Rebel Legionnaire , livre ebook

Troubador Publishing Ltd - John Hefford

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

168 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

A thriller and love story set in Paris at a time of near civil war, when the underground OAS was fighting the government in order to keep the last part of the French Empire. Two friends have intermingling destinies: Captain Yves Finegan is a rebel French Foreign Legion Captain. Joe Bennett is a rich American house builder. They met during the war, and meet again in 1959 in Paris, where Joe starts a subsidiary, pioneering American style housing estates, but falling foul of an unscrupulous and cupid Colonel Buretta. For Captain Finegan, the time has come to rebel once more against the government, to prevent Algerian independence; and he becomes head of the Paris underground activist army-led OAS. Their stories are told through the eyes of an English quantity surveyor working for Joe, who is also Captain Finegan's son-in-law. He accompanies them as they search for a common solution to their very different problems. This is factual fiction - a mixture of personally experienced facts, and authentic historical events concerning the French-Algerian drama.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	05 avril 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781848769830
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE REBEL
LEGIONNAIRE
JOHN HEFFORD
Copyright 2010 John Hefford
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador 5 Weir Road Kibworth Beauchamp Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299 Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277 Email: books@troubador.co.uk Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 978 1848763 005
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Typeset in 12pt Perpetua by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Maya ma femme, ma muse, mon guide et co-auteur d outre tombe
Although this story is based on true historical events, all characters, companies and locations are the product of the author s imagination.
P ART O NE
.and like a migrant bird, I followed some invisible line of magnetic force, which was the path of my destiny
O NE
Paris. November 1961
Panier salade was the affectionate name for the black corrugated steel Citroen van which the French police use for transporting prisoners. I suppose they call it salad basket because of the steel netting over its windows.
I was in the back of one with my father-in-law. We were handcuffed, sitting towards the front; and two armed guards were sitting beside the back door; smoking and gazing at us. We were being transported to the headquarters of the Mouvement Pour la Communaut , a euphemistic title for the dreaded Gaullist political police - the Barbouzes. They were waiting for us, or more particularly for my father-in-law, who had changed from being a much decorated Foreign Legion officer, to becoming a much chased after OAS terrorist. The OAS or Organisation Arm e Secr te , was the underground offspring of the abortive French army putsch in Algiers, in April 1961; and still fighting for French Algeria - Alg rie Fran aise !The OAS was in every part of French society including the army, navy, and air force, and was a danger to the government.
The guards didn t look too aggressive, they were only doing a day s work, and many of them were OAS sympathisers. They couldn t disobey orders, but they had offered us a cigarette.
I looked across at Yves, who was staring at the dirty steel floor, probably wondering how much information he could withhold from the Barbouzes. He had changed; six months of living underground had taken its toll on him. Before, he was a war hero who fought with the Legion at Bir Hakeim alongside the British Eighth Army, and then on to Tunisia, Sicily, Italy. After the war he went through the horror of Dien Bien Phu in Indo China before finishing up in Algeria.
Yves suddenly looked out of the window as we rounded the Arc de Triomphe, and entered Avenue Foch. Was he thinking of the glory he had contributed to the French army? This was the third time he had disobeyed orders; the first time being his refusal to follow the Vichy government in 1940, and the second being his support of the army putsch in 1958, which brought General de Gaulle back in power. In each case he refused to obey orders he considered wrong for France; he would not accept the dishonourable armistice with the Germans in 1940, and in 1958 he would not accept handing over Algeria - or what he considered to be a part of France - to the Arab terrorists. The third disobedience was the logical follow up of the second, because de Gaulle - who had been called back to keep Algeria - now wanted to give it to the same terrorists.
Yves was a man of convictions and was ready to die for them. It was something that I admired in him, because it had become a rare human quality. He might die this time, if it was true that the barbouzes used methods of interrogation that were sometimes mortal. I wondered whether he was thinking of his family; his devoted wife, and his adorable daughter who was my wife..
I was considered part of that family now, as Yves had become a father figure to me, replacing what little I knew of my own father who was killed in the Normandy landings when I was ten. Yves rapidly took his new surrogate role with his usual passion, accepting the challenge of fathering an Englishman lost in the complicated and different world of Parisian society. I was eternally grateful for all he had done for me, and was more worried about his future than about mine. Thanks to him, I had come to love France, and was fascinated by her culture. A whole new world had opened to me.
I was still a British citizen, so surely they would not torture me? I could not believe how I got myself into this mess as the noisy Citroen heaved its way through the Porte Maillot and into the Bois de Boulogne park, where the leafless trees silhouetted against the depressing heavy clouded sky. I cast my mind back to that bright summer day in June 1959, when I first met Marianne in Northwood in the West London suburbs. It was only two and a half years ago, but more had happened to me in that time than in most peoples lives.
It all started because of a cry for help from our neighbour Ivy Rayner. She was obliged to have a French girl for the weekend on the pressing demand of her husband s employer; a French bank. Her name, Marianne, surprised me because I thought it was only used to epitomise the French Republic. She lived in Algiers, where her father was stationed with the 1st Parachute Regiment of the Foreign Legion. He was a friend of the chairman of the London Cr dit Lyonnais, who helped him find her a course to perfect her school English, before she started work. So she was sent on a course for foreigners in Surbiton Grammar school, during the summer holidays.
Ivy, who was a great friend of my mother, came straight to the point. Would you like to take a French girl out over the week-end, Max? she cried over the garden fence.
I was perplexed and hesitated as I had had disasters in blind dates before. In any case I was not hard up for female company at that moment, since I had become the lecherous owner of a secondhand white Ford Consul convertible with a white leather interior. I even painted white flanks on the tyres and my big brother Sam called it a passion wagon. I was doing very well at the Young Conservatives Club where I was one of the few unattached males, so I decided to stall with a little humour.
Is she attractive? I asked, smiling.
So attractive my husband can t take his eyes off her. He took her to see At the drop of a hat last night, knowing full well that I don t like musicals, but I went just to spite him. She s twenty two and has just finished her medical studies. I ve told him, if he doesn t stop staring at her, he can do his own cooking but he doesn t seem to care. A cloud came over her eyes, and her smile changed to sadness.
This could be interesting, I thought. My mother, my brother, and I had just been to Normandy to visit my father s grave, and I found that I liked France very much. I was good at French at school and was amazed at how much came back to me. We asked where the grave was in the Imperial War Graves Commission s office, but we soon got lost, and I was the one who saved the situation by speaking to the local workmen. I decided to risk it.
Well, I ll do it as a favour to you Ivy, just to save your marriage
Ivy made a false sigh of relief, but I could see she was suddenly much happier. That s very self sacrificing of you Max. I m sure the Lord will reward you .
She didn t know how right she was.
So it was agreed that I should collect her the following day after lunch.
I was excited, dashed back into the house, and upstairs to my brother Sam s bedroom where he was building a model of a building his firm was designing. He was four years older than me, an architect, and although there were too many on the market, he had at last got a job as a draughtsman in a London office. After seeing the difficulty Sam had to find work, I had opted to be a quantity surveyor, because few people found that work interesting, and the pay was just as much. But I was told afterwards that they all go mad at forty!
His bedroom was bigger than mine and he had arranged it as a den with drawing board, record player, and a table for modelling. Sam replaced our father, whilst still remaining a friend, and I confided in him.
I ve got news, Sam, I m taking an attractive French girl out tomorrow.
He looked up at me quizzically, still holding a small sheet of Balsa between his fingers. What about Kay?
Oh, I ve only just met her, and she s told me she s getting engaged, but she still wants to see me. I m glad I m not her fianc , I said with conviction.
Sam laughed. How did you meet this French girl?
Ivy Rayner asked me to take her out tomorrow. It seems that Charlie has fallen in love with her. She s three years younger than me and has finished medical college. She s here to perfect her English.
Sam now became interested, and not a little envious. You lucky bugger, why didn t she ask me?
Because she thinks you re going strong with Jennifer I suppose. We all think that, the whole street knows.
Sam had been going steady with Jennifer for six months now, and Mum was beginning to get excited, because Sam was twenty nine and she was eager to offload her children. After our father was killed in a glider crash during the Normandy landings, she had brought us up alone, working in Careras cigarette factory; manually loading exactly twenty cigarettes from a conveyor belt into countless packets. She loved us dearly, but looked forward to a mo