The Autobiography of Devon Miles

Resumption of Life

By the time I reappeared in London, the war in Europe was a few weeks from being concluded. In response to my parent's questions about the still-haunted look in my eyes, I merely told them that I was thoroughly disgusted with humankind and its capacity to kill, wound, plunder and rape. My oldest brother, Arthur, had been honorably discharged following a wound that nearly took off one leg. For the rest of his life he needed the assistance of a cane, although he was proud to announce that it never hampered his interactions with the ladies. After my debriefing with SOE, it was Arthur that I turned to when I needed to speak about my war-time work. He was utterly trustworthy and never breathed a word of any of my experiences to another, including my middle brother, George. Indeed, Arthur was able to help me complete the road that Trudie had started in returning me to some semblance of normal life. I hadn't wanted to know what became of Delphine and Wilton Knight. If they had been murdered by the Nazis or had died of exposure and starvation, I would not have been able to cope. Arthur spoke with me about my fears for weeks, it seemed, until I was ready to face the worst. He convinced me that if they had not survived the war, it would fall to me to honor their memories, to let the world know that here had been two individuals who were honest, true, and brave beyond belief.

It was only then, a few days before Hitler's suicide and the capitulation of Germany, that I sat in an office at Baker Street as a senior official leafed through some papers. He put aside two pages and then continued to look through some more. The suspense made me feel that all the oxygen was being sucked out of the room and I had to fight the desire to jump up and run out. The blood was pounding in my ears. I had thought that Arthur had convinced me to learn what had happened to my teammates, but in the long moments of waiting, I was no longer sure I really wanted to.

After what seemed like hours, the man on the other side of the desk looked up at me and smiled. Both Wilton and Delphine were alive and well. Delphine had faded into the background of refugees and made her way back to her parents to resume the life of a teenager. Wilton eventually made it to Caen to be picked up by Allied forces, but he had suffered a broken foot when a heavy convoy truck rolled over it. Unlike my brother, Wilton lost half of his foot and by this time had been discharged and was in hospital back in California.

I cannot describe my joy at learning that these two people who were indelibly imprinted on my soul continued to live. I thought that perhaps I should return to Deauville and find Delphine. After all, although she was still a teen, I had only just turned twenty-one. Perhaps there was something there after all? However, because she had been part of the French Resistance, SOE did not have information about her. I know that they could have gotten it if it was important, but I rather believe that their denials masked the belief that it was best for me not proceed down that path. They were able, however, to give me an address where I could write to Wilton Knight.

I was delighted to be able to contact him. For the moment, it gave me a purpose; with him still receiving rehabilitative services, it was quite likely that he too needed to put an end point on the experiences we shared. I was quite pleased to rapidly receive a letter from him in response to my own. From that day until he passed away, Wilton and I had not been out of touch, and I thought of him as my third brother. That is not to say that he could not hand me orders or put me in my place. He was a leader through and through, with a great and inventive mind. I never had any difficulty bowing to his superior abilities or learning from him either, and I hope I've passed some of his lessons onto Michael, Bonnie and KITT. It was Wilton who encouraged me to return to Oxford and complete by Baccalaureate. In his words, it was an opportunity that I could not, should not pass up. Being older, once he left the rehabilitation hospital, he would have to complete his advanced engineering studies at night while he got on with the business of helping support his parents and start his own civilian life.

I returned to Oxford in the autumn of 1945. The buildings were the same, but there was a different air to the place. Where before, people walked along leisurely discussing "big ideas", now everyone rushed about. Fascism might have been defeated, but now we faced the threat of Communism working its way into the fabric of our lives in both a hot and cold war. Aviation, engineering, mathematics, physics, and anything that could lead to a military advantage over Russia was a prized field. It was a playground I did not want to play in. I thought perhaps I would read Law or return to my original intention to go into International Relations, which would require more time spent studying History, which as I mentioned before, I have always enjoyed. I did read spend some time in Law courses, but eventually turned back to my original path.

Despite the more frenetic pace, I was able to relax at Oxford and stop looking around at every sudden noise. Having my first real physical relationship was also a good thing. Suzanne worked in one of the shops in town and had no expectations of any deep relationship of me. She was what Americans call "a good-time girl", but fun and honest. While we were together for about six months we were "exclusive" and enjoyed our time together. After that, the relationship faded away with no hard feelings.

By the beginning of 1946, it was clear that Great Britain would change forever. Rationing continued and the now inevitable dismantlement of the Empire only added to the low feeling in the country. Father sat me down and we talked frankly about my future. The family still had funds, still had its bank, but life wasn't what it had been in the 30's. Much as Mother and Father wished to indulge my passion for studying, he stressed that I needed to know that when I graduated in a year or so, I would have to be able to be self-supporting. There might be a minor management position for me in the bank, but it would not be a stepping-stone within the enterprise since that was George's path.

The discussion was not a great surprise to me. I could see what was going on in the country and in Europe. I thanked Father for his directness and honesty and went back to University a bit more focused. I had enjoyed my studies in the law, but I didn't want to be tied to stuffy law firms. International Relations would use my language abilities, my overseas experiences, and my interest in history. The bit I had learned of law was also handy and I took one more course in International Law. I also thought that some-time in the lower-level management position in the bank would be a useful learning opportunity in how to run an operational system.

Graduation was a wonderful affair. I have a picture with Mother, Father, Arthur and his fiancé Catherine and George all surrounding me in my graduation robes. It seemed like at last the family had put all its pain and fears behind it and we had finally resumed normal life. Although rationing was still in effect, it had eased to a degree and we had a great party that weekend at our country house. I think that anyone that any of us knew was there- I stopped counting when the guest list topped 300! There was a band to dance to outside on a dance floor laid over the grass, Chinese lanterns were hanging in the trees and there was a good deal of champagne punch. I made it my business to dance with all of the girls and kissed quite a few as well. The next morning I had the worst (and last) hangover of my life, but it had been a wonderful, amazing night.

Father was not about to let any grass grow under my feet and bright and early on Monday morning, I arrived at the bank, ready to start work. Mother's graduation present was a Saville Row-made three-piece suit in fine dark blue wool, and I think I looked the very image of a very stuffy (but handsome) young banker. George showed me to a desk in a windowless basement room lit with absolutely frightening florescent lights. Rather than illuminating anything, they seemed to be designed to merely cast shadows and cause eye strain. The desk itself was wood, and it was probable that it had been made during the reign of Queen Victoria -early in the reign, I would say- and was mated in an unhappy marriage with a recently super-annulated metal rolling desk chair that squeaked alarmingly with any movement. Next George introduced me to the senior supervisor of my section, an older woman named Miss Parsons.

Parsons (she was never called anything else, and if she had a first name it was a state secret), had been with the bank since before my birth. In fact, she could recall the celebrations of the birth of all of Father's children. She had long since aged into a tall, thin, and white-haired spinster. Her life revolved around her service to the bank, which I believe she saw as an extension of service to the King and Crown. I discovered almost immediately that she had no useable sense of humor during banking hours, but if one could convince her to stop for a jigger of whiskey or rum after work, she was appreciative of a mildly humorous story or two. More than one glass of alcohol and more than two stories were too much and caused her to become angry at the person who had persuaded her to indulge.

Nevertheless, Parsons was amazing at her job, which was to supervise those of us who supervised the clerks who were responsible for the keeping of bank patron's accounts. In those pre-computer and largely pre-calculator days, the accounts were kept by hand. Bank tellers and junior clerks handled the simple arithmetic of deposits and withdrawals, while the senior clerks calculated the compound interest which usually required the assistance of a slide rule. Parsons, however, could do the calculation in her head. She would have a far-away look in her eyes as she visualized the components of the equation and when she got to the actual mathematical operations, her eyes would squint and then, voilà! The answer would be delivered as if there was nothing extraordinary in the feat. Fortunately, no one else was expected to do those calculations in their heads.

As a soon-to-be lowest-level supervisor, I was required to know how to do these calculations, so that I could double check the work of my minions. While I was learning the complexity of compound interest calculations, I did reviews of the tellers' and junior clerks' work and when Parsons was satisfied with my own exactitude with higher level bank-math, I began to review the senior clerks and she returned to her true loves, monetary exchange, and bank stock accounting. I imagined that on a cold night in her garret, she hovered over a cup of tea, financial newspapers at her side as she entertained herself calculating exchange rates for the next day.

I found the supervision of the tellers, junior and senior clerks not merely uninspiring, but bothersome. I didn't mind sitting down with the young women who made up the bulk of the teller's staff, but the young men, especially among the senior tellers, were a difficult bunch. They resented my appointment due to my status as a member of the family, and I can't say that I blame them. One man, in particular quickly became a thorn in my side because he had been a strong candidate for the position that I occupied. His resentment eventually caused him to lose his position. He was completely resistant to my supervision, delaying delivery of his calculation samples to me, hiding when I came to speak to him and complaining to the other senior clerks about having to have me review his work when he had been doing it quite well for several years already. Finally, when he went over my head to complain about the situation to Parsons, we had to separate him from his position for subordination.

It was a lesson I took to heart after a while; place someone in an upper position only when they can bring something new and better to it than those they are to supervise can supply.

Needless to say, I did not enjoy my time at the bank. I was to be there for six months, but after four I was called by the government.

I had previously applied to join His Majesty's Diplomatic Service after graduation and had been accepted just at the point when I felt like the work at the bank was punishment for some unknown crime. I was fortunate to get in, because it is a very desirable service and competition is extraordinarily keen. I happily left the family business and went into training with the Service in January of 1948, after which I was assigned as a third secretary to the mission in Marseille, France. I later learned that the Service had originally considered sending me to Germany but felt that it was too soon after my SOE work to put me there. In addition, my time in and around Marseille and knowledge of the local shipping companies made me more useful there. Of course, as a third secretary, I didn't do much beyond shuffle papers but at least I wasn't checking compound interest calculations. On my own, I conceived of the idea of finding out about my nemesis Guillaume/Wilhelm.

I had kept in the back of my head the knowledge that my superiors in the SOE as well as myself never suspected him of being a double agent. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20, and the strangeness of his accent should have interested me more than it did. However, that was in the past and no doubt the man was nowhere near Marseille now, but in my free time, I did what I could to determine his true identity.

My first stop was at the offices of my old employer, Monsieur Jean Louis Marché. Monsieur Marché was older, grayer but no less the astute businessman I had known five years before. I, on the other hand, had changed quite a bit; no longer barely out of my teens, more filled out and much more serious. At first Monsieur couldn't quite place me, and then the light of recognition brightened his eyes as he recalled me as "Jacques Alain". Of course I revealed my true identity but did not tell him what precisely I had been doing and for whom during the war. He knew better than to ask, of course. However, he had no reservations about telling me what had happened to him after the Allies had taken Marseille. After a trial and six months in a prison camp, he returned home and was rebuilding his business. Fertilizer was in as great a need as ever and his business was good. He had recently purchased a small cargo ship and was confident about his future.

As I explained my desire to learn what I could of Guillaume, Monsieur Marché nodded his head thoughtfully. Much of the businesses documents had been taken as evidence when he was on trial and it was unlikely that any information remained in his office. However, the Seaman's Union and the Port Master's office might still have something.

He was quite correct about that. The Port Master's office still had papers on file for Guillaume de Bouchard. They directed me to the Seaman's Union for further biographical information. There, a wizened old man who fairly smelled of salt brine and whose skin had leathered from years on the ocean, kindly offered me a seat while he shuffled into another room to search for the file. He was away long enough for me to worry that he had died in there, although I didn't hear the thump a falling body would make. Finally he returned, a moderate-sized file in his hand. He explained that most of the files were dues receipts and copies of sailing certificates, but as far other information, there was an initial application which contained a date of birth (1901) in a small town on the Belgium/Germany border, not far from the ancient German town Aachen, near the northern terminus of the Rhine River. This could explain the odd French accent. The documentation indicated that de Bouchard had obtained his original Able-Bodied Seaman's ticket in 1915 in the port of Ostend. This, of course was in the middle of the Great War, and in 1915, Ostend was in German hands. A later ticket, however, stated that he had received the original Able-Bodied Seaman's papers in Nieuport, which was in Belgian hands at that time. That was curious.

When I finally had a long weekend at leisure, I made my way to the coastal cities of Belgium to investigate. I wasn't surprised to find that there were no documents in the Port Master's offices of either Nieuport or Ostend. A few months later I was able to travel to the small town on the western border of Belgium that was supposedly de Bouchard's birthplace. There had been a family by that name in the town, but the last member had passed away in 1877. After explaining my mission to the head of the local Registrar's office, I asked if it was possible to find out if there were any families in the area who might have had close relatives across the border in Germany, and who might have had a son at the time of the birth of "Guillaume de Bouchard". I was told that there were indeed a significant number of families who had close connections on the other side of the border. The Registrar was unable to do such exhaustive research for me, but for a fee I would be able to spend the day looking at birth records. Ah the days before privacy concerns! He also suggested that I look at the telephone and postal records from before the war, which might also provide interesting information.

I spent the day and the next combing through records of anyone who had been born between 1890 and 1915. There of course were no de Bouchards, but there were a few children born during this period with German surnames. One stood out for me: Busch. A son had been born to the family in the town that Guillaume de Bouchard had claimed to come from, but the date of birth had been in 1910. Still, it could have been him or a relative.

By 1950 I learned that the Busch child had died in 1912, but the parents were still alive and living with a daughter in a larger town nearby. I was no longer stationed in Marseille, but was now at the consulate in Quebec, Canada as a second secretary. We corresponded and the Busch's generously gave me some information about their family. They indeed had many relatives, on both sides of the family, in Germany. There were several first and second cousins of Monsieur Busch's who not only were close in age to him but lived in Aachen. Several had had sons that were the right age for my search. Unfortunately, he no longer remembered their names and was not in close contact with that side of the family because they had been Nazi sympathizers.

When I read this, I felt like jumping for joy. I had a long holiday coming up in a few months, and I would be able to spend some time at home and then go to Aachen and try to continue my research. Of course Mother and Father were unhappy that I would not spend the entire time with them, especially since there were several eligible women they wanted me to meet. I was approaching thirty in a few years, and Mother, in particular, wished for me to "settle down" with a young woman of appropriate class. I hadn't told my parents that I had met a wonderful woman, an American named Carolyn, who unfortunately was still married to a husband she no longer loved. My parents would have been very much against that union. They and their friends were caught between the titled classes where divorce, while not acceptable to their grandparents, were looked on as "racy" by their parents and almost "de rigueur" by their peers, and the lower classes where divorce might be growing to be seen as a necessity at times, but not the disgrace it was in times past. In the middle, my parents' class believed they were responsible for withholding the onslaught of declining manners and morals and were still quite aghast at remarriage after divorce, especially for a woman, and in this particular instance had they known, to their youngest son. So, while I was with them I did my duty and met several very nice and very boring young women. I was glad to escape to Germany, therefore, never thinking about the irony of it being my liberation from the clutches of maternally-arranged matrimony.

Once in Aachen, I began by studying the phone book to see if any of Monsieur Busch's cousins still resided in the city. It seemed that several had either passed on or had moved, but there were still several names from his list that were the same as those in the phone book. None of the names, however, belonged to a Wilhelm Busch. Of course, I reasoned to myself, my man might not even be "Wilhelm Busch". I thought it best, before I made a fool of myself contacting these people, to determine if such an individual had been born in Aachen on the date that "Guillaume de Bouchard" had.

Indeed, a Wilhelm Busch had been born on the same day in 1901. I sat in the town's Registration Office at a desk by a sunny window, a copy of the birth certificate in my hands. I kept turning it over and over, as if looking for instructions on what to do now. I had spent the last two years searching for the man who had sent me to a POW camp the first time, a man who was a double agent and probably was the one who had sent Camille to Ravensbruck. Now that I was on the verge of finding him again, what should I do? What would I do?

There, warmed by the sun on my back, I ran through thoughts of revenge, of retribution and let my long-dormant rage finally leak through the cracks in my self-control. I wanted to crush his windpipe between my hands and watch his eyes fill with fear. I wanted to see him lose control of his bowels and bladder and become victimized by someone who was more powerful, as I had been. I wanted revenge for Mauthausen through him, through his degradation and death. I wanted him to acknowledge that he was beaten, that his cause had been delusional, and that righteousness and morality had triumphed.

This last thought caught me up short. My desire for revenge was human, of course, but was immoral for all that. To want to kill, to desire to kill, had once again become foreign to me. I would not go down that path, because then I would be less than Wilhelm Busch. I had fought for morality and nearly given my life for it. I had killed one man, an action that nearly undid me, but I could at least justify it as self-preservation. Busch could not harm me. Only I could harm myself.

I almost dropped my search then and there but did allow myself the satisfaction of finding out what had become of Wilhelm Busch. It turned out that he had been discovered by the Allies at the conclusion of the war and was sentenced to jail, where he still was at the time. I heard that he was released about a year later, but I no longer cared what happened to him and truly haven't thought about him from then until now.