Chapter 5
chapter
Noirmont Point, Jersey
Bernardus and Gerrit walked from one massive naval gun platform to another, along a path among yellow gorse bushes.
“We should quit,” Bernardus said in Dutch.
“Kalm aan!” Gerrit pressed a finger to his lips and whipped his gaze around.
About fifty meters behind them, Oberbauführer Ernst Schmeling stood chatting with the naval commander of Batterie Lothringen, but the warm wind blew the Dutchmen’s words down the steep rocky cliffs of Noirmont Point and into the sea.
“We need to quit.” Bernardus’s voice dropped in tone but not intensity. “We can’t do this.”
“I want to quit too.” Gerrit slowed his pace so they wouldn’t reach the gun platform—and its German crew—too quickly. “I want to go home to my family and my job, but we cannot quit.”
“We’re volunteers. We can quit. And we must.” Bernardus stopped, and his hands fisted at his sides. “You only agreed to do this if we could help the Allies. I promised you. And now . . .”
Gerrit gave him a slow nod without breaking his gaze. “We may be volunteers, but we signed a contract. Even if we could quit, what would we tell Schmeling? Why would we want to quit three days after arriving on what they call an island paradise?”
Any excuse would arouse suspicion. Questioning. Perhaps interrogation. Under interrogation, the strongest men broke, and Bernardus’s entire network could be shattered.
Horror flicked through the blue of Bernardus’s eyes.
Gerrit shared his rage at the situation, at their entrapment, and at the breach of faith—unintended on Bernardus’s part. But God knew what would happen, and he’d allowed them to join OT anyway. Once again, Gerrit had done his part, had done something brave and noble. Why wouldn’t God do his part?
Bernardus stomped one foot and thrust his arm toward the nearest concrete platform, topped by an imposing 15-centimeter gun. “If we must stay, let’s commit sabotage.”
Gerrit shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced back toward their commander. “This island measures only fourteen kilometers by eight kilometers. How many dozens of batteries and bunkers has Schmeling shown us the past two days? How many more are under construction?”
“He expects us to help build a command bunker right here. To modify German plans to make it better, stronger, so they can fend off an invasion. Fine. Let’s build it, then destroy it.”
Gerrit folded his arms, encased in the vile brown uniform. “If we did so, it would decrease German strength in Jersey by less than one percent, and they would quickly rebuild.”
“I have to do something.” Bernardus’s voice hissed through his clenched teeth. “I’ll do my job poorly, lead them to build on unstable soil. And you—you can—”
“If they discovered what we’d done, we’d be tortured and shot, and your contacts would be in danger.”
Bernardus’s head sagged back. “Why do you always have to be logical?”
Since they’d met as schoolboys, Bernardus had always been the accelerator and Gerrit the brakes. Both necessary.
“Kroon!” Schmeling beckoned to them. “Van der Zee!”
“On to the next fortification,” Bernardus mumbled.
Gerrit sent a wry smile. “Every day spent sightseeing means a day we aren’t building.”
Schmeling led them back to his dark green Bentley, which had once been some wealthy Jerseyman’s prized possession.
The car, like the hotel where Gerrit was billeted, had been requisitioned by the Germans.
Schmeling had explained that since the islanders didn’t receive a petrol ration, they had no need for cars anyway.
Gerrit’s mouth tightened as he slid into the backseat.
Schmeling drove north up Noirmont Point, through the village of St. Aubin, and followed the coastal road east along St. Aubin’s Bay. The tide was in, isolating two forts on either end of the bay. When the tide was out, one could walk to the forts along the seafloor.
“It is beautiful here, nicht wahr?” Schmeling gestured to the sweep of golden sand beside brilliant blue waters. “When we’ve won this war, this shall be a holiday spot for the German people.”
Gerrit gave a noncommittal murmur. The Germans weren’t building resorts. They were building “resistance nests,” evenly spaced around the bay, with machine guns and anti-tank guns poking from concealed concrete bunkers. Any Allied landing force would be decimated.
Schmeling drove into the town of St. Helier with its handsome homes. “As you can imagine, we require vast quantities of materials, especially cement. Van der Zee, one of your roles will be to inspect shipments to ensure the materials haven’t been sabotaged by French terrorists.”
Bernardus clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear not everyone appreciates the benefits of German rule.”
Gerrit resisted the urge to whack his friend. Overplaying Nazi zeal was as dangerous as underplaying it.
Soon they crossed a railway line ringing the harbor.
“We built this railway,” Schmeling said with pride. “We dedicated it this summer. The local children have been a bit of a nuisance, I’m afraid, laying rocks on the rails. They shall learn their lesson.”
Gerrit’s fingers coiled around his knees. He knew all too well how the Nazis taught those lessons.
Schmeling turned the car toward the docks. “I see our workers are here to unload.”
Gerrit’s heart wrenched as it had yesterday when he’d seen the prisoners at work on a construction site, poorly fed and clad and shod.
“You needn’t mind them.” Schmeling parked the car at the foot of a pier, where two dozen workers huddled. “Their Schutzkommando guards keep them in line.”
Kept them in line with harsh voices and truncheons.
Schmeling led Gerrit and Bernardus onto the pier and aboard a small cargo ship. “This ship has just arrived from Saint-Malo with a load of cement. An English boat with an English crew.”
“We’re not English. We’re Jerseymen.” A young man coiled a line. He had dark hair and eyes paired with a light complexion, a common combination on the island.
Schmeling nodded at the boy, not dismissive, but not accepting, and he strode across the deck toward the captain.
Bernardus approached the boy—yes, still a boy—with gangly limbs and spots on his chin and nose. “We are new to the Channel Islands. Please explain the difference.”
The boy looped the line in a figure eight around two metal cleats on the deck.
“The States of Jersey are a crown dependency—as is Guernsey. We are part of Britain, but not part of the United Kingdom, not part of England. We have our own currency, our own states chamber—similar to parliament—our own courts, and our own laws. We were quite independent. Until your lot came.”
“We are not German,” Bernardus said. “We are Dutch.”
The boy glanced at the swastika armband around the sleeve of Bernardus’s uniform jacket. “You serve the Germans.”
“So do you.”
“Bernardus,” Gerrit grumbled. What was he doing?
“I do not.” The boy stood straight, several centimeters shorter than Bernardus. “This is a Jersey boat.”
“Carrying supplies for the Germans.”
The boy’s eyelids twitched.
Bernardus stepped closer to the young man. “We who live under occupation have few choices, yes? We must work for them on our terms—or on theirs.” He jerked his head toward the slave workers waiting to unload the ship.
The boy followed Bernardus’s line of sight, then gave him a look of shock.
Bernardus leaned his head close to the boy’s shoulder. “You don’t like the Nazis, do you?”
Gerrit glanced toward Schmeling in conversation with the captain—too far away to hear, but never far enough. “Bernardus,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’ll get him arrested.”
The boy’s gaze flicked around the deck, between Gerrit and Bernardus and Schmeling. Then he met Bernardus’s gaze with a blaze of defiance. “I do not,” he whispered.
“Neither do we,” Bernardus whispered back. Then he grinned and extended his hand. “I am Bernardus Kroon, and this is my friend Gerrit van der Zee.” His voice returned to normal volume.
“Charlie . . . Charlie Picot.”
“How do you do, Mr. Picot?” Bernardus crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Do you make this run often?”
“Yes.” Charlie shot a glance at the captain and resumed coiling the line.
“It’ll be a pleasure to work with you. I’m a geologist, and Gerrit is a civil engineer. Gerrit will be inspecting your cargo.”
Charlie jerked up his head. “You—you’ll find nothing amiss.”
Bernardus ducked down to the boy. “A shame.”
“Come along, van der Zee, Kroon.” Schmeling beckoned them to the hatch. “Jersey customs officials have already checked for contraband. They found none.” He led the way through the hatch.
Gerrit climbed down a ladder into the hold.
“You were issued pocketknives, ja?” Schmeling pulled one from his trousers and turned to the neat stacks of bags.
“Select a few random bags and cut them open near the top. Make sure they contain cement. It is better to discover sabotage here on the docks, where we might be able to trace the source, than on the worksite.”
Bernardus flashed Gerrit a mischievous look, accelerating.
Gerrit slammed on the brakes with a quick scowl. A possible way to commit sabotage, but it would require careful thought.
He wrestled a bag from the top of the pile and slashed it open. The familiar feel and scent of cement met his fingertips and nostrils.
Schmeling scooted a bag to the side. “Set the opened bags here. They must be placed upright in the lorry.”
“Yes, Herr Oberbauführer.” Gerrit shoved his opened bag to join the other.
“Excellent so far.” Schmeling brushed his hands together and climbed the ladder. “I shall tell the guard to bring in the workers. As they unload, check a few more bags.”
When he disappeared through the hatch, Gerrit stood close to Bernardus and lowered his voice to the deck. “You could have gotten the boy arrested. Killed.”
“He’s smart. Well spoken.”
True. Charlie Picot spoke with the vocabulary and diction provided by an expensive school. But at his age, he should still be at that expensive school.
“He’s cautious,” Bernardus murmured.
“Impetuous.”
“He’s young. He could learn.”
Gerrit pulled back enough to pin his friend under his gaze. “Don’t.”
Bernardus shrugged. “Just making acquaintances.”
“Contacts.”
Bernardus shrugged again and glanced around the hold. The hold of a ship that frequently ran to Saint-Malo.
Gerrit’s blood chilled. No. Too many variables. Too many unseen factors.
“I’m only thinking,” Bernardus said. “First, we have a great deal to learn.”
As much as Gerrit longed to redeem his decision to join Organisation Todt, he refused to endanger lives to do so. “A very great deal.”