No further incidents occurred as the mud-spattered Citroen pulled up to the elegant porte-cochere of the Bel Air Kasserine Hotel. Jack and Danny carried their own suitcases into the lobby. A number of Vichy French officers were milling around, smoking, drinking, laughing and giving the impression of relaxing in an upper echelon military retreat. There appeared to be no evidences of a war zone.
Danny, admiring the art nouveau décor, said, “This is more like it. I would enlist in this Frog army—if I could speak the lingo.” Continue reading “Farewell My Country, Ch 33”