Morale Improves

The news of Dakar's surrender was like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pond, its ripples spreading outwards along the African coastline.

The first to react was the French Sultanate. Its governor was Albert Mohamed, a seasoned veteran of twenty years in the colonies. Three days earlier, he had been telegraphing Vichy, confidently declaring, "Dakar is impregnable, and Free France is nothing but a bunch of clowns." Three days later, he locked himself in his office, smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, and then summoned his secretary.

"Send a telegram to London," he said, his voice hoarse, "saying... that the French Sultanate is willing to consider joining Free France."

The secretary was stunned: "Consider?"

Albert glared at him. "You want me to say 'surrender immediately'? What if the Germans attack? What if Vichy launches a counterattack? Leave some room for maneuver, understand?"

The secretary left. Albert continued smoking.

He knew he would defect. Not because he trusted de Gaulle, but because of the gold in Dakar. Twenty-three tons. With that gold, Free France wouldn't just be an exiled organization; it would be a force that could bury people in money. And Vichy? Vichy was so poor it could barely pay its officials' salaries.

A week later, French Guinea defected.

Two weeks later, the French Ivory Coast defected.

Three weeks later, French Dahomey defected.

Every governor who defected used the same words in their telegrams: "Based on a strong identification with the Free French cause and full trust in General de Gaulle's outstanding leadership..."

Loran looked at the telegrams and couldn't help but laugh.

Bernard, standing nearby, asked, "What are you laughing at?"

"They're just saying nice things," Lorraine said. "It all boils down to one thing: whoever has the gold is the rightful owner."

Governor Félix Hébouë of Brazzaville was the first colonial leader to side with Free France. He was a Black man who rose through the ranks of the French colonial system through merit, not skin color. While other governors were still observing, he was already arranging supply lines for the people of Lorraine.

One day, Lorraine went to see him.

Eboué's office was even simpler than Leclerc's. A table, a few chairs, a map and a photograph of de Gaulle on the wall. He sat behind the table, wearing the white uniform of a colonial official, a row of medals hanging on his chest.

"Major Loran." Eboue stood up, extended his hand, "It's an honor to meet you."

Lorraine grasped that hand. It was thin, but very strong.

"Thank you," Lorraine said. "We couldn't have won this war without Chad's support."

Eboue shook his head.

"You're welcome," he said. "I'm helping you not because I believe in de Gaulle, but because I believe in something."

He walked to the window, his back to Lorraine.

"I spent thirty years in Africa. For thirty years, I watched this land be exploited and its people treated as tools. The French, the British, the Belgians, the Portuguese—it was all the same. They came saying they were 'spreading civilization,' and they left with everything."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"But the Germans were different. The Germans came to stay forever. Their racial theory treated Black people as inferior. If Germany had won this war, what would Africa have become? What would my children have become?"

Loran did not speak.

Eboue looked at him.

"So I'm not helping France. I'm helping myself. If the Germans win, I die. If the British win, if the French win, maybe one day my children will live to see this land truly belong to them."

He paused.

Do you understand?

Loran nodded.

"clear."

That night, Loren sat in Eboue's office and listened to him talk all night long. About Africa, about colonization, about things that wouldn't be written into history books.

At daybreak, Eboue saw him to the door.

"Next time we meet," Eboue said, "maybe in Paris."

Loran looked at him and nodded.

"Maybe."

Vichy's autumn is cold.

Pétain stood by the office window, gazing at the gray sky outside. He had been standing there for a long time, so long that Laval behind him couldn't help but cough.

"Marshal," Laval said, "the cabinet is waiting."

Pétain did not move.

He was thinking about Dakar. That city, that gold, those three thousand defenders, that governor named Boisson, the man he personally appointed, the man he trusted—all had surrendered.

Surrender without a fight.

They weren't captured, they were starved to death. Three hundred guerrillas hiding in the desert cut off their supply lines using the most primitive methods, and they starved to death.

Pétain recalled 1916. Verdun, he too stood by the window, listening to the distant sounds of gunfire, awaiting the battle reports. Back then, he believed France would win. Back then, he was a hero.

Twenty-four years later, he was a sinner.

He turned around.

Laval stood at the door, his face always bearing that unsettling expression—half flattery, half scheming.

"The news has been confirmed," Laval said. "Boisson has announced his defection. Throughout French West Africa, except for a few areas that are still hesitant, most have followed suit."

Pétain did not speak.

Laval continued, "The Germans are very angry. Ribbentrop sent a telegram saying we are incompetent. Hitler hasn't made a statement yet, but..."

He paused.

"But the Führer may no longer trust us."

Pétain looked at him.

"Trust?" Pétain chuckled softly, a cold laugh. "Trust someone who occupies half our land?"

Laivar was stunned.

Pétain walked to the table and picked up the telegram. Boisson's surrender statement was respectfully worded, repeatedly stating "for the interests of France" and "to avoid unnecessary sacrifices." He read half of it, then threw the telegram on the table.

“Boisson,” he said, “I’ve known him for twenty years. He’s not a coward. He surrendered for only one reason.”

Laval waited for him to continue.

Pétain didn't say anything. He just stood there, looking out the window.

Laivar waited a while, then finally couldn't help but ask, "What's the reason?"

"Gold," Pétain said. "That lot of gold."

Laval's face turned pale.

Gold. Twenty-three tons of gold. That was France's last remaining asset, Pétain's bargaining chip with the Germans, and his "reconstruction fund" for postwar France. Now, it was all in de Gaulle's hands.

"De Gaulle..." Laval murmured.

Pétain turned around and looked at him.

"Now you know why I sentenced him to death in the first place?"

Laval did not speak.

Pétain walked back to the window.

Outside the window, the streets of Vichy were deserted. No pedestrians, no vehicles, only the occasional passing German patrol. Those grey figures reminded everyone: you are not the masters, you are merely watchdogs.

"Send a telegram to Berlin," Pétain said.

Laivar paused, then asked, "What did you say?"

Pétain remained silent for a few seconds.

"Just say we need aid. The defeat in Dakar will not shake our loyalty to the Führer. But without aid, other colonies may also fall."

Laval nodded and turned to leave.

"And another thing," Pétain's voice came from behind, "send a secret telegram to Darlan. Tell him to strengthen the vigilance of the Toulon fleet. If de Gaulle thinks he can buy everyone off with gold, he's wrong."

Laval is gone.

Pétain was the only one left in the room.

He stood by the window, gazing at the gray sky. Twenty-four years had passed; from the hero of Verdun to Vichy's puppet, it had only taken him six months.

Meanwhile in London, in the hands of the "traitor" he had sentenced to death, that gold was being transformed into guns, cannons, ships, and the growing belief that France had not surrendered.

Meanwhile, in Toulon, the French fleet was anchored.

Admiral Jean Darlan stood on the bridge of his flagship, the Strasbourg, looking at the coded telegram from Vichy. The telegram was short, containing only one line: "Dakar has fallen. Increase vigilance. Pétain."

He crumpled the telegram into a ball and threw it into the sea.

Dakar. He knew, of course, what Dakar meant. The Richelieu, the battleship he had personally overseen the construction of, the giant ship that should have been the pride of the French Navy, was now de Gaulle's spoils of war.

No, it wasn't taken as spoils of war.

The telegram said "lost," but didn't say what happened to the Richelieu. Perhaps it was sunk, perhaps it was captured, or perhaps the officers and men on board chose to defect.

Darlang dared not even think about it.

He recalled 1916. Back then, he was a young naval lieutenant, patrolling the Mediterranean, dreaming of one day commanding a fleet. Twenty-four years later, he became Commander-in-Chief, commanding the fourth most powerful fleet in Europe.

But the fleet had to stay here and couldn't move. Because if it moved, the Germans would come and take over.

He recalled that six weeks earlier, the British had sunk his three battleships in Mills-Schbil. 1,297 French sailors had died at the hands of their former allies.

He thought of the sailors' families, weeping in the streets of Toulon.

Now, Dakar is lost.

He closed his eyes.

Or perhaps he should break away from Pétain and go it alone, Darlan thought to himself.

London, House of Commons.

Churchill stood at the podium, a prepared speech laid out before him, but he didn't look at it. He didn't need to. He had memorized those words perfectly.

"...I must report to the House of Commons that we have recently made significant progress in our operations in West Africa. Under the excellent command of General de Gaulle, the Free French forces have successfully persuaded the Dakar garrison to defect. Most of French West Africa has now joined the Free French camp."

A murmur arose from the audience.

Someone raised their hand. Churchill glanced at it; it was Clement Attlee from the Labour Party.

"Mr. Prime Minister, could you please tell us the specific details of this operation? As far as we know, Dakar's defenses are quite strong, and the number of defenders is equal to or even exceeds that of the Free French forces. How did they manage to do that?"

Churchill nodded.

"That's a very good question. Let me answer it as simply as possible: they didn't attack head-on, they besieged. They cut off four supply lines to Dakar, leaving the defenders without food, ammunition, or fresh water for a month."

He paused.

"A month later, Governor Boisson chose to surrender. Not because he was cowardly, but because his soldiers were too hungry to hold their guns."

The audience was silent for a few seconds.

Someone else raised their hand. This time it was Emory from the Conservative Party.

"Mr. Prime Minister, can you confirm the rumors about that batch of gold?"

Churchill looked at him, a slight smile appearing on his lips.

Which batch of gold are you referring to?

Emory paused for a moment: "It's the batch that was rumored to have been shipped out of Paris."

Churchill nodded.

"I can confirm that the Bank of France's gold reserves, approximately twenty-three tons, are now safely stored in Dakar. This gold will be at the disposal of the Free French government for continued combat operations."

A commotion broke out in the audience.

Twenty-three tons of gold. How much is that? No one could calculate it immediately, but everyone knew it meant Free France was no longer an exiled organization; it meant they could buy weapons, warships, and support an army; it meant…

Someone stood up; it was Winterton from the Conservative Party.

"Mr. Prime Minister, I must confess that before this, I had always been skeptical of General de Gaulle and his Free French movement. What could an exiled organization of only a few hundred people accomplish? But now..."

He paused.

"Now I must admit I was wrong. A man who can surround three thousand people with three hundred men is not someone we can trust."

Churchill looked at him and nodded.

"Your frankness is commendable, sir. But I must point out that General de Gaulle does not need our trust. What he needs is our support. And today, the victory in Dakar proves that he deserves that support."

After the meeting, Churchill returned to his office.

Lorraine was waiting for him there; he had been sent by de Gaulle to give a strategic briefing.

"Did you hear that?" Churchill asked.

Loran nodded.

Churchill walked to the window, his back to him.

Do you know what I was thinking just now?

Lorraine shook her head.

Churchill turned around and looked at him.

"I think if someone had told me six months ago that a lieutenant who escaped from Sedan would besiege Dakar with three hundred men, I would have thought he was crazy."

He looked at Loran.

"But you're not crazy. You just did what you were supposed to do."

Loran did not speak.

Churchill walked back to the table and picked up the detailed report on Dakar.

"Siege tactics. Cut off supply lines. Three hundred men, fought for three months, from Libya to Dakar. Your name is known throughout the entire War Department now."

He put down the report and looked at Loran.

"They want to see you. People from the War Department, the Joint Intelligence Committee, and several generals. They want to know how you did it."

Loran remained silent for a few seconds.

"Because I know one thing."

Churchill waited for him to continue.

"Sometimes wars aren't about who has more people," Lorraine said. "They're about who can hold out longer, who can make fewer mistakes, and who can force the other side to make the first mistake."

Churchill looked at him and nodded.

"Well said."

That evening, Lorraine met those people. Generals from the Army, experts from the Joint Intelligence Committee, and several men in civilian clothes, whom Lorraine guessed were from the Secret Intelligence Service.

They asked many questions. Lorraine answered them one by one, about siege tactics, guerrilla warfare, protracted warfare, and how to tie down a large enemy force with a small force. He didn't mention those well-established, future-oriented concepts, but only what he had learned on the battlefield.

Finally, a general with a full head of white hair stood up and walked up to him.

"Major Loran," he said, "I fought in the last war. We lost 60,000 men at the Somme and only advanced 12 kilometers. Back then, I thought war was like that, trading lives for land."

He looked at Loran.

"After listening to you today, I realized there's another way to play. You can win without losing so many lives."

He stretched out his hand.

"Thank you."

Rome, Palazzo Venezia.

Mussolini stood on the balcony, looking down at the crowd. They were chanting slogans and holding signs, but their voices were weak and listless. He had been standing there for ten minutes, but no one looked up at him.

He turned and went back to his room.

Sitting in the room was Ciano, his son-in-law and foreign minister. Ciano held a telegram in his hand, his face grim.

"What's wrong?" Mussolini asked.

Ciano looked up.

"Dakar is lost," he said.

Mussolini paused for a moment: "Dakar? The one in Africa?"

"Yes. The Free French have taken it."

Mussolini frowned. "How did they do that? Doesn't Dakar have three thousand garrison troops?"

Ciano handed him the telegram.

Mussolini's expression changed after reading it.

"Three hundred men?" His voice rose eight octaves. "Three hundred men, surrounding three thousand? A month-long siege? Cut off their supply lines? What are our intelligence agencies doing?"

Ciano remained silent.

Mussolini threw the telegram on the table.

"What about Libya? What about our people? Weren't they said there were 250,000? 250,000 people, beaten into cowering positions by 300?"

Ciano spoke up: "Father, the situation in Libya is not good either."

Mussolini stared at him.

"Is it not quite right to call it anything?"

Ciano took a deep breath.

"In the past three months, our supply lines have been attacked seven times. Seven times, we lost more than 20 trucks, more than 30 tons of ammunition, and more than 100 soldiers. Our troops dare not travel at night, dare not take side roads, dare not take any roads that 'may be ambushed'. Four forward outposts have been evacuated. The morale of the soldiers is very low."

Mussolini remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he exploded.

"Useless! A bunch of useless people! Two hundred and fifty thousand men, beaten like this by three hundred! How am I supposed to tell Hitler? 'His Excellency, we were defeated by the French partisans in Africa'?"

He paced back and forth in the room, his leather shoes making a crisp sound on the marble floor.

"Where are our soldiers? Where are our officers? Where are our generals? What are they doing? Eating? Sleeping? Or just waiting to be killed?"

Ciano kept his head down and didn't say anything.

Mussolini stopped and looked at him.

"Speak up."

Ciano looked up.

“Father,” he said softly, “our soldiers are not useless. They are just unprepared for this kind of war. Our training manuals don’t cover how to deal with guerrillas hiding in the desert. Our equipment is not adapted to this climate. Our generals are still thinking about fighting the kind of war that happened in 1918.”

He paused.

"And those people, those African natives, they know how to fight this kind of war."

Mussolini stared at him for a long time.

Then he walked to the window, with his back to Ciano.

"Send a telegram to Berlin," he said. "Just say we need aid. Libya's supply lines are under serious threat, and we need more planes, more armored vehicles, and more field soldiers capable of fighting this kind of war."

He paused.

"Also, tell Hitler that I know he's busy dealing with the British. But if he doesn't help us, Africa might be lost. If Africa is lost, the Mediterranean will be lost. If the Mediterranean is lost, Italy will..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Ciano nodded and turned to leave.

"Ciano," Mussolini called out to him.

Ciano turned around.

Mussolini stood by the window, his back to him.

"That man," he said, "the one who came down from Stoney, what's his name?"

Ciano thought for a moment.

"Lorraine. Marc Lorraine."

Mussolini nodded.

"Remember this name."

"Then the entire army marched south to wipe out the African forces."

Berlin, the Chancellery.

Hitler stood before the enormous map, staring toward Africa. The location of Dakar was circled in red, with the note: "September 23, occupied by Free France."

There were a few other people in the room. Keitel, Yodl, and Ribbentrop were all standing behind him, waiting for him to speak.

I've been waiting for ten minutes.

Hitler finally turned around.

"The French," he said, his voice flat, but everyone could hear the tension beneath the calm, "surrounded Dakar with three hundred men. Cut off the Italian supply lines in Libya with three hundred men. Forced our ally, an ally with two hundred and fifty thousand troops, to cower in the port, too afraid to come out."

He walked up to Ribbentrop.

"What did our intelligence agency tell me before?"

Ribbentrop began to sweat.

"Your Excellency, our previous intelligence indicated that Free France is just a small group of exiles, talking loudly in London cafes, posing no real threat..."

Hitler interrupted him.

"And now?"

Ribbentrop did not speak.

Hitler turned and walked back to the map.

"De Gaulle," he said, uttering the name as if tasting something unpalatable. "A general who was chased to London by our army, a traitor sentenced to death by Vichy, now has gold, territory, and soldiers."

He paused.

"And the man who helped him conquer Dakar, the one named Loran, came down from Stoney."

Keitel spoke up: "Your Führer, we've investigated Stoney. It was a small-scale ambush; two hundred French soldiers held out for three days, halting the 10th Armored Division for three days. At the time, we thought it was a fluke, the last vestige of the French army's strength..."

"And now?" Hitler asked.

Keitel did not speak.

Hitler looked at him.

Do you still think it was a coincidence?

Keitel lowered her head.

Hitler walked to the window.

Outside the window, the sky over Berlin was a hazy gray. In the distance, several planes were landing—transport planes returning from the front lines. The streets were deserted; the war had been raging for almost a year, and everyone was exhausted.

"Tell Vichy," Hitler said, "to strengthen the defenses of the other colonies. Tell the Italians to take care of their own supply lines. Tell our navy that Dakar is now a target to watch."

He turned around.

"Also, find me that man named Loran. I need to know where he came from, who taught him to fight, and where he's going next."

Ribbentrop nodded.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Hitler walked back to the map and looked at the point called Dakar.

"Three hundred men," he murmured. "Three hundred men to change a war."

He remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he looked up at the vast African continent on the map.

"If he's really that capable, where will he go next? Brazzaville? Douala? Or... Cairo?"

No one answered.

Silence filled the room.

In the distance, the bells of Berlin rang. Once, twice, three times.

Hitler stood there, motionless.

He knew that the war had only just begun.

That night, Lorraine stood at the port of Dakar, watching the gold being loaded onto the British ship.

Bernard stood beside him, smoking.

"Where to next?" Bernard asked.

Loran thought for a moment.

"Brazzaville. And then...maybe Cairo."