Reader’s Note: The world ended this morning. Sequestration is in effect. Accordingly, I have scheduled meetings in distant Fairfax County through the day in case the capital spontaneously combusts. We are still twenty days out from the official start of Spring and have no Pope at the moment, but I am going to treat the beginning of March as if we have put the gray days of winter behind. A new conclave will produce a fresh Bishop of Rome just as the earth will render a new green season.

This is part three of Big Smoke’s tale of a clandestine operation on the Cote D’Azure a long time ago. I have done to this narrative what I did to his tale from the Occupation of Japan: the narrative is exactly as he wrote it, but smoothed and contextualized. It is a tribute to a tough guy and his interesting times. We will finish it up tomorrow. I can only ignore the stupidity in this town in these times for so long.

Big Smoke continues:
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“I slept a bit in the afternoon, luxuriating in the unaccustomed luxury of the hotel near the strand in Nice. It is a lot different than an enlisted rack on a ship, or a shared room in a BEQ. Daylight in January is thin this far north, and the shadows were lengthening as I looked at my watch and saw it was after 1600. I got up, splashed some water on my face to wake up and decided I could use a shave. Then I got organized and shrugged on a sport jacket over my chinos, loaded a fresh pack of Luckies in the inner pocket and walked down the steps to the street.

I thought about what the Surete’ officers had told me on the train trip down. The Corsicans were an interesting bunch. The Uinione Corse was active in just about every crooked game in the south of France. During the war, they had cut a deal similar to the one Lucky Luciano cut with the US Navy: they provided law and order against Nazi sympathizers on the docks in Marseilles and elsewhere along the coast. They also branched out into heroin, money laundering, prostitution and counterfeiting.

After the war, they had the tacit support of the French government to suppress the communist unions that were striking for higher wages, and there was an uneasy form of official sanction that the Surete’ intended to undermine.

I looked up and down the avenue, at the smartly dressed people and whizzing little cars and decided to follow the street toward the ocean and kill a little time. I needed to get oriented before I tried to approach the bar where the Surete’ told me the Corsicans hung out. I sauntered down the Avenue Felix Faure away from the port, and in a few blocks came to the grand avenue along the beach, the one you see in the postcards. It is called “Les Prominade des Anglais” and I stood and smoked and looked at the lovely azure sea.

(The Prominade des Anglais along the beach in Nice. Photo Getty images.)

In January, the temperature only gets up to around 50 degrees on the coast, Fahrenheit, since even after all these years I can’t make head nor tail of centigrade. There were a few people on the beach, but nothing exiting like I had heard about from shipmates who had deployed in the high summer. Apparently the French gals really put on a show. I ambled along the Avenue to where it turned into the Quais des Etat- Unis and cut across the street to walk through the Parc du Chateau toward the harbor. Mothers pushed prams and old men sat playing chess on benches. The people looked sleek and relaxed. The War had left Nice pretty much untouched and the citizens reflected it.

North of the park there were rows of three and four story apartment buildings with shops on the ground floor. I checked the name of the bar they had told me to investigate, memorized it, and balled it up and deposited in a waste can on the street. About a block away from the ship basin, the business was a little seedier and the restaurants tended to be ethnic.

The one I was looking for was called “La Tete de Maure,” or what the Surete’ told me was “The Moor’s Head,” the symbol of Corsica. When they stopped yacking in French, they had told me that and some other information about why the Corsicans had so much influence on the Cote D’Azure. I swallowed, put on my very best Sailor-on-liberty grin and prepared to walk past the bar.

As I wandered past the bar, someone called out in very good English, saying: “Come on in mate, and have a drink!”

I walked in and that was where I met, let’s call him, ‘Albert D.’ He said he was from New York, had been in the military, and wanted to be close to his Corsican relatives. We had a couple of beers and I tried to get a good view of the space and asked where the head was.

“The what?” he asked. “The Moor’s Head?” Albert looked puzzled.

“No, the Latrine,” I said. He pointed back towards the rear.

I walked past an open door and looked in; there was a group around a table playing some kind of a card game. I thought for sure I saw some sawed-off shotguns stood up on their butts against the wall. When I came back and I looked again I saw that there certainly were weapons there and told Albert I noticed several shotguns and he said, “Oh yes, they like to shoot pigeons.”

Pigeons, I thought. Shit, I am the pigeon in this caper. I polished off my wine and then told Albert I needed to get back to the hotel and get a little rest.

Albert said “Fine, but please, come join me tonight for dinner. We can talk over life back in the States. It is good to have an American voice to listen to.”

“Roger that,” I said. “I have plenty of leave left. I will be around.” Then, back to the hotel I went to make my report.

I shut my door and the Surete’ opened their to have a council of war. They were not so sure they could have been so lucky as to get in with the Unione Corse immediately upon our arrival. That commenced a fair amount of apparently heated discussion and a long dissertation I could not understand as to what they needed, what they wanted, and how I was to deal with things.

Specifically, they told me in English, they wanted name, rank and serial numbers about everybody I met. That plus phone numbers, license numbers, anything that they could get a good handle on.

When I mentioned Albert, one of the inspectors perked up. He took out a book, checked and said, “Oui, he is a deserter, U.S. Army. There are several hundred in the South of France right now, but we don’t bother them unless they get into trouble. If they do, we throw the book at them.”

Then followed two nights of getting together talking to Albert and the Corsicans, shooting the bull, getting to know them. Two different nights I had two different lady friends and it was very nice company, but always by midnight I would make an excuse that I had to get back to the hotel. When I got back to the hotel, there were two or three hours of interrogation about what I had seen or heard for the evening. This included looking at file photos and making identification of members of the Corsican gang, which included the ladies I had met.

Since I could not remember names and numbers so well, I got the idea to shave the calf of my leg and I made a few notes on it when I went to the head to try and jog my memory about what I had to tell the team when I got back. By the second day, even the group in back playing cards, seemed to get very friendly.

By the third day again I was to meet Albert and go out for an evening of fun with the ladies. The team decided to move ahead and they said since things were going so well, now was the time at the right moment. During the course of the evening when you feel the moment is exact, I should just ask them “How does the queer go?”

Now, that is a curious phrase, and could be taken a couple different ways. You know what old Winston Churchill said about the traditions of the Royal Navy- those being Rum, Sodomy and the Lash. I looked at the Surete’ agents with suspicion. In the master-at-arms trade they are always chasing queers one way or another- and that was an important part of counter-intelligence, too, since the homosexuals were subject to blackmail.

“No, no, Monsiuer Duval. We do not call homosexuals ‘queers.’ Les homos is one term, but we do not call them l’etrangers.”

Albert will know what the ‘queer’ means, and where it is going.

I wasn’t certain about that, but later in the bar, seated next to Albert, I said the words. He sat up straight, immediately alert. He looked over, his eyes hooded. “How much are you looking for?”

At that point, I knew we were in. I explained to him the reason that I had to leave was that the SUPPO paymaster on my aircraft carrier was a very good friend of mine. He was out to make a buck, if he could, and with the Navy having the only real greenbacks in all of Europe, this was a real opportunity to cash in on circumstance. “He thinks that if we could get a hold of some good counterfeit currency we could really make a bundle.

Albert asked “How much are you looking for?”

I told him that it had to be exceptionally good, all with different serial numbers, and we would like it in 10s, 20s, and 50s and probably $50,000 for the first buy. I said “If this works well, then before the ship trans-Lants back to CONUS we will make a substantial buy to take back with us. No customs inspection, or at least only a cursory one to beat.”

Albert considered my proposition.

I lit up a Lucky and breathed smoke. “I will need to know the price, since the ship’s paymaster will be in Paris drawing U.S. cash and I am going to have a meeting with him, so I need to get the cash quickly, otherwise it will be a long time to wait for the next chance to tap into the money stream.”

Albert rose and walked toward the rear of the bar. He was gone for a while then came back and said, “It’s no problem. I can get it for you, but it’s going to cost you $10,000.”

“That is bullshit, Albert, come on. I don’t have that kind of money up front. Help a sailor.” It took a glass of absinthe to get into some serious negotiation.

“OK,” he said, presently, finishing his glass of the green poison. “I can do five grand.”

“I will see what I can do,” I said, and we shook hands to seal the deal.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com