For a few seconds Grunier seemed unable to breathe. Then he sat down and waved his hand around as though making conversational gestures. But no words came out of his mouth.
Finally he spoke. ‘‘You are mad,’’ he said.
‘‘Probably,’’ said Eric Fulmar. ‘‘Meanwhile, we need to take you to the submarine. And, I’m sorry to say, we need you unconscious for that.’’
‘‘This is outrageous!’’ Grunier said.
‘‘Absolutely,’’ said Eric Fulmar, ‘‘but please cooperate’’—he waved the gun menacingly—‘‘and take your pants down.’’
The other man
, who was in fact Richard Canidy, removed the syringe and the anesthetic from their box, plunged the needle into the rubber top, and drew a full five hundred cc’s from the bottle. ‘‘The doc said three hundred cc’s,’’ he said in English, ‘‘but I think we can do better than that.’’
‘‘Just don’t kill him,’’ Fulmar said, hoping that Grunier didn’t know English. He didn’t. He just stared blankly ahead and dropped his trousers so that Canidy could plunge the needle into the fleshiest part of his thigh.
In seconds, Louis Albert Grunier was unconscious.
Next, Canidy flipped the light off, then on, then off; and he and Fulmar carried the unconscious Frenchman out to the van.
The driver passed them on their way out. He was headed inside, and he was carrying a ten-liter can of gasoline.
Safi, Morocco March 14, 1942
Fulmar, Canidy, and Grunier spent the next day in the hold of a Moroccan fishing boat anchored in the harbor at Safi waiting for the arrival of Admiral de Verbey. It took a little time, unhappily, for them to become as malodorous as their surroundings. A bottle of Black & White that Eric had thought to bring along made the two of them a bit more comfortable. Nothing mattered to the Frenchman.
Toward evening, Canidy and Fulmar heard a commotion and decided to poke their heads up to take a look. Two large trucks had just pulled up on the quay, one a flatbed evidently loaded with sacks of cement. The truck behind it was a cement mixer.
One of the drivers climbed up onto the rear of the cement mixer and did something to the funnel at the back that caused it to swing away from the hole at the top of the tank. The tank now looked like a reclining volcano—from which a moment later erupted a little old man.
‘‘The admiral, I guess,’’ said Canidy.
‘‘Probably,’’ Eric agreed.
The old man was helped into a rowboat in which four Moroccan fishermen were already waiting. The trucks rumbled away, and the fishermen rowed out to the boat where Eric and Dick were hiding. Moments later Vice Admiral d’Escadre Jean-Phillipe de Verbey was seated in the hold next to Lieutenant Richard Canidy sharing the now much-diminished bottle of Black & White. His rescuers had taken him through two roadblocks (word was out that he was escaping, but who’d think to look in the tank of a cement mixer truck?); and he was now very excited and voluble— too excited to pay much attention to his unconscious countryman.
Soon after the admiral’s arrival, the crew hoisted the fishing boat’s sail, and twenty minutes after that the boat’s rolling motion told those in the hold that they were beyond the harbor. De Verbey talked nonstop the whole time, telling again and again the story of his escape—at least as far as Canidy could make out. Fulmar wasn’t bothering to translate, and it didn’t seem to matter to the admiral that no one was listening to him.
Later, one of the fishermen swung down into the hold and motioned for them to come out on deck. Out in the distance was a dark shape on the water. Then, without warning, there was a brilliant flash of light.
‘‘Jesus!’’ Canidy said.
A voice hailed them across the water. ‘‘Stand by to take aboard a rubber-boat party.’’ The voice was American.
A couple of fishermen went down into the hold and hauled Grunier out. He was now semiconscious, but not yet up to walking.
The sail rattled down its single mast; and a moment later there was the sound of oars splashing. Another flash of light came, and then the sound of an oar banging against the hull of the fishing boat.
‘‘Ahoy, on board,’’ a voice called. ‘‘Lieutenant Edward Pringer, USN.’’
‘‘Lieutenant Richard Canidy,’’ Canidy called back, ‘‘USNR.’’
A moment later a man with a blackened face, wearing a dark sweater and trousers, hauled himself over the side.
‘‘Right on the goddamned button,’’ he said, giving Canidy his hand. ‘‘Position and time.’’
‘‘I’m damned glad to see you, Lieutenant,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Those our passengers?’’