Chapter 4
The Armistice
At first the quiet was terrifying.
Then in the distance, a single voice called out, “It’s over!”
Oh, to be the last to die by the very last bullet.
Present Day
The binder contained miscellaneous information, and in a sealed plastic bag in the back I discovered the original Anders photos that had been photocopied for other parts of the histories.
I examined the rest of the genealogies hoping to find some sort of reference to “Antoine.” The only thing related to any French connection was a story attributed to Andy that his great grandfather, Lars Hurtig, had come from France as a drummer boy in the army of Prince Bernadotte around 1750. In the family bible, the names Balsta, BlŠck, and Gleuck are also listed.
I did some checking online. Gleuck was German, originating in Bavaria. BlŠck was an early Anglo-Saxon name, and a search on Balsta was inconclusive. The relationship - if any - to a French lineage was unclear.
I almost missed the envelope. It was punched with holes and set in the binder marked “To check” in my mother’s handwriting, sandwiched between some unused genealogy templates and some background information on the Anders family. Inside were some old photos of locations, presumably in the Anders family village in Sweden, and some letters from what appeared to be miscellaneous cousins.
One letter was still in an old yellowed blank envelope, with her handwriting, “Who is this?”
I opened the letter inside and began to translate.
8 Apr 1941
Dear Andy,
The Boche are back and life here is very dangerous. They came with their administrators and police and have occupied the towns. We have been issued identity papers which we must carry everywhere.
I sent Marianne and AriŽle away to safety.
A friend will post this from England. What we do post is opened and read.
I wear the gold cross you gave to me always. It helps me remember our friendship, and the talks we have had together.
I will still try to write. I do not know when I can post a letter again.
Antoine
I poured a cup of coffee and sat back at my desk with the letter laying open in front of me. The tone of the letter was informal, as if the two wrote often. Yet it was obvious this was something Andy meant to save above the others, above letters from family and friends. By the tone I presumed Andy knew who Marianne and AriŽle were - most likely his family. This letter and the “Antoine” who wrote it were important to him.
The last line kept drifting through my thoughts.
I do not know when I can post a letter again.
The original envelope with a possible address was lost. By piecing together the scattered bits of information from the stack of letters that arrived from Courseulles, I was able to make some extrapolations.
France fell to Germany in late June 1940. He refers to the system of German administration in occupied France, but mentions no specific location. It would have taken some time for German administration to establish itself throughout France, which places the period for “Antoine” sending away his presumed wife and daughter likely in the late winter or early spring of 1941 - what he referred to as “the winter past.”
The big question - where would a young, naive Midwestern Baptist Swede meet and become friends with a French man? I made notes as I continued to think out loud.
This letter connects Antoine and Andy as more than acquaintances. It confirms the detective work done by the city clerk in Courseulles that this was the correct “Andy” as they thought.
This was going to be a challenge, but the puzzle intrigued me. First things first - I looked up the village of Courseulles-sur-Mer again on the Internet to get a feel of where this puzzle started.
I sent an email to the Office of the Mayor by using the link on the commune administration home page and confirmed that yes, they had found the correct Anderson. I explained I had a corresponding letter from the mysterious “Antoine” then asked the obvious question - who was Antoine?
There is a nine-hour time difference between Washington State and France, so I did not expect a prompt reply. Instead I began to research the area and its history during this period. What immediately struck me was a fact that bound me irretrievably to that final, desperate letter that opened this search: Courseulles-sur-Mer was dead center of the Canadian invasion beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944 - code named Juno.
This was the historical context for the letters. But this was all about World War II - some twenty-six years after Grandpa Andy’s service in France. How did Antoine and World War I fit with the letters?
R
France 1918
It was late May. The Spring Offensive launched with such success by the Germans had stalled. Analysis after the war showed they had committed substantial reserve resources to the initial assaults without adequate preparations for resupply. Although large sections of Allied ground was captured, and large numbers of prisoners taken, the offensive appeared to have no clear objective. The Germans failed to exploit their advantage strategically, and the allies counterattacked and recovered much of the lost ground.
Both German and Allied forces had been hard hit by the influenza pandemic. The press referred to the outbreak as the Spanish Flu, mostly because initial news reported widespread outbreaks and high fatality rates in Spain. Reports of the flu at the front were systematically censored to prevent panic. The large numbers of dead soldiers were simply listed among the even larger numbers of those killed in action. High concentrations of soldiers in miserable conditions, combined with poor sanitation and rations, contributed to the spread of the disease in Europe. German manpower was waning from both combat and influenza, forcing the army to act while it still had the manpower to attack.
German generals tried again. In what would later be called the Third Battle of the Aisne, the German army launched Operation BlŸcher-Yorck on May 26. The British had concentrated infantry units along the trenches bordering the German retreat positions, contrary to orders from French General Petain, convinced the Boche was reeling and ready to collapse. The German attack caught the British completely by surprise. It began with a concentrated artillery barrage by over 4000 guns British intelligence had insisted the Germans did not have. After a gas attack against the Allied trenches, the Germans advanced.
They smashed through the badly disrupted defenses and rushed forward toward Paris in a diversionary attack meant to draw units from the northern front to defend the capital. The Germans then launched a flanking action in the north meant to destroy the French army before the manpower weight of the AEF could be brought finally to bear. The French general staff, in a panic, implored the American General Pershing to release the American troops to their command, but he refused. Pershing would retain American control of the AEF at all costs.
The Germans advanced within 56 kilometers of Paris by June 3. That is where the offensive stalled, beset by supply shortages, fatigue, lack of reserves, and heavy casualties. Pershing’s troops, under his personal command, flooded into the breach and despite being untested in battle inflicted heavy losses on the Germans in the Battles of Chateau-Thierry and Belleau Wood.
The German advance halted at the Marne.
R
“Would you look at that!” George cried out over the raucous rattling of the locomotive. “They’s full o’ darkies!”
He and Andy had gone down to the tracks to watch the troop trains bringing exhausted troops, wounded, and prisoners back from the front - dangerously close to Paris, according to the situation map Andy had been working on, and about which he had been sworn to secrecy.
The French had large numbers of troops drawn from their extended empire, and these included blacks from African colonies. Unlike in America, blacks in France were considered a part of the empire and had all the same rights and privileges of European French. Most of the blacks Andy had seen were in French uniform, but the sight of black civilians in village restaurants and cafŽs was a surprise to him, which he kept to himself.
These soldiers, however, were not French, although they fought under French authority. From the situation analysis briefings Andy had attended as part of his map duties he knew these black soldiers were American. He would not have believed such a thing in the states, but in this world everything seemed upside down from what he was raised to believe.
They were called American Buffalo Soldiers, a name first used by Native Americans on the western frontier. The 92nd and 93rd Infantry Divisions were the first Americans to fight in France, but they were detached from the AEF and fought under French command. Neither the British nor American command would permit black soldiers to fight in this stage of the battle. It would not be until late in November that the black units would come under American command.
As the train cars passed, they saw the small flag tacked on the side of the troop car, an American flag. It was used to help sort out the cars in the marshaling yards, and soldiers in the rear were accustomed to seeing the British flag and French Tricolor on boxcars filled with returning troops. This was the first time they had seen an American flag. And the cars were full of Negro troops. The unit flag, a Blue buffalo, fluttered in the wind from the back of the car as it passed.
“I’ll be damned,” George said out loud, not even caring if Andy scolded him again about his swearing. Even Andy let the language pass. It unsettled him, this train of death and pain. He did not believe himself to be prejudiced - the thought would not have crossed the mind of a decent young man from the Midwest. Such a sight was simply such an aberration, so removed from his experience, that he was left to question many things. He was a man of devout upbringing, and knew all men were God’s creation. God’s teachings seemed at odds with those of Rockford, Illinois, circa 1918.
The next six cars were medical transports. Inside were troops wounded in battle, or suffering from influenza, what the soldiers would call “the grippe.” Where flu symptoms were mild, soldiers were required to remain at the front, further infecting those around them. Those diagnosed as severely ill were sent on crowded trains to even more crowded field hospitals, spreading the deadly virus. Troop and supply movements around the world ensured the flu virus would quickly spread worldwide, not just at the front. It would kill people the likes of which the world had never witnessed.
The last two cars carried the dead.
Back in his barracks later that night, he slept fitfully. Images of pain and death washed through his semiconscious mind as he drifted into and out of sleep. The vision of the enemy, juxtaposed with the image of the German prisoner. American soldiers, supposedly virtuous and clean, fouled by sin, slander, and blasphemy. Women from the village, wholesome and pious, while women in the bistros and bars, wanton and sinful, taking up with willing farm boy soldiers breaking their vows to wives and sweethearts from home. Soldiers of all colors fighting together, drinking together, talking strange languages. Nothing fit together as he had learned as a small boy. Temptations were everywhere, intermixed with images of war, death, and destruction.
This is insanity. How can God turn His back on such excess? How can the rules that seemed so simple and clear dissolve into the fog of this war? What was real? What was right? With so much death - this terrible war, and this plague killing so many. How can a man survive this confusing place? Is this the apocalypse? Are we bringing down the wrath of God by this folly?
Have I contributed to this madness? Have I turned my back on God, too? Am I meant to learn more than just how to make maps to help men kill other men? Did He send me here to find another purpose?
This challenged him to face his God in ways he had never before considered. He would not fall asleep until he made a commitment to his God that would change his life forever.
R
“What’s your name?”
P64335 cautiously looked up from wiping off the table. He ignored the question. He knew better than to engage a soldier in a conversation. It would end in trouble for him in any event. He turned his back and continued to clean.
“Where are you from? Do you understand?”
What does he want? He is just a private. I need not answer him. Leave me alone, American. He continued to clean.
Andy took a different tack.
“I am finished. Will you clean off this table for me?”
P64335 moved over cautiously and began to clear the dishes. If he refused to acknowledge this direct request he would face trouble from the mess captain. He felt he was walking into a trap.
“You do understand English,” Andy replied. “So, what’s your name?”
“What do you care, American?” he spat. He finished clearing the dishes and began to wipe down the table.
“I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
Andy had come to mess early to avoid George and Roy. He knew he would have a better chance at success alone. P64335 figured he could dismiss this conversation only by replying.
“Bouchard,” he cautiously replied, not without a little sneer in his voice.
“Bouchard. Do you have a given name?”
Bouchard muttered something under his breath Andy did not understand, but knew was in French. Not German.
“You speak French instead of German?”
That was one step too far. The hackles on the back of his neck bristled with indignation he would normally have kept to himself.
“I am French!” he declared, glaring at the American. He finished quickly and pushed the cleaning cart away to the kitchen as fast as he could without drawing too much unwanted attention.
Andy sat and thought about the encounter. French? In a German POW tunic? What is this all about? He was determined to find out.
The next morning, Bouchard P64335 kept his distance from the small group of American soldiers. Later that afternoon while returning from lunch, as Andy passed by a small work party grooming the officer’s mess grounds, he spied Bouchard P64335 among the workers. He returned to the mess and brought back something wrapped in a plain brown napkin. As he passed the work crew at the officer’s mess, he thrust the package quickly, unseen, into Bouchard P64335’s hands - too quickly to be seen by the guards and too abruptly to be refused. Bouchard P64335 simply glanced back at him as he walked briskly away. He stuffed the package in his pocket for the time being. Later, in the marginal privacy of his barracks, he carefully unwrapped the napkin, revealing a piece of biscuit cake inside.
Andy repeated the ruse for several days, either leaving something wrapped up on his plate as Bouchard P64335 was cleaning, or clandestinely passing it to him on work duty. If he had been caught, he would likely have received a stern reprimand.
After a week of these clandestine bribes, Bouchard P64335 passed behind Private Andy Anderson during a morning’s mess, and simply stated, “Antoine. Antoine Bouchard.”
R
The next day Antoine Bouchard was replaced in mess by an American private - obviously not too happy at the assignment.
“Didn’t you hear? Them Fritzies are all under wraps for a while,” he growled when questioned. “Got us cooks doin’ KP, doin’ the work o’ the Fritzies, can you believe it? Ain’t fit for no ‘merican, let me tell ya.”
The soldiers looked at each other, knowing what this meant. Something big was happening, something at the front. All POWs were held under guard. Had the German army broken through the lines? Were they headed toward Paris? Trains began running all hours of the night, ferrying fresh troops north and east, bringing home the tired and wounded. And the dead. Unlike the other allies, American war dead were generally shipped home, something that elicited contempt from the British and French common soldiers. “Too good to be planted here?” they would jeer. “Gotta go home to momma!” Such comments often resulted in fistfights and a night in the brig.
On September 26 Andy received the news his application for Engineers school had been dismissed. There was no time for such things now, he was told, although it would be weeks before he knew why. September 26 was the start of the Meuse-Argonne offensive, the final thrust of what would be called the Hundred-Days Offensive. Andy was shuffled among commanding officers during the hectic days in the supply depot, although his work had been largely completed by the start of the offensive.
Little information came in from the front, save for meager briefings at the camp YMCA in the evening. The soldiers listened attentively to these briefings. When they were finished, Private E.R. Nelson of the 2nd Air Depot, also stationed at Tours, expressed his opinion to Andy and a group of friends who attended the talks together.
“What a bunch of bully!” he laughed. Bully referred to the imaginative byproducts served as “meat” in British “Bully Tins” that made up field rations. It was not complimentary.
They all had a good laugh, but were glad to be in support and not at the front. He had not seen Antoine Bouchard again in the camp mess, although occasionally he would be seen among various outside work parties, always under guard.
The Hundred Days Offensive continued full force, and in October news arrived that Bulgaria had signed an armistice and quit the Central Powers. By month’s end Turkey followed, then Austria. Germany was reeling from battlefield defeats and political isolation, a lack of manpower, and a crippled economy.
Anderson wrote in his diary,
November 7
War’s Over!
Germany Signs Armistice
Rumor
November 10
Kaiser abdicates
November 11
Armistice signed!
Big celebration in Tours
Bands and parades
By the time the fighting had stopped, the influenza outbreak had peaked. Records are incomplete, but before the flu mutated into less virulent strains and efforts to treat it became more successful, it would kill between 20 to 60 million people worldwide. Later reports estimated the death toll at nearly 100 million.
R