by Lee Jackson
Villere did not respond. They advanced into the alley illuminated only by the half-moon, which nevertheless gleamed off the brick walls on either side.
Behind them, a firefight erupted, darts of light from tracers piercing the night. Bergmann turned, alarmed. Suddenly, a strong hand jerked him backward by his shoulder. Spinning around, he saw that Villere had dropped his overcoat to the ground and straightened up, revealing a potent, shadowy figure advancing rapidly on him.
Villere grabbed Bergmann’s left shoulder with one hand and delivered two powerful right punches to his gut. Bergmann doubled over, air driven from his lungs, pain shooting through his upper torso and down into his groin.
“You kill defenseless people. Coward,” Villere hissed. “You beat up old women.” He let go of Bergman’s shoulder and pummeled the SS officer’s face with both hard fists. “Let’s see how you do against a fighter.”
Bergmann sprawled backward onto the ground. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, gasping for air, his mind grappling with this turn of events. He tasted blood trickling into his mouth and spat it out, his eyes fixed on this formidable, unknown opponent.
From the direction of the apartments, gunfire exploded. Bergmann turned his head slightly to listen. The guns fell silent.
A surge of adrenalin spawned from rage cleared the captain’s mind. He felt a return of strength. Crouching, he faced Villere and reached for his Walther P38. He fumbled a moment too long with the strap that held the pistol inside the holster.
Head low, Villere charged into Bergmann’s waist just as the weapon cleared the top of the leather. It fired wildly. The bullet buried in a wall with a loud smack. The pistol flew through the air, and then slid along the ground into a mound of debris.
Bergmann dropped his chest over Villere’s shoulders and brought his knee up into his attacker’s face.
Villere hung on, his arms around Bergmann’s waist, his legs and weight driving Bergmann back against a wall.
The German captain raised both fists over his head and brought them down hard into his foe’s back, above the kidneys.
Villere let go and fell to the ground, writhing.
Bergmann waded in, kicking the prone body.
Beneath him, Villere ignored the pain and, rolling over, caught the toe and heel of Bergmann’s boot in his hands and shoved.
Bergmann lost balance and fell backward. He rolled and lurched to his knees.
Slowed down by the pain in his back, Villere climbed upright, with one knee still on the ground, the other bent to push to his full height.
Bergmann rushed in to deliver a hard blow to the side of his adversary's head.
Villere saw it coming and ducked. Bergmann fell on him, and the two grappled and bashed each other.
From the end of the alley nearest the apartments, voices called out in French. Adrenaline once more surged through Bergmann, who scrambled to escape. He fought and kicked his way, distancing himself enough from Villere to get to his feet, and he fled down the dark alley into the night.
Breathing hard, Villere struggled to his feet, peering through the darkness after Bergmann. Hearing running footsteps behind him, he turned painfully and dropped his hands to his knees to regain his breath and support his upper body. His head drooped.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked up at Ferrand Boulier. Claude stood next to him. “Are you all right, Jeremy?”
Jeremy nodded without straightening up. “I’ll live. I think. Good to see you, Monsieur Boulier.” Slowly, he raised to full height and turned to hug Ferrand, taking in the old man’s scruffy appearance. “How’s Anna? She did an incredible job.”
“She’s scared, but she’s safe. She won’t be going back to work. Our family will take care of her.”
“What about your cousin?”
Ferrand took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “We were close,” he said mournfully. “We grew up together. People always said we looked like twins. I’ll miss him.” He sighed. “We’ll bury him with my name. He would be proud to make this contribution to the resistance. If questions come up, the medical examiner knows to have him identified as me.”
“And the SS men?”
“Some are dead. Some wounded. All incapacitated,” Ferrand said. “I’m sure their comrades will be along to pick them up.” He grunted. “We’re a fighting force now.”
“Not for long if we stay here,” Jeremy said. “Let’s go.”
54
The battalion executive officer waited inside Oberstleutnant Meier’s office when the commander arrived the next morning. He looked grim.
“We have a situation,” he said.
“I caught some rumblings on the way in,” Meier replied. “We had some shooting inside the ruins?”
The major nodded. “Hauptman Bergmann—”
At mention of the name, anger crossed Meier’s face. “What were the casualties?”
“Three dead. Six wounded.”
“Do we know who the attackers were?”
The executive officer shook his head. “The SS men were ambushed.” He related the facts as he knew them. “Here is Bergmann’s report,” he said, handing over a document.
Meier scanned it, his eyes narrowing further with fury. “The fool carried out the first execution too,” he snapped. “Get that captain in here.”
Three minutes later, Bergmann came to attention in front of Meier’s desk. He started to speak.
“Shut up, Herr Hauptman,” Meier said in a low, threatening voice. “You’re here to listen.”
He turned to his executive officer standing just inside the door. “Release all the prisoners taken under Hauptman Bergmann’s reprisal order and cease further arrests based on it. At once. His order is null and void.”
While Bergmann’s cheeks flamed red and his eyes bulged with fury, the executive officer left the room to carry out Meier’s command.
“You’ve made a big mistake,” Bergmann said. “My report will say—”
“You’ll be able to provide your report in person,” Meier stormed. “I’ll be returning you to Berlin. You are relieved of your duties.”
Bergmann started to speak again.
“I said shut up,” Meier cut him off. “You wear a military uniform, but even with all your academy training, you seem to have missed out on the most fundamental parts of it. Either that or your arrogance grew exponentially with putting on your SS uniform.”
He took a deep breath. “When you took command of your former company, you neglected to handle a disciplinary problem. You let Kallsen get out of hand. You went into a neighborhood unprovoked and got several of your men laid up in the hospital with serious head injuries.
“You disobeyed my orders. You neglected to seek guidance or coordinate beyond your own whims, and as a result, you’ve gotten several of your men killed. That’s what my report will say.
“We’re in a war against an army, not a population, and you’d better learn that. We destroyed the houses and the livelihoods of Dunkirk’s people, but until your silly forays, they saw their dead and wounded as collateral damage, and as painful as that must be, they accepted it. But when you attack the population directly, they fight back directly, as you just found out. Now, you have the questionable distinction of having taken casualties in the first skirmish with civilians, which you provoked. Were any of them killed or wounded?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“I suspect not since you don’t mention any in your report.”
Unable to contain his anger, Bergmann blurted, “The people just learned that they can kill German soldiers without repercussion. You taught them that.”
Meier’s eyes bulged and he swallowed hard, fighting to control his rage. “You infantile fool,” he bellowed. “What they learned is that they can capture German weapons, and when they shoot our soldiers, they bleed and die. You destroyed the image of an invincible German army, and you’ve generated a fighting force behind our own lines.”
He jammed h
is face close to Bergmann’s. “And now they have more of our weapons. And you have what? A man who died of old age lying in the morgue. He was your fierce terrorist.”
Meier took a deep breath, circled his desk, and sat in his chair. “Report back to your SS superior in Berlin,” he said without looking up. “Dismissed.”
Bergmann clicked his heels and threw his arm out in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” he roared, and stormed out of the room.
A few minutes later, the executive officer returned. “Do you think there’ll be repercussions?”
Meier discarded the thought with a wave of his hand and a toss of his chin. “Not as long as General Rommel commands the 7th Panzer Division and the war progresses favorably. They need me.”
55
Six days later, July 3
Sark Island, English Channel Islands
On the tenth day after Marian Littlefield’s entreaty to the citizens of Sark, she received word that the old lifeboat that regularly ferried between Guernsey and Sark had been spotted with German officers aboard.
That morning, Stephen had joked that, with the next day being when Americans celebrate their independence from British rule, “…if I had stayed in New Jersey after college instead of heading out to Canada, we would be spending tomorrow barbecuing hamburgers and watching parades and fireworks rather than playing host to Huns.”
“And they’re almost here,” Marian had replied. Then, in a rare emotional display, she hugged Stephen. “I’m scared. I convinced our people to stay on with us, and now I worry that I might have sealed their fates.”
“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known,” Stephen said, lifting her hand and kissing it. “Now give them hell, just as we planned.”
“Is everyone prepared?”
“Informed, rehearsed, and ready,” Stephen replied. “These Germans have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
William Carré received an official note from Marian at mid-morning. As Seneschal of Sark Island, he performed the dual role of head of the Chief Pleas and judge of the island. The former role was the one that Marian’s directive addressed.
Carré had expected it and knew his responsibility. Already having heard that a boat with German officials had arrived at the port, he was dressed formally. At his door, the messenger handed him a sealed envelope, which he slid inside an inner pocket of his jacket. A tractor pulling a passenger wagon awaited him. He boarded and took his seat for the short ride to the top of the steep road leading down to the harbor.
People stood in their doors along the way, grim-faced, with mothers holding lively children behind them. Farmers and workers along his route paused in their labor to watch him go by, some waving and calling good wishes to him as he passed.
Within minutes, Carré stopped at the top of the harbor road. There, he alighted, looked around at a small crowd, dismissed his ride, and began walking down the steep road and through a tunnel to the harbor. Soon, he saw the boat bobbing in the water, and in front of it on the shore, two men in German uniforms. He strode up to the one who seemed to be in charge.
“Good day,” he greeted in Sercquiais. “I speak no German.” With both hands, he proffered the envelope delivered by the messenger from Marian.
Startled at the lack of obeisance, the officer snatched the envelope from Carré and tore it open. His expression changed to one of surprise. There, in perfect German with flourishing handwriting, was a note signed by Marian Littlefield, Dame of Sark.
I am informed that you arrived on Sark Island and wish to speak with me. I will be most pleased to receive you in the Seigneurie at your earliest convenience after receipt of this message. I designated our most honorable Seneschal William Carré, president of our parliament, to welcome you and guide you to the official seat of Sark Island’s government at my residence and office. I look forward to your visit.
Flustered, the officer looked around and spoke with his companion in German.
“Do you at least speak English?” the second officer asked Carré in perfectly enunciated English. “My colleague speaks none.”
Carré nodded. “Of course. We are British subjects.”
“That is a matter to be taken up with your Seigneure,” the officer replied haughtily. “Where is your car?”
“No cars are allowed on Sark,” Carré replied. “We will have to walk.”
The officer stared past Carré at the tunnel leading away from the port. Then he tilted his head to scan the high cliffs overlooking the harbor. After a brief consultation with his senior colleague, he said, “Very well. Lead on.”
Out of breath and perspiring in the warm summer weather and from the steepness of Harbour Hill Road after they had climbed through the tunnel to the flat ground eighty-one meters above sea level, they turned onto Chasse Marais, their clothes drenched with sweat. “Don’t you have any vehicles at all?” the English-speaking officer asked, his face red. “Surely you must have something we could ride in.”
“Only wagons pulled by tractors,” Carré responded amiably, “but none were available on short notice.”
As they turned onto Rue de la Seigneurie and proceeded, people barely took note of them, continuing about their business as though nothing unusual were taking place and greeting them pleasantly when passing by. Field workers seemed oblivious to their presence, and mothers only glanced out of windows at them while their children played in their yards, seemingly unmindful of their passage.
“Do your people not realize that a new order is taking hold in this world,” the English-speaking officer said to Carré.
“So we’ve heard,” the Seneschal replied, “but we don’t know the details. We’re a small island of little interest to anyone else. We mind our business and keep on living our lives.”
“Well as of today, you are of interest to Adolf Hitler and will fall under the rule of the Third Reich.”
With no change in his pleasant demeanor, Carré replied, “I’m sure you are right, and you can take that up with Dame Marian.”
At last, after walking nearly two miles, the group arrived at the main entrance to the Seigneurie. One of the officers stepped to the door and was about to knock when Carré stepped ahead of him.
“Allow me,” he said with an ingratiating smile. “A matter of protocol.”
He lifted the knocker and banged it a few times.
The officers fidgeted, their annoyance clearly expressed in their eyes and the glances they exchanged. While they waited, they dusted off their boots.
Moments passed, and then a servant girl opened the door. “Ah, Monsieur Seneschal, I’m so pleased to see you,” she said. “What business do you have today?”
Carré bowed with a flourish. “I came to present these two officers to la Seigneure. I believe she is expecting us.”
The girl pursed her lips under amused wide eyes. “I hadn’t heard. I will have to announce you. Please wait here.” She closed the door.
The senior officer turned angrily to Carré. “I demand to see the Seigneure at once. Please open the door.” The other officer translated.
“Patience,” Carré said matter-of-factly with a gesture of his open palms. “I’m not sure she expected you this early. We probably interrupted her morning tea, and she will not want to make a bad impression. We won’t have to wait much longer.”
Ten minutes later, when the Germans seemed near the peak of frustration, the door opened again. “Dame Marian will see you now,” the servant announced. She led them through a foyer, down a long hall, turned into another corridor, and finally knocked at an imposing door with intricate carvings. Another servant opened it and ushered the group inside.
Marian and Stephen sat together at adjacent desks at the far end of a large reception hall. She wrote busily while Stephen seemed preoccupied in reading what appeared to be correspondence. Neither looked up for a few moments.
The servant indicated for the group to wait and walked softly across the room. “Sir, Madame,” she said in a proper voice, and s
tood until she had been recognized. At last, Stephen looked up and nodded.
“Sir, the Seneschal is here to present the German delegation. Madame sent out the invitation this morning on receiving word of their arrival.”
Stephen looked past the servant at the officers. “Ah yes. I had forgotten.” He stood and nudged his wife. “Dear, the delegation you mentioned is here. Do you wish to see them now?”
Marion looked up with a neutral expression. “Give me a minute.” She looked down at her papers again, signed a document, and then stood.
“Gentlemen,” she called in perfect German. “We’ve been expecting you.”
As Carré and the officers approached, she held her hand out for them to kiss. Taken aback, the German officers exchanged bewildered glances.
Carré stepped forward and kissed Marian’s hand. She lowered it to her side. “Madame la Seigneure,” he announced, “I am pleased to present the delegation of the Wehrmacht of the Third Reich.”
Marian shifted her eyes to the senior officer. “I am pleased to receive you,” she said, and as he stepped forward, she held her hand out again. On reflex, he reached for it and kissed it.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Major Lanz,” he replied. “I am the commandant on this island.”
Marian remained silent, studying him. He was a tall man, with a dark complexion and dark hair. His alert eyes showed intelligence, and his demeanor was that of a fair-minded person.
The other officer stepped forward. “I am Dr. Maass,” he said in English. “I will serve as medical officer.”
Marian appraised him, and she did not care for what she saw, although noting that his English accent was flawless. He seemed a man too pleased with himself, too smooth, and she wondered how much time he must have spent in England to gain mastery over the language and what information he might have gathered and passed on while there.
