Chapter Thirty-Six: Six Blows in One Second

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“May God inspire all warriors with courage, that in the name of Christ they may root out the enemy…”

Sixteen hundred officers and men from the two battalions answered in unison. Even Koman, a modern-minded Christian, was moved by the sight.

Very good. Full of spirit.

The troops moved out as one, their movements accompanied by a rhythmic roar. One military truck after another rumbled out of the camp. Sitting in the back, Koman twitched his nose a few times.

These old cars certainly had character.

The soldiers swayed with the road. Then again, the suspension on vehicles from this era left much to be desired. The atmosphere in the truck was somewhat tense. It was their first time, after all, and Koman could understand.

“Take it easy. If we were in Syria, we’d already have fed them bullets.” Martin tried to lighten the mood. Koman was always smiling as part of his public persona, but Martin was a genuine optimist.

His words eased the tension somewhat. Koman calmly drew his conclusion.

“We’re doing a good deed. If regular combat troops intervened directly, the consequences would be far worse.”

Ever since the plan to attack Italy had been finalized, the French Communist Party in Marseille had been a thorn in their side. There was no avoiding this confrontation; the only question was which troops would deal with it.

Marseille was an old revolutionary stronghold, and no amount of caution would be excessive. In every district, police officers followed their orders and divided the marchers into separate groups, ensuring that the protest remained within manageable limits.

Such a demonstration had to be contained from the very beginning, before it grew too large and spiraled out of control. That was what it meant to protect the people’s property and safety.

The citizens of Marseille who had joined the protest and demanded the release of those arrested marched arm in arm, heads held high, singing La Marseillaise:

“Children of the fatherland,
The day of glory has arrived!
Against us tyranny’s
Bloody banner is raised!”

“Look at these foreign invaders, lording it over our country! Our noble fighters are actually being beaten by mercenaries…”

The proud citizens of Marseille had unknowingly struck gold. They had no idea that the lyrics of La Marseillaise had never been more fitting than they were today.

A large number of military trucks rushed toward the streets where the march was taking place. The surrounding streets had already been placed under a soft blockade. Scattered groups attempting to come from other districts were dragged over by soldiers enforcing martial law and slapped a few times to clear their heads.

The crowd already assembled at the call of the Marseille Workers’ General Union was left undisturbed. Someone always had to pay the price; otherwise, people would never learn to cherish a good life.

Koman had apparently decided that they would be that price.

Military trucks emerged from every intersection, waved through by troops enforcing martial law, and blocked off any possible overflow. At the front of the main avenue, the marchers could see a line of trucks advancing abreast, nearly filling the entire road. They pressed forward like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, radiating an overwhelming menace.

Koman stood atop a truck and gazed at the countless heads in the distance. There were more than ten thousand people, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Martin climbed onto the roof as well and could not help frowning.

“There are too many of them. Are you insane? What if someone takes a potshot at us?”

Although the French Volunteer Army had been successfully disarmed, no one could guarantee that every hidden weapon had been found after only a few days.

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“What difference does the number make? One man can take on ten.” Koman expressionlessly pulled out a loudhailer and took a deep breath.

“Quiet! Everyone taking part in the protest is to return to work immediately…”

The people in the first row displayed every kind of expression. Men and women, old and young—their faces offered an instant glimpse of every side of human life.

Clearly, the aura of authority did not exist in the real world. The marchers had not yet come down from the fervor of singing La Marseillaise, and they certainly had no intention of listening to soldiers wearing masks. Cursing those reactionary lackeys was more likely.

“Release Vincent, Christopher, Fidel! Release all the innocent prisoners…”

“End military rule! Return freedom to France! Shame on you traitors, lackeys of the reactionaries…”

Koman’s final gesture of goodwill not only failed to work but earned him a torrent of abuse from the revolutionaries. Yet the figure that had just been standing on the truck roof suddenly disappeared.

Perhaps he had experienced a pang of conscience.

The truth was precisely the opposite. Koman’s fleeting, cheap conscience had already expired. Jumping down from the roof, he raised the loudhailer and issued an order in Arabic:

“Order! Restore order in Marseille and save France…”

From the gaps between the trucks advancing side by side, countless masked soldiers surged out. They gripped French batons in their hands and slapped them against their palms, staring menacingly at the still-approaching protesters.

Beyond the cordoned-off streets, the military police whispered among themselves.

“Where did this unit come from? Why are they all covering their faces? Does the country even have a force like this?”

“I heard they’re young Christian men from the Middle Eastern colonies. I doubt this protest will end without heavy casualties. I hear the military hospital is already prepared, waiting to receive the wounded…”

The soldiers of the Antioch Regiment formed a solid wall of bodies in front of the protesters from the Marseille Workers’ General Union. The eyes revealed above their masks fixed coldly on the crowd opposite them.

From behind the wall came a voice in Arabic:

“Final warning. Fall back…”

The human wall formed by the Antioch Regiment began advancing. The two groups were nearly on the verge of colliding head-on when another order rang out:

“Break them up.”

As the command reached their ears, dark batons were already raised high. The citizens of Marseille in the very front rank were struck over the head and shoulders by French batons. Screams and curses rose one after another.

Dozens fell instantly, writhing on the ground as they fought against the pain. Their misery did nothing to slow the soldiers of the Youth Division. The advancing soldiers stepped over their bodies and continued swinging their batons, knocking down the protesters in the second row.

“Fall back! Fall back…”

The soldiers shouted in perfectly synchronized Arabic. Accompanied by batons swinging so fast that they seemed to leave afterimages, their voices actually drowned out the uproar of more than ten thousand people.

The situation at the other intersections was much the same. The protesters, who had been so full of energy moments earlier, came to a standstill. Masked soldiers poured out from every direction, mechanically and coldly teaching them what it meant to be a disorganized mob.

“I was wrong! They tricked me into coming!”

A middle-aged man who had taken six batons in a single exchange lay on the ground begging loudly for mercy. The world of middle-aged men was simply this realistic. Faced with attackers who showed only their eyes and spoke an incomprehensible language, he had immediately found his survival instinct.

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“What are you people? How can you be so savage?”

A woman lay in a corner, several footprints stamped across her clothes. Like a madwoman, she furiously cursed the attackers who did not even dare show their faces.

The woman was treated somewhat more gently. Being kicked a few times was still better than being struck with a French baton. But since she would not keep her mouth shut, a passing soldier from the Youth Division took the time to slap her twice.

The soldiers of the Youth Division were all in their teens. They had no notion of sparing a woman out of chivalry. Her cheeks swelled high, and she fell silent.

“From what you told me, I thought the protests in some of the mainland cities would be difficult to deal with.” Martin withdrew his gaze from the scene and jumped back into the truck, curling his lip.

“They don’t seem like much. No different from those cowards who protested in Damascus before.”

“People never know how much it hurts until the blow lands on them.”

The unintelligible uproar still drifted in from behind, though it was growing more and more distant.

Koman dismissed it with a shrug.

“I showed them the greatest possible goodwill. Unfortunately, they couldn’t understand it.”

You were speaking Arabic. Of course the people of Marseille couldn’t understand you, Martin grumbled inwardly, but he kept the thought to himself.

An hour later, on the several-hundred-meter stretch of the main avenue, only masked men remained. Some had batons tucked into their belts; others still held them in their hands. After today, their notoriety would surely spread from Lorraine to Rennes and from Lille to Marseille. No one would fail to know their names.

The protesters organized by the Marseille Workers’ General Union had been dispersed, and many had been taken away. The Marseille police station would probably be overflowing before the day was over.

Koman and Martin walked along the main avenue. In places, there were pools and smears of blood, forcing them to detour.

Nearby, several French soldiers with Black faces were carrying wounded protesters onto stretchers. Koman was not the sort of man who killed and then refused to deal with the consequences. He had said he would show the greatest possible goodwill, and that was precisely what he meant.

“There’s one here who looks dead…”

Two African soldiers pointed toward a man lying in a corner and asked what should be done with him.

Martin acted as though he had not heard. Instead, he turned to Koman.

“What if too many of the unlucky ones die from their wounds? Could that cause trouble?”

“That’s the advantage of wearing masks. There will indeed be consequences, but not yet.”

Koman gave a slight shake of his head.

“Once the elections are held again, the consequences will appear. I expect Marseille will vote Communist for the next several years.”