Hitler's British Isles, page 39
Indeed, so persuasive was Hüffmeier’s performance that von Aufsess was almost drawn in by it himself. ‘What German could resist this heady mixture?’ he wrote. ‘I was not myself altogether immune to its appeal.’ The admiral had offered him not only a glimpse at his rhetorical skill, but a reminder of how dangerous that skill could be in the hands of a man impervious to reason.
As far as Baron von Aufsess was concerned, the time was coming when matters might have to be taken out of Hüffmeier’s hands. He had long regarded the admiral as a potential threat to his own safety, not least since his wife – to whom he had written a number of dangerously frank letters – was currently languishing in a German prison cell as an ‘enemy of the state’, having been overheard lamenting the failure of the July bomb plot.
Four days earlier, Hüffmeier had summoned von Aufsess to take up a new position in Guernsey. The baron had been convinced it was a trap, so much so that he had begun to put in motion a plan to escape by boat to France. He had a small vessel ready and waiting in Gorey Harbour, along with a week’s worth of field rations and a set of fake identity documents proclaiming him to be a French OT worker. He had even begun writing some farewell letters, before the news had come through – from one of his most trusted sources in Guernsey – that the admiral simply wanted to reassign him, and he was in no immediate danger of arrest. At the last minute, the baron had cancelled the escape attempt and packed his bags for the new posting instead.
It was only after speaking to the admiral that von Aufsess had deduced the real reason for his reassignment. Hüffmeier had become embroiled in a bitter dispute with Bailiff Coutanche, who had threatened him with legal action after the war if he did anything to increase the suffering of the island population. The admiral was livid, and determined to put the bailiff in his place. Knowing that Coutanche had always seen von Aufsess as a political moderate, if not quite an ally, the admiral had removed him from the Feldkommandantur to signal that the policy of moderation had come to an end. In its place, he intended to institute a much tougher regime, with stricter discipline, exemplary punishment of potential résistants, and displays of military power that would scare the people into submission.
Hüffmeier’s bombastic performance at the RealKino had only confirmed the baron’s opinion that he was a dangerous man – a mini-Hitler, equally unbending and equally capable of bringing his own people to the point of destruction in order to feed his wild fanaticism. When von Aufsess tentatively suggested the Germans might one day have to rely on the goodwill of the islanders, the admiral could barely suppress his rage.
The baron paid a visit to General von Schmettow’s former chief of staff, Colonel von Helldorf, who was still awaiting court martial proceedings for supposedly failing to carry out orders. Unsurprisingly, he too had a very low opinion of Hüffmeier – who had, after all, stolen his job before he had taken von Schmettow’s – and he was determined to do something about it. ‘We are close on the time when the admiral will have to be put out of action,’ von Helldorf declared. ‘And one of us will have to do it.’
That night, over several glasses of port, the two conspirators worked out the details of their plan, sneaking across to the door every now and then to check that no one was listening. Von Helldorf volunteered to carry out the assassination himself, with von Aufsess – who had, it seemed, managed to gain the admiral’s trust – obtaining as much information as possible about his routine and security arrangements, to give them the best chance of success.
It was late by the time von Aufsess finally retired to his own quarters, feeling distinctly tipsy thanks to the heady mixture of fortified wine and dastardly plotting. There was no doubt in his mind that the course they had chosen was the right one. ‘What had happened to our moral scruples in thus planning to kill in cold blood?’ he wrote in his diary, which was now carefully hidden away behind a loose panel of wallpaper. ‘They had been disposed of in the long sleepless nights which inexorably led us to decide on this act of deliverance. In the past few months I have felt a hardening of resolve which will permit no further compromise with or concession to these enemies of humanity.’
All that remained was to find the right opportunity, but in this respect Admiral Hüffmeier appeared to be playing right into his would-be assassins’ hands. Three days later, von Aufsess reported in his diary that the commander-in-chief had developed a new obsession: the conversion of a ten-bedroom mock-gothic mansion, Carey Castle – briefly mentioned in Victor Hugo’s novel Toilers of the Sea – into a grand officers’ club. Von Aufsess volunteered to take an active role in the project, enthusiastically moving furniture and rearranging paintings as a pretext to spend more time around Hüffmeier. ‘The club is the admiral’s current hobby and preoccupation,’ he wrote, ‘and thus provides an innocuous ground on which to establish closer relations with him for a far from innocuous purpose.’ He soon had some valuable information to pass on to von Helldorf: every morning at 9 a.m. precisely, Hüffmeier would walk through the castle grounds on his way to inspect the latest renovations. His obsessive routine, as regular as clockwork, made him a sitting duck for an ambush.
As the days went by, von Aufsess was beginning to have qualms about his role in the assassination plot. The more time he spent with Hüffmeier debating trivial questions of interior design, the more guilty he felt about planning his murder. The two men were never going to become friends, but in Carey Castle they had found a joint project, and an area in which – ostensibly at least – they were on the same side. ‘I can scarcely credit my own duplicity,’ von Aufsess wrote in his diary. ‘Should I not rather be warning him?’ In his heart, though, he knew there was only one solution to the current predicament, and if that meant the admiral’s death it was a price he was willing to pay. The latest talk among Hüffmeier and his cronies was of holding the islands for another two years, even if Germany itself was forced to surrender. And the baron was under no illusion that his own safety was assured. ‘It only needs a radio message from Berlin and I am finished,’ he wrote tersely.
Von Aufsess waited anxiously for von Helldorf to act on his intelligence, but the next morning the admiral appeared at Carey Castle alive and well, knocking back his daily glass of Guernsey milk as he cheerfully surveyed the renovation work. The day after, to the baron’s dismay, he once again arrived bang on time, and in apparently perfect health.
It didn’t take long for von Aufsess to find out what had happened. Von Helldorf had been despatched unexpectedly to the tiny island of Herm, supposedly to report on its suitability for agricultural development. But for anyone familiar with the bad blood between him and the admiral, it was clear that he had essentially been banished.
The alarming question now preoccupying Baron von Aufsess was whether the timing had been just a coincidence. The other alternative didn’t bear thinking about. ‘Had Helldorf, out of his unbridled hatred for the admiral, let slip some compromising information?’ he wondered. ‘Had one of his undercover connections been brought to light?’ With no information to go on, and his own escape route from the islands far away in Jersey, there was little the baron could do other than continue to play house with Hüffmeier and keep his ears open for more information.
As it happened, von Helldorf and von Aufsess weren’t the only ones who had been plotting against Admiral Hüffmeier. In fact, within the ranks of his own forces a mutiny was already simmering. For several months now, seditious notes had been appearing, encouraging disaffected troops to wrest control from the admiral and sue for peace. ‘Hitler’s promises were nothing but pie-crust,’ read one. ‘How long do you intend to take part in this, the biggest deception of all time? How long do you want to stay here and starve?’ The proposition was clear: ‘The war is lost,’ the note concluded. ‘Through stubborn holding out we are spoiling our chances of an assured future. We call upon you to surrender.’
Some men, at least, appeared to be listening. On 7 March, a fire had gutted the Palace Hotel in Jersey – a popular hang-out for Wehrmacht officers – in what was widely assumed to have been an act of sabotage. Less than a fortnight later, General Rudolf Wulf, the commanding officer of 319 Infantry Division, was lucky to survive a bomb attack on his staff car by one of his own men, who was promptly arrested and executed. Now new notices began to appear, suggesting an uprising was imminent. ‘When the signal is given for the rebellion, tie a white handkerchief around your left arm and follow the orders of your leaders,’ one of them read. ‘All officers are to be arrested, and on resistance shot immediately.’
Jersey insurance agent Bob Le Sueur had continued to do odd jobs for associates involved in the civilian resistance movement. As well as translating the local Communist Party’s leaflets into Spanish, he had recently provided some blond hair dye courtesy of his friend Mrs Osbourne at the salon on Colomberie, and had even sourced an entire outfit for his old schoolfriend Norman Le Brocq, who had told him he needed it for an escaped Russian.
The latter task had been particularly challenging. After five years of Occupation, decent clothes were hard to come by, and Bob had been forced to appeal to the mother of his friend Victor Hamon, who had been shot down over Holland while serving in the RAF. The poor lady had already given away most of her dead son’s clothes, saving only one smart navy-blue suit for sentimental reasons. ‘I’m sure Victor would be happy to think it was being used to save another man’s life,’ she told Bob resolutely.
It was well known among those involved in resistance activities that Bob was in contact with a number of escaped Russian slave workers. One day he was approached by a man called Paul Casimir, who worked in Berger’s antiquarian bookshop in St Helier, to see if he could arrange for a particularly subversive leaflet to be translated and written out in Cyrillic script. The intention was to circulate it among the members of the Russian Liberation Army, a group of anti-communist defectors who had joined the Wehrmacht hoping to help topple Stalin from power, but who in recent months had started to wonder if they had backed the wrong side. These Russian troops controlled a section of the north-eastern coast of Jersey and were easily identified by the white-and-blue patches that they wore on the shoulders of their German Army uniforms. The hope, Casimir explained to Bob, was that with a little provocation, the whole unit could be persuaded to turn against the authorities.
Bob told Casimir he knew the perfect man for the job: Feodor Buryi, aka ‘Bill’, the escaped Russian who was living with his friends Michael and René. He was sure Bill would leap at the chance to do anything to help the Allied cause, but he wasn’t convinced that it was fair on the two young men sheltering him – who were, after all, conscientious objectors – to involve their illegal flatmate in a plot that if discovered would almost certainly get all of them shot.
Bob decided that it was only right to ask his friends whether they were happy for him to approach Bill. After some deliberation they agreed, but on one condition: they first wanted Bob to reassure them that the mutiny had a decent chance of success. They had seen the subversive notes littering the streets in recent weeks, calling on troops to commit acts of sabotage and troublemaking, but they weren’t sure whether these were the work of serious revolutionaries, or simply a bunch of young hotheads who had no real idea what they were doing.
Bob’s approach to his resistance activities had always been one of calculated inattentiveness as far as the activities of his comrades was concerned. The way he saw it, the less he knew about who else was involved, and what exactly they were planning, the better. He was perfectly happy to source a bottle of hair dye here, or a change of civilian clothes there, without ever seeking to know who they were for, or why they wanted them. But his friends had made a compelling argument, and he promised them that he would do what he could to find out more about the people they would all be working with.
Bob returned to the antiquarian bookshop and explained the situation to Paul Casimir. The other man thought for a moment. ‘Someone will meet you,’ he told Bob a little guardedly. ‘Wait outside the sports hall on Victoria Road this evening, opposite the allotments. He’ll be humming Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.’
That evening, Bob cycled to the appointed spot and waited, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him. Compared to his own previous resistance activities, this was proper cloak-and-dagger stuff. Who was the mysterious contact, he wondered, and what exactly were they planning to do with him? Loitering by the side of the road, he couldn’t help feeling exposed. What if someone saw him and wondered what he was doing there?
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he spotted his old schoolfriend Norman Le Brocq cycling along the road. ‘Hello, Bob!’ he called out, coming to a halt on the pavement beside him.
Bob felt panicked. This wasn’t part of the plan. If his mysterious contact saw him chatting with Norman, they might abandon the rendezvous altogether. But then, he could hardly tell his friend to get lost without explaining what he was doing there.
‘Hello, Norman,’ he replied weakly, hoping that he wasn’t planning to stay and chat.
But his old friend seemed to be in a convivial mood. ‘It’s a dreary evening, isn’t it?’ he remarked chattily. Then he began, ever so quietly, to hum. ‘Dum, da-dum, da-dum-dum dum-dum-dah . . .’
Bob’s eyes widened. ‘Oh,’ he said, momentarily lost for words.
‘Come on!’ Norman told him, hopping back on his bike and pedalling away at speed.
Bob followed him along Victoria Road, and then onto the Rue des Pres. They rode on for several minutes in silence. As they approached the junction with Longueville Road, Norman dismounted in front of a little wooden door, which led into the back garden of one of the nearby houses. He pulled a silver key out of his pocket, opened the door, and ushered Bob inside.
They propped their bikes up against the wall and headed across the garden in silence. Entering by the house’s back door, Norman led Bob up a little flight of stairs to a room that was lit by an oil lamp. Sitting at a table was a man of about thirty. His hair was a striking shade of blond, and he was wearing a smart navy-blue suit. Bob did his best not to smile.
The man stood and extended a hand to Bob. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Paul Mülbach.’
Bob’s blood froze in his veins. This was no Russian, he realised. The man had spoken with an unmistakable German accent. For the first time in the whole bizarre evening, he felt he might have just walked into a trap.
It was left to his old schoolfriend to reassure him. The man in the blue suit was indeed a German, Norman explained, but he was a deserter, and a passionate anti-Nazi. Mülbach was a socialist who had fought with the International Brigade during the Spanish Civil War. When he was captured and repatriated to Germany, he was given a choice between joining the Army or being sent to the concentration camp at Dachau, where his father, a somewhat troublesome trade unionist, had been imprisoned prior to his death. Unsurprisingly, Mülbach had chosen the former, but his time in uniform had only made him more committed to bringing about an end to Nazism once and for all.
Since arriving in Jersey the previous year, Mülbach had been working to bring other soldiers around to his cause. It was he who had been behind the leaflets calling on the German soldiers to mutiny, which had been printed by Bob’s old friend Norman on the Jersey Communist Party duplicator. When Mülbach had been forced to go underground, Norman and his associates had sheltered him, providing him with the outfit and hair dye sourced by Bob in order to disguise his appearance. Now, the German man explained, he believed he could count on a number of senior officers to rally their units to mutiny as soon as he gave the signal.
Bob could scarcely believe what he was hearing. This was a much more serious business than anything he had been involved in before. But he was, at least, reassured on one count. Whatever his chances of success, Mülbach was no fool. With the help of Norman and his fellow communist résistants, he had managed to evade capture ever since his desertion, and now he had a plan that could end the Occupation for good. Bob had no qualms about returning to Michael and René and telling them that his contacts had met their requirements. He felt sure that, if they had met Mülbach themselves, they would be more than willing to risk their lives for his scheme.
Bob told the German mutineer that he would supply the translation he wanted. But that wasn’t quite the end of his role in the rebellion. The mutiny had been planned for the morning of Tuesday 1 May, a date rich in symbolism for Mülbach and his communist associates. The signal for the uprising to begin would be a cannon fired at Elizabeth Castle at 10 a.m. exactly. The officers in the know had all been briefed, and the civilians supporting the operation had their parts to play as well. Several of them had been assigned to the various schools within earshot of the cannon. When they heard it go off, they were to rush inside and tell the headteachers what was happening, instructing them to get the children home as quickly as possible. Bob was given responsibility for a school near his parents’ house at First Tower.
While the schoolchildren were herded to safety, other volunteers would spend the morning distributing leaflets addressed to the citizens of St Helier, informing them about the mutiny and letting them know what they could do to help. ‘As you read this, German troops wearing white armbands are converging on St Helier,’ the leaflets announced. ‘It is here in the town that the affair will be decided. It is in YOUR interest that this mutiny should succeed.’
The general public were asked to do three things to give the mutineers the best chance of success: ‘Keep off the streets’, ‘Do not harbour Nazis’ and ‘Carry out any requests made by troops wearing white armbands’. The leaflet ended with a rousing call to victory: ‘You have been longing for the end of this Nazi occupation. Follow these instructions and so ensure that end. Down with the Nazis!’
