the courtyard were being herded against the far wall, guards yelling and giving them a few kicks and blows with rifle butts if they didn't move fast enough. I thought they were lining them up to be shot and I almost fell as a sick feeling flooded through my body. Then I heard engines, grinding gears, and brakes, and out of the corner of my eye I could see trucks pulling into the courtyard. They were only getting them out of the way so the trucks could come in. I let out a deep breath.

There were a lot of feet and legs in front of me now, some milling around, others stationary. How could I find Diana? What was she wearing? I tried to remember… she had on a blue blouse, light blue, like her eyes. She liked to show off those blue eyes. I couldn't come up with what else she had on… slacks, a skirt? What would college kids in Algeria wear?

I didn't know what to do. What if I saw her? What the hell could I do? I was as useless as, well, a guy locked in a jail cell. I felt panicky. I wanted to jump out of my skin. I had to do something.

"Hey! Hey!" I yelled as loud as I could. I couldn't call her name, I couldn't say anything that would give away that I knew her, so I just started yelling.

"Hey! What's going on? Somebody talk to me! Hey!"

"Can you see her?" Harding asked.

"No, just a lot of legs and shoes. They either don't understand English or think I'm some nutcase down here." My hands were beginning to ache from gripping the bars. "HEY!"

There was some commotion outside, and two sets of bare legs in skirts began backing through the crowd.

"Hey," I said, not quite as loud. I could feel my heart thumping. I didn't feel the ache in my hands anymore. Could it be? The bare legs moved closer. One pair turned, then the girl fell to her knees, awkwardly, her hands bound behind her back throwing off" her balance. Now I could see: the pale blue blouse, floated above a dark blue skirt. Her chest was heaving, and I could see a bit of her long blonde hair as she bent her neck to peer inside the window at ground level.

"Hey," I said, in a whisper. "It's me."

She dropped onto her side and rolled, so her face was right up against the window. Diana. Her hair hung down over her face, and she had to shake it aside to see me. Tears streaked her dust-caked cheeks, and blood dripped from a gash on her upper lip.

"Billy," she said.

I mouthed her name, so no one else could hear. Her blue eyes flashed. We looked at each other. What was there to say?