The Tower at Petite Vigne

By Rob Stone

It is the spring of 1943. American and British bombers pound Germany around the clock, disrupting her industry, smashing her transportation network, and driving her urban population underground. The Third Reich rightly interprets the aerial campaign as a prelude to the long-anticipated invasion of France.

That May an Organization Todt construction unit wheels into the cobblestone square of the ancient French village of Petite Vigne. Its laborers are to build a flak battery that will help counter the Allies’ growing might.

Now the conflict that Petite Vigne’s inhabitants had avoided for so long erupts into their quiet lives. Fault lines sunder the community: most people settle for an undeclared truce with the invaders; a handful opts to resist; and one becomes a collaborator. When an escaped French prisoner of war returns home to challenge the agent from London who comes to train volunteers for a D-Day attack on the flak site, matters come to a head.

The Germans’ situation is no less fraught with difficulty. The construction foreman sympathizes with the mayor’s high wire act of maintaining peace between the French and their conquerors. A series of incidents lead to the foreman being accused of letting the locals forget that they are subjects of the Reich. The opposition the foreman faces from his assistant, the commander of the flak battery, and a ruthless military policeman threaten to destroy him.

The Tower at Petite Vigne is a fast-paced, absorbing novel about the choices people make when they find themselves caught up in the confusion and chaos of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Stone
• Release date: Oct 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983878308

Rob Stone

Rob Stone and NFL great Joe Namath both hail from Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Rob’s family moved to Florida when he was an adolescent. After attending Palm Beach Atlantic College in West Palm Beach, Rob relocated to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to pursue graduate studies at the University of Michigan. Rob’s a dyed-in-the-wool fan of both the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Michigan Wolverines. A life-long interest in military history, combined with 30 years’ experience in the publishing field, inspired Rob to take the plunge and start writing in the Nineties. As an author, Rob’s interests are wide-ranging: in addition to The Tower at Petite Vigne, he is working on a murder mystery set in the American Civil War and the first volume of a projected science fiction trilogy. Rob possesses a rich vocabulary and a lively imagination. These attributes fuel his passion for describing a person or situation with precision, choosing the right words to tell the story. His desire is to tell stories with prose that catches the eye and engages the mind. Rob is the founder and owner of Chosen Word Copywriting and Editorial Services (www.chosenword.biz). His hobbies include collecting commemorative stamps and coins. And, for over two decades he has been a Federal infantry American Civil War re-enactor.

Book preview

The Tower at Petite Vigne

A Novel of Occupied France

by

Rob Stone

Published by Rob Stone at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Robert Edwin Stone, II. All rights reserved.

The Tower at Petite Vigne is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

ISBN 978-0-9838783-0-8

War is the unfolding of miscalculations.

- Barbara W. Tuchman

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank Mark J. H. Fretz, my friend and fellow University of Michigan graduate, for his wise counsel along the path to my novel’s publication. My daughter Adrienne’s careful reading of the manuscript at a particularly busy time of her life was of inestimable value. I reserve my deepest thanks for my wife Cathy, whose love, patience, skills as a copyeditor, and all around encourager were instrumental in enabling this work to see the light of day.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

About the Author

1.

The centuries-long practice of viniculture gave Petite Vigne its name. Like many such places, the remote village’s inhabitants were content to keep the outside world at arm’s length.

It came as no surprise, therefore, that the outbreak of war in September 1939 attracted scant attention. Things changed nine months later, when the German army pierced the Ardennes Mountains and spread like a cancer throughout the country’s interior.

A knot of retreating French troops stopped in the village square, seeking food and water for themselves and their horses. The exhausted soldiers told tales of being harassed by swarms of dive bombers and pursued by hordes of tanks.

They’re unstoppable, said an unshaven corporal. Leave while you can.

People asked one another where they would go. It was a question for which no one had an answer.

Two days later a German motorcycle reconnaissance company appeared. Its members reeked of gasoline, sweat, and triumph.

All but one of the riders dismounted. He trained a machine gun on the civilians. His comrades stretched their tired limbs and headed for the fountain in the middle of the square. Setting down their rifles, they poured cool water over their close-shaven heads and splashed one another like the boys they were.

By means of hand motions, Mayor Henri Marteau tried to convince the Germans’ commander that the village sheltered no French soldiers. The officer grunted and rapped out an order.

Levity evaporated like sun-kissed frost. The troops grabbed their weapons and fanned out toward the buildings on the perimeter of the square. Their hobnailed boots crashed on the cobblestones.

When the search turned up no stragglers, the soldiers mounted up and left. The people didn’t move until the rumble of motorcycle engines faded.

I’ve never had a gun pointed at me, said Madame Justine Dormais. And such a big one. It was rather exciting.

For God’s sake, woman! said Raoul Aubert. We could have been shot!

* * *

In the ensuing weeks, terse bulletins concerning savage fighting—and mounting reverses for French arms—came over the big radio in Claire Panisse’s tavern. Then June 14 brought the stunning news that the Germans had entered the open city of Paris.

There’ll be no ‘Miracle on the Marne’ this time, said Claire. Unlike during the last war, the Parisian taxicab drivers will be too busy saving their own skins to ferry troops to the front.

Eight days later reports that Marshal Pétain had signed an armistice with the Germans broke like a sudden thunderstorm.

Millions of francs sunk into that silly Maginot Line, and Corporal Hitler’s hordes outflank it with ease, said Claire. Our army is reduced to ruin in mere weeks and now we’ve surrendered to the filthy Germans.

What else was there to do but sign an armistice? said Martin Dax. At Dunkirk the English cowards fled across the Channel to safety, leaving us alone to face the invaders.

Are you saying our downfall came about as the result of a conspiracy? asked François Brunet.

Mark my words, said Martin. International Jewry is behind these events.

Do you even know any Jews? said Frederic Laval. There are none in Petite Vigne.

Martin tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. One needn’t be personally acquainted with rats to know they spread contagion.

He finished his drink and left.

Such evil talk, said Henri. We were beaten because the politicians let Germany rearm and looked the other way when Hitler gobbled up all those little countries.

What does ‘ar-mis-tice’ mean?

Never mind, said François. He patted his apprentice Luc Charlier on the shoulder. The Germans will leave us be, just like during the last war.

At first it seemed this prophecy would come true. During the balance of the summer of 1940, only a couple supply convoys stopped in Petite Vigne. Drivers climbed down from the cabs of their laden trucks and crowded into the tavern. They plunked down money on the bar and pointed at what they wanted to drink.

By autumn even the convoys no longer came. The village released a collective sigh and settled back into its peaceful anonymity, an anonymity that lasted almost three years.

* * *

Father Arno Meier stepped out of Our Lady of Sorrows’ rectory for a walk around the square on a brilliant day in May 1943. He had been assigned to Petite Vigne fresh from seminary, just before the outbreak of war. Despite having been their pastor for some time now, Meier, who hailed from Strasbourg, was still viewed with suspicion by some of his conservative parishioners.

Breviary in hand, the priest was lost in contemplation. A vehicle drew up beside him and its horn blew, causing Father Meier to drop his book in surprise.

My apologies, Father, said the middle-aged driver, picking up the breviary. He spoke fair French but Father Meier recognized his accent as Bavarian. The speaker and the younger man with him wore brown uniforms and caps. Their small van was painted dark yellow, with green and brown stripes; its door bore the stenciled legend ORG TODT.

I speak your tongue, Monsieur, said Father Meier.

Imagine that, Josef. Running into someone out here who knows German!

I was born in the Alsace.

Ah, said the passenger. So you have been a citizen of the Reich for some time.

The Germans exited the vehicle. The passenger’s gait betrayed his artificial leg.

It is true that Germany annexed Alsace-Lorraine in 1940, said Father Meier. However, I consider myself to be a Frenchman.

Of course, of course, said the driver. Now we are all citizens of Greater Europe. To business, then: where is the mayor of this place to be found?

Monsieur Marteau’s shop is in the building with the blue door.

Thank you, said the German. I am Franz Deggendorf of the Organization Todt. Hoffman here is my assistant.

Welcome to Petite Vigne, said Father Meier. I beg your pardon but I cannot tarry. It is time for catechism instruction.

It’s a priest’s happy duty to teach the little ones! said Deggendorf.

2.

The truck’s appearance had drawn Henri to the window of his shoemaker’s shop. He watched the strangers conversing with Father Meier. When they began walking in his direction, he hurried to his bench and bent over his work. He didn’t look up until the tinkling doorbell announced them.

Good afternoon. May I be of service?

The elder of the pair drew in a breath of leather-and-glue scented air before he spoke.

Monsieur le Mayor, here is Foreman Franz Deggendorf of the Organization Todt. My men have a building project here. Here is an order for needed land. Work starts very soon.

Are you just taking the land?

No, said Deggendorf. Look at paper and see that we will pay a fair price for it.

Deggendorf bowed and the Germans left. Henri returned to the window as their vehicle rounded the square and headed for Le Rochambeau. He read through the order.

If only Marie were here. She would know what to do.

* * *

Three afternoons later Bernard Huet and Constable Guy Peyron entered Henri’s shop. Preferring to speak with people in the square or his place of business, the mayor didn’t use his office in the village hall.

My best pasture is crisscrossed with wooden stakes and twine, said Bernard. "Holes have been dug everywhere!

I demand that whoever committed this mischief be arrested. My family’s cattle have grazed on that land forever. Who would pay if one of the beasts fell into a hole and broke its leg? Come and see!

The threesome shared the seat of an ox-drawn wagon for the jolting ride to the southwestern side the village. Bernard stamped around the pasture, muttering and yanking up stakes. The cattle in the adjoining pasture chewed their cud, observing their owner’s antics with mild surprise.

Just then Deggendorf and Hoffman’s van rolled to a stop beside the fence. Hoffman pinioned Bernard, but Deggendorf ordered him to release the farmer.

Listen, Bernard, said Henri. These men are building something. This place has been chosen for it.

Who says so?

Henri handed over the order. Bernard studied the paper.

What about payment?

Perhaps you overlooked this paragraph? asked Guy.

Eh, now I see it. That’s a fair enough price, I suppose.

I am sorry, said Henri to Deggendorf. Monsieur Huet did not understand the situation.

Do not worry, said Deggendorf. We will set things right.

* * *

Claire sat smoking her pipe on the bench outside the tavern. She waved over the mayor and the constable.

You both look done in. Come inside and refresh yourselves.

Thank you, no, said Henri. I must be getting home.

I’ll accept your offer, said Guy. He followed Claire to the bar, where she poured him a brandy.

It was a comic sight when you left the village atop Bernard’s wagon, hanging on for dear life. What prompted you to endanger yourselves like that?

He insisted on showing us how his pasture had been violated. God, my rump’s still sore from the ride.

What do you mean, ‘violated’? said Claire. Don’t talk to me in riddles.

Guy finished his drink.

The Germans intend to build something in one of his pastures. Not knowing this, Bernard pulled up their survey stakes.

Claire refilled Guy’s glass to nudge along the conversation.

What are the supermen up to?

I don’t know. At least their boss wasn’t put out over what happened. Guy wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and put his hand in his pocket.

Keep your money, said Claire. A couple free drinks are a small price to pay for such interesting news.

* * *

Deggendorf looked around the construction site with satisfaction.

All is as it should be, he said. By the way, I received word today that the crew will arrive by mid-June.

Hoffman glanced at the sky. The work can’t start soon enough, he said, now that the Americans have begun to hammer the Reich by day while the British keep it up by night.

A sedan pulled up behind the van. An officer in Luftwaffe blue got out and approached the Organization Todt men, who came to attention.

Herr Deggendorf? said the visitor. I am Major Marius Faulhaber. I command the flak battalion that is coming to Le Rochambeau.

He withdrew two sheets of paper from his leather portfolio. This order details construction materials that are to be provided by Petite Vigne. It is only just, given that the battery will contribute to the village’s defense against the aerial pirates.

Faulhaber handed over the second sheet.

A second order requires the people to house your crew, pending the battery’s completion. By the way, when will the work commence?

Soon, Major. But note that I only have twenty laborers, most of whom are middle-aged men suffering from infirmities that have kept them from service at the front.

No doubt you will spur them on to do their utmost, said Faulhaber. Report your progress to me at my headquarters in town.

We will deliver this news to the mayor after the tools are put away, said Deggendorf after the major left. I wonder what he will think.

What does it matter? said Hoffman. Orders are orders! I only hope the men we’re allocated are capable of tackling a job of this magnitude.

3.

Henri had just finished his dinner when the van braked to a stop outside the shop. He brushed breadcrumbs and bits of cheese from his scarred leather apron and handed his plate and wineglass to his daughter.

I have visitors, Jouette. Take these to the kitchen, then go upstairs.

The fifteen-year-old tossed her hair.

Why can’t I stay, Papa? I want to see these Germans that everyone is talking about.

Do as you are told, daughter. She is so like you, Marie—at once stubborn and beautiful.

Good day, Henri said to the Germans. You’re not here to take more land, are you?

Deggendorf fished from his pocket the first of the documents that Faulhaber had given him. Things are needed from all your people.

Henri ran his finger down the list.

To provide all this, and without payment…

Our work is important for both the Reich and France, said Deggendorf. Deliver materials in ten days.

He handed over the second sheet. Henri’s consternation over the order billeting the Organization Todt crew in Petite Vigne was obvious.

Arranging this will take time, you know.

Deggendorf thought for a moment before replying.

I give extra week, Monsieur, no more.

Why didn’t you just demand that the French provide our quarters? said Hoffman as they departed.

I’m as tired of living in a tent as you are, said Deggendorf. "But put yourself in Marteau’s position. He could be very useful to us. Nothing would be gained by undermining his authority in the eyes of his people.

No. Better to give him a little time to convince them to accept things as they now are. I’ll order the crew to share their rations with the civilians; that will soften the blow.

They traveled for a while in silence.

By the way, said Deggendorf, as we’re going to be here for quite some time yet, you would do well to begin learning the language.

Better that they should learn German! said Hoffman, flooring the accelerator.

* * *

Henri summoned the men of the village to a meeting at the tavern that evening. They stood at the bar or sat at tables. Father Meier was also in attendance.

After describing his encounter with the Germans, the mayor unfolded the documents he had been given. Heads were shaken and exclamations were heard as he read them aloud.

Stone, timbers, and planks, said Raoul. How do they expect us to come up with all of this in only ten days?

Where will Nicole and I find room for someone else in our little apartment? said Frederic.

At least this Deggendorf is giving us more time to arrange accommodations for his men, said Henri. "Tomorrow I’ll begin finding places for them.

Given Deggendorf’s flexibility on the matter of supplies, I’m going to request permission to spread out their delivery over the course of, say, three weeks’ time.

From where I sit, providing them anything for free is appeasement, said Yves Florac. The baker’s artillerist son Robert hadn’t been heard from since the fall of France. Yves’s hatred for the Germans, who robbed him and his wife Esme of their only child, was incandescent.

I call it acting in the best interests of Petite Vigne, retorted Henri. Deggendorf, and not some distant bureaucrat, has seen the village with his own eyes. He is aware of our limitations.

I’ve met him, you know, said Bernard. His crew is building on my land.

"Doesn’t the idiot know the Germans are our enemies?" said Frederic to Raoul.

I have one request to make before I undertake this task, said Henri over the hum of conversation.

I invited Father Meier here because he speaks German. I want him to act as translator when I meet with Deggendorf. Our negotiations must be unambiguous.

I cannot be seen as taking sides in this matter, said the priest. When it comes to secular affairs, the Church must remain a neutral party.

Not to worry, Father, said Martin. We’re not asking you to lead the negotiations.

It’s settled, then, said Guy. He slapped the bar with the open palm of his hand. Monsieur le Mayor, with Father’s assistance, will speak for Petite Vigne.

* * *

Three days went by before the van returned. This time Hoffman entered Henri’s shop alone. He consulted a German-French phrasebook before speaking.

Where are supplies?

We have many days left, said Henri.

Nothing delivered. Our men will soon be here to start work.

Henri took Hoffman’s book and pieced together a request to meet with the boss.

As the van rattled out of the square, a troubling thought occurred to Henri. Given his growing relationship with the occupiers, how many people might think he was a collaborator, thereby putting him—and Jouette—at risk?

* * *

Narrow slits of light from his blackout headlights swept across the empty square when Deggendorf wheeled into Petite Vigne at dusk. He parked in front of Henri’s shop, grinning at the waves of cheerful noise that cascaded from the tavern opposite it.

Deggendorf faced the darkened storefront. The upstairs parlor window was illuminated. He hammered on the door. A minute later a light bulb switched on and the door opened to reveal its owner.

We talk about supplies?

Come in. I will get Father Meier.

Deggendorf eyed the quiet room. He ran his hand over the tools on the bench. The half-finished boot he took from a shelf was fine work. He considered himself a craftsman and appreciated seeing skill in the work of others.

Outside, Henri pulled the bell on the rectory door. Madame Dormais opened the door a crack. The housekeeper peered over her spectacles at the visitor.

Good evening, Madame. I would like to speak with Father.

He is finally sitting down to dinner at the end of a very busy day. Must he be disturbed?

I’m afraid so.

Madame Dormais led the way to the dining room, grumbling with every step that the priest’s meal would be stone cold before he could put his fork to it.

The German foreman wishes to discuss delivery of the supplies requisitioned from the village, said Henri. Can you come?

Deggendorf’s reverie was disturbed when the shop door opened to admit the Frenchmen. Henri drew aside the flowered curtain at the rear of the workshop and, with a flourish worthy of a maître d’, ushered the pair into his kitchen.

The men sat in mismatched chairs around the wooden table. Henri pulled the wrinkled materials list from his pocket. Then he filled glasses for everyone.

To cooperation, said Deggendorf. The harsh red wine was a workingman’s drink. He thought he could get used to it.

Henri explained the village’s dilemma. Deggendorf listened as, with a lowered voice, Father Meier translated the mayor’s remarks.

I have a schedule to maintain, said Deggendorf. I’ve a big job to do and it has to be completed on time. Petite Vigne is merely the first phase of the project. But…

Deggendorf picked up the supply list. He penciled several notations on the paper before pushing it back to his host.

We can’t use everything at once, so I have prioritized the list. There will be trouble if the new delivery schedule is not met. That is the best I can do.

Henri nodded his acquiescence. Thank you.

4.

One morning in early June 1943, the Organization Todt van arrived at the pasture. A big, lumbering truck, whose passage kicked up a heavy plume of dust, trailed it.

Bernard was mending a section of fence that bordered the adjoining pasture. Standing to massage his aching back, he watched Deggendorf and Hoffman exit the van. One by one, twenty similarly clad men dismounted from the larger vehicle’s canvas-topped bed.

Most of those fellows look to be as ancient as me. The younger ones are having a time of it helping the oldsters out of that truck. Oof! Tonight that one’s knee will hurt like hell!

The Germans formed a double line. Hoffman brought them to attention and Deggendorf addressed them. At the conclusion of their boss’s remarks, they shouted, Heil Hitler!

Bernard chuckled at the laborers, who stood with shovels clamped to their shoulders as though they were rifles. Someone perched in a tree across the road took in the scene through binoculars with less humor. After taking careful notes, he climbed down and retreated into the woods.

Once the men had been put to work, Deggendorf and Hoffman inspected the first load of materials levied from the village. Deggendorf was relieved to see that the agreed-upon quantities had been delivered. For his part, Hoffman worried what would happen if their superiors found out that the foreman had been soft on the locals.

Deggendorf sat down in the shade, resting his back against a log pile. He took a long pull on his water bottle and contemplated his assistant. The pair met when they were posted to the same unit following the capture of Kiev in October ’41. Those were the heady days when it appeared nothing could stop the Germans from sweeping all the way to the Pacific Ocean.

Deggendorf remembered the day Hoffman had lost his right leg on the outskirts of the battered city. The crew was using explosives to raze a damaged building. When the charges failed to ignite after four attempts, a frustrated Deggendorf told Hoffman to check the wiring. A few minutes after Hoffman disappeared inside, there was a muffled whump, and a corner of the brick structure collapsed in a cloud of dust.

Heedless of their own safety, the laborers dug away at the unstable rubble with their bare hands. When they uncovered Hoffman’s inert form, it was obvious that his crushed leg was beyond saving.

As he recuperated in a military hospital, Hoffman greeted the guilt-ridden Deggendorf’s expressions of concern for his condition with stony silence. He rejoined the unit the day he was released from the hospital, determined to show that he was as capable of doing his job with one leg as he had been with two.

* * *

Wednesday was market day in Petite Vigne. Vendors started wheeling their squeaking wooden stalls over the cobblestones at first light, arraying them around the fountain’s perimeter like a castle guard. By seven o’clock a gentle tide of shoppers lapped around the stalls, seeking conversation, fresh gossip, and laughter.

Raoul studied the parade of familiar faces