Chapter 17
The Devil’s Dance
Vengeance is a dish best served cold.
- Thanatos
February 1943
Antoine cautiously approached the German officer sitting at the cafŽ reading. He was Hauptmann Gerhardt, one of the officers coordinating Wehrmacht defensive interests with the Todt Organization.
Gerhardt appeared in his mid-thirties and carried the stiff and deceptively polite bearing of Prussian military tradition, but was ruthless in his execution of duty. Rumor had it he had commanded a mechanized infantry company that had been badly mauled in the Battle of Kursk. This disgrace could have ended his career, possibly before a regimental firing squad. However, his career was salvaged by the intervention of his wife’s uncle, a major general on the Atlantic Wall military command. It was a reversal of his fortunes career wise, but he understood the importance of his benefactor in rebuilding his career reputation.
“Herr Hauptmann,” Antoine began. “May I have a moment of your time?”
The officer looked up from his reading and eyed Bouchard warily. Local French citizens seldom simply engaged a German officer in casual conversation.
“Who are you, and what do you want? I am not part of the local administration, so if you have a complaint, you must take it to the regional commandant.” He was annoyed that the locals of this tiny village seemed to complain about everything, as if they were not proper channels for such things. These French are like disobedient children, he thought to himself.
“I am not here to complain, Herr Hauptmann, but to speak with you about a sensitive issue regarding the beach construction.” Antoine was referring to the installation of concrete bunkers and field cannon at the mouth of the Seulles River. This caught Hauptmann Gerhardt’s attention.
“Then speak, man, and be quick about it!” Hauptmann Gerhardt did not invite Antoine Bouchard to sit.
“I am a fisherman, Herr Hauptmann. Jacques Charbonneau.” Why does this concern me? Gerhardt thought dismissively. “One hears things, sees things. Especially along the quay and in the warehouses. Things that might be of value, especially for someone involved in building such an ambitious project.”
“And what do you know of this project?” he snapped.
“I have eyes, Herr Hauptmann. Everyone in the commune talks of the gun emplacements. How could they not, they are being built in plain sight?”
The low dunes along the coast line were but a short walk away from the center of the commune, and the construction work and supply convoys were notoriously exposed to view. Security was nearly impossible.
Hauptmann Gerhardt carefully eyed this insolent French fisherman. He watched his eyes carefully. These French seldom looked you straight in the eyes, and certainly could not be trusted. This one has an intense stare, he thought. Unusual.
“So, what do you want?” I should have this man arrested. I don’t trust him. He wants something, probably trying to sell some irrelevant nonsensical information. He will be sorely disappointed.
“As I said, Herr Hauptmann, a man sees things, and hears things. Possibly even learns of people who might want to disrupt your construction plans.”
Gerhardt’s interest piqued instantly, but he remained stoic, not wanting to appear too interested. The Gestapo in Caen was obsessed with routing out resistance elements. He distrusted the Gestapo even more than he distrusted these dirty French peasants, but he could see an opportunity to make some strategic career headway if he could expose one of these irritating resistance cells.
Bouchard, who had been studying the German’s facial reactions carefully, noticed his eyes momentarily dilate. He had hit a nerve.
The officer proceeded carefully.
“So tell me, fisherman, what is your interest in this?”
“I do not care about politics, Herr Hauptmann. Or your occupation, either.” With that backhanded slap Hauptmann Gerhardt bristled slightly. “I catch fish, and sell fish. That is all I am interested in,” he continued. A typical Frenchman - no education, no culture, no manners. “The buyers give special treatment to certain boats, and try to block me out of the market. They like to think they control Courseulles. They despise you Germans, that is an easy thing to see. If you can - disrupt - their little cooperations, I stand to benefit.”
“And you do not hate the Germans, I suppose,” he added scornfully.
Antoine reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded paper. He laid it on the table in front of the officer.
“And what is this?” he asked, feigning disinterest.
“My discharge papers. I was a soldier in the German army in the Great War. I was taken prisoner during the Spring Offensive and held captive by these French bastards.”
Gerhardt unfolded the paper and read it carefully. It confirmed the fisherman’s story - Jacques Charbonneau, P68219, was discharged from French custody 12/3/1920. Antoine could easily recount experiences in graphic detail of his service on the Eastern Front, in Flanders, and in the prisoner system, even if his papers belonged to another Jacques Charbonneau, of Salzburg in the Alsace. Charbonneau actually died while in French custody. Any check by the German authorities would verify his story, however, for the records had been carefully doctored to provide Bouchard with this cover. SIS had made certain of that.
Hauptmann Gerhardt refolded the paper and unbuttoned his tunic pocket, and slipped the document inside. The ruse had worked.
“I will check on this, Jacques Fisherman,” he answered carefully. “I will return your papers if they are verified. If not, I will have you arrested and shot.”
He dismissed Bouchard rudely. His heart was pounding, however, and he knew he had stumbled upon an opportunity to help erase the stain on his career record. If this Jacques Charbonneau checked out, he could plant him deeply inside the community and leverage him for useful information about the local resistance.
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One of the local fish sellers saw Jacques Charbonneau talking with Hauptmann Gerhardt. He saw him hand the hauptmann a document, and saw the officer walk briskly back to his command office at the head of the harbor. Le Organisation Civil et Militaire (OCM) would keep a close eye on this fisherman.
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Antoine wrote his friend.
14 Feb 1943
Dear Andy,
I fear I have lost Marianne and AriŽle. I can find no information about them. The terrors grow every night, as is the hatred growing deep within me for these Germans. Forgive me, my friend, but I wish them all dead.
I am playing a dangerous game. The German commander thinks I am a loyal ex-soldier. They are desperate to uncover the local resistance fighters, and need someone local as an informant. This gives me the chance to learn information that my Anglo friends will pay for.
Antoine
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Hauptmann Gerhardt sat at his favorite table at the Hotel de Paris sipping a glass of the local wine. On the table was a report he had just finished reading detailing the service record and history of one Jacques Charbonneau, discharged soldier and POW. Sitting across from him was the harbor master, Monsieur Le Collette. He did not have a glass of wine.
“Monsieur, as you know I am most interested in routing out some of the unsavory elements that could disrupt my orders here in your dreadful little port,” he started with an air of superiority. His tone and the gist of this conversation alarmed Le Collette. “I think you can be of help to me and, I am certain I can reciprocate, in time.”
What is he after?, Le Collette asked himself.
German officers all liked to think they were all-powerful, and pretended to command extraordinary resources. In reality, the command structure was so rigid that a successful officer learned to bluff and extort his way to influence over the locals.
Did he know of any of my activities? Le Collette began to sweat and fidget in his seat. Gerhardt was too self-absorbed to notice.
“This fisherman, Charbonneau. He is of some use to me. He served Germany after all, in the Great War. He was taken prisoner, you know, and has no love for you French,” he added with a smirk. “I understand he has some difficulty in getting a good price for his smelly fish. I believe you have some influence in this regard, do you not?”
Le Collette did not answer, for he knew that Gerhardt already knew the answer to that question, or he would not have asked. The look on his face gave this away, and Gerhardt simply placed his wine glass on the table.
“I thought so,” he replied curtly, answering his own question. “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to ... intercede ... on his behalf in this manner.” The phony Prussian mannerisms made Le Collete cringe inside, knowing it was more than an implied threat.
“I will look into it,” Le Collete answered carefully.
“Good! And on another point, one less complicated ... .”
The harbor master knew he was being watched, and the longer he remained at the table with the German officer the more suspicious others became of his actions.
“It would be helpful,” Hauptmann Gerhardt continued, “if the activities of this vessel were not recorded, monsieur. Prying eyes need not know of its comings and goings. How do you record such activity?”
Le Collette was suspicious of the officer’s intentions, and was careful and measured in his response.
“I keep a log, Herr Hauptmann. It lists the date, activity, and the registry number of a vessel’s activity.”
“This registry number. Explain it to me.”
“When a vessel is registered, I issue a certificate to the captain. I then simply record the number of that certificate when an activity occurs.”
“And you have such a document on this fisherman’s boat?”
“Oui, Herr Hauptmann.”
“And if that document disappeared, how would anyone know of the boat’s information?”
“They would not, Herr Hauptmann.”
“Good. There are those working against the Reich here in Courseulles who could disrupt my plans if they were to trace this boat’s activities. I want you to destroy that certificate, monsieur. Immediately!”
Le Collette saw this unexpected turn of events as an insurance policy in his game of double-hand.
“Oui, Herr Hauptmann. Consider it done!” Le Collette felt like he had just been given a reprieve from a probable death sentence.
With that, the anonymity of the St. Marianne was guaranteed.
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Graye-sur-Mer is a tiny village nearly near Courseulles on the other side of the River Seulles. It is a short walk to the port, and the priest who gave the mass routinely walked the river bank path to the shore bridge and into Courseulles collecting unsold fish for the poor serviced by the church. He would then walk the back roads, giving blessings to the old and the ill who could not travel easily to the church for mass. His walks were routine, and went unnoticed. He tended to the spiritual needs of the outlying peasants and the Catholic conscripts who managed to sneak away occasionally for confession.
Every so often he stopped by Antoine Bouchard’s cottage when he saw the St. Marianne in port. Antoine was not a regular at mass, but welcomed the priest when he made his rounds. He arrived at the usual time this morning.
“Good morning, my son,” he offered quietly.
“Welcome, Father, come in,” and he swung the cottage door open. The priest entered and looked around the small cottage. It was neat and orderly, save for the rude bed coverings that were in a scattered disarray. The terrors are back, he thought to himself. God has made a rough road for this child of His. To what end he could only guess. “Sit and share a glass of wine with me.”
As the old priest took a slow sip from the wooden mug, he began to speak.
“God has plans for each of us, Jacques,” he began. The priest knew him only as Jacques Charbonneau. No one would ever know his real name - he guarded it with his life. “And only through giving our life to Him can we find salvation.”
Antoine had heard this story many times, but wondered why the priest was bringing this up now.
“It is not a coincidence that you are a fisherman, Jacques. God has had a special role for the fisherman in his work on earth, witnessed by the Great Fisherman, Jesus. Traversing the turbulent waters, one must rely on faith or be wrecked on the shores of sin.”
“Sometimes, a messenger arrives to spread God’s news, to help in the fulfillment of His will. It is our duty before Him to listen with an open heart, and steel ourselves to life’s travails in fulfilling our task for God.”
OK, old man, just what do you want. He could sense there was more than a sermon behind this priest’s remarks.
“There are many here who are willing to work against the forces of Satan that occupy France. They are called to do many tasks, separate tasks. The purposes of these are known only to Him.”
The priest reached into his cassock and removed a sealed letter.
“Even an old priest is called to deliver God’s message,” he added with a slight smile, sensing the air of suspicion growing in Antoine. He handed Bouchard the envelope, and turned to leave. “I will return each week at this time, on those days when the St. Marianne is in port, for those times when God calls. Even the Germans are blind to the pandering of a silly old priest.”
With that the priest left, and continued on his humble rounds.
Bouchard locked the door, and closed the window shutters as well. Under the light of a small oil lantern, he opened the envelope.
He recognized the code name on the top of the letter - Absinthe. He was told when he first left Portsmouth that he would be contacted and given further instructions by Absinthe, and only him. He read the letter carefully.
Absinthe
This is the only written communication you will receive. The courier who delivered this is to be trusted. He will deliver instructions to you, but you are to have no additional communication with him at any time. Your actions must remain secret to all others.
You will rendezvous at 01:30, 14/3/1944. Same manner and location as last delivery. Below is a list of needs. Please advise on conditions as detailed, verbal only.
Destroy this document once read.
Below this was a checklist of local facilities of the Atlantic Wall with questions about their status, troop assignments, and resource availability.
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