1940 August 27 | Coup d’État in Douala

Then – Douala, West Cameroon, the day before, on the 26th of August 1940, in the evening

In the fading light, canoes sneak up the Wouri river. The solid wall of rain helps the small group to blend. Cold water drips down their spine, clinging shirts wrap them like ice jackets. The target: Douala, Cameroon. The objective: liberate a first city for Free France. That is the only possible outcome for all of them. 

Succeed, and it will be a daring coup for the ages. Fail, and no one will remember anyone, or anything of this. Jail, at best, a wall at dawn and a firing squad.

Leading the small boats convoy, Commandant Philippe de Hauteclocque. Scion of a French military dynasty going back to the 5^th Crusade, tank commander, compulsive escapee, naturally rallied to De Gaulle. But not before he had discussed and agreed with his wife that this was the honourable path. That leaves her and his 6 children at the mercy of the new administration. As a precaution, he is become the Commandant “Leclerc”. He is in London on the 25^th of July, and De Gaulle gives him his first mission on the 27th: rally Cameroon to the Free French. 

Any local means are put at his disposition. Which are not much. 

Just the time to grab a bag, and he is in Lagos by the 12^th of August, thrashing out details of the plan with his lieutenant, Captain Boislambert. 

And details he does need. 

Cameroon is a Nations’ League mandate, conditionally given to France after WW1, like Syria and Lebanon. So, if you need legitimacy and credibility, especially with the Americans, you need to stick to the legalese. Or at least keep up the appearance of International Law, rules-based order, etc… International politeness. As a Mandate, no-one can raise soldiers from Cameroon. So, in order to: 1-stick the French flag somewhere, 2-recruit more troops to bolster the valiant, but few, that joined De Gaulle in London, and 3-be able to brag about it, the Mandate actually must come off. Which means, grant independence to the country. 

That should wake up every other French territory, from North Africa to Saint Pierre et Miquelon, who all declared for the Capitulators of Pétain’s Vichy. 

So, let’s start where we can, Cameroon, with what we can do. 

The team is 20 men: not Special Forces, nor even secret agents, just motivated volunteers, officers, NCOs and soldiers, high-ranking administrators and even 2 priests, Fathers Dehon and Pouille, to act as liaison. The British commander in Nigeria is dismissive of the ragtag band. But the British governor in Lagos sees the opportunity. And arranges a “fortuitous” meeting with the British Consul from Douala to give Leclerc some desperately needed updates on the local situation of the target. And a word to the wise: the ex-German colonists are massing just offshore, in Spanish Guinea, to retake Cameroon for the Reich. 

Captain Boislambert scouts the Southern border and meets discreetly with De Gaulle supporters there. 

On the 25th of August, the « commando Leclerc », is dropped off by a British launch in Victoria (today Limbe), Cameroon. Luck strikes. Again… They chance upon French sympathisers on their way to meet some Englishmen for a round of golf at Tiko. What else. But problem! The locals are led by a full colonel; that means five stripes to Leclerc’s four. Even the French police officer in Douala has five stripes. Solution? Just add a fresh fifth stripe on your epaulettes, to speed things up. We will rectify later if need be. 

Time for real cloaks and daggers! 

On the 26^th August 1940, around 17h00, they are picked up by Malimba piroguiers, the traditional downriver boatmen, who paddle them upstream in driving rain. The tropical weather helps hide them, and they make their way to the heart of the city, the Centenary Church, unnoticed. A group of De Gaulle sympathisers wait for them there. Squads are formed, target buildings and collaborationist representatives allocated to each: they scatter in the night. A journalist of the L’Éveil du Cameroun is pulled out of bed. The following proclamation must be printed in posters and tracts before dawn:

“This morning 27^th August 1940, on African soil and in a French territory, with its own weapons France continues the fight and enters the Second World War along Great Britain and its allies. It will be present in the hour of the Victory after honourable fights. 

Cameroon takes back its economic and political independence. It joins Free France.”

And, while the city still sleeps, posters are printed, and put up, tracts prepared for distribution. The Police precinct, the Telephone Exchange, the Post Office are secured for De Gaulle. Suspects are under house arrest. The military garrison is won over. 

When the city awakes on the 27^th morning, Leclerc has succeeded without a shot fired. With 20 men. 

He enters the actual national capital, Yaoundé, on the 29^th August as the Republic’s High Commissary. The local population is wary. After all, they remember the chaos of 1914, the to and fro of the1914 campaign of the French and British against the Germans. Will it be the same this time around? Slowly but conclusively, the traditional chiefs and the population are won over, success sealed by a massive rally at Bonanjo, in Douala. A raucous crowd. Huzzah. Leclerc’s speech is remembered, but not as much as the time he spends mingling with the crowd, waving and shaking hands. 

Soon, it is time again for war. Chad, up North, has joined the cause as well, so he makes his way to N’Djamena, Fort Lamy, for the next round. 

It is just a beginning, after all. Metro-France is still occupied. De Gaulle has optimistically declared: « Cameroon […] will be followed by the entire Empire ». Truth is, it will actually take a few more Axis defeats, and a few years, for the other French territories to ‘spontaneously’ embrace the light. 

But France now has some bargaining tools, especially rubber, an easily overlooked, but critical, resource in this war. 

This is a strong start, this tale of adventure, of derring-do, of bravery. And lies, and bluff. It had to be.

Then – Meanwhile, 700 kilometres East, in Bangbel

Time for bed, kids. 

She tucks in Claude and douses the light. Françoise is already sleeping in her cot. Suzanne tiptoes out of the room, avoiding the squeaky slat. She emerges in the welcoming heat outside. The sunset paints the clouds acid orange and mellow yellow. The silence whispers, Nature prepares for the night. This is the cooler months, where the temperature tapers off to a breeze in the evening. 

The blacked-out storm lamp hiss just enough light for her not to trip over the deckchairs. 

It will soon be the real rainy season, luckily nothing like the monsoons on the West Coast. So far, only light showers, like today. The thick roof glitters in the last sunrays and the subdued lights. And with the high ceilings, the rooms are perfectly cooled off at night thanks to the traditional design! The ground gently releases the scent of steaming baked earth. 

François just ticks off the daily report, a cigarette in hand. Like every Monday. He has tucked on the low table, under a cartridge box, an official local letter. 

No prize for guessing. Mail is rare enough, so, in the current circumstances, what can be so official, so urgent? Another tax notice, naturally. What will it be this time? Ovens, pots, cars, petrol, alcohol, … salt like in the old days? The unheralded one true genius of the French people is taxes. Americans started a revolution on the principle of no taxation without representation. So did the French. But only so that they could invent newer, better, more efficient ways to do it. Even at the edge of Cameroon, notices kept showing up. 

And so, the “new” French State could not resist to add its stone and pebble to the edifice. First, increase the existing ones, while you are at it. It had been to build the Maginot Line, some social reform, then another, then rearmament. And now, naturally, to support 2 million prisoners! And the German occupation. The French public administration had already bounced back from The Defeat, its inventiveness intact. A  withholding tax: companies now pay directly your dues to the State, more efficient. A  “Tiers Provisionnel”? Pay a third of last year’s taxes upfront. In January. And eventually, at some point, we will balance it out later with your actual tax declaration.

And so, rain or shine, victory or defeat, billions kept being collected, regardless, to feed the deserving civil servants. 

Suzanne catches herself. Come on, that is a seditious thought. She picks up her knitting gear, and sink back in the deckchair. Some buttons to sew quickly before the curfew at 21h00. François is not on guard duty tonight. Another engineer on top of some other hill is keeping an eye, and ear, out. No shooting these days: who knows if and when they could find ammunition. 

Chief Kombo, and the elders in the village have a rota of discreet men keeping track of comings and goings. 

They will know if the Germans come back. 

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You read part 31 of Transvaal Blue Skies: the true story of how, early last century, Suzanne moved to Africa and built her laager. This is a series of loose dots weaved in a chronological thread, wrapped into a story to be plucked and observed, heard and remembered, recognised and judged. Suzanne Dulière was my grandmother.  

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