Chapter 20
The Final Meeting
I would rather walk with a friend in the dark,
than alone in the light.
- Helen Keller
Joseph Graumann pedaled his bicycle through a hard rain heading westward from the village of Tailleville. Gale force finds pummeled the coast making the ride difficult, wet, and cold. Each morning he would leave the Gefechtsstand, or division command post, at ChŠteau de Tailleville and deliver mail and orders. He would pick up routine correspondence from three of the company command posts in this area - Courseulles-sur-Mer, the regular post at Graye-sur-Mer, and the Ost Battalion command post nearby - and return. Other dispatch riders served the company strongpoints at Bernires-sur-Mer, St. Aubin, and other fortified defensive positions in this area.
The Normandy coast was dark at this early hour, an hour before dawn. The moon this morning was obscured by the thick cloud cover and the waves crashed on the beach in a fury. It had been the worst weather this late in the season in recent memory and was not forecasted to improve any time soon.
As the courier pedaled through the port, he could smell the aroma of estuary mud. It was low tide, and where the river flowed into the harbor seaside of the lock it exposed a small falls. Small boats lay stranded on the mud waiting for the next tide to float.
The fishing boats had unloaded their catch and the fresh fish vendors were setting up their tents along the quay. Reefs offshore provided a wide variety of fish and shellfish for the local industry, especially scallops and oysters. German troops, used to meager war rations, would frequent the fish market with what little script they could scrape together. A clandestine system of price fixing ensured they paid a higher price than the residents of the village.
The system of couriers that bicycled between the defensive positions were crucial to the local commanders’ communication plans. Because of its small harbor and central location just north and slightly west of Caen and the nearby airfield at Carpiquet, Rommel considered Courseulles a critical defensive position even though Wehrmacht analysts discounted the likelihood of a major assault taking place here. Planners thought the reefs that supported the local fishery would discourage the Allies from landing large ships capable of carrying armor. Nevertheless, it was still a heavily defended position on the northern parts of the Normandy coast. Although the harbor was insufficient for large scale movement of troops, stores, and vehicles, its loss would allow the Allies to secure a stable foothold from which to launch attacks against Caen and Carpiquet, quickly reinforcing troops in a rapidly evolving front.
The Widerstandsnest, strongpoint WN29, overlooked the harbor at Courseulles-sur-Mer. It consisted of three heavily reinforced casements. The H677 enfilade (overlapping chain of fire) bunker was a heavily reinforced concrete cannon position with a protruding fire wall that restricted the exposure to enemy fire coming from anywhere except virtually head on. Limited to a 58 degree field of fire, the formidable 88mm cannon could easily attack any enemy forces offshore that could direct a frontal assault against it. The bunker complex included machine gun nests to sweep the beaches of infantry and vehicles that might be placed ashore.
Two 612 style casements housed 75mm cannons, each with a 60 degree field of fire. Another strong point, designated WN31, contained another 75mm cannon and machine guns as well as two 50mm cannons. The third strongpoint, WN30, was located south of Courseulles near the cemetery and protected the approaches to Graye-sur-Mer immediately inland up the river.
Additional Widerstandsnests were built stretching along both sides of the coast, towards Arromanches to the west, and St. Aubin and Bernires to the east, as well as inland at Beny and Graye. At Mare, a kilometer south of Ver-sur-Mer, the Germans had built four casements with horse-drawn 100mm long range cannons to support the beach defenses. With overlapping fields of fire, any invasion fleet would come under a considerable threat from these hardened defenses, and the beaches would become kill zones for approaching infantry. The key to these formidable defenses would be coordination. Their Achilles heel was the ill-trained, inexperienced static infantry composed largely of Eastern European conscripts, Hitler Jugend, and old soldiers - many compromised by injuries received in battle.
The courier arrived every morning at the same time, just before dawn, and reported to Hauptmann Grote, the company commander at Courseulles. Grote took the dispatch and read it dispassionately.
“More paperwork, Joseph?” he asked the courier, who stood shivering in the early morning dampness of the command bunker. “If only we could fight the war with paperwork, we would defeat the Allies with ease,” he remarked, sarcastically. “Ah, something different today, eh, Joseph? A meeting at the chateau. Now that’s original.”
Joseph Graumann, a mere boy conscripted into service in the Hitler Jugend just after his fourteenth birthday, stood respectfully at attention, grimacing at this backhanded slap at the German command. He still had the spirit of youth, and the full effect of Nazi propaganda fueled a fire of National Socialist zeal. He chafed at the thought of his local commander making fun of command.
After reading the dispatch, he initialed the courier’s log book.
Joseph would then wait for dawn, warming himself by the small coal-fired stove, then at the same time every day would continue on his way south of the village to the command headquarters of the Ost Battalion 441, or east battalion, composed mainly of Ukrainian conscripts from the Eastern Front.
Joseph hated this leg of his morning dispatch rounds. The strange language and uncouth demeanor of the foreigners made him nervous. One in particular, wearing the uniform of an Unteroffizier (American sergeant or British corporal), frightened him. He was rumored to have committed unspeakable atrocities towards locals that the German authorities considered partisan. This was a man to fear, a man who craved violence. At age 14, he had sworn to do his duty for the Fatherland, swearing personal allegiance to the FŸhrer, but he could not understand why the great German army needed such trash to do its work. A least he didn’t have to go there in the dark.
He was glad to be in and out of the foreign command post at Graye-sur-Mer just south of the port. The ride along the Seulles River had been easier, with the fresh wind coming off the bay and across the open beaches at his back, shielding him from the rain. He cycled back to regimental headquarters at ChŠteau de Tailleville and reported to the commandant, Oberst Deptolla.
The strongpoints in and around Courseulles were connected to headquarters by telephones. Wires were strung on temporary poles, trees, and buildings. They were, however, vulnerable to the ever-present Maquissard so were intended mainly for short, emergency communications. Routine communications and written dispatches were always delivered by cycle riders. Radio communications were scarce in this part of the Atlantic Wall, limited to headquarter companies and their command centers, and easy to jam by enemy invaders.
“Do you think it is a good day for an invasion, Joseph?” Deptolla joked easily with his dispatch rider and asked him the same question almost every day. Why do they ask me such things? Joseph asked himself, uneasy at being drawn into such a conversation. “The generals say that Churchill will be visiting us at Calais. I am not so sure. But it would be just my luck if they attacked there, and I spent the rest of the war stuck here, out of the action.”
Oberst Deptolla had spent the past winter on the Eastern Front - the “real war” as he called it. The son of a Prussian officer, the men of his family had served Imperial Germany with distinction for generations. Unlike the young officers now transferring into his command, he was classically trained in the arts of warfare. Enthralled by the swift victories in the west, especially the victory over Germany’s traditional enemies France and Great Britain, he was equally alarmed by the attack on Russia. A two front war was not winnable. This the general staff officers of OKW understood all too well. But who was there to stand against Hitler? And besides, the Western Front had as of yet failed to materialize. If the East could be stabilized before the allies invaded, perhaps there was hope yet. A stable Eastern Front might open the door to negotiate with the West. After all, was not the Communist menace the real enemy?
In the meantime, he had his duty to perform. If the invasion happened here in Normandy, he would be prepared even if his fellow Wehrmacht officers were not. He commanded a well designed and fortified defensive position, but had limited access to the mobile power of the Panzers. His infantry units were static, and expected to hold their positions at all cost.
He had been seriously wounded by shrapnel in the leg, and walked with a pronounced limp. He could easily serve in this command center where there was little chance of action, so he had been transferred here to command a mix of Hitler Jugend, old and wounded soldiers, fresh trainees, and the Ukrainians. He had dreams of achieving a great battle victory, and wearing the Iron Cross, but those dreams had faded into obscurity at this post. “My God,” he had written to his wife, “I have been relegated to Hell.”
He was, nonetheless, a German officer. Despite his sarcasm, he would continue to do his duty. Today was just another day - check the duty rotation roster and review the dispatch orders. After review, they were placed in a dossier under the appropriate heading. At the back of the dossier was a folder with the simple title - Standing Orders Invasion.
Rumors had persisted for many months that the Army Group B commanding general, Field Marshall Rommel himself, had openly quarreled with OberGeneral Von Runstedt over tactics and preparations in case of an attack in the Normandy area. Rommel believed that a quick counterattack to hold the landing force on the beaches in conjunction with massed artillery was the key to defeating the invasion. Von Runstedt, however, favored a more deliberate approach - letting the Allies form on the beach, exposing their heavy equipment and infantry divisions, then defeating them in a broad frontal assault. He had fought with Keitel over the reserve Panzers, now under the direct command of the FŸhrer himself. Unless otherwise ordered, the Panzers would be held for the anticipated assault at Pas de Calais in northern France.
The 21st SS Panzer Division, however, was a different story. Stationed to the north of Caen on a strategic crossroads, the 21st had been moved under Rommel’s orders to holding positions near the beach. One of the most important regimental commanders, and an officer Deptolla had served with in Russia, was SS Colonel Kurt Meyer. Meyer was selected to command the young Grenadiers of SS-Panzergrenadier-Regiment 25-personally selected by Hitler to show the success of the Hitler Jugend corps.
Under a general standing order, long forgotten by most front unit commanders, this position meant that individual commanders could order elements of the 21st to assist enemy repulsion efforts in the event of an invasion. Only the SS elements of the 21st were part of the strategic reserves held back by Hitler. To Rommel’s thinking, this allowed him to act at least partially to achieve his direct and early assault planning in case the invasion occurred at Normandy. If the main assault did take place at Calais, the 21st would be in position to attack the southern flank of a successful incursion, or repulse an Allied assault on the port of Cherbourg.
Mobility was the key, as Oberst Deptolla knew too well from his experience on the Eastern Front. In the monotonous days and months manning this backwater post he had concocted various scenarios where he was the victor, boldly executing the standing orders while his fellow commanders waited for higher orders, unleashing the firepower of the Panzers, saving the day. Rommel himself would award him the Iron Cross. He had planned his counter strike a thousand times over. I will not fail to act, he boasted, if only to himself.
Today he had ordered his sub-commanders in the area to a meeting at headquarters where he would outline, once again, his tactical plan for the invasion that he hoped would come to Normandy.
Commanding the eastern edge of his command zone at St. Albin and Bernires-sur-Mer was Hauptmann Rudolf Gruter. Like him, Gruter had served in the East, and was experienced. From his gun positions, he could establish overlapping fields of fire with the main gun battery at Courseulles - Hauptmann Grote’s position.
To the west was the command center at Tailleville-Tombette. Hauptmann Johann Grzeski was relatively inexperienced, but seemed a capable officer. He had only recently arrived in the battle sector and had yet to take part in Deptolla’s regular planning sessions.
South of the seaport was the strongpoint of Graye-sur-Mer/La Rivire under the command of Hauptmann Gustav-Adolf Lutz. Lutz was a competent officer, but like many assigned to the Atlantic Wall defenses he was untrained and untested. Experienced battle veterans were needed on the Eastern Front. The coast defensive fortifications, designed by Albert Speer and implemented by Rommel, would multiply the fighting strength of the ill-trained and inexperienced field soldiers, at least until reinforcements could arrive. At least that was what these officers thought was the general command imperative.
And, of course, there were the Ukrainians from Ost Battalion ... the bane of his existence. The presence of non-Aryan soldiers in his command was an insult, and it made him question the very fiber of the OKW command. They were only marginally trained, undisciplined, and a constant source of trouble. I’ll send them against the first wave, he chuckled to himself, and be done with them.
They met in the dining room of the chateau that had been converted into a command center with maps of the Courseulles area on every available empty wall space. Daily changes in troop dispositions were recorded and redrawn, along with planned routes of counterattack. As Deptolla reviewed the maps before the briefing he knew despite the bold planning there were no definitive plans for retreat. Such a contingency if even discussed could have resulted in his immediate arrest and execution. So he kept his strategic withdrawal plans to himself, leaving no telltale paper trail to indict him.
His aide ushered his sub-commanders into the room. He invited them to take tea - a small luxury in the middle of this chaos he allowed himself.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Please be seated,” he began, standing up before the east wall maps. “For the benefit of Herr Grzeski, we will review the counter-invasion troop dispositions and counterattack options. It is clear that a high invasion risk period is imminent, so I wish to review and adjust defensive plans as needed while we have the time.” He could sense an air of apathy in the room.
R
Bouchard took advantage of the numerous small jobs that could be found while the fishing boats remained in harbor to move throughput the countryside keeping a close eye on the German preparations. He maintained a low profile, and was seen so often simply ambling along the dirt roads and the hedgerows that few paid him any heed. He was very thorough in tracking the routines of the officers and especially the dispatch couriers. These were the key to disrupting communications should an invasion occur. So he made a point of being seen, and ignored, every day when Josepf Graumann completed his route back from the coast command post to the communications post at Ch‰teau de Tailleville.
On this day, the weather began to moderate, and Bouchard had received the clandestine signal from the local priest that the British wanted to meet with him again. The submarine meetings had increased in number, so much so that Bouchard was anxious lest he be boarded again.
“This will be the last contact,” the young officer told him in the galley of the St. Marianne that evening. “The patrols are increasing, and we have orders to stand down for the time being.”
Bouchard gave him the latest defensive updates, including the stolen map left on board earlier, and was preparing to finish the meeting, when the officer laid down a packet wrapped in a brown package. It was heavy, as indicated by the sound it made when hitting the galley table.
“This package has instructions for you. Open these as soon as you move away. Commit the contents to memory then toss the package overboard. It is weighted so it will sink immediately.” With that, he slipped back over the gunwale and retreated to the sub. The St. Marianne motored away, the last time he would meet the submarine.
Bouchard set course back towards Courseulles and went below. Under the glow of the cabin lights he read and reread the contents of the package. It told of a British operative who has parachuted into Normandy with sets of false battlefield reports intended to be replaced on the morning of the invasion to disrupt German counterattacks. The operative will contact Bouchard the morning of the invasion if, and only if, the invasion occurred in Normandy. He was to look for the code words ‘Little Fish’ for verification.
He tossed the package overboard. What absurd nonsense, he thought. A suicide mission if ever there was one. These British are stretching the line very thin.
2 May 1944
Dear Andy,
Am I the only sane person in the world? Or am I insane and falling into Hell?
There will be something happening all around me very soon. Forces are lining up that will upset the very fabric of life itself. I am drawn into it and cannot escape.
I wonder where you are and what your life’s challenges are. Am I so bound up in my own troubles that I have forsaken my only friend.
I cannot mail these letters, nor receive any from you. I can only hope all is well.
I hope we can meet again someday, and this chaos will be over. Or perhaps we have to die to achieve peace.
Go with God, my friend.
Antoine
R
The priest called on Antoine Bouchard on the morning of May 26.
“My son, I have not seen you at mass these many weeks. This distresses me. I expect to see you for confession tomorrow.”
“See you for confession.” That was the signal. By a prior arrangement, if there was a critical reason why the priest needed to see him, or pass sensitive information, he would chastise Bouchard for not having confession - an innocent admonition in most cases that would go unnoticed in the parish where few of the working rural men attended mass on a regular basis.
At mid-morning the next day, Bouchard entered the small chapel cautiously. Mass had already begun and the rough pews held a few matronly women with small children in tow and a handful of men. Several German soldiers sat off to one side, their usual air of arrogance stifled by the somber atmosphere of the church and the stares from the locals. One of the soldiers was the young Hitler Jugend courier, Joseph. Bouchard slipped into a pew in the back as quietly as he could. It was well known that he provided fish for the priest’s sustenance rounds, so no one wondered why he would be attending mass today.
The old priest began by announcing that a visiting priest from Toulon would be helping him with mass and confessions as, he said, “The Lord has blessed me with the infirmities of an old man.” Bouchard suspected this was a lie, and chuckled to himself that the old priest would tell a lie in church, even under the circumstances.
As the mass continued, the Toulon priest, a man in his late 30’s, quietly moved in the background lighting candles and assisting some of the older worshippers as they came forward for the sacrament. As mass ended, the worshippers milled around in the courtyard waiting for the opportunity to complete their confession. Getting time away from the rigors of rural life was difficult, and many would combine mass and confession on the same day.
Bouchard waited until all the others had completed their confessions, then entered the confessional. He was not surprised to hear the voice of the younger priest on the other side of the screen.
“You received a document recently, with the code ‘Little Fish.’ He waited for a reply.
“Yes, I am to assist you, I assume.”
“I will remain here at the church during this mission, then return to the coast for extraction.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We know from your reports that a courier carries operational dispatches between Ch‰teau de Tailleville and the fortified strong points along the coast, especially the forward command post. My assignment is to intercept any dispatch on a specific day, soon, and replace it with a forgery. The purpose is to relay a false set of battlefield conditions if the invasion occurs here.”
The invasion ... here? He would not be here on such risky mission unless the invasion were imminent. He dared not discuss such a possibility, and he knew he would not get an honest answer anyway, but this was a confirmation. The invasion would be in Normandy, and very soon.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I will accompany you on your rounds for the next several days as we distribute food to the needy. You will show me the routes, the timing, and the individuals I can expect to encounter. If the invasion comes, I will intercept and substitute the fake dispatch. You will not be involved. Nor will you assist in my evacuation, for your own safety. It is best you know as little as possible.”
Bouchard knew he had heard enough already. If he were caught, the Gestapo would make quick work of him, to be certain. Showing the young ‘priest’ around at this time would arouse suspicion, from both the Gestapo and the local maquis. This was a deadly game, which further reinforced his belief that the invasion was imminent.
The following day, Sunday, May 28, Bouchard and the operative masquerading as a priest ambled slowly through the hedgerows of the Normandy coast, talking with the locals, the old men and women who had difficulty making it to church, and recording for the priest the routes. On Monday, May 29, they were walking the road at the junction of the Caen-Bayeux road when the courier Joseph came into view. He stopped his bicycle when he approached the two.
“Good morning, Father,” he said, respectfully. Like many Germans, he was raised in a Catholic family, but the teachings of the church conflicted with the FŸhrer ideology. Once removed from the confines of the military training inside Germany, doubt began to creep in as Joseph confronted the brutality of his commanders. Maintaining his tie to the church helped him hold onto some semblance of his humility.
“Good morning, my son,” the priest responded in German laced with a heavy French accent. “I saw you at mass. It is good to see that even soldiers have not forgotten God.”
The two chatted briefly, then Joseph bade him farewell, feeling better for this chance meeting. But he had a schedule to keep, and promised to see the priest again, soon. The priest decided this junction was where he would set up his ambush. By creating a relationship with the young German courier, he might more easily intercept him without having to kill him first.
On each successive day, the priest made a point of appearing on the road at slightly different locations, and always stopped for a brief hello, regardless of the weather. On Saturday, June 3, the priest took Joseph’s confession.
In Caen, the Gestapo chief signed an order calling for the immediate arrest and execution of a suspected Maquisard, Jacques Charbonneau of Courseulles.
That evening, Antoine wrote a letter to his American friend.
26 May 1944
Dear Andy,
I am playing a dangerous game of deception, something much more involved than what I had agreed to. I am certain that an invasion is imminent, and will happen here in Normandy.
I have met with a British agent who is masquerading as a priest. He is part of a plan to disrupt invasion day communications between the beach and headquarters with false battle reports.
This “Little Fish” has a nasty bite.
I am very afraid. I feel like I am being watched, both by the Gestapo and the Maquis. It makes little difference. I have promised to help, to make a stand for Marianne and AriŽle, but I am afraid.
It is so quite here. The weather is terrible, and no one expects any kind of activity at all. The stillness is frightening. It reminds me of the moments before the artillery barrage in the last war, when the only sound was the singing of a lone thrush, just before Hell arrived.
I will continue to write, and I hope someday these letters find their way to you.
Antoine
R
Present Day
The reporter met me at the Hotel de Paris. She was young and energetic, a common condition among reporters just beginning their careers in small newspapers. The editor of the Caen newspaper, a friend of the mayor of Courseulles, had sent her to talk to me about my investigation. I was not certain that my story had sufficient detail to warrant much consideration, but her enthusiasm was disarming.
“Ah, monsieur, it is a wonderful story! I am certain my editor will agree when he sees the complete outline!”
I had shown her the letters and the outline of the sequence of events I had created so far.
“I am afraid there are more questions here than answers,” I apologized. “I have checked all the cemeteries in the area looking for Antoine’s grave, or Jacques Charbonneau, but with no success. I even checked the German cemetery at La Cambe. And I do not know what happened to either Marianne or Arile. I am currently stuck, going nowhere.”
The reporter in her went into high gear.
“But this ... this is very compelling. The intrigue, the deception, the danger. It is all folded neatly between the lines of these letters, and it is waiting to be told!”
I gave her a conditional release for the use of the letters, and bade her good luck. I honestly did not expect the meeting to bear fruit.
The following week M. Racine, the proprietor, greeted me with a paper in hand as I arrived for breakfast.
“Monsieur, voila! You have made the newspaper!”
On the front page was a small headline in the lower right corner, “D-Day Deception.”
Courseulles-sur-Mer - A French fisherman and British agents conspired in the final moments before the D-Day invasion to dupe the Germans into believing they had stopped the Canadians on Juno Beach. According to an American researcher, letters written to his grandfather but never mailed were uncovered recently in Courseulles. The Juno Letters tell a story of heroism and intrigue that is unfolding in and around this small seaport.
The story went on to tell of Antoine Bouchard, who lived under an assumed name with false identity papers, and how he led a double life deceiving the Germans and assisting the Allies. It revealed his fear that the resistance might think he was a collaborator, and the resolve he felt to avenge his wife and child, who fell victim to German atrocities.
“The Juno Letters?” M. Racine smiled. “Has a nice ring to it. It sounds good for business!”
The week following, the story appeared in the Paris newspaper, Le Monde, and subsequently in the British tabloids who added their own unique brand of sensationalism to the story. It began to spread on social media.
In Winnipeg, the publisher of The Winnipeg Guardian received an email from one of his associates with the simple subject, “You need to read this É .”
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