Chapter 9
A Shameful Peace
Peace came at a terrible cost. It was then that
France raised its fist - not as a nation, but
as individuals determined to not die quietly.
“Antoine!” The pounding continued on his door, and the terror dream returned. Artillery shells began to fall all around him once more. He pressed deeply against the sleeping Marianne, seeking the refuge of her warmth. The pounding continued, and Marianne awoke.
“Antoine. Antoine, wake up,” she pressed him. “There is someone at the door. Antoine!” She shook him out of his terror, and as the trenches dissolved from his dreams, he heard the pounding on the door himself for what it was.
He leaped from the bed, and grabbed the axe from near the hearth.
“Who is it?” he demanded, brandishing the axe tightly in his right hand.
“It is De Rosier, you Alsatian moron! Open the door!”
The owner of the St. Justine stepped quickly through the door, and over to the hearth. Even though it was late June, the late night air was cold, the wind brisk.
“Get yourself ready. We have a cargo,” he stated brusquely.
“What? At this hour?”
“Now, Antoine! There is no time to waste! The German Panzers will be in Lorient soon. British soldiers are flooding into St. Nazaire and Brest, and the German planes have bombed the cities. Get your things, we have to leave for England, right now!”
Marianne had by now dressed in a warm gown, and began to collect together some things for him to take. Her heart was racing with fear as she looked over at the peacefully sleeping AriŽle.
“What are we transporting? Why can’t it wait until the morning?” Bouchard questioned as he pulled on woolen pants and his boots, in protest.
“Not what. Who. Now get going! I will meet you on the boat!”
With that, De Rosier stormed out the door and headed for the quay where the St. Justine’s engine was already running. Antoine covered the 3 kilometers quickly, in time to find LŽon Vercher standing with a lamp at head of the quay.
“Do not get in my way, Vercher, not on this night!”
“We have an agreement, De Rosier!” he snapped. “I expect my payment!”
“You will get your money,” he growled. “On my return. There is no room for negotiation.”
“Three times the payment!” Vercher demanded.
“D’accord. Trois fois! Now get out of my way!”
The harbor master withdrew just as a group of four men crossed the dock from a warehouse. One carried a small machine pistol. They moved cautiously, looking around as they crossed the open space for the boat. Vercher withdrew quietly toward his office, keeping a watchful eye.
“Get aboard, quickly!” De Rosier barked, and went to the pilot house to complete preparations. Bouchard appeared at the end of the quay, running toward the boat. The man with the weapon raised it menacingly.
“Non! C’est mon second! - That’s my crewman!” De Rosier barked, and the man lowered his weapon, warily.
Bouchard cast off the stern mooring lines, cleared the spring lines, and ran forward. When the bow line was cast off, De Rosier engaged the engine. Bouchard jumped on board as the stern swung in towards the quay, and De Rosier nosed the boat out into narrow inlet leading to the bay. Once clear of the other vessels tied to the dock, he pushed the engine to full throttle.
“Take the helm, Antoine,” the captain called out. As the two changed places, De Rosier came down to the deck and ushered the four into the cabin below. The cabin lights were kept off, the only light the glow of a cigarette.
The captain kept his human cargo below decks until they were an hour out into the Bay of Biscay, heading north towards the English coast.
“You may go on deck, until daylight. Then the German planes might spot us - there can be no one on deck but me and my mate,” he told the man with the machine gun. The men agreed, and stepped out into the fresh air of the bay.
There were three Englishmen and their French guide, the one with the machine gun. The English spoke perfect French, however, but kept their conversations to a minimum.
The British Expeditionary Force (BEF) had been routed in northern France. While the majority of its men and equipment were in retreat towards the channel, others had fled south toward the Brittany coast. The ports of St. Nazaire and Brest would evacuate nearly 80,000 British troops in a single weekend. French and Dutch citizens fleeing the Germans made do with whatever transport they could find.
Bouchard looked down at the three Englishmen. They were not in uniform, but wore the garb of French middle class businessmen. One of the men had brought aboard a small dossier. Bouchard had seen enough of war to know these were not regular soldiers. Spies, he thought, or perhaps government attaches fleeing Paris. Whoever they were, his captain’s haste underscored their importance.
As dawn broke, the chaos that reigned on the Brittany Peninsula seemed far off. Antoine was still fearful for Marianne and AriŽle, however. He was not there to protect them. Marianne would see to his daughter’s safety, this he was confident of, but in such chaos anything could go wrong.
The captain ordered his cargo below decks, but no German planes appeared overhead. The St. Justine pressed ahead on a northerly course, keeping clear of the Channel Islands before turning north by east toward the English shore. Just after midnight, under a cloudy sky as black as Hell, Bouchard spotted a light in the distance. It flashed three times. Then stopped. Then twice. This repeated, two more times. One of the Englishmen appeared on deck.
“That is the signal, Captain. That is the rendezvous.”
“Bouchard, change course for that light - half throttle,” De Rosier commanded. Antoine Bouchard cut the throttle back and steered east. Before him was a blackened shape lying low in the water, difficult to ascertain. The light flashed again.
“Cut your engines,” the Englishman called out. The captain looked at Bouchard and nodded. The St. Justine’s engine fell silent, the vessel slowing, then bobbing in the swell of the channel. A powerful searchlight glared ominously from the darkened shape, blinding all on board.
“Captain, thank you for your assistance,” the Englishman reached out and shook De Rosier’s hand. He passed an envelope to him he had removed from the dossier. “As we agreed, Capitaine.”
A small raft appeared out of the night and came alongside. The four men of the human cargo slipped over the side and, crammed in the small raft, began to paddle back towards what Bouchard realized was a British submarine.
R
By June 21, 1940, Lorient was firmly under the control of the invading army, bolstered by elements of the 5th Panzer Division that occupied Brest. Orders from the French command prohibited armed resistance or escape, and the Lorient garrison was paraded shamefully through the streets heading for POW camps. Few would ever return.
By the following week the Gestapo had located in the commune’s administration building and the French police were given instructions under the General Orders of Occupation. Few regular army or secret police would be necessary owing to the complicity of French authorities.
The occupation was formal, almost civil. The population that had been spared the ravages of the first war were hopeful of avoiding such a fate, and cooperated with the occupying powers - the Germans and Italians.
The PNB, however, would suffer a different fate. The cooperation of Vichy France meant the radical counter-democracy elements Germany had supported throughout France were simply no longer necessary. The organizers of the PNB fled for their lives and the local cells went underground. The Gestapo and French Police rounded up known PNB sympathizers, and these disappeared from view before the summer had waned. The nationalist’s dream of establishing an independent Breton state with German aid collapsed as quickly as the French army had in Flanders. Breton nationalism had become an obstacle to Franco-German cooperation in the form of the Vichy government.
Lorient was prized as a potential base for German U-boats, along with St. Nazaire and Brest. By the spring of 1941, 15,000 conscripted workers from Holland, France, Belgium, Portugal, Spain, and Morocco were transported to Lorient to begin construction. The base was operational in August. The flurry of activity was good for local business, so the excesses employed by the Germans were tolerated.
The French police and their German overseers were preoccupied with the building of the Lorient submarine base, and the tiny port of Pont-Aven was left largely alone. The local police could be counted on to do their part to maintain order, and to chronicle the activities of those they deemed suspicious. The harbor masters in the small coastal ports were brought under the control of the French police. Despite this, Pont-Aven remained under the official radar screen, and smuggling, both of goods and information, became good business - for both the smugglers and the police.
For the captain of the St. Justine, it remained a dangerous but profitable time - more profitable than selling fish.
R
The nightmares returned. Antoine seethed with terrifying visions of Marianne and AriŽle being torn away from him, spinning out of sight, out of his grasp. The images of war flashed through his mind, the memories of horror replaying like a broken record, back, forth, back again. He screamed aloud, waking Marianne. Antoine was drenched in sweat, shaking uncontrollably, his left arm and hand numb.
“Marianne, you must go! It is not safe here!” he announced in the safety of the dawn. Antoine knew he had to act quickly to protect his family. Marianne was firm in her resolve to stay.
“You don’t understand! They will come for you - I have seen it, over and over. They took my brother and shot him, they drove Rachelle and Justin to their deaths. This is real, Marianne. It is not safe here!”
They argued for days, but he made no progress.
The butcher disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving no trace, save for a ransacked cottage and a murdered dog. The townspeople knew it was the French police, acting under the control of the Gestapo in Lorient. Marianne still stood her ground. She would stay with Antoine in Pont-Aven.
R
The first raid on the submarine pens at Lorient was launched by the RAF 27 Sep 1940. By the following spring, Lorient had become a prime target of British bombers. The newspaper The Argus published in Melbourne carried the following story:
Monday, March 24, 1941
BOMBS ON LORIENT
R.A.F. Uses Big Aircraft
LONDON, Sun (A.A.P.)
Some of the latest R.A.F super-bombers dropped very heavy bombs on Lorient, the U-boat base on the Bay of Biscay, on Friday.
It was the third night in succession Lorient was raided.
The Air Ministry states the raid lasted several hours. Bombs aimed through gaps in clouds were seen to burst around the harbour, the west dock, and the western bank of the river, where there were violent explosions.
Other planes attacked docks at Ostend.
Two planes are missing from these operations.
R
Antoine and Marianne heard the explosions even as far away as Pont-Aven. AriŽle, now thirteen years old, hid under the bed, if only to help soothe her fears. The following day people were saying many R.A.F. bombs had missed their targets and fallen all over the area, destroying large sections of the city and killing French civilians. This was the second major raid on Lorient in as many weeks. Marianne knew they were in as much danger from the British bombers as they were from the Germans.
Now that the Battle of France was over, the Battle of the Atlantic was in full force. The British had mounted an extensive campaign to cripple the U-boat fleet destroying so much of its supply lifeline to its colonies and the United States by attempting to destroy the submarine pens and repair facilities on French territory. The concentrated raids began in March and would extend for seven months. Lorient was the largest of these hardened facilities, and a prime target.
The war had come at last with its full fury to the Brittany peninsula.
Marianne had to bury her pride and think only of AriŽle.
“The priest has told me of a monastery near Chantelle in the Lyon region. It is well within Vichy, and he says it would be safe. He has connections in Lorient that can arrange transport for you and AriŽle. He says it is safe.”
“When will you join us?” she asked, knowing in advance such a reunion was unlikely, at least for now.
“Soon,” he lied. “Soon.”
He wrote to his friend in America,
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.
I will still try to write. I do not know when I can post a letter again.
Antoine
R
“What have you done with my daughter?” he screamed at Bouchard.
Antoine tended gear on board the St. Justine tied up dock side as Pierre Villar, in a brandy-fueled rage, tried to climb on board.
“Back off, Pierre,” he warned, and pushed him back onto the quay. He staggered and fell, more from the brandy than the shove.
“My Marianne! Where have you taken her?”
“She is someplace safe. Away from here, from the British bombs and the Germans. I will tell no one where.”
“It is that priest, isn’t it? Eh? That priest that dishonored me! He did this!”
“Mind your own business, old man,” Bouchard warned him menacingly.
“My own business? This is my business! This is my daughter!”
“She is my wife, and my daughter. They are my responsibility, Villar. Not yours!”
Villar glared up from the dock.
“Do not speak to me of your bastard child!”
Antoine jumped down off the boat to the dock and grabbed Villar by the lapels of his coat and lifted him menacingly off the ground.
“I have listened to your filth long enough, Villar. Call my AriŽle a bastard child again and I will break your neck!”
He cast him violently to the ground and stood over him for a long moment before returning to his work. Villar managed to regain his footing.
“You will see, Bouchard. You will pay for stealing my Marianne. You will see!”
R
In May 1941 the French police in Paris began rounding up nearly 4,000 men, mostly Jewish, in the first of several such “cleansings” supervised by the French police. By the time the news reached the Breton region, the local faction of the Parti National Breton (PNB) had resurfaced and tried to capitalize on the crackdown. Lists of Jews, suspected socialists, communists, and anyone who opposed the fascist splinter group were turned over to the harbor master at Pont-Aven who acted as the de facto police captain under the German occupation.
The third name on the list was Antoine Bouchard.
“I will look into this,” he said calmly, and placed the papers in his desk, locking the drawer after him. The harbor master had no intention of turning this information over to the police in Lorient, who were simply the ground troops for the Lorient Gestapo. Payments from the St. Justine and other vessels running illegally out of the harbor were making him quite wealthy. He would, however, use this to his advantage, leveraging the threat of exposure for more payments from local business owners.
The two PNB operatives left the police office, unsure if they were going to get cooperation or not. Pierre Villar met them in the street and ranted.
“That criminal will just blackmail them for more money,” he spat. “He is a worthless pig!”
R
Chaplain Anderson left the commandant’s office at the Civilian Conservation Corps headquarters for the southern Oregon district in Medford and drove the 90 miles to his home in Roseburg. He had been the chaplain for the CCC in Oregon for the last six years, but that stability had just been shattered. When he finally reached home, he had some unsettling news for his wife Lucile and their daughter, Bonnie. He had been recalled to active duty, and ordered to report to Fort Lewis, Washington.
He was uncertain what the fuss was all about, he would recall later, for the United States was still at peace despite war in Europe and Japanese expansion in China. His uncertainty would be laid to rest in a few short months.
December 14, 1941
Dear Antoine,
The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor has meant a general mobilization here in America. I cannot go into any more details, except to say I am heading overseas to the Pacific. Once again, we are cast into the pit by man’s folly.
I pray for you, and ask Him to deliver your beloved Marianne and AriŽle home safely.
Write to me at my home address. I will ask Lucile to forward your letters to me, if you can post one.
Trust in the Lord, that reward in heaven will be waiting for all.
In God’s name,
Andy
R
Two men stepped aboard the St. Justine as Antoine finished greasing the turnbuckles on the net gear. He knew one of the men - Maurice Paschal, who worked at the net shed. He had frequent dealings with Maurice, especially while refitting the boat between sailings. The other man was unknown to him, and he had not seen him in Pont-Aven before.
“Bonjour, Antoine!” Maurice called. “Ca va? - How are you?”
“Ca va bien,” he replied back, growing slightly suspicious. Antoine did not take quickly to strangers, and the presence of the unknown man was curious, especially in such a small port as Pont-Aven.
“I would like to speak with you, in private. Below deck, if you would oblige me,” Maurice said, looking around furtively.
“What for?” Antoine replied.
“Please, Antoine. I would prefer not to talk in public. You have known me a long time, ever since you arrived in Pont-Aven. I have never treated you dishonestly, have I?” he responded.
Antoine nodded his head in agreement, and motioned the two below. He looked over the stranger carefully as he stepped down into the cabin. He was average height, no significant characteristics, somewhat normal in appearance for a French working man. Nothing that would stand out as unusual. I will remain on my guard, however, he reassured himself. He followed the men below deck.
“I have coffee,” Antoine motioned to the galley, and the two men seated themselves at the table.
“Oui, merci,” the stranger replied.
Bouchard poured three cups of coffee and laid them out on the table, then sat down.
“You must really learn how to make coffee. I will have my TherŽsa come by and show you,” the man named Maurice kidded him. The informality did little to help Antoine relax, however. He took a sip of hot drink.
“I have work to do. We are leaving this afternoon for the Channel Islands, so let’s get to it. What do you want?” Bouchard got right to the point.
The stranger spoke first.
“I will be brief, Monsieur Bouchard. My name is Zacharie Senesac. I am from Lorient. I am a butcher there, and own a small shop. We are here because Maurice tells me you are a man who can be trusted. A man who does not collaborate with the Germans like so many do. And a man of honor.”
Antoine was not swayed by the flattery. What does he want? They are up to something, illegal likely, dangerous or seditious, most likely.
“So, get to the point,” he interrupted.
“D’accord - OK,” Maurice broke in. “We know you occasionally move certain goods through the port the authorities know nothing about.”
At the mention of the smuggling, Bouchard tensed with alertness.
“Relax, we are not here to blackmail you, like that pig Vercher,” Maurice returned.
“Monsieur Bouchard, I am part of a group of Bretons who don’t trust the Germans or the French authorities that collaborate with them in this occupation. The Germans are taking everything they can from France, and using its people as work slaves for their war effort. The French police are their agents in raping their own country.”
This was not news. The people in Pont-Aven had heard of the takeover of industry, the conscription of workers, of people simply disappearing into the “Night and Fog” as it was called. It was clear - even in such a small commune - that the local police were complicit with these activities.
“So? This is not news to me.”
“No, I should think not. However, it is just a matter of time before they come to you for something. The harbor master is a part of their conspiracy. He takes bribes from you, pays bribes up the chain - all to keep his little financial empire intact. At some point, someone up the line will get caught, fail to pay a bribe, or have a higher payment demanded of them than they can make. At that point, this little profitable enterprise will collapse. You are exposed in this, just as the harbor master is, and your captain as well.”
Bouchard was becoming increasingly alarmed by Monsieur Senesac’s frankness.
“We have a network of French nationalists, people inserted in the levels of the bureaucracy throughout Lorient and the surrounding region. They supply us with information so we can stay ahead of the Germans and their French puppets. We have resources at our disposal when needed to help protect those of us who despise the Boche and Vichy as well.
“We are the ones who found the refuge for your wife and daughter, through the priest here in Pont-Aven.”
That was the connection. That was the hook they felt they had in him. It now was becoming clear.
“OK, so how much?” Bouchard knew they wanted something, probably payment.
“Antoine, I am not here to collect a bribe, or to solicit payment. No one in our organization is doing this to make money. We may, from time to time, have need of a boat. A way to transport small packages of information or stolen papers offshore, at night. The runs you make with cargo to England - these could be useful to us in arranging the transfer of such packages.”
“And why should I help you, and put myself in danger?”
“Such deliveries would be paid for, of course,” Senesac stated, carefully avoiding the question.
“Why now? What do you need now?”
“Nothing, I assure you. My objective was to talk with you, to allow you to understand my mission, and my needs. We will use only those who can be trusted to remain quiet, and who will make the sacrifice for us, and for France. My intent is simply to open a dialog with you for the future. If this cannot be, then so be it.
“All I ask is that you think this over. We would like to talk with you again, perhaps bring you an offer at some time, for you to consider.”
“An offer?”
“Oui. We would not presume you would risk yourself unnecessarily. If we have a need, I would contact you quietly, through Maurice, and ask if you are interested.”
“Antoine,” Maurice added, “I am a part of this group. I will know everything there is that is necessary to know. I will talk with you quietly if they need you, and you can agree or not, as you see fit.”
The three men sipped their coffee, and the silence grew around them.
“I will think about it,” Bouchard stated matter-of-factly. He knew as the entanglements increased he was putting his wife and daughter at a greater and greater risk. The world around him was spinning out of control, and he was powerless to stop it.
“Bon. That is all we ask.” The two men slipped out from behind the table, and stepped back on deck.
“I will contact you only through Maurice,” Senesac said as he turned to face Antoine once he stepped onto the pier.
“I am making no promises,” Bouchard was adamant.
“We understand,” he added, and the two turned and strode off down the quay.
None of the men were aware of the pair of eyes that followed them down the pier.
R