Chapter 3
chapter
Saint-Malo, France
The hotel room door opened, and Bernardus sauntered in.
Gerrit sprang up from his chair. “Where have you been all night? We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
With a sly smile, Bernardus adjusted the black “Organisation Todt” armband around the sleeve of the despised brown uniform. “Becoming reacquainted with an old girlfriend here in Saint-Malo.” He held Gerrit’s gaze hard.
Gerrit blinked. Bernardus had memorized a list of contacts along the French coast provided by his resistance network.
Since OT hadn’t informed them of their destination before their month-long training near Frankfurt, Bernardus had come prepared for many possibilities, apparently including this “girlfriend.”
Gerrit beckoned to the middle of the room and lowered his voice. “And?”
“All is well.”
“Do they know where we’ll go? This area seems unlikely.
” Saint-Malo lay at the base of a deep bay bound by Normandy to the east and Brittany to the west, with the approach guarded by the Channel Islands.
If Gerrit were a British general, he wouldn’t invade at Saint-Malo.
Erecting fortifications would be wasteful.
Bernardus shrugged. “Since they gave us travel orders to Saint-Malo, we’ll be nearby. At least I can visit my girlfriend. She is rather lovely.” An impish gleam brightened his light eyes.
Gerrit chuckled. For a woman in the resistance to be seen with a man in a German uniform might protect the network from scrutiny.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Come. It’s time.” Gerrit picked up his kit bag, already packed.
Bernardus grabbed his bag, never unpacked, and the men headed down to the hotel lobby, where two middle-aged men waited, wearing OT uniforms with officer’s insignia. One stood tall and thin with a thin face, the other short and thick with a thick face to match.
Since almost all German men of military age served in the armed forces, only older men or those with infirmities remained to serve in OT.
Gerrit and Bernardus raised traditional military salutes. Thank goodness, as Dutch nationals they were not required to give the “Heil, Hitler” salute used by the Germans in OT.
The tall man did raise that salute in reply. “I am Oberbauführer Ernst Schmeling, the commander of the technical section for our region.”
“Haupttruppführer Bernardus Kroon,” Bernardus said.
“Haupttruppführer Gerrit van der Zee.”
“Sehr gut.” Schmeling dipped his narrow chin. “My Dutch geologist, my Dutch engineer, and my Czech armaments—”
“I am not Czech, Herr Oberbauführer.” The thickset man’s cheeks reddened. “I am Sudeten German, proud to be a citizen of Greater Germany.”
“Excellent.” Schmeling cracked a smile as thin as everything else about him. “I understand you worked for Skoda. Your knowledge of armaments will be useful.”
“Thank you.” The man offered handshakes to Gerrit and Bernardus. “I’m Bauführer Wilhelm Riedel. Call me Willy.”
Gerrit shook his hand, but Riedel was an officer. Since only Germans were granted officers’ commissions, Gerrit and Bernardus were noncommissioned officers, despite their qualifications. He would not be calling the man “Willy.”
“Come along.” Schmeling led the way out of the quayside hotel.
The tang of sea air filled Gerrit’s nostrils, and the busy sounds of the docks hit his ears.
No staff car waited, and Schmeling headed onto a pier, where German soldiers trailed up the gangway of a troopship.
Gerrit shot Bernardus a confused look. “Where are we going, Herr Oberbauführer?”
Schmeling flipped a hand to silence him. “Not until we’re underway. The French are not to be trusted.”
Underway? Gerrit’s breath came shallow and shallower. Why would they board a ship? Why not drive along the coast?
Bernardus followed Riedel and Schmeling up the gangway and glanced over his shoulder at Gerrit with a pointedly fake smile.
Although his insides churned, Gerrit needed to assume a pleasant expression.
On board, they stashed their kit bags where indicated, then Schmeling led them through the pressing crowd of troops in the stifling heat.
At the bow, Gerrit gripped the railing and struggled to keep his breath even. Why a ship? They could take trains to every city in France. They could drive to smaller towns.
The engines rumbled to life, and the ship pulled away from the dock. Gerrit tucked his overseas cap into his pocket so it wouldn’t be lost in the wind.
Schmeling removed his own cap, revealing scant gray hair. “I am pleased to inform you that you will be serving with me in Bauleitung Julius.”
A Bauleitung was a smaller administrative unit in Organisation Todt, usually a city. But Gerrit knew of no French city named Julius.
A smirk played on Schmeling’s lips. “I see I have confused you all. Julius is the code for Jersey in the Kanalinseln.”
Kanalinseln . . . Channel Islands. An island. They were going to an island, and Gerrit’s breath grew erratic. Transporting diagrams from an island to Saint-Malo would be difficult.
“How far?” A strain infected Bernardus’s voice.
“Sixty-six kilometers.” Schmeling gestured to the north. “If you look hard, you can see. Jersey is the southernmost of the Channel Islands, closest to us.”
“The Channel Islands?” Riedel frowned. “I am not familiar with that term.”
“A most pleasant posting.” Schmeling leaned one elbow on the railing.
“A thousand years ago, the islands belonged to the Duchy of Normandy. When William the Conqueror became King of England, his lands became English lands. Over the centuries, the French liberated all their territory except the Channel Islands. Now we Germans have liberated them from English rule and returned them to their native France.”
Gerrit clenched his hands behind his back, where his clenching couldn’t be noticed.
The creases in Riedel’s cheeks deepened. “I do not speak French well.”
“The natives speak English,” Schmeling said.
“Their culture is an unnatural blend. Many of the natives have French surnames and English given names. The place names are French but pronounced as if by an uneducated English tourist. The name of the island’s only town of any note is pronounced ‘Saint HEL-ee-er’ rather than ‘Sahn El-ee-ay.’ Very unnatural. Yet it is a land of great beauty.”
Gerrit didn’t want a lesson in culture and history. He wanted a reason to justify wearing the uniform of his enemy.
“We have fortifications there?” Bernardus sounded cool, curious, calm.
If Gerrit were to speak, he could never feign the same demeanor.
“Many fortifications.” Schmeling turned his face to the buffeting wind.
“The English consider the islands English soil. It is a matter of pride for Churchill to take them back, and a matter of pride for Hitler to keep them. Also, the islands guard this bay. No English vessels or aircraft can cross these waters without encountering a great many guns.”
Riedel chuckled. “And more to come.”
“We won’t be far from the mainland.” Bernardus swept his arm to the south. “We shall be able to visit often? I have a girl—”
“You are members of Organisation Todt.” Schmeling’s grayish eyes became steely daggers. “As volunteers, you will have freedom on the island, even though you are foreigners. But you will not qualify for leave for six months. I’m sure you learned that in training.”
Six months. Gerrit swayed and grabbed the rail.
Another chuckle jiggled Riedel’s ample belly. “Never fear. You are sure to meet girls in Jersey.”
“Indeed,” Schmeling said. “Their young men left before our men arrived.”
“Cowards.” Riedel wrinkled his broad nose.
“Misled by English propaganda to fight for Churchill, but not cowards. Regardless, their absence has left the women lonesome. However, we will comport ourselves like gentlemen.” Schmeling added a scowl for emphasis.
“Ja, Herr Oberbauführer,” Gerrit said with Bernardus and Riedel.
Meeting women was the least of his worries—and impossible. Any good woman would reject him for the loathsome uniform, and he wouldn’t want the sort of woman who liked it.
“I shall miss her.” Bernardus swept his gaze south as if longing for his girlfriend, but when he met Gerrit’s gaze in passing, it was with a mix of alarm and apology.
Gerrit faced the green island rising from the blue waters. They wouldn’t be able to pass intelligence to the resistance for six months. Useless.
His stomach tumbled in a green mess. He’d be building fortifications for the Nazis without the consolation of aiding the Allies.
Since he and Bernardus wouldn’t get leave until late March, his maps and diagrams wouldn’t arrive in England in time to provide intelligence for a spring invasion. Why even bother to draw them?
A groan rolled out into the wind.
“Seasick?” Riedel asked with a teasing grin.
Gerrit nodded. He could honestly say he felt sick to his stomach.