Chapter 22
The Guardian
In a time of deceit telling the truth
is a revolutionary act.
- George Orwell
Present Day
The story in the Caen newspaper started the emails and letters flowing. Most were from people curious for more information. Since I had reached somewhat of a roadblock in my investigation, I took the time to answer as many as I could. After a morning of email writing, a tedious and repetitive task that was yielding no new information at all, I gave up in exasperation and decided to take a stroll down the beach toward Bernires to clear my thinking.
The small package was waiting at the front desk of my hotel when I returned. Monsieur Racine, the hotel manager, called to me as I passed by the concierge desk to bring it to my attention. It was addressed only as “M. Hewitt,” and there was no indication who left it.
“I do not know, monsieur. It was left at the front door when I arrived. I am sorry, but I have no idea where it came from.”
“Merci, monsieur,” I remarked.
“You would like cafŽ, monsieur?”
“Oui. That would be fine. May I take it in the dining room?”
“Of course, monsieur. Lunch will not be for an hour or more, so you will not be disturbed.”
Monsieur Racine was, above all, a strident advocate of his guests’ privacy. I took a seat at my table near the window. The waitress brought me coffee and a croissant.
“Are you enjoying your notoriety, monsieur?” she asked, teasingly.
“Ah, Monique, I am! I love the senseless busy work! Especially when it gives me a reason to stay here and visit with you!”
She smiled, accustomed by now to my harmless flirting, and left me to my mysterious package.
I opened the mailing packet and withdrew two envelopes. The first was unsealed, and contained a handwritten note. It simply read,
R 1278; La Cambe
La Cambe was the German cemetery near Bayeux, just a few kilometers west. Initially, many American soldiers killed in Normandy were interred there, but these had mostly been removed and returned to the states or reinterred in the American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer overlooking Omaha Beach. La Cambe became the official German cemetery after the war.
I had already searched the grave registration for La Cambe with no results. The number of “unknowns” buried on the grounds, however, meant that my search was incomplete. Was this a grave registry number? I wondered just what it meant. Another misdirection?
I took a long draw from the coffee cup, and set the cup back on the saucer.
The second envelope was sealed. I opened it and removed a small gold cross and chain. I turned the cross over in my hands, and read an inscription on the back side:
To Henry from Father
I stood and stared at the inscription. Henry - Henry Anderson. To my grandfather from his father. I was stunned, and simply stared at the cross, rolling it so slightly between my fingers. This was the cross mentioned in the letters!
The sounds of the dining room, of the busy dock outside, of the traffic passing by - all melted away into a faint haze. Monique returned to refresh my coffee and broke the spell it had cast.
“Monsieur, are you all right?” she asked, her voice questioning.
“Oh, yes. Yes,” I stumbled. “Je rŽgrete, mademoiselle. I was just a little distracted.”
She refilled the cup, and walked away. She stopped and turned, and looked inquisitively at me. I just smiled and nodded a “thank you,” and she left for the kitchen.
I was unsure what this meant. What was Grandpa Andy’s cross doing here?
My head was spinning. Someone had this cross. No, someone had taken this cross. That someone was returning the cross. Had they seen the news stories? Did they know something? A secret they did not want revealed, perhaps, but wanted to be rid of?
Registry #1278, La Cambe. A grave this person knows about. Who is buried in grave 1278? The person who owned this cross? Antoine Bouchard? Could it be?
I gathered up my things and left in a hurry. I knew Monsieur Racine would simply charge the coffee to my room.
I took the car and drove to La Cambe Cemetery - a short drive away. The cemetery office was still open, and the administrator, whom I had visited before, was eager to help me.
“So, monsieur, you have more information?”
“Oui. I have a very strong reason to believe that the person I am searching for is buried in grave number 1278.”
“Vraiment? Let’s see,” and he took me back into the archives. In a catalog file, he pulled out the drawer “1001-1499” and sought out record 1278.
“Voila!” he called out, and removed a 3X5 card. “Let’s see, there are six soldiers buried in grave number 1278 - this was the custom, you see, to place many bodies in a single grave. There were so many, and frankly, not a great deal of sympathy for laying the German dead. Many at the time felt they were lucky to be buried at all.”
Six? My heart stopped a little at that piece of information. He continued.
“Let’s see. Five of the bodies are clearly identified by their Wehrmacht registry numbers. Each will have an identification tag attached to the shroud, in case there was an opportunity to reinter them later. The last one, the top one in the grave, is unidentified. It simply says, “1278-1; Identification-Unknown, C-F.”
“What does that mean? “Unknown, C-F?”
“Why, monsieur. An unknown civilian - French, of course!”
“A French civilian - in the German soldier’s cemetery?”
“That would be very odd, monsieur, given the sentiment at the time.”
“I don’t think so. Frankly, that explains a lot.”
R
“Good morning, Larry. I am so glad to meet you!” The voice boomed over the din of the busy bistro.
“Angus McDonough,” I responded as I rose and shook his hand. “My pleasure. What can I order for you?”
“Oh, a pint of that ale you have would do just fine!”
Angus McDonough looked every bit the part of a slightly eccentric Scot, complete with his kilt, a long twisted mustache, and plaid cap. The cap had a pin slightly off center - the official insignia of the Winnipeg Rifles. He walked with a swagger that was as loud as his hello. I motioned to the waiter for another glass of beer that arrived quickly as we completed the small talk.
“Ah, that is better,” he sighed after taking in a deep drink. “The swill they sell you on the airplane is enough to make a good Scot turn to tea!” He reached down and lifted up a small valise, dropped it on the table, and unsnapped the latches.
I had received a phone call from the secretary of the Royal Winnipeg Rifles Association after the first newspaper story was published in Canada. The association suggested a meeting with Angus McDonough, the group’s official historian who had a wealth of information on the Juno Beach story. He was already on a plane to France and would contact me on his arrival.
He listened intently to my narrative on a preliminary phone call, and promised to share some of his research at our meeting.
“Now, let me show you what I have, and what is more important what I have found since reading The Juno Letters story.” He pulled a stack of papers from the briefcase and dropped them with a thud on the table top.
“As I explained on the phone, I have been the official historian of the Winnipeg Rifles for about twenty years now. I have collected reams of documents, recollections, and various memorabilia over the years. My passion had been to recreate the stories of the Juno invasion, to preserve for posterity the sacrifice made by my brothers in arms on that magnificent day. You have provided me with an interesting solution to one of my biggest mysteries.”
He turned to a photograph of Kurt Meyer, the infamous division commander of the 21st Panzers, and the architect of the notorious killing of Canadian POWs at Abbey Ardennes near Caen just after D-Day.
“The big question was always why Kurt Meyer, one of Hitler’s most feared and capable panzer commanders, sent his advance mobile elements into the hornet’s nest of paratroopers east of Bernires-sur-Mer instead of Courseulles where the armor came ashore. The panzers certainly crated havoc for the paratroopers, but in a swarm of bees, even the biggest fly swatter is the wrong tool.
“We know that Allied planners developed the most complex system of subterfuge ever devised to precede D-Day and disguise Allied intentions. The goal was to convince the German high command that the main attack would come at the Pas de Calais. This is well known, of course. Keeping the main body of panzers out of action during the critical first days was paramount. But the 21st was already in Caen, and it was not hamstrung by requiring Hitler’s personal order before engaging. It was late in mobilizing and even then was sent into a sector where it had little effect the afternoon of the invasion. It then retreated and set up a defensive position near Caen where it created a formidable barrier to taking the city.
“The question has always been why it was not sent against the main body and the armor coming ashore.”
Angus McDonough grew more excited as he continued his story.
“I’ve never been able to piece the entire picture together. So I have never published this. What I have always wondered is why no one ever came forward to claim responsibility - and credit - for a masterful bit of subterfuge.”
He turned the photo of Meyer over, and underneath lay an old and faded document in German.
“Look here,” he said, and passed the document to me to examine. “This is the German dispatch that I found in a collection of documents that Canadian infantry recovered from the Abbey Ardennes, the area headquarters. It is this document that kindled my search these past years for an answer to this puzzle.”
I examined the dispatch. It was dated 6/6/1944. 0800 hours. The paper was yellowed, and it had been folded several times, indicating it likely was read and changed hands with each new fold. I could not read the German, so I turned to the translation that Angus pushed toward me as I read.
Initial naval bombardment ineffective.
Taking small arms and mortar fire.
Successfully repelled armor carrying landing craft.
Casualties light.
Enemy casualties heavy.
Evacuations from the beach beginning.
“But this is nonsense. The initial bombardment was relatively ineffective, that is true. But the rest ... why would they send such a dispatch?”
“Indeed, why? It is signed by the Widerstandsnest 29 commander, Hauptmann Grote. This is his signature. Or so I thought, all these years.”
“What do you mean, so you thought?”
Angus took another deep drink from the glass and motioned to the waiter for another round.
“I never found anything to dispute the authenticity of this document. The paper was right, the dating was correct, the signature looked authentic. It was found among an entire trove of documents by the infantry on D-Day plus 5, not supplied at some future date by an impostor - which happens often by the way. But it made no sense. German commanders often falsified reports that would have otherwise brought bad news, and exaggerated good news. But something so desperate as the invasion, what use would it have been to misrepresent such an obvious and dangerous situation?
“Something in the newspaper story struck a chord. When I read the part how Antoine talked about misleading the Germans on D-Day, as alluded to in the ‘Letters,’ I was stunned. I went back through pages and pages of my notes, and stumbled across a notation I had made a long time ago ...” and he stopped to pull out a journal with a page bookmarked. It read in large almost doodling script: “Was this a hoax?”
“Here was confirmation that an ‘intelligence operative’ was serving at the direction of SIS, something that had never been postulated before. We of course knew there was resistance activity - the OCM had a cell in Caen. That was well known, but no one who survived the war had any knowledge of such an operative. It was not until I read the part of the submariner that it made sense, but just had to be proven. This document was a carefully planned forgery, planted somehow on D-Day to mislead the German command and send the 21st somewhere else, anywhere else, but to the landing beaches at Courseulles. But how to prove it?”
The second beer arrived, and just as quickly disappeared during a long pause in his story.
“I began to dig. I had made a mistake - a big one. As a historian I always believe the truth lived in the details. But I was mislead, because this detail, this ‘obvious’ original document was, in fact, a forgery. Look what I found.”
He opened a file folder that he had deliberately left closed until now. On the top of the file sat a photocopy, marked “TOP SECRET - SIS EYES ONLY.” It was an exact duplicate of the original dispatch, except the signature, although the same name and scrawl, was slightly different from the original - different because this was a second original dispatch, complete with its own forged signature.
“My God,” I gasped. “It was a fake all along!”
“Planted by SIS. And this copy was suitable for distribution if the original fell afoul of circumstances. And there is more ... .”
Attached to the photocopy of the second dispatch was an operational report of “Little Fish,” the code name for an operation where a fake battle dispatch was to be delivered to an operative parachuted into Normandy. The operative, code named “Little Fish,” would attempt to meet with “AB” and with his help intercept the ground delivered dispatch, made necessary by the communication disruption on the morning of the invasion by the OCM, and substitute this fake dispatch. The intent was to provide false battlefield intelligence, and permit German headquarters to release elements of the 21st to attack - but not at Courseulles, where the battle was reported to have gone as planned for the Germans.
“AB” was the same designation SIS used for Antoine Bouchard when they requisitioned his false identity papers! It was safe to use his real initials because no one knew an Antoine Bouchard - as far as the Germans and the French knew, Antoine Bouchard had been lost at sea.
In a letter to Andy Anderson, Antoine had referred to the operative as this “Little Fish” with a nasty bite.
“There’s more,” Angus continued. “With the help of friends in the British press, we were able to uncover the identity of the British operative ‘Little Fish.’ He was Leftenant Robert Carlson, who parachuted into Normandy in late May. He made contact with the resistance cell in Caen, then nothing else was heard from him. His body was recovered June 7 alongside a back road outside of Graye-sur-Mer. His death was attributed to enemy action.”
I stared at the report, trying to absorb the implications held between the lines - for Antoine, and for the Canadians coming ashore that terrible morning.
“We don’t know exactly what happened, except that the phony dispatch was delivered to the German commander in the area. Look at his situation report for the afternoon of June 6.”
Angus laid down another photocopy of a memo, this one indicating the enemy had been repulsed at Courseulles, securing the sector center, and calling for armored reserves to be sent towards the canal bridge to the east to prevent an encirclement by airborne troops in the area, ultimately allowing a counterattack in force toward Arromanches once the east flank was secured.
“The ruse worked! This is the proof! You have solved my twenty-year puzzle, my American friend!” I looked up at a broad smile on Angus’ face, his eyes bristling with excitement.
“Angus, you have solved the puzzle for me as well. I have proof now that Antoine was a hero for France - the patriot as he desperately wanted to be remembered.”
I told him of the gold cross, the grave at Le Combe, and what I suspected.
“He was not a collaborator. But he was dumped into a common German grave by those who believed he was, and whose most treasured keepsake - my grandfather’s gold cross - was stolen from him in death.”
Angus scribbled some notes as I spoke, then continued with his narrative.
“The critical period was the first hour or two after the end of the naval bombardment. As you know, the naval bombardment was ineffective. The shells fell mostly long or short and failed to destroy the hardened strongpoints. They killed a large number of civilians and destroyed many homes and buildings in the area, but did disrupt communications and infrastructure. The shore guns remained operational, however, and opened fire on the naval armada. The hardened caseworks provided sufficient protection for the guns and their crews. “When the infantry hit the beach they were met with a murderous crossfire. Units were broken up and reformed in an ad hoc manner as soldiers improvised and fought their way inland. Stories from survivors retell the individual acts of bravery as men rushed the machine gun nests and strongpoints to neutralize the fire.
“The infantry was to have also been helped by close air support. This did not materialize. The third leg of the support triad was armor - the amphibious or duplex tanks.
“The Germans did not know about the amphibious tanks, and never considered that individual tanks could make it ashore but would have to be offloaded from large landing craft. Their casework guns were built for long range and could not lower their attitude of fire sufficiently to hit the tanks once on shore.
“Of the nineteen duplex drive tanks that headed towards the shore at Courseulles in the first wave, only fourteen made it to the beach. The others sank because of heavy swell or succumbed to fire offshore. Those tanks, however, immediately opened fire - destroying machine gun nests and the remaining large guns.
“No one knows when the information about the amphibious tanks reached headquarters or how high up the chain of command the information went. But two things are clear - the standing orders of the day permitted the commander to order a counterattack by elements of the 21st Panzers, but the German command did not respond to the tanks on shore. They missed the opportunity to repel the invasion.
“Had the 21st Panzer division attacked the beaches on the morning of D-Day at Courseulles, the Shermans that made it ashore would have been easily destroyed. The hardened positions and the big guns would have remained operational, and the invasion here might have collapsed. Even assuming that the soldiers on the beach could carry out their destruction alone, hundreds more Canadians, perhaps thousands, would have died on the beaches and the carnage at sea could have been catastrophic.
“As it was, by the time the 21st began to move back from the aborted eastern attack, we had landed some 3,200 vehicles and 21,500 troops on Juno Beach, liberated Courseulles and Bernires-sur-Mer, and secured the port as the first major beachhead on D-Day.”
I sat back and took a deep breath. This chance meeting, triggered by the junior reporter’s story, had turned the corner of the investigation in a whirlwind of information.
“The Winnipeg Rifles, indeed all of Canada, owe a debt of gratitude to Antoine Bouchard for the part he played and his sacrifice on D-Day. He helped buy critical time that closed the window of opportunity for the German counterattack. We lost 349 brothers on Juno Beach that morning - it could have been a lot worse.
“You have a marvelous ending to your story, my friend. And I have the missing piece that will allow me to publish this story after all these years. What do you plan to do now?”
“I am not sure,” I replied, still trying to bring all this into focus. “I still do not know what happened to Marianne or AriŽle. But I know one thing. Antoine deserves a better legacy, and a better burial, than what he was given.”
“I can guarantee you,” Angus replied, looking intently at me, “this will resonate among the survivors of Juno Beach, their families, and the families of those who died at Courseulles. We are well connected politically and can move obstacles for you if we need to. What do you need from me?”
R
The outer lobby of the editor of The Winnipeg Free Guardian intimidated me slightly as I sat waiting for my appointment. I was not clear about why the editor of Winnipeg’s largest newspaper wanted to meet with me, but I had a hunch Angus McDonough had something to do with it. So I arranged to fly to Winnipeg as the first leg of my return home. I had been away a long time and had business that needed attending.
I had walked the short distance from my hotel to the newspaper offices and arrived early, which is my habit, and now sat fidgeting wondering just why I was here. The editor’s receptionist was very professional and avoided any small talk, so I just sat, waiting. My appointment had been for 11:00. It was now past 11:30.
The door to a side conference room finally opened and Thomas Clarendon, the paper’s editor, strode briskly out into the lobby and extended his hand.
“Larry, welcome. I am so sorry to keep you waiting.” He grasped my hand firmly and literally pulled me in close, a little closer than my American sense of personal space liked. But after spending as much time in Paris as I had where there is no personal space to speak of, I took this all in stride.
“My staff and I wanted to have this whole project all spec’d out before we met, but the news is a demanding mistress! I hope you will bear with us on this.”
“Certainly, Mr. Clarendon.”
“Call me Tom,” he boomed out. He was a large man, and I can imagine a young reporter would be very intimidated by his commanding presence. “No formalities here! Come in, please.” As I entered the conference room, the table was filled with staff, files, and iPads. The staff was here to work.
“Everyone, this is Larry Hewitt. Let me go around the table briefly ...” and he went through a series of introductions. When he got to the end of the table, I was looking into the broadly smiling face of Angus McDonough. He was dressed in a tailored suit and tie, what appeared to be an expensive one at that - quite a different look than I was used to.
“And you know Angus McDonough, of course.”
“Yes, I just don’t recognize him in a suit!”
The little joke just fell on the floor and sat there - the staff looked at each other nervously. It was Tom who broke the spell.
“Hah!” he boomed out. “So I suspect you’ve seen him in his kilt? Not the best legs in town, to be sure.”
Angus smiled and chuckled to himself, obviously pleased that the staff was unsettled on his account.
“Please, you sit here, and we’ll get under way.”
“Thomas, I think I need to bring my friend Larry up to speed with what we’ve been up to. He has been traveling, and I have been moving a little faster than my ability to communicate with these new gizmos,” he added as he pushed his iPad away.
“Very well, Angus. You take the lead.”
As he stood up, Angus McDonough showed very quickly he was used to commanding such a gathering. He spoke in a clear and forceful manner, unlike the Angus who engaged in such lively give-and-take with me before. The staff was riveted on his presentation, and I wondered what his relationship with the paper was. There was much of this man I did not know, obviously.
“You have all read the briefs, so I will not elaborate on the details except to say that the story of The Juno Letters is a compelling one that reaches out across several generations of Canadians spotlighting one of our country’s most important moments - the invasion of Juno Beach on D-Day.”
“The Juno Letters?” I interjected. Again, the staff reacted like this was someone who you did not interrupt.
“That’s what we’re calling the piece,” the editor chimed in.
The blank look on my face gave away my confusion.
“Larry, lad. You obviously haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about,” Angus laughed, and the tension among the staff began to wane slightly. He continued.
“We’re going to do a series of articles on the story of Antoine Bouchard, the letters, and what happened on D-Day. I am setting up a nonprofit to raise the funds to reinter Bouchard in an appropriate place, and we can leverage the publicity to pressure the local French officials to approve the reinterment. I am calling the piece The Juno Letters. It will be written by Shelly and Mark over there, and they will collaborate with you on content. We have the contract all ready - we can go over it when we break for lunch.”
Tom Clarendon joined the conversation.
“We will be asking for the copy rights, of course, and will compensate you accordingly. You will still have publishing rights under the agreement if you choose to produce a book on the subject. It’s all spelled out in the agreement, and I think you will be pleased with how Angus put this together.”
Things were moving very quickly, and Angus could sense I was still a little unclear what was happening.
“Tom, perhaps we should go to lunch and let these people finish their preliminary work for the afternoon session. I need to bring my friend up to speed on a few things anyway.”
“Fine. Why don’t you and Larry head to lunch and I will join you in a few minutes?”
In the elevator, Angus began to fill in some details.
“You have some questions, I am certain.”
“Just a couple, Angus. You kept referring to ‘we’ in there. Do you work for the newspaper? I thought you said you were a businessman.”
“And a newspaper is not a business?” he laughed. “No, I don’t work for the paper.” He looked intently at me and his eyes narrowed. “I own the newspaper!”
That little piece of news left me speechless. Angus just laughed.
“I told you I was connected,” he teased.
“Well, that explains why the staff looked like they were sitting on corncobs,” I added.
“Hah, that’s a good one!” he laughed. “These people I want you to work with. They are the best we have. I know we can put out a story that will be read throughout Canada, and will carry over to the world press as well. This paper is connected to all the major services, and I have already spoken with our representatives on the continent about getting collateral coverage in the major newspapers in our service group.”
The elevator stopped and we strode out of the lobby and into the street.
“My favorite restaurant is just around the corner,” he said, and took off at a brisk pace. “Tom is a good man, and I have made it very clear to him that this project is important. I generally don’t interfere much in the editorial side of the paper, but this one is near and dear to me.”
“Here we are,” he announced, and we entered a small pub just around the corner. I was expecting something a lot fancier, and told him so.
“No, not for me,” Angus explained. “I came from a working family, not some fancy highbrows. I get enough of that crap as it is. It’s a pint and fish and chips for me any day!”
The Winnipeg Guardian would publish the first installment of The Juno Letters, a six-part feature, in early spring, Angus explained. The political leverage would be strongest immediately afterwards, but would fade with time. Everything needed to be coordinated to come together by June 6 - the day he planned to have a memorial service in Courseulles-sur-Mer for Antoine Bouchard.
“The project plan is quite specific. The paper will also staff the nonprofit and we will use the Guardian’s resources to help with the fundraising. Tom has assigned Jennifer Sinclair to lead the project team - she is a powerhouse player, and I have special access to her. She is joining us for lunch ... in fact, here’s Tom and Jenny now.”
A very professional and attractive woman walked through the door with Tom Clarendon and strode confidently up to Angus. He gave her a big hug and a kiss.
“Hi, dad,” she beamed, and turned to me. “You must be dad’s friend, Larry. I’m Jenny.”
This man Angus McDonough was full of surprises.
R
The team that Angus assembled to publicize The Juno Letters project included two research interns to help with my legwork, a feature writer who would get the byline on the feature publication, and an editor specifically assigned to this feature to maintain continuity. The project would be headed by his daughter Jennifer. She would supervise the project through its various stages, make certain it did not get bogged down in the large newspaper’s bureaucracy, and assure that the feature reached syndication throughout the large chain of associated news organizations worldwide that the Guardian belonged to. I could tell it was a formidable crew by the grumblings from the other departments about the “disproportionate resources” assigned to the story. Having the owner as your patron had its advantages.
Jennifer opened the first of the editorial meetings with an enthusiastic promise.
“The Juno Letters story will create its own traction to help the research assistants wrap up some of the loose ends, this we can be certain of. As long as we can get the French affiliates to participate.”
“What are some of the challenges to getting their coopera