Cutting Off Dakar

Loran stood in front of the barracks at Lami Castle, looking at the short man before him.

Leclerc's hand was still holding his, rough and strong, but the scrutiny in his eyes didn't loosen at all. That was the way old-school colonial officers looked at people: look first, then believe.

"Come in." Leclerc released his hand, turned, and walked into the barracks.

Loran followed him inside.

The barracks were simple. There was a table, a few chairs, and a huge map of Africa hanging on the wall. The map was marked with various arrows and symbols, stretching north from Chad, across the Sahara Desert, and westward to a point on the Atlantic coast.

Dakar.

Leclerc walked behind the table, sat down, lit a cigarette, and looked at Lorraine through the smoke.

"I received General de Gaulle's telegram," he said, his tone flat. "He said you came down from Stoney. He said you've been a staff officer, a commander, and even helped the British bomb radar stations."

He paused, then exhaled a puff of smoke.

"But he didn't say what you wanted to do here."

Lorraine sat down opposite him.

"He told me to take your orders," Lorraine said, "but I have a request."

Leclerc raised his eyebrows.

"explain."

Loran looked into his eyes.

"I want all military power. Now."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Leclerc didn't move. He just sat there, smoking, watching Lorraine through the smoke. His tanned face was expressionless, but the light in his eyes had changed, becoming sharper, more like a knife.

"All military power," Leclerc repeated the word.

Loran nodded.

"All of them."

Leclerc stubbed out his cigarette in the shell casing that he was using as an ashtray on the table.

Do you know how many people I have here?

"Three thousand."

"Do you know where these people came from?"

"Foreign Legion, colonial troops, and deserters from the mainland."

Leclerc looked at him, and something was changing in his eyes.

"Do you know how long it took me to gather these three thousand people and train them into a fighting force?"

Loran did not speak.

Leclerc stood up and walked over to him.

"Three months," he said. "Three months, from nothing to three thousand people. I only slept four hours a day, and the rest of the time I was walking, talking, begging, cursing, and hitting. I traded my life for these three thousand people."

"Three thousand men are tasked with defending an area larger than mainland France. To the north are the Italians, who are massing in Libya and could attack at any moment. To the east are the pro-Vichy French Sultanates, who could stab us in the back at any time. To the west is the desert, and to the south is the jungle. There are no reinforcements, no supplies, nothing at all."

He stood very close, almost touching Lorraine's face.

"You're asking to take it all now?"

Loran met his gaze.

"Colonel," he said, "I'm not taking it. I'm using it."

Leclerc stared at him for a long time.

Then he suddenly laughed. It was a very brief laugh, a fleeting smile across his dark face.

"De Gaulle also said something in the telegram," Leclerc said. "He said, 'Give him what he wants. He never does anything meaningless.'"

He walked back to the desk, took a document from the drawer, and pushed it in front of Loran.

Loran looked down.

It was an appointment letter. It stated that, effective immediately, Lieutenant Marc Lorrain was promoted to Major and appointed Provisional Commander of the Free French Forces in North Africa, with full authority over all military operations. Below was Leclerc's signature, and a blank space awaited de Gaulle's signature.

Lorraine looked up at Leclerc.

"this……"

"It hasn't taken effect yet," Leclerc said. "De Gaulle hasn't signed it. He wants to come and see for himself whether the person he sent is worthwhile."

He put the document back in the drawer.

He will arrive in three days.

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

"So what am I supposed to do for the next three days?"

Leclerc looked at him.

"Do nothing," he said. "Follow me and see how I lead these three thousand men. When de Gaulle arrives, you can speak to him yourself."

Three days later, de Gaulle arrived.

Loran stood at the barracks entrance, watching the small plane land on the makeshift runway. The cabin door opened, and a tall, slender figure appeared in the doorway.

Charles de Gaulle.

He was wearing a khaki military uniform, thinner than when Loren had last seen him, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes, but his back was still very straight. He stepped off the plane, stood on the runway, and looked at this unfamiliar land.

Leclerc stepped forward and saluted.

De Gaulle returned the greeting, then his gaze passed over Leclerc and landed on Lorraine.

"Loran".

Lorraine walked over and saluted.

"General."

De Gaulle looked at him; his deep-set eyes were bloodshot, but still sharp.

"I heard you want all the military power?"

Loran nodded.

"Yes."

De Gaulle nodded.

"Then tell me, how do you want to use it?"

That evening, de Gaulle called a meeting with everyone.

The barracks were packed with people. There was Leclerc, Lorraine, and several staff officers who had come from London. A huge map of Africa hung on the wall, with Dakar circled in red.

De Gaulle stands in front of the map.

"The British are ready," he said. "Two battleships, four cruisers, ten destroyers, and transport ships carrying 2,400 Free French soldiers. They will arrive in Dakar by the end of September."

He turned around and looked at the people in the room.

"Our mission is to turn the defenders of Dakar against us."

Leclerc spoke up: "What if they don't defect?"

De Gaulle looked at him.

"Then let's fight."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

All eyes were on de Gaulle. His gaunt face was expressionless, but everyone knew what those words meant. To attack meant the deaths of countless soldiers.

De Gaulle's gaze fell on Lorraine.

"Lorraine, what do you think?"

Loran stood up and walked to the map.

He stared at the point in Dakar and remained silent for a few seconds.

"General," he said, "if I were in command, I wouldn't fight head-on."

The room fell silent.

Leclerc frowned. The London staff exchanged glances. De Gaulle remained silent, simply watching him, waiting for him to continue.

Loran pointed to the map.

"Dakar has three thousand defenders. They have coastal artillery, warships, and airplanes. Their commander, Pierre Boisson, is a Vichy man; he fears the Germans, but even more so, he fears losing his job."

His fingers moved outward from Dakar, tracing the surrounding area.

"But Dakar has a weakness. It is an isolated city. All its supplies, ammunition, food, and fresh water have to be brought in from outside—from the inland, from the coast, and from the sea."

He turned around and looked at de Gaulle.

"What if we don't engage in a direct confrontation but instead attack the supply lines?"

De Gaulle narrowed his eyes.

"Go on."

Loran pointed to several lines on the map.

"There are four main supply lines here. Two come from inland and two from the coast. If we can cut off these four lines, Dakar will become an isolated city. No ammunition, no food, no fresh water. The three thousand defenders can only hold out for a month at most."

He looked at de Gaulle.

"A month from now, they will either surrender or starve to death. There's no need for a direct confrontation."

The room remained quiet for a long time.

Leclerc was the first to speak. His voice was flat, but everyone could hear the confusion beneath the calm.

"Cut off the supply lines?" he said. "How can we cut them off? We have no navy. We have no air force. We only have three thousand men to defend an area larger than mainland France. And to the north, there are Italians, two hundred and fifty thousand, who could attack at any moment."

Lorraine looked at him.

"So we need to fight the Italians first."

Leclerc was stunned.

"Should we attack the Italians first?"

Loran nodded.

"We can't kill all 250,000 men. But we can inflict heavy damage on them and deter them from heading south."

He walked to the map and pointed to the long border line to the north.

"The Italian supply line in Libya is longer than that in Dakar. It's two thousand kilometers long, all desert. Their soldiers need water, food, and ammunition. All of these things have to be transported from Tripoli, a journey that is destined to be arduous."

He looked at Leclerc.

"If we can cut off their supply lines, they won't dare to go south. They'll stay in the north, guard their ports, and wait for us to attack."

De Gaulle spoke.

"How do you plan to fight?"

Lorraine turned around and looked at him.

"Three hundred men," he said. "Divided into thirty groups. Ten men in each group. Each group will be responsible for a section of the supply line. No frontal attacks, only ambushes. Attack convoys, ammunition depots, sabotage water sources. Fire and run, so they'll never know where we are."

He pointed to the Sahara Desert on the map.

"This desert is ours. Those veterans of the Foreign Legion, those indigenous soldiers of the colonial forces, those hunters who came out of the depths of the desert, they are the ones who fight this kind of war."

He paused.

"Three thousand men will defend the home, and three hundred will go out to attack. First, we will fight the Italians, then we will besiege Dakar."

The room remained quiet for a long time.

De Gaulle looked at him, something shifting in his deep-set eyes. Leclerc looked at him too, his eyes filled with confusion.

Finally, Leclerc spoke.

"Three hundred men against two hundred and fifty thousand?" His voice held a hint of disbelief. "Are you insane?"

Lorraine looked at him.

"Colonel, I'm not going to fight 250,000 people. I'm going to take their food, their water, their bullets. 250,000 people, without food, without water, without bullets, just 250,000 corpses."

He paused.

"I held out in Stoney for three days. Three days, two hundred men, against an armored division. I know what war is all about."

Leclerc remained silent.

De Gaulle walked to the map, looking at the vast desert and the long supply line.

Then he turned around and looked at Leclerc.

"Give it to him," de Gaulle said.

Leclerc was stunned.

"General..."

"Give him full command of the army," de Gaulle interrupted him. "Let him fight."

He looked into Leclerc's eyes.

"You just asked him if he had ever fought a battle like this. He hadn't. But before Stoney, no one had ever held out for three days with two hundred men. He did it."

He paused.

"I believe him."

Leclerc remained silent for a long time.

Then he went to the table, took the letter of appointment from the drawer, and placed it in front of de Gaulle.

De Gaulle picked up a pen and signed his name.

He handed the document to Lorraine.

"From today onwards, you are the commander of the Free French forces in North Africa," he said. "Three thousand men are all in your hands. First fight the Italians, then besiege Dakar."

Lorraine took the document.

It's very light. But very heavy.

He looked at the words on it, at de Gaulle's signature, and at Leclerc's still bewildered eyes.

"Thank you, General," he said.

De Gaulle shook his head.

"You're welcome," he said. "Thank me after you win."

Three days later, Bernard set off with his first team of ten.

They left at night. Loran stood at the barracks gate, watching the ten figures disappear into the darkness. Moonlight shone on the desert, turning the sand silvery-white. The wind and sand blew, stinging his face.

When Bernard left, he only said four words: "Wait for me to come back."

Lorraine waited for five days.

On the fifth night, Bernard returned.

He was covered in blood, followed by seven men. Three of them didn't return.

Lorraine went to him and helped him up.

Bernard looked at him; his eyes were bloodshot, but a smile was spread across his face.

"It's done," he said.

That night, Bernard sat by the campfire and recounted the battle in fits and starts.

They walked for three days in the desert and found the supply line. It was a dirt road that stretched south from Tripoli, across the desert, and led to the Italian front-line outpost.

They lay in ambush behind the rocks by the roadside for a day and a night.

On the fourth day at noon, the transport team arrived.

Seven trucks, fully loaded with ammunition and food. Two armored vehicles escorted them from the front and rear. More than forty Italian soldiers sat lazily in the trucks, some smoking, some dozing.

"Wait until they get into the ambush zone," Bernard said. "Wait until the last truck gets in too."

Then he fired the first shot.

The bullet hit the tire of the first truck. The tire exploded, the truck went out of control, and overturned on the side of the road.

The remaining six trucks began to accelerate frantically, trying to break out of the encirclement. But ten men opened fire simultaneously from ten directions, bullets raining down on the vehicles.

"I saw it very clearly," Bernard said. "The first Italian officer to jump out of the vehicle was shot in the chest and fell to the ground. The second one who tried to run was hit on the head by a flying tire and died on the spot, hehe."

The battle lasted for twenty minutes.

Of the seven trucks, six were destroyed and one was captured. Of the two armored vehicles, one was disabled and the other turned around and fled. Of the forty-odd Italian soldiers, twenty-seven were killed and nine were captured.

"Nine prisoners?" Lorraine asked.

Bernard nodded.

"He's tied up. In the sand dunes behind."

Lorraine looked at him.

"How did you bring it back?"

Bernard grinned.

"Let them go on their own. Even with a gun to the back of their heads, they have to go whether they can walk or not."

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

"What happened to the three who haven't returned?"

Bernard's smile vanished.

"Two died during the charge. One was hit by a stray bullet and couldn't be saved."

He looked at the campfire, the firelight dancing on his face.

"Buried. In the desert."

Loran did not speak.

He stood up and walked to the nine prisoners. The nine Italian soldiers were crouching on the ground, their hands covering their heads, trembling. They looked at Lorenz with fear in their eyes.

Loran watched for a while, then turned and walked back to the campfire.

"What's the next move?" Bernard asked.

Loran thought for a moment.

"Keep going," he said. "Take another route, go somewhere else. Let them never know where we are."

Bernard nodded.

"it is good."

Over the next month, this kind of battle was fought seven times.

Each time, Bernard would set off with ten men, walk for several days in the desert, find a supply line, ambush, fire, and then disappear into the desert.

The first time, seven trucks.

The second time, three vehicles.

The third time, four vehicles.

The fourth time, an ammunition depot.

The fifth time, at a water station.

The sixth time, a whole transport convoy, five trucks and two armored vehicles, forced Loran to deploy additional troops to continue the fight.

The seventh time, it was five trucks again, but this time there were planes. The Italians sent three reconnaissance planes, which flew over the desert all day. Bernard's men lay motionless under the rocks, waiting for the planes to fly away before continuing their attack.

In seven battles, 24 trucks were destroyed, more than 30 tons of ammunition were captured, more than 120 Italian soldiers were killed or wounded, and 30 were captured.

Free France suffered 21 dead, 8 seriously wounded, and countless lightly wounded.

After each battle, Bernard would disappear into the desert with his men. The Italians sent search parties, but they couldn't catch them. They sent planes to search, but they couldn't find them either. They sent more soldiers to patrol, but even those soldiers dared not travel at night.

"Because there are ghosts in the desert," Italians say privately. "Those ghosts appear at night, fire a few shots, and then disappear. No one has ever seen their faces; only corpses prove they were here."

A month later, the Italians stopped heading south.

Their supply lines were cut off, their soldiers began to be rationed, and their officers began to appeal to their superiors for help. Telegrams pleading for help were sent to Rome one after another, but Rome did not send any reinforcements, and those devils reappeared.

Loran stood at the entrance of the barracks at Lamiburg, watching Bernard lead the ninth team off.

This time, Bernard glanced back at him.

"After this battle, it's time to make our move in Dakar," Bernard said.

Loran nodded.

"I know."

Bernard looked at him and remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he said, "You knew this would happen from the beginning, didn't you? Including the weak Italians."

Loran did not speak.

Bernard didn't press the matter. He simply nodded, turned, and walked into the desert.

Nine days later, he returned.

This time, only two people were missing.

"The Italians have begun to withdraw," Bernard said. "Four of the frontline outposts in the north are already empty. They are retreating towards the coast, to a point where gunboats can hit them."

Loran nodded.

He turned and walked back to the barracks, picking up the plan he had been writing for a long time.

The next day, half of the three hundred people turned west and headed towards Dakar.

In early October, the first reports of attacks on the Dakar supply lines came back.

The situation in Dakar is similar to that in Libya. Four supply lines, extending from the inland and coastal areas, act like four blood vessels, supplying the city with lifeblood.

What the people of Lorraine need to do is cut off these blood vessels.

The first attack targeted a grain convoy from inland China. Six trucks, fully loaded with rice, flour, and salted fish, were all burned.

The second attack targeted an ammunition ship arriving from the coast. A small cargo ship was unloading cargo at a minor port. Ten men sneaked in and blew up the ship. The explosion was visible from thirty kilometers away.

The third time, the fourth time, and the fifth time.

Each attack intensified the panic among the defenders of Dakar.

Vichy Governor Pierre Boisson began appealing to his superiors for help. Telegrams pleading for assistance poured into Vichy, but there was no reply. The Germans were far away in Europe and couldn't attend to him. The Italians were preoccupied with their own problems and couldn't help him either.

Boisson could only rely on himself.

He sent troops to patrol the supply lines, but they dared not venture far. He sent planes to scout the desert, but they couldn't find anyone. He ordered rationing, but rationing would only prolong the supply, not solve the problem. Moreover, Leclerc was lurking in the shadows.

The entire city was gripped by hunger.

A month later, Dakar's food reserves were down to two weeks' worth. Ammunition reserves were down to one week's worth. Fresh water reserves were down to three days' worth.

Boisson began making secret contacts with the British.

In mid-November, the news reached Ramiberg.

"The Dakar garrison has begun to waver. Vichy Governor Boisson is negotiating with the British."

Loran stood at the entrance of the barracks, looking at the telegram.

De Gaulle walked over to him.

What do you think?

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

"He'll surrender," he said. "He can hold out for another week at most."

A week later, Boisson announced his surrender.

The entirety of French West Africa, including Dakar, sided with Free France.

That day, Loran stood at the barracks gate and watched the messenger jump out of the jeep and run toward him.

"Major!" the messenger shouted, "Dakar has surrendered! Boisson has defected!"

Lorraine took the telegram.

Three months. Three hundred men. Two fronts. One front terrified the Italians, the other starved the Dakar.

Bernard came up from behind and stood next to him.

"You win," Bernard said.

Loran shook his head.

"We won."

It turns out that Italians really are a bunch of cowards.

Three days after Dakar's surrender, Loran saw the gold for the first time.

They were hidden in an abandoned warehouse, deep within the port, inside hundreds of wooden crates. The crates were marked "Bank of France," and the seals were still in place before the fall of Paris.

De Gaulle stood motionless in front of the wooden crates.

He stared at the boxes for a long time. Something was churning in his deep-set eyes.

Loran stood beside him without saying a word.

Leclerc stood on the other side, without saying a word.

There were only the three of them in the entire warehouse, along with hundreds of silent wooden crates.

Finally, de Gaulle spoke.

"Open one."

Loran walked over and pried open a wooden crate.

The moment the lid was lifted, a burst of golden light poured out.

Gold bars. Neatly stacked together, each one gleaming with a unique light. It was the light of gold, the light of wealth, the light of power.

De Gaulle walked up to the wooden box, bent down, and picked up a gold bar.

The gold bar was heavy. He weighed it in his hand, then put it back.

"Twenty-three tons," he said. "That's all the reserves the Bank of France moved out before the fall of Paris. Twenty-three tons of gold, enough for Free France to fight for three years."

He turned around and looked at Lorraine and Leclerc.

"Do you know what this means?"

Leclerc shook his head.

Loran did not speak.

De Gaulle walked to the window, his back to them.

"This means we are no longer exiles," he said. "We have money. With money, we can buy weapons, warships, and planes. We can recruit, train, and fight. We can convince more people that we are not a group of shadows hiding behind the British."

He turned around and looked at the pile of wooden crates.

"Twenty-three tons of gold. Enough to support a country."

The port of Dakar became busier than ever in the following week.

British warships entered the harbor, unloading soldiers and supplies. The flag of Free France was raised and flew over the port. More volunteers arrived from all over West Africa to enlist. More merchant ships sailed in from all over, unloading cargo, loading a portion of the gold, and heading to Britain and America.

De Gaulle sat in an office in the Governor's Palace in Dakar, with a huge map spread out in front of him. The entire African continent was drawn on the map, from Cairo to Cape Town, from Dakar to Djibouti.

He was holding a red pen and drawing circles on those dots.

"Dakar," he circled, "the capital of French West Africa, now it's ours."

His pen moved south.

"Conakry, Abidjan, Lomé, Cotonou—these ports will all turn to us. Not now, but soon."

His pen continued to move, across the equator, pointing towards the Congo.

"Brazzaville. Pointe Black. Our outpost."

Then his pen moved eastward, across the heart of the African continent, and pointed to the Red Sea.

"Djibouti," he said, "and French Somaliland. The governor there is still hesitant. But he will switch sides. Because we already have gold."

He put down his pen and looked at the map.

"From Dakar to Djibouti, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Red Sea. The whole of Africa will become our rear."

Loran stood beside him, looking at the map.

He recalled what he had read in history books. The subsequent expansion of Free France was indeed as de Gaulle had predicted. Ports and colonies, one after another, succumbed to London. Not because de Gaulle possessed any great charisma, but because he had gold, guns, and an army.

Can gold buy loyalty? Not necessarily.

But gold can buy guns. Guns can make people obey.

Over the next few months, the gold was shipped to Britain and the United States in batches.

A portion was given to the British to pay the rental fees for those warships and aircraft. The British were pragmatic; they said they supported Free France, but it wasn't free. Every shell, every gallon of gasoline, every transport ship had to be paid for. Now, de Gaulle could afford it.

A portion was given to the Americans to purchase weapons and equipment. Roosevelt's Lend-Lease Act hadn't passed yet, so Free France couldn't take things for free. But they could buy them. Gold was hard currency, and the Americans recognized that.

The rest remained in Dakar, stored in that fortified warehouse, guarded by the most loyal soldiers. It was the wealth of Free France, de Gaulle's greatest bargaining chip.

One evening, Loran walked alone to the door of that warehouse.

The guard recognized him, saluted, and let him in.

He stood among the wooden crates, gazing at the silent gold.

Twenty-three tons. He did the math in his head. At the current gold price, it was worth about twenty-five million US dollars. What could twenty-five million US dollars buy?

It can buy 100 fighter jets. It can buy 500 tanks. It can support an army of 100,000 for a year.

Those soldiers who fled from mainland France, those recruits from the colonies, those guerrilla fighters in the desert—they needed weapons, equipment, and money to support their families. This gold could provide them.

He stood there for a while.

Then he turned and walked out of the warehouse.

Outside, the moon was bright. The moonlight shone on the harbor, on the row of warships moored there, and on the Free French flag fluttering in the wind.

In the distance, someone is singing. It's that old song from the Foreign Legion, about a soldier who walked for a long time in the desert and finally found his way home.

As Lorraine listened to the song, he suddenly remembered the question Bernard had asked him: "You knew from the beginning that this would happen, didn't you?"

He didn't know how to answer.

He knew because he had read history. He knew that Dakar would have failed, that Free France would have struggled for a long time, and that the gold would have been stolen by the Germans.

But it's different now.

Dakar was won. Gold was in hand. The Italians were terrified.

History has begun to change.

The next morning, de Gaulle summoned him.

"There is a new task," de Gaulle said.

Loran nodded.

"Where to?"

De Gaulle pointed to a point on the map.

"Brazzaville," he said, "where Leclerc awaits you. You and he, with gold, will conquer all of French equatorial Africa."

Loran stared at that spot.

Brazzaville. A city on the Congo River, the capital of French Equatorial Africa. There is more land, more people, and more wars to fight.

He nodded.

"When are we leaving?"

"Three days later," de Gaulle said, "take Bernard and your men. The soldiers you fought your way through, you take them with you."

Loran saluted and turned to leave.

"Lorraine," de Gaulle called out to him.

Lorraine turned around.

De Gaulle stood there, the light from the window shining in from behind him, illuminating his tall, thin silhouette.

"How did you know Dakar would surrender?" de Gaulle asked. "How did you know the siege would succeed?"