by Hitoshi Goto
I think it was on 29 July 1942 when the German military held an impressively large parade on the Champs Élysées, led by Field Marshal von Rundstedt, commander of the forces in the west, flanked by two generals, Paul Hausser and Hitler’s favourite Sepp Dietrich, according to the whispers of the French people around me. The major military display lasted over six hours, flaunting German military power before the French civilians.
Orderly rows kept flowing past like a great river to the strident strains of a German military march. Motorcycles with sidecars, personnel carrier half-tracks, trucks pulling heavy artillery, and trucks loaded with soldiers filed past. After that, regiments with self-propelled guns, assault guns, and Panzers kept heading up the gentle slope towards the Arc de Triomphe. These were clearly bigger than the tanks that had entered Paris two years before, and the gun barrels were longer. They had remarkably improved their equipment, perhaps as a result of practical experience on the battlefield,.
Nearby there was a scholarly looking man in a suit and spectacles commenting sagely on the proceedings. I couldn’t help overhearing him say that was the 1st SS Panzergrenadier Division Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler, elite even within Hitler’s Black Shirts. Apparently the name meant Hitler’s Flag of Protection. On the sleeve of their uniforms was embroidered “Adolf Hitler.” All the tanks bore the mark of a skeleton key, which must have been the division’s insignia.
The German army was supposedly currently engaged in battle with Soviet forces in the Russian Steppes, yet here the elite German troops were parading before us in Paris. It appeared the German military had plenty of leeway. This fact obviously wouldn’t be missed by the Allied forces’ intelligence network. And the Germans must have known that when they’d decided to put on this impressive procession.
It looked like Germany might win this war after all.
Chapter 2
July 1943
Guernsey, German-Occupied Channel Islands
The ice cream parlour was located almost halfway along St. Peter Port high street, right in front of a building that bore the sign for the Feldpolizei, the German military secret police.
The sign on the small, white, two-storey building read “Brindleys London Diploma Guernsey-made Cream Ice.” It was a sunny day, but the breeze was bringing in cold air off the sea. A man sat outside on a simple wooden chair. He was the shop’s owner, and had a ruddy complexion and chestnut hair. He looked more like a seaman, rather out of place in a pastoral-sounding ice cream parlour. His head was slumped forward onto his chest, rising and falling with each breath, and it was hard to tell if he was asleep or awake.
Two German BMW R75 motorcycles with sidecars passed before him, engines roaring.
†
Situated in the English Channel, the sea separating England from continental Europe, the Channel Islands have a long history dating from a 6th century record of the Christian gospel. Possession of the islands has been disputed between England and France since the Norman Conquest, reflecting the complex relationship between the two countries. Caught in the middle of various conflicts, from the Hundred Years’ War to the War of the Roses, the Puritan Revolution, and the Napoleonic Wars, the islands’ history reeks of blood. At the time of the Hundred Years’ War it became an English territory and swore allegiance to the English crown. However, given its close proximity to France, it also had extremely close relations with that country. It was also often invaded by the French army, and sometimes when there was political unrest in France exiles from there would cross the sea for refuge. Then at the end of the 19th century it became famous as a peaceful summer resort. The islanders on the two biggest islands, Jersey and Guernsey, as well as smaller ones like Aldney and Sark applied themselves to livestock farming, fishing, and apple orchards. But this idyllic existence was not to continue forever.
Even after Poland finally fell to the German army and Denmark capitulated, the war still felt far off. There were fears of Luftwaffe air raids on the British mainland, but there wasn’t any actually direct fighting between soldiers and the threat of Stukas was still in an unrelated world.
However, the peaceful days did not continue for long, for Hitler’s Blitzkrieg began on the Western Front too. The Panzer corps drove the Allied forces back to the coast, and at the end of May 340,000 soldiers were evacuated from Dunkirk with little more than the clothes they stood up in. The allies no longer existed as a coherent force. On 5 June 1940 the Case Red order to occupy France was issued, and the German forces deployed along the front line from Abbeville on the banks of the River Somme near the English Channel to the River Rhine, launched the attack all at once.
This was the trigger that plunged the peaceful islands into confusion and despair. There was a constant stream of people fleeing France, their faces stiff with fear, while the German army invaded France in high morale. And then on 19 June, the British government issued an evacuation order for the islands. It was no longer an issue of whether or not the German army would come, but of when.
And when they came, the practically defenceless islands would inevitably surrender. The islanders frantically began preparing to evacuate. All available ships were mobilised, and out of the total population of 90,000, some 30,000 people left for England. Those who were left behind waited for the fateful day with bated breath.
On 28 June, the islanders heard an unfamiliar roar and looked nervously up at the sky. The wings of the endless stream of planes flying in bore swastikas. These were not the RAF, but the Luftwaffe. One unit of bombers headed for Guernsey, and another for Jersey to conduct the first air raid on the Channel Islands that claimed forty-four victims. The British government had been preparing to declare the islands a non-defended locality, but they were not in time.
Two days later, Operation Grüne Pfeile (Green Arrow) to capture the islands was put into motion. One by one, Jersey, Alderney, and Sark were seized without casualties.
The Channel Islands was the first British territory to come under German occupation.
The British Prime Minister Churchill, spoiling for the fight, couldn’t bear having lost the Channel Islands, and came up with a number of plans to retake them. The largest scale plan was to take place in 1942. A large number of soldiers, backed up by the RAF and Navy, were to be sent in an attempt to retake the three main islands in one go. Mountbatten, who was in charge of the unified military operation, was all for it. Earl Mountbatten was related by marriage to the British royal family, and just as the royal dynasty from Hannover took the name Windsor, had changed his name from the original Battenberg.
Mountbatten insisted that by retaking the Channel Islands they could use it as a base to attack German ships, assist the Navy’s activities by expanding the patrol territory to the French mainland, and use it as a base for dispatching commando units to make surprise raids on the French coast.
However, the plan met with fierce opposition from the RAF and others who had their hands full with defending Malta and Gibraltar, and never saw the light of day.
While the plan to retake the islands by committing large-scale troops fell through, there were numerous surprise raids by commando units as well as infiltration by secret agents.
These commando raids had practically no influence on the wider outcome of the war and mainly concerned punishment of traitors and assassinations of German military personnel, but many of those who collaborated with the commandoes were arrested and executed. Both British and German lives were lost.
From Hitler’s point of view, the occupation of the Channel Islands was highly significant as political propaganda. Even if they were far from the British mainland, they were a well-known British territory and served as a model for the occupation and subjugation when the mainland was captured. Also, should the Allied Forces attempt a landing in northern France, he planned to use it as a strategic defensive stronghold to assert his authority over the Normandy and Brittany peninsulas. To that end, he had already issued or
ders to fortify the islands on 15 June 1941, just before going to war against the Soviet Union. He steadily increased the number of forces stationed there, so that by April 1942, the army, air force and navy combined easily numbered over 37,000. There was one German soldier for every two residents.
Most of those were the occupying army forces, which were broadly classified into two groups, the Feldkommandants in charge of the military government, and the Inselkommandants in charge of military affairs.
The task of the Feldkommandants fell to Unit 515, headquartered in the Grange Lodge Hotel on Guernsey.
In June 1941, 319th Infantry Division was dispatched as Inselkommandants, tasked with defending the islands.
The air force stationed an anti-aircraft gun unit there, and the navy deployed E-boats to protect the ports and coasts.
Fortunately there were no SS or Gestapo stationed in the islands. For the islanders, the worst thing about the occupation was probably the humiliation, but things were far worse on the French mainland. On the whole, the Abwehr were more gentlemanly.
Even so, from the start of 1941 the Feldpolizei—the security police—were established to keep watch over the residents, and especially to arrest any spies. They made the Albion Hotel in Saint Peter Port their headquarters. They carried out unannounced inspections and house searches, and the terrified local people called them the Gestapo. As the days passed daily life grew steadily more difficult as education in German was made compulsory, places were given German names, traffic that under the British had run on the left was now made to drive on the right, food staples were rationed, and the press was controlled.
Construction work on fortifications as per the order began in earnest at the start of 1943, as the possibility of attacks by the Allied Forces began to look increasingly realistic. The number of labourers conscripted from the islands alone was not sufficient, so Organisation Todt set up their headquarters in Saint-Malo on the French mainland and began rounding up large numbers of workers. These included many women, but still it was far better than the fate that befell Russian and Polish prisoners of war on the eastern front.
†
That day the torrential rain lashing the window served as an alarm clock. Andrew Cleary moved between the nebulous dream world and reality for a while until finally the very real sound of the rain pushed its way past the dream. He sluggishly sat up in bed and tutted to himself, then heavily got to his feet and went to open the curtains. Lately it was unusual for the weather to be like this from morning. It was a gloomy start to a summer’s day.
Andrew hadn’t intended to blame it solely on these three years like his colleagues had, but ever since he could remember the days of pent-up frustration had been continuing one after another. That was why he’d left London and come here. It wasn’t that today was a particularly depressing day, but when it rained like this from morning his spirits sank even lower.
Still in his pyjamas he stood in front of the bathroom mirror. A tuft of his black hair, tousled from sleep, stood up on one side. He had darkish circles beneath his lacklustre eyes, and a faint beard was sprouting on his pale, somewhat hollow cheeks.
He stroked his cheek with his left hand, and felt the stubble rub against his palm. How old had he been when he’d started shaving? Thirteen—no, twelve, wasn’t it? In any case, it meant he’d been shaving daily for almost quarter of a century now. Looking at himself like this every day, he had noticed the physical changes in himself over the past couple of decades, but others would probably only see a man approaching middle-age without having made anything of himself.
There was loud knocking on the front door.
No, maybe it was just the wind, he tried to convince himself, but then came more loud knocking.
“Detective Cleary, are you awake? It’s Walsh.”
Tutting to himself, Andrew went to open the door.
He was hit in the face by a gust of wind and rain. That really hurt! He quickly averted his face from the onslaught, and looked at Detective Walsh through narrowed eyes. He was wearing a mackintosh, but his chestnut hair was wet and plastered to his forehead and he was as pale as death.
Andrew let him in and closed the door, slightly muting the roar of the storm.
“What’s up?”
“Early this morning some bodies were found on the southern coast. A local reported them.”
Andrew’s eyes momentarily hardened, then instantly returned to the sullen expression he’d woken with.
“Drowned? Must have been a fishing accident. Fishing was banned on the second of this month, so he probably went out fishing under cover of darkness and got swept away by a wave,” he said and then stopped. “Hang on, Mark, Did you say bodies, plural?”
“Yes. Two of them. And what’s more, they…”
“They what?”
“They—those bodies…”
“They’re not Boches are they? It’ll be a real drag if they are,” Andrew said, ruffling his hair with his hand.
“One is a white woman, an islander probably. The other is East Asian. In uniform, apparently… most likely Japanese.”
“Japanese!” Andrew exclaimed. “So do that lot know about it?”
“That lot?” Walsh looked puzzled.
“The Gestapo at the Albion.”
“I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Right, let’s go take a look. Wait here while I get ready.”
With Detective Mark Walsh driving, they left the town of Saint Peter Port, arriving on the scene at Petit Bôt bay on the southern coast around nine o’clock. The wind and rain had let up a little by that time.
According to Walsh, both bodies had washed up on the shore, but the police officer left on guard was standing beneath a big tree on the inland from the beach. Next to him, a short bearded man paced restlessly up and down.
“That’s Constable Roots from Saint Martins.”
The officer saluted as Andrew and Detective Walsh got out of the car and went over to them. He had a moustache and was somewhat plump. Squeezed into an ill-fitting uniform, the fabric was so stretched around him that the five silver buttons of his jacket looked like they might fly off at any moment. The too-tight chinstrap of his typical English bobby’s helmet cut into his skin. Rain dripped from its rim.
“We found the bodies down there by the waterline, but the waves are so rough I’m afraid we had to bring them up here to stop them getting washed away.”
“I see. That’s called having your wits about you. Well done.”
Looking pleased, Constable Roots straightened his back and saluted smartly.
Andrew crouched down and pulled back the cover. Looking at the face he said, “A military man indeed. They look different—long suffering and gallant, don’t you think? This uniform is definitely not German. Hmm, shot in the chest, was he? Assuming it wasn’t by chance, it must be the work of a professional. No other external wounds by the look of it.
Walsh began going through the pockets, then almost immediately poked Andrew with a finger.
“Look here, Detective Cleary, his passport and ID card. So he is Japanese. Oh good, he’s also got some papers in German. The lettering has run a bit, but it’s legible.
“Can you read German, Mark?”
“Of course. German’s compulsory in schools now. You’re definitely at an advantage if you can use it,” he said, smiling weakly.
“Remarkable flexibility. Admirable. And?”
“It’s a permit from the Abwehr to inspect the fortifications. He’s a major in the Japanese army, a military attaché based in Vichy. Kanao Amemiya – Amemiya’s the family name. He was due to be here four days, lodging at the Hotel Belvedere.”
“So he was here to inspect the German fortifications…”
“His weapon hasn’t been used. I’ve never seen that type of pistol before.”
“He was probably taken
by surprise. I don’t know the flow of tides around this coast, so can’t be sure whether he was killed here in Petit Bôt. He might have gone over a cliff and just happened to be washed up here.”
“There aren’t any abrasions on the body, though.”
“A lot of the cliffs on the south coast are pretty sheer—some places you’d just plop straight into the water without hitting the rocks. As for the woman…”
Andrew moved his gaze to the body lying next to Major Amemiya’s. Her long blonde hair was wet and plastered over her face. He briefly crossed himself then crouched down and moved it aside.
“What a pretty face. I don’t know her, but I suppose she must be English?”
“There have been a lot of Frenchwomen conscripted to come and work on the island lately, though.”
“No, the fabric of the clothes she’s wearing is too good quality for that. More likely she was already living here, and quite well off.”
“Cause of death?” asked Walsh, peering over his shoulder at the woman.
“Doesn’t look like she has any fatal injuries. Maybe she drowned…”
“Was she killed here?”
“No, she wasn’t. Look at her right elbow.”
A closer look revealed a rip on the arm of her blouse and a painful looking wound. The blood had been washed away.
“She must have been pushed off the cliff, or maybe she fell… anyway, she got this wound from hitting the cliff face on the way down. She’s got lots of other little abrasions all over her too. The poor thing… but at least her face was spared.”
“She wasn’t carrying anything that could identify her, was she?”
“Seems not… Well then,” Andrew said, and stood up. He looked down thoughtfully at the body for a few moments, then called over to Constable Roots. “When they were found, what position were they lying in?”
