by Lee Jackson
Bergmann looked momentarily nonplussed. Then he regained his composure. “Sir, may I speak.”
Obviously still angry, the commander nodded.
“I was not aware of the information you just told me.”
“Did you miss that report? I’m told by the commander that you’ve taken a keen interest in the investigation.”
“That is correct, sir, but apparently I missed that detail for pursuing my normal duties. I am sure that the young girl was Chantal Boulier. She and her entire family and their extended family are gone. Meanwhile, as you know, we’re hearing rumors of resistance groups forming and of bombings farther south in France.”
“You missed that detail? Seriously?” Meier’s tone was slightly mocking. “Your zeal for action seems to outweigh your duty to be thorough. As for events farther south, you’re wading into matters far above your rank, Herr Hauptman.” Exasperated, Meier waved a hand in the air. “What did you expect? This country fought ours in a bloody war that lasted four years and ended only twenty-two years ago. Many of those people resisting us probably fought in that war. They remember. Did you think they would now welcome us with open arms? Your recklessness will get our soldiers killed.”
The captain remained at attention, silent, his cheeks flaming.
Meier paced for a few moments and then circled his desk. “At ease,” he said.
The captain complied, noticing that, curiously, the commander suddenly looked deflated, even defeated.
Meier picked up an envelope from the desk. He opened it, pulled out a document, and scanned it. Then he circled the desk again and stood in front of Bergmann as if he were reluctant to speak.
“I am directed to inform you,” he said at last, “that the background investigation for your application to the SS has been completed, and that you are accepted. You will transfer with your current rank, effective immediately. For the moment you are to remain on my staff until you receive further orders. Your command will be turned over to your executive officer until I select your replacement.” He folded the document, returned it to its envelope, and handed it to Bergmann. “Congratulations.”
A slow smile had begun to spread across Bergmann’s face. “So, my bloodline is pure back five generations,” he breathed. “No Jewish blood.” He became effusive, breaking unbidden from his “at ease” stance and reaching to shake Meier’s hand.
“Thank you, sir. This is the best news.”
“I’m sure it is,” Meier said, retaining his reserve but taking Bergmann’s hand.
As the two men stood facing each other, both perceived a shift in relative authority. Bergmann straightened his back, his face becoming stern. “Thank you again, sir.” He locked eyes with the commander. “I shall call SS higher headquarters immediately to discuss where I might best serve.”
“Do you have something in mind?”
“I do, sir. I intend to root out these partisans who think they can stand in the way of our führer’s plans. I will start with the group hiding the Bouliers.”
Meier returned to the other side of his desk with an air of being forced to accept an unpleasant inevitability. “Keep our conversation in mind. We can have no more capricious executions. My advice to you is that you do not let this investigation become an obsession.”
“I assure you, Herr Meier,” Bergmann replied with a glint in his eyes and a frozen smile, “I will not forget our discussion.” Without waiting to be dismissed, he clicked his heels, inclined his head forward sharply, and crossed to the door. On opening it, he spun about and extended his arm in a full-length salute. “Heil Hitler!”
14
Two days earlier, June 15
Saint-Nazaire, France
A scene like none they could have imagined greeted Jeremy and Nicolas as they entered Saint-Nazaire, situated on the north bank of the Loire River estuary where it ran into the Bay of Biscay on France’s Atlantic coast. Despite the ancient town teeming with British and French soldiers, as well as other allied soldiers from Poland, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, and Canada, the war seemed a peripheral concern. It spawned a raucous carnival atmosphere with dark undertones driven by the overriding concern: personal survival, and a hoped-for rescue by the British Royal Navy.
The soldiers’ moods ran a spectrum from abject despair to accepting inevitable capture, with hordes celebrating whatever hours of freedom they had left. Others, calculating the odds of rescue of so many by sea while the Germans closed in and routinely strafed from the sky, decided their overland chances looked better. They headed out on foot to Switzerland, southern France, or Spain.
Some soldiers were still fully outfitted for combat including rifles slung across their backs, while others had shed their kits and overcoats and stripped down to trousers and undershirts. Small groups clung to a semblance of military decorum, but the majority had reverted to boisterous first-name basis regardless of rank and wore wild-eyed expressions that dared anyone to try to impose authority.
Jeremy and Nicolas entered this maelstrom with the second overriding concern on everyone’s mind: food, and where to get it. To that end, the two newcomers observed British soldiers standing guard outside of a gentlemen’s club, presumably for pay. Another escorted young girls with nuns bound for a Catholic school. Others served or washed dishes in restaurants. Jeremy and Nicolas watched as one Brit asked a senior non-com where he could find something to eat. The non-com told him to hold his cap out, and yet another soldier hand-filled it with raisins.
Dressed in the civilian clothes Claude had provided, Jeremy and Nicolas went unnoticed as they made their way through the crowds. Unshaven for days and with unkempt hair, both men passed for refugees seeking sanctuary. Nicolas had brought money, and soon he purchased bread and meat sufficient to assuage their gnawing hunger.
Jeremy noted that Nicolas had a passing familiarity with Saint-Nazaire. After short conversations with fellow citizens, Nicolas determined how to reach a destination he had not divulged, and he led through narrow cobblestone streets.
They reached a stone dwelling overlooking the estuary near the port. Fortunately, it was on a backstreet without commerce, warehouses, or activity that would attract the soldiers, and so it appeared empty when they approached it. Nevertheless, Nicolas instructed Jeremy to wait in the shadows cast by a tree growing close to a wall while he crossed the road, mounted some stairs, and knocked on a heavy wooden door.
A few minutes went by, and then Nicolas reappeared and beckoned to Jeremy. With a sense of relief, Jeremy left his hiding place and sauntered across the road. Inside the apartment, Nicolas introduced him to Jacques, a serious-faced young man a few years older than himself. He had a stocky build, a deep tan, and dark hair. His eyes sank under bushy eyebrows over a straight nose, and he wore a heavy mustache.
“Another cousin?” Jeremy inquired, half-smiling.
“The less we know about each other, the better,” Jacques cut in. “Within days, the Germans will be here, inside Saint-Nazaire. I can’t afford to know anything about you or for you to know anything about me.”
Taken aback, Jeremy only stared. Suddenly feeling overwhelming fatigue, he nodded.
“I don’t mean to be unfriendly,” Jacques added. “It is enough for me to know that Nicolas brought you here. I had to stop him from telling me more about you.” He smiled tiredly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you carry a message for us to England. It’s an important one.” He gestured through a door. “You must be starved. Come into the kitchen. I still have plenty of food. Then you must rest.”
Jeremy slept long and hard, occasionally brought to semi-consciousness by far-off explosions or the rat-tat-tat of overhead machine gun fire as German fighters strafed the town. When he finally woke up fully, the sun was high in the sky, and he learned that he had slept through a full day and night.
Nicolas and Jacques were sitting at the kitchen table when he entered. Strong fresh coffee spread its welcoming aroma. Nevertheless, both men looked grim.
“We�
�ve been catching up,” Nicolas said, while Jacques crossed the kitchen for coffee. He also brought buttered bread with marmalade back to the table.
“None of the news is good,” Nicolas continued. He cupped his hands over his face and blew out through his fingers. “I’ve been in touch with my family. I don’t have much detail, but my Uncle Ferrand and the girls have fled their house.”
Looking up and reading Jeremy’s concern, he added quickly, “Everyone is safe, but my mother and father had to vacate our dairy, and my cousins left the farm where we spent the first night. The Germans are overrunning the north and setting up checkpoints everywhere. You and I got out just in time.”
A sense of profound dismay caused Jeremy to reel. “I’m so sorry,” he said, dropping his head. “This was my fault.”
“No, no!” Nicolas jumped to his feet and grasped Jeremy’s shoulders. “Uncle Ferrand began organizing to resist as soon as the Germans crossed the Maginot Line. My father joined him immediately, and so did I. He intended to send the girls to exactly the place where they are going now. The schedule was moved up for reasons I don’t know, but you are not the cause of all this chaos and sadness. You are our hope of generating an early response and making sure that your countrymen know that we are ready, willing, and able to carry the fight on our home ground. With their help, we will beat this Nazi monstrosity.”
Seeing that he felt no better, Jacques, who had watched and listened silently to the exchange, thrust a steaming mug into Jeremy’s hand. “Drink this,” he said, “you’ll feel better.” He shoved the bread with marmalade across the table. “You must eat too. You’ll need your strength.”
Jeremy raised the coffee to his lips and took a swallow. The aroma brought with it the feel of warm places and friendly faces, a stark contrast to the current reality. He set it down and nibbled at the bread but could not yet bring himself to take a full bite.
“What’s the plan?” he asked. “How do I get across the Channel.”
Jacques sighed. “I can’t tell you much. As you’ve seen, a lot of soldiers hope to cross, and boats have come and taken them away by the thousands. That’s been going on at Brest, Le Havre, La Pallice, Cherbourg, and other ports along the Atlantic coast, but unfortunately, tens of thousands are still here. They’re angry, anxious, they feel abandoned, and they are losing their sense of good order and civility.
“They are particularly incensed that they did their duties, fought in the rearguard so that the British and French armies could escape, only to be left on their own while the German army closes in on them. Meanwhile, they’re attacked from the air with only their small arms for defense since they were ordered to destroy and abandon millions of pounds worth of heavy guns and other equipment. Those strafing runs kill hundreds of civilians too.”
Jeremy closed his eyes and shook his head. “So again, I ask. What’s the plan? What will put me on the front of any of those boats? And why should I be at the front of the line? Some of these soldiers have braved the elements and attacks for days. For that matter, why can’t any of them carry your message?”
Jacques and Nicolas looked at each other, startled, as if not having considered the thought. For a few minutes, no one spoke, each silent with his own thoughts.
Nicolas broke the quiet. “You make a good point, Jeremy, but let’s be realistic about what you’ve done. You evaded capture against all odds, you broke out on your own so as not to endanger your helpers, you bluffed through German checkpoints, and you walked many kilometers with French refugees to get here. I think a better question is: who deserves to be at the front of the line more than you?”
When Jeremy started to protest, Nicolas held up a hand. “Our message sounds simple, but who should carry it? You might be unique in that you made it to the beach at Dunkirk, lived with the people building up the resistance, and are emotionally involved.” Momentarily, his eyes twinkled. “And that’s without even considering Amélie.”
Jeremy smiled involuntarily and then shrugged off the comment.
“Seriously,” Nicolas persisted. “You must tell them that our government seems to have given up the fight, but our people have not. As I told you before, you’re not the only one carrying our plea for help. We’re hoping one of you will get through and convince your Mr. Churchill not to give up on us. I don’t know the others or anything about them or where they are. I know you. My mission, directed by our fledgling French resistance, is to get you on a boat to England. Please don’t let me fail.”
Jeremy took another swallow of coffee while staring straight ahead. “All right,” he said after a time, “how do we proceed?”
Late in the afternoon, the three men assembled again. Jeremy and Nicolas had ventured into Saint-Nazaire and returned appalled again at the rowdiness and lack of discipline displayed by many of the troops awaiting rescue. Palpable resentment permeated their moods.
While waiting for the next wave of evacuations, gangs of soldiers of various nationalities roamed the streets seeking mischief. Some had found several train cars loaded with liquor and soon ran about in drunken stupors. The quick wits of an unknown soldier had put a stop to that plundering by the simple expedient of setting fire to the hay used as packing material within the cargo boxes. The flames quickly spread and soon consumed the entire train, including a boxcar containing large quantities of ammunition. As they heated up, the resulting explosion and flying bullets drove the crowd back.
“I made contact with British intelligence,” Jacques said when the three of them had regrouped in his kitchen. “I have my own shortwave radio. An operator in London picked up my signal a few weeks ago and put me in touch. The intelligence officers put me through some paces, but apparently, I passed the test. We don’t communicate often, but they take my calls. We keep them short. I could probably do better if we had a code established between us. As it is, we speak in euphemisms. When the Germans arrive, I’ll have to shut it down.” He paused in thought. “Jeremy, tell them in London that we could use some trained radio operators who know Morse code and can encrypt.”
“I’ll do it. Now, what did you learn today?”
Jacques took a breath and closed his eyes. “There will be a large evacuation here tomorrow involving many boats. We’re to seek out the largest ship, a troop carrier.” He opened his eyes and locked them on Jeremy. “You’ll be on it.”
“Why that one?”
Jacques shrugged. “It’s the easiest to identify. I’m sure you’ll get more instruction once you’re aboard.”
“Or maybe,” Nicolas added, “because they could assure that you could get on that ship. If it’s so large and full, one more passenger won’t matter.”
German Junkers struck during the night, their thunderous bombs shaking the apartment and rattling windows. After what seemed an endless time, the roar of engines, the rattle of guns, and the thunder of explosions ended, replaced by cries of the wounded and grief-stricken and the wail of ambulance sirens.
The three men left the apartment to help collect the dead and care for the wounded. When they returned many hours later, Jacques thrust a finger in Jeremy’s face. “You tell them in London that we must win this war,” he said, seething with anger. “We have no choice, and we French will fight with or without England.”
Later that evening, while Jacques was out of the room, Nicolas told Jeremy quietly, “One thing I can tell you about Jacques is that he means what he says. He is a very brave man.” He glanced around to be sure they were still alone. “He’s Jewish, and as we’ve already seen, the Nazis don’t like Jews.”
15
Three days earlier, June 12
Veules-les-Roses, France
“We’re too late,” Lance muttered. From his hidden position on the cliffs south of the picturesque town, he observed an empty bay with five groynes stretching out into the water. He turned to the small Frenchman at his elbow whom he knew simply as François. “Are you sure this is the place?”
“Of course,” François said. “I saw
the boats here myself two days ago when I helped other soldiers escape. Small ones ran thousands of men out to larger boats and warships. The Germans bombed them from the cliffs north of the village, and Stukas came down to shoot at them.”
As he leaned back against the rocks, the sinking feeling that had started in Lance’s chest grew as it descended into his stomach. He gazed into the clear blue sky and then closed his eyes against the disappointment he would face when he informed his squad.
After leaving the Coste farm, he had led the beleaguered men back to the irrigation ditch, followed it to the stream that fed it, and then into the woods from which it emerged. On the other side, they had found the other farmer, as Coste had said they would. He had appeared to Lance as both eager to help and anxious about doing so. He had already constructed a false floor on his truck with planks and heavy plywood.
As the men climbed onto the truck bed, he instructed them to lie down on their backs, close together. He then fitted the false floor above them and piled a full load of hay and vegetables onto it. When the side slats were slid into place, the cargo looked normal, and the plywood protected against the possibility of probing pitchforks. The meals that Coste had provided revived the men’s strength, and despite the new discomfort, they remained in good humor with the thought of moving toward rescue.
Unavoidably, the driver encountered German checkpoints. The first one stretched the British soldiers’ nerves. Although they could not see the guards probing the load of hay, they felt the enemy presence and heard them speak. When the Germans prodded the bales with pitchforks, the Brits’ nerves seemed to scream inside their heads. They relaxed a bit as the truck was allowed passage, and by the time they had endured two more checkpoints, although remaining alert, they were inured to the fear that had attended the first.