After Dunkirk

by Lee Jackson

  In the back seat, Horton watched. Seeing that the driver’s side of the car was very near the edge of the road and a ditch, he ducked his head below the seat.

  Counting on the German soldiers’ attention being locked on Lance and the partisans, and their view being obstructed by the front door and the driver standing behind it, Horton opened his own door just enough to squeeze through to the ground. Then he rolled into the ditch and lay still.

  The Germans motioned at the driver to join his comrades. One captor moved in front of Lance and took the service pistol from his belt. Then he stepped back and uttered those words no soldier wants to hear at the point of a gun. “For you, the war is over.”

  Kenyon fidgeted. Three hours had gone by since they had blown the fuel-oil tanks, and he had heard nothing from Lance, Horton, or any of the men who had been with them. Elena did her best to translate reports coming in of sightings of German units entering the area, including several accounts relating instances of British soldiers having been captured and partisans executed.

  Kenyon beckoned to Pierre. “We have to assume that our chaps were taken,” he said through Elena. “They might be tortured. We have to relocate, now, and those other truckloads of dynamite have to be moved.”

  31

  Dunkirk, France

  Resplendent in his new gray uniform with silver epaulets, black collar with an SS symbol, and a diamond-shaped patch on the sleeve with the letters SD embroidered on it, Hauptman Bergmann strode into Oberstleutnant Meier’s office unannounced, stood to attention, and clicked his heels. Immediately below his chin, he wore a black Iron Cross, signifying combat service, and under his arm, he carried his cap with a black band over its brim and a silver skull emblem.

  Meier looked up from his desk with contained annoyance. “You’ve been gone nearly a week. I trust your trip to Berlin was productive.”

  “Very.” Always haughty, Bergmann’s demeanor had taken on an air of suppressed patronization. “You’ll be happy to know that I’ll add greater capability to your command.” Unbidden, he sat in a chair in front of Meier’s desk.

  Meier returned to various documents he had been reading prior to Bergmann’s entry. A pall hung over the room.

  After several moments, Meier looked up again. “By all means, Hauptman, fill me in.”

  “I met with my direct-line commander. Obviously, I’m attached to your command, and will continue to take my immediate orders from you.”

  Meier scoffed lightly. “I am aware that you have an avenue to circumvent my authority. My admonition on how to handle our civilian population stands. Your way will get my men killed. What added capability do you bring?”

  Bergmann locked cold eyes on Meier for a moment. Then he reached into his tunic, removed a document, and handed it to Meier. “My orders, sir.”

  Meier opened and scanned it. “I see,” he said without emotion. “So, you are now an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst, the SD branch of the SS. Congratulations.” His tone carried less enthusiasm than the word implied. “What does that mean?”

  “Thank you. It means that I am attached to your staff in a special intelligence capacity. My mission is to find and weed out threats to the führer and our Nazi regime, both from internal and external sources.”

  An unctuous smile crossed his lips. Meier was unable to discern whether or not the expression suppressed malicious intent.

  “I was fortunate that Reichsführer Himmler personally attended my induction ceremony and gave me those orders. He had been advised of the situation here with the rebels. He approved of my actions and toasted them at a reception. His last words to me were, ‘Nip this in the bud. Do not fail me.’ I assured him that I would not.”

  Meier’s expression remained impassive, almost bored.

  “Further down the page,” Bergmann said, “you’ll see mention of a mission to seek out and destroy rebel activity here, subject to your orders, of course.”

  “Of course,” Meier said, peering through slitted eyes.

  “When the occasion warrants, I can bring in SS units to support your command at almost a moment’s notice. That will alleviate pressure on your soldiers to perform tasks outside of their normal duties.”

  Meier observed Bergmann as though seeing a new species of insect for the first time. “So then, please tell me, how do you intend to proceed?”

  Bergmann smiled thinly. “I’m not satisfied that our military police are equipped to pursue criminal elements like the Boulier family. They’re too busy with directing traffic and conducting regular police work to apply the needed priority and resources. The Kallsen situation is a case in point, and it is still an open investigation. I’ll start there and take it where it leads.” He stood. “If that’s all, Herr Oberstleutnant, I will take my leave and get to work.”

  Meier’s expression did not change. He leaned over his desk. “Stand at attention when you speak to me,” he commanded in a low, firm voice.

  “Sir?” Bergmann queried, surprised.

  “I said, stand at attention,” Meier ordered again, coming to his feet.

  His face flushing crimson, Bergmann clicked his heels and stood straight, his arms locked at his sides.

  “Now you listen to me, Herr Hauptman,” Meier growled. “You came late to this party, receiving your previous command when your predecessor fell on the last day of combat operations in this area. You haven’t seen a single day of fighting; despite that you wear the Iron Cross.

  “You have your authorities and I have mine, and until I receive orders through Wehrmacht channels that say otherwise, you will take my direction. That will start with proper military decorum. You don’t breeze into my office unannounced, and you don’t release yourself from the position of attention until I give you leave to do so. Finally, don’t insinuate to me that you and your ‘greater capability’ have a free hand within my command. You will take orders from me and clear with me in advance any action you wish to initiate. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear, sir.”

  Meier fell silent, eyeing Bergmann. “Here are my initial orders. Draw up a plan on how you intend to proceed on your special mission and submit it to me within three days. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now go see my executive officer to coordinate support for your operation. Dismissed.”

  Bergmann’s cheeks and the back of his neck were aflame as he left Meier’s office. He could not recall ever having received such a scathing rebuke. He had been so taken aback that he had forgotten to give the extended arm salute with the crisp Nazi farewell.

  Like a man on a mission, he went straight to the adjutant’s office. The major who filled the role was much more intimidated by his uniform than Meier had been and was only too pleased to allow the duty driver to take Bergmann to the maison d'arrêt.

  There, Bergmann stalked into the administrator’s office. Without offering a greeting, he presented himself in front of the official’s desk and clicked his heels. On seeing him, the man rose nervously.

  “Please update me on the status of the investigation into Kallsen’s murder.”

  The administrator trembled slightly. “Nothing has changed,” he said. “We have not established that the death was a homicide.”

  “What about the autopsy.”

  “Sir, your last instruction was that we should store the body and wait for your own medical examiner to perform that operation. We followed your orders, but no German coroner has appeared.”

  Bergmann grimaced, remembering that he had, indeed, given such an instruction. “Has anyone from our feldgendarmerie coordinated with you?”

  The administrator shook his head.

  Angrily, Bergmann returned to the battalion headquarters and strode into the adjutant’s office. “If you will be so kind,” he said perfunctorily, “I need to use your secure telephone line.”

  Two minutes later, he recognized the voice of his new higher SS commander’s second-in-command. “Things are progressing
well,” he said. “If possible, I need a squad here in two days fully prepared to act.” For justification, he cited his intent to seek out Kallsen’s killer.

  “I’ll also need a medical examiner. The unit here is dragging its feet on establishing the cause of death for the Kallsen case.” As an apparent afterthought, he added, “And could I possibly receive the full background dossier on Oberstleutnant Meier? I’d like to learn more about my local commander.”

  He listened to a read-back of his requests and hung up. Satisfied, he went to seek out the battalion executive officer. Passing by Meier’s office once more, he sneered, nearly tripping over a woman on her knees mopping the floor.

  “Get out of the way,” he berated her, and then glanced at the door to Meier’s office. “Weakling,” he muttered. “You have less authority than you think.”

  In the wine cellar under the destroyed restaurant, Ferrand Boulier gathered his group. It had grown since the night he had sent his daughters south with Nicolas. The numbers alone presented a security risk as members entered and exited the building. Sooner or later, an enemy soldier would notice. Worse yet, Nazi sympathizers could already have infiltrated. Beyond that were common-sense safety concerns: too many people in too small a space with a single exit. One hand grenade would cause a massacre.

  “It’s been too quiet,” he told his partisans. “We can’t operate the way we have been. The security risk is too high. That said, we evacuated a lot of threatened people into the south of France, including family and friends, and British and French soldiers.” He paused to let that sink in.

  “We have to disperse into small teams where only the members of each group will know what their teammates are doing. I’m sure the phone lines will be cut soon, so we’ll set up a system of couriers.

  “The German army will not let Kallsen’s death go easily. We just received word that Bergmann is back in Dunkirk, and now he wears the uniform of the SS. His first stop after checking in at his battalion headquarters was at the maison d'arrêt. He wanted to know about the progress on the investigation into Kallsen’s death.”

  A murmur floated through the cellar.

  Ferrand held up his hand. “We don’t have much time. When you leave this cellar tonight, you won’t come back. Right now, we need to form into three-person teams. Each team will designate a courier. Choose that role carefully. It is a dangerous one. He or she needs to blend in, not draw attention. Tell no other teams who that is, where you’re going, or where you’ll operate. I’ll untangle any conflicts. We’ll establish identity codes so that when you receive a message by courier, you’ll know it’s genuine.”

  “We’ll have a lot of teams,” someone called out. “Can you handle them all?”

  “Good point,” Ferrand replied. “We’ll establish a communications structure. Everyone should remember the founding principles of our French Revolution: ‘Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.’ We’re all equals, and we don’t have time for petty jealousies. Any hierarchies will result from operational needs whether that be a skill, experience, proximity, or some other mission imperative.”

  Men and women had already begun discussing among themselves. Ferrand held up his hand and called for quiet.

  “We have two more things to resolve,” he said. The murmuring died down. “Bergmann will take retribution in my neighborhood again,” Ferrand continued. “I’m sure of it. We have to get those people out.”

  Total silence descended on the room. “That neighborhood is guarded,” someone called out. “No one is allowed in or out.”

  “And that is exactly the type of situation we are coming together to handle,” Ferrand replied. “We won’t leave our friends and families to the horror of the Nazis without a fight.”

  “What if the residents won’t come out?”

  “Then whatever happens to them rests on their shoulders. We’ll do our best, and that’s all we can do.” He let the moment linger as people exchanged comments.

  “I’m looking for volunteers,” he said, and the room quieted down again. He raised his hand. “And if you volunteer, I will be there with you.”

  A clamor broke out in the room as people celebrated his gesture, but Ferrand quickly hushed them. “We’ll establish a secure means of choosing and notifying the men and women who will participate. Right now, we have one more matter to discuss.”

  The group trained expectant eyes on him. “Monsters like Bergmann will use every means possible to get information. We already saw that. Our brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters will be put in compromising positions, and then coerced to collaborate with the enemy. When that happens, we have to exert equal pressure to counter it.”

  “What should we do?” a voice called from the back of the room.

  Ferrand looked around sadly at the faces before him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his reluctance to speak on the subject evident.

  “We are at war, and our actions must acknowledge that always. When we find collaborators, we’ll show no mercy. We will make public examples of them by slicing their throats, men or women, and leaving their bloody bodies where they can be seen. We’ll hang signs around their necks written in their own blood that say, ‘Collaborateur!’”

  In the early hours of the next morning, Ferrand was alone in a dark room well within the burned-out wreckage of an apartment complex deep within the ruins of the city. The area had been struck by many bombs but nevertheless contained livable dwellings with beds, left-behind food, and in some instances, running water. He stood in front of a mirror. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he flicked it, then held it close to his face and peered at his reflection in a mirror.

  A gaunt face stared back at him, with deepened lines, eyes sunk in dark sockets, hair and beard uncut and scraggly. “What have I become?” he whispered.

  The internal struggle that had brought him to the point of advocating for the summary execution of his own countrymen in the event of collaboration was one that had waged over the past week. He understood that the policy might one day require him to slice the throat of someone close to him, but he saw no other way to counterbalance the retribution that the German SS already meted out at the maison d'arrêt. His decision had been precipitated by the reappearance of Hauptman Bergmann. The lady who mopped the floors in the headquarters had given warning.

  He stepped back from the mirror where he could see the shadow of his full self, his old body bent with age. His thoughts went to Amélie and Chantal, to Claude, and Nicolas. Are they safe? His heart fairly burst at the thought of his daughters, so far from home.

  Ferrand regarded his dark reflection in the mirror once more. “What I am,” he muttered, answering his own question of moments before, “is a man who knows the ravages of war and will fight the devil with no holds barred to save my daughters, my family, and my country.”

  32

  One day earlier, June 19

  London, England

  Major Crockatt arrived at work early, as was his habit. His secretary, Vivian Brown, sprang up to meet him and intercepted him before he could enter his office.

  “There’s a man sleeping in your office. I put him on your cot—”

  “Why is he here?” He started to shove past Vivian, but she blocked his way.

  “He came in early this morning, a soldier, and he looks wretched; like he’d been through hell’s trenches before coming here. I found him at the entrance. He asked anyone passing by how to get to MI-9. And sir.” She hesitated. “He has a little boy—a toddler.”

  “A what? How did he get in here? Who let him pass through security?”

  Vivian handed him an envelope. “This might explain things. After I read the document inside and the attached note, I vouched for him and brought him up.”

  Slightly annoyed, Crockatt took the document and scanned it, his eyes pausing over “Littlefield” and “Captain Norman Savage.” He looked up. “Littlefield. Is that—”

  “I think so, sir. He has three ribbons on one wrist. They’
re faded, but aside from looking like death, he’s a dead ringer for MI-6’s Lieutenant Paul Littlefield. I took the liberty of calling down to Plymouth and managed to get Captain Savage on the line.”

  She told him Jeremy’s story as related to her by the ship’s captain. “This Lieutenant Littlefield arrived at Paddington late last night, and he couldn’t find his sister. I take it he went by her house in a taxi, but it was empty, and he didn’t know how to reach his brother, so he asked the driver to take him to the MI-9 headquarters.”

  “So much for secrecy,” Crockatt muttered. Then he rubbed his chin. “Poor sap,” he mused. “Amazing what he’s been through and that our thrown-together identity scheme actually worked. Call his brother. Get him over here, but don’t tell him why.” A perplexed expression crossed his face. “I didn’t know about the sister. Do we know her name?”

  “Claire.”

  “See if you can track her down as well.”

  He stepped around the secretary. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to have a peek. I won’t wake him.” He cracked the door open and peered inside.

  Jeremy slept soundly on the cot, curled up and facing the wall. Sleeping next to him and held against his chest was the little boy, as Vivian had said.

  Crockatt gently pushed the door closed.

  Paul Littlefield hurried to Crockatt’s office. He had taken Vivian’s call and tried to get her to divulge the subject, but she insisted that the major had instructed her otherwise and that the matter was urgent.

  Making his way through the corridors, he hoped against hope to learn something about the status of his brothers but knew that the likelihood was slim. He probably wants to press me about the transfer again.