Chapter Text
Colonel Richter sighed. It had been a very long day in an extremely long month, and his wells of patience - - carefully cultivated over the four and a half years of his tenure as Kommandant of Guernsey - - were running dry, like other equally relevant sources of water on the island.
“Mr Trenett, as you know, the crops you grow are under requisition by the German military command. All crops, without exception. After all, your weekly harvest is at under five percent of the expected return.”
“And whose fault is that?” Trenett demanded. “Crops can only be grown in winter with a great deal of fertiliser, and diesel to pump water into gravity water tanks, and we haven’t had fuel since September!”
The market gardener paused to draw breath. Richter had the vague prior impression of the man as a plump, florid-faced presence; that once-overweight figure was now gaunt and grey with malnutrition, as were so many of them these days, soldiers and islanders alike. The conditions had undoubtedly forced Trenett into pilfering from his depleted greenhouses in order to feed his starving family, at great risk to his own life.
Richter knew he could not afford an excess of pity for one man. He tucked his gloved hands into the arms of his greatcoat for warmth, and made himself speak briskly.
“I am prepared to overlook this infraction this once, given these extenuating circumstances. But I must have your word that you will comply strictly with the orders for now on.”
Richter ought not to have wasted his sympathy. Instead of showing gratitude, the man took a step away from Richter and the soldiers who flanked him, and began to shout.
“I will not. My collaboration days are over; we’ve been resented for years for something that wasn’t our fault. Get someone else to do your dirty work! My mother hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks, do you hear me? She hasn’t been able to get out of bed, that’s how bad it is!”
“It is pretty bad, Colonel,” said Dr Philip Martel, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he walked into Trenett’s office; he, too, was wearing his coat indoors. “The old lady has been giving up her bread and milk rations for the boy, but she can’t keep going like this. None of us can.”
It was a mark of how serious matters had become that the doctor’s tones were calm. Under normal circumstances, Martel would not have stinted from providing a detailed recitation of German deficiencies at the top of his lungs.
From the beginning of their occupation of the Channel Islands in June 1940, the German military had assumed responsibility for feeding the civilians as well as their own garrison, supplementing the crops grown on the islands with supplies shipped from occupied France. Over the course of the war, the Führer, convinced that the Allies would have to take the Channel Islands before they could land on the French coast, had substantially reinforced the 319th infantry division, swelling the islands’ population by fifty per cent as a result.
Now, after the Normandy landings in June 1944, the Allies’ naval blockade had disrupted the supply lines from France, and the already precarious food situation on the Channel Islands had taken a sharp turn for the worse. In August, three civilians had been shot for trying to steal food from their garrison. Now, as autumn gave way to a bitterly cold winter, all rations had been drastically slashed, with milk reduced to one third of a pint per head, and fuel, gas and electricity due to run out at the end of year.
The situation had become so dire that OKW had recently issued a directive permitting a cessation of rations to the civilian population of the Islands should this become necessary. Thus far, Richter had been ignoring this directive, but he knew families across Guernsey would soon be faced with the same terrible choice as the Trenetts: to save the elderly, or the children, but not both.
Warming to his topic, old habits dying hard, Martel raised his voice. “In fact, it’s an outrage. No decent person would stand for it, when there’s something that can in fact be done!”
Richter couldn’t help sighing heavily. The doctor had in fact been making this argument all morning in the Kommandantur, which was how he’d been present when the news arrived that Farmer Trenett had barricaded himself in his house in an attempt to resist arrest for pilfering supplies. Martel had insisted on accompanying Richter and the soldiers to Mont Durand, claiming the Trenetts were his patients, but Richter suspected his real reason was so that he could continue trying to wear Richter down.
Richter had conveyed the Bailiff’s August report on the dire state of supplies on Guernsey to the German High Command, and thence to the British Cabinet. The British response had not been unexpected: Churchill was adamant that giving food aid to the civil population would only prolong the German resistance. After all, the Occupying Power had full responsibility for feeding the islanders; the British would only step in when the Germans finally surrendered.
Richter had been tasked with the unenviable position of conveying this response to the Controlling Committee. Since that time, Dr Martel had made an almost-daily pilgrimage to the Kommandantur to re-litigate the position.
“I don’t see why OKW can’t give assurances of safe passage for British ships to enter our waters, if they were on a humanitarian mission!” the doctor had said this very morning, for the fifth or the fiftieth time, standing in Richter’s office as if he was testifying before a British war crimes tribunal.
Richter had said, patiently, for the fifth or the fiftieth time, “As you know, it would be impossible. Germany did not build fortifications at Castle Cornet and Half Moon Bay in order to permit British warships to come within fifty miles of Saint Peter Port.”
Martel had paused, and then he tried a new tack. “Then let us ask neutral agents, like Switzerland or the International Red Cross. For God’s sake, that won’t impinge on the sovereignty and dignity of the Occupying Power!”
Richter had paused, for this was indeed an approach that he had been privately canvassing with the new rear-admiral who had arrived on the islands in July, after General Müller had been sent east. The old boy had been something of a despot, but you could usually work with him - - whereas his replacement, Hüffmeier, was a fanatical believer in the Führer’s new world order, who might actually let the entire island starve to death. There appeared to be no reasoning with him. The Admiral had said, only last week, that, by comparison with many other places, the islands had not even felt the breath of war - - they would never be surrendered, no matter what others felt about it, least of all Richter himself.
However, Richter couldn’t very well tell Dr Martel that the new commander of the Channel Islands had as much as ordered him to let the islanders starve. What he said, instead, was, “The British would never permit it, because they don’t believe conditions are this dire. Also, they could not be persuaded that we would not requisition the supplies for ourselves.”
“But you wouldn’t, Colonel! Whitehall would take you at your word, the word of an officer.” Martel pulled himself up short, caught in the act of paying the enemy an unwilling compliment, and amended this to, “And if not, they would believe me! You could send me out on a boat due north until I was picked up by the blockade. I could then go to London on parole, deliver my first-hand report of conditions here, and at once return to my post.”
Richter had sighed. “Doctor, this is militarily impossible. Once you got to London, you would never be able to restrict your mission to pointing out the need for food. You would be asked for an authentic account of the situation on the island, where the gun emplacements were and so forth, and you would tell the truth.”
Martel, tartly: “I don’t think being interrogated about the gun emplacements is going to be of much military use to the Allies! I mean, they’ve clearly already decided to bypass the Channel Islands entirely.”
Richter had had to suppress another sigh; he feared the doctor might be right. Rumour had it that Rommel had tried to get the surplus Channel Islands garrison returned to the mainland where it could be put to better use, only to be turned down by the Führer himself. That celebrated field marshal was dead now - - succumbing to the injuries he had suffered earlier in Normandy, if the news could be believed - - but he had been proven right. Those extra troops were now all marooned here on the islands, cut off from the war by the Allies’ naval blockade: stranded, starving dead weight, additional mouths to feed.
Richter had said then, and he said it now. “There’s nothing to be done, Doctor. Your arguments are a waste of breath as well as of calories. How do they benefit you? Or the other islanders, to whom we both owe a duty?”
Abruptly recalled to his Controlling Committee obligations, Dr Martel drew himself up short. He turned to Trenett, who had taken a belligerent stance in the middle of the freezing office.
“George, I’d pipe down if I were you. The Kommandant’s saying he’ll turn a blind eye this once. You should do as he says. Your mother would be even worse off if the Germans decided to shoot you for breaching food regulations.”
Trenett snarled, “You’re a fine one to talk, Dr Martel! I’ve never forgotten: you told me my heart condition was punishment for collaborating with Germany. When you were the worst collaborator all along - - you’re helping the Germans to starve us all and save themselves!”
“That’s completely untrue,” Richter began, and found himself echoing the doctor exactly. He continued, glaring at Martel, “As I have been explaining to Dr Martel, it is not the Wehrmacht who are blocking the supply lines and refusing to permit supplies to come through.”
“It’s because the Wehrmacht are refusing to undertake not to pilfer those supplies,” Martel remonstrated. “It’s almost as good as starving us yourselves!”
Richter ground his teeth together to hold back the retort he dearly wished to give. Martel’s words echoed the careless attitude of a Whitehall who would withhold food supplies and in the same breath accuse their enemy of war crimes for not feeding the populace. If he were in the Allies’ shoes - - if he were in Martel’s shoes - - he would never have vouchsafed such an irrational position.
From the way Martel was glaring back at him, it appeared the doctor was harbouring a similar sentiment.
Richter could have been gratified by this display of fighting spirit - - for in order to fight, one had to be committed to survival - - if only the man were not so blasted stubborn.
“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Trenett announced. He had backed up against his desk; he now seized the nearest sharp object - - a carved, intricate letter opener that looked old enough to date from Guernsey’s prehistoric period - - and brandished it in their direction. “All either of you care about is war and politics, not the people who’re dying! I’ll bloody show you what it’s like, both of you - - just for one day - -”
“Put it away, you idiot,” Martel said urgently, stepping forward and reaching for the weapon.
Richter motioned to the soldiers to stand down and hastened to intercept them both. Trenett slashed out wildly; Martel had taken his gloves off to examine the old lady, and the edge of the letter opener caught him across one bare palm.
As Martel cried out in pain, Richter managed to put himself between Trenett and the doctor. Shielding Martel, he neatly disarmed the angry farmer and tipped him onto the ground for the soldiers to seize hold of.
“Hand him to the Feldgendarmerie. A minor public order offence, or assaulting a member of the Controlling Committee; Kluge might want to refer this to the civilian police.” Richter paused, and then said to his aide, “Say nothing about the short-changing of supplies for now.”
“Are you quite sure, Herr Kommandant?” Hellman had been General Müller’s adjutant before Müller had been sent east; he had been on the spot when Trenett’s original troubles with saboteurs had started. Though his initial interactions with the Feldkommandantur had not been easy ones, the young officer had proved eager to redeem himself, eventually winning over even Ernst Freidel. This was evidenced from his ready acquiescence now: “But certainly, sir, whatever you think best.”
As the soldiers dragged Trenett away, Richter found himself intercepted by Philip Martel. The doctor was bleeding a little, and Richter discovered that he was also bleeding himself.
“It’s just a scratch,” Richter murmured, but Martel insisted on patching him up anyway. The Kommandant had to admit it was not unpleasant to be fussed over for a change, even though the nursemaid was muttering imprecations under his breath about bloody stubborn Germans.
They were not so different, he and Martel: linked by their responsibility to their respective governments, to Guernsey, and, on some level, to each other. If only Richter could make Martel understand the Germans’ position! If the doctor knew what was transpiring at the Kommandantur, with Hüffmeier, with the SS and its infuriating Sturmbannführer Reinicke, he might be more sympathetic to the man who stood between the islanders and the indiscriminate cruelty of warmongerers, to say nothing of war itself.
When Richter and Martel finally left the Trenett estate, the sky was darkening, and an early snow was coming down. It was going to be a long drive back from Mount Durand. Richter hoped to see Martel safely home and to return to the Kommandantur - - and his ever-increasing mountain of paperwork - - before the frigid night fell for good.