War and Love

War and Love - French Love and the Atlantic Weather Report

© JoeMo1619 - August 2025 ff.

Location: St. Pierre and Miquelon - French Overseas Department off the Canadian East Coast, from Autumn 1940

Prologue:

In the summer of 1940, the Wehrmacht conquered all of France in just 46 days, occupying the north, Paris, and the entire coastline along the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay. In the central and southern parts of the country, they accepted the existence of a French rump state under Marshal Pétain, who established his administrative capital in the central French spa town of Vichy. This military success, which no one had expected, gave the German Navy for the first time unrestricted access to the Atlantic -- access that could not be blocked or controlled by its last remaining enemy, Great Britain and the British Empire.

However, to effectively deploy their powerful battleships and the submarines stationed in five new Atlantic ports, one extremely important piece of information was missing: a reliable weather forecast. Eighty years ago, creating such forecasts required stationary weather stations, ideally located on the western Atlantic coast. This is because the area where the warm Gulf Stream from the Caribbean meets the cold Labrador Current from the polar region -- roughly the triangle formed by the Canadian coast, Greenland, and Iceland -- is the most important "weather factory" for the Atlantic and the coastal regions of Europe. Ironically, it was precisely in this area that the German Reich had no allies, since the islands of Iceland and Greenland, which belonged to Denmark, had been "secured" by the Allies after Germany occupied Denmark.

The story:

On August 1st, 1940, six weeks after France's capitulation, the commanding admirals and their staff officers gathered on a brilliant summer day at the High Command of the Kriegsmarine on the Tirpitzufer in Berlin for a strategic conference. The main agenda item of the meeting under Fleet Admiral Raeder was to make strategic decisions for the naval war against Great Britain -- the last remaining enemy on the European continent. This included expanding and optimizing the use of the captured French Atlantic ports, along with a wide range of fundamental individual issues.

Practically all the attending admirals and naval officers had personal, often long-standing, experience commanding surface and underwater vessels.

Fleet Admiral Raeder himself opened the discussion on a minor agenda item with a brief statement: "Every naval officer knows that the most important factor influencing successful naval warfare, which we cannot control ourselves, is the weather. Therefore, for the Kriegsmarine in the Atlantic theatre, it is of extraordinary importance to obtain the most precise and reliable weather forecast possible." With these opening words, he handed the floor to the Kriegsmarine's chief meteorologist, Frigate Captain Heinrich Schiefer.

"We are currently setting up new weather stations from Norway's North Cape to the French-Spanish border, which will provide us with meteorological data daily, starting in late summer. We have also made informal agreements with our colleagues in the Spanish Navy to receive their weather data along the Bay of Biscay in a timely manner. We are discussing a similar arrangement with the Portuguese Navy, especially for their stations on Madeira and the Azores. Unfortunately, those discussions are progressing very slowly," Schiefer explained.

"What we still lack are regular weather data from the western side of the Atlantic, and the area around Iceland and Greenland. All attempts to acquire timely scientific weather data from the United States have failed so far. We currently have to rely on evaluating weather reports from East Coast newspapers, which are read daily at our embassy in Washington and transmitted to us."

"The best solution would be to have our own weather stations in that region," said Rear Admiral Dönitz, the Commander of the U-boats.

Fleet Admiral Raeder nodded approvingly and looked directly at Frigate Captain Schiefer. "We expect your operational proposals for solving this problem within four weeks." The issue was resolved in less than ten minutes.

Heinrich Schiefer, a trained meteorologist, had only joined the Kriegsmarine in 1938, having previously worked for the Reich Weather Service, especially in sea weather and hydrographical forecasting. From his civilian career, he had excellent knowledge of worldwide weather data collection and maintained a global scientific network -- which was, of course, only partly usable under the current wartime conditions. He had already anticipated the Admiralty's task before the August 1stconference and had begun working on it.

"Since the French capitulation, cooperation with the French authorities in both Vichy and the German military administration zones has been pleasantly unproblematic," he reported at a staff meeting two weeks later. "From correspondence with colleagues in France, the idea arose to use the small French overseas territory of St. Pierre and Miquelon as the base for our endeavour. This possession, located between the British dominions of Canada and Newfoundland, consists mainly of three small, sparsely populated islands. Only the easternmost main island, St. Pierre, has a population of a few thousand; the other two islands have only a few hundred inhabitants." He looked around at his small team.

"We now just need to make a plan on how to establish and operate the first functional weather station in a suitable spot on this territory." He grinned sheepishly. "Ideas and suggestions are most welcome."

After Schiefer and his staff learned that Governor de Bournat in St. Pierre remained loyal to the Vichy regime, they developed a plan that Schiefer presented to the Admiralty on time. "We propose to establish a two-man weather station at 'Pointe au Cheval' on the island of Miquelon. According to a colleague from Paris who grew up on the island, there is a lighthouse and an attached keeper's house, which is currently uninhabited. The automated beacon is maintained by a man from the small fishing village of Miquelon, about five kilometres north. We suggest the High Command coordinate with the Vichy government to gain permission from the governor to set up our weather station at the lighthouse. We could install the shortwave radio antenna on the lighthouse, and our weather soldiers could live in the former keeper's house." Schiefer handed over his report, which included numerous appendices -- ranging from the required technical equipment to supply plans for the two stationed weather soldiers. The report was received favourably.

"We will contact Rear Admiral Dönitz's staff immediately to see whether and when one of his new long-range U-boats can carry out this mission," responded Schiefer's counterpart in the Admiralty. "You should already be considering who you want to assign to this mission."

In addition to the long list of technical, meteorological, and radio equipment for the transatlantic weather station, there was an equally long list of supplies for the two men stationed far from home. The choice of Pointe au Cheval had two key advantages:

First, the lighthouse used a global-standard gas mantle lamp, powered by kerosene, which -- along with diesel fuel for the fishing boats -- was delivered twice a year by tanker.

Second, the unused lighthouse keeper's house provided a weather-safe and dry accommodation.

In agreement with the Vichy authorities, the governor's administration even officially promised to renovate the keeper's house to make it permanently habitable again.

The main challenge for Schiefer was selecting the two weather soldiers, who were to be stationed indefinitely on Miquelon. Since the mission was camouflaged as a state-run French weather station, both soldiers had to be fluent in French, which would also ease inevitable interactions with the local population.

After an extensive search, Schiefer found what he was looking for --ironically -- in the Luftwaffe's military weather service. Corporal Georg Planter and Private First Class Thomas Langlois were both from Saarland and had grown up fully bilingual. Langlois had just earned his degree in meteorology, studying in Heidelberg and Paris. Both men were unmarried. They were also promised they would be relieved after one year.

The time-critical element of the mission's execution was the deployment of the new Type IX long-range U-boats, capable of making the round trip from Europe to North America without refuelling or external support. The U-boat command confirmed that the first of these boats would be ready by January 1941, followed by a four-week training cruise in the Baltic Sea. Thus, the departure for St. Pierre and Miquelon was scheduled for February 25th, 1941.

Planter and Langlois met in person for the first time on January 2nd, 1941, when they reported for duty at Schiefer's office. The two men couldn't have been more different.

Georg Planter was relatively short, had trained as an electrician, and had volunteered for the Luftwaffe but was deemed unfit to fly due to his height. After basic training, he was transferred to the Luftwaffe's weather service. The 27-year-old steelworker's son from Völklingen was cheerful, outspoken, and had already got into trouble twice for his loose tongue.

Thomas Langlois, on the other hand, was tall and slim -- 1.90 meters -- with a middle-class background. His father was a district judge. Born July 25th, 1916, he wasn't subject to military service at the time of his graduation and immediately began studying meteorology. Drafted at the war's outbreak, he served exclusively at French Luftwaffe airbases after the French campaign. Thomas was quiet and thoughtful, originally dreaming of a scientific career. A passionate hunter, he had learned to hunt from his father.

The pair reported as ordered on February 16th, 1941, at the Kriegsmarine port of Kiel to Corvette Captain Merten, who had just taken command of the new U-68 submarine.

"So, you're the two brave men who want to be the first German soldiers to set foot on North American soil," Merten greeted them with a smile. "I respect your courage and will do everything with my crew to help you fulfil your mission."

Indeed, this was no ordinary patrol for U-68. It was under strict orders to avoid all enemy contact to protect the strategic mission. With the extra baggage and personnel, it carried fewer torpedoes and was to return directly to Lorient afterward for full combat preparation.

"The most exciting part for us is what awaits us at our destination," said Planter. "We have no idea how loyal or reliable the French in Vichy or St. Pierre really are." He shrugged. "But we are prepared to complete our mission under all circumstances so that the Kriegsmarine can have reliable weather data from the western Atlantic."

"It will be of great importance for our future missions if we can eliminate uncertainty about weather conditions at sea. You have my best wishes."

Neither man had ever been aboard an ocean-going vessel, let alone a submarine. The three-week journey to Miquelon was a true adventure. Fortunately, both proved to have strong stomachs and didn't suffer from seasickness during extended surface travel. As valuable passengers, Merten hosted them in the officers' mess, leading to many conversations about submarine warfare and the importance of reliable forecasts.

The route led through the North Sea and the Denmark Strait between Iceland and Greenland--requiring double caution to avoid British ships and underwater icebergs.

"Normally, you'd see a U-boat attack now, and then a stealthy retreat," Merten said with a grin one afternoon. "But by order, I must drop you off before any fighting." He shrugged. "Pity. That would've been a juicy target." He let a tanker pass unscathed.

Fourteen days after their last port in Bergen, they reached the western coast of Miquelon. Merten carefully avoided Newfoundland -- enemy territory -- and surfaced in the half-moon light near the beach east of Pointe au Cheval.

"We've reached our destination," he announced to the weather soldiers and deck crew. "Now we just have to get you and your equipment ashore."

The soldiers split duties. Planter went ashore first; Langlois ensured all gear was unloaded.

"Our mission is now complete," Merten said, shaking Langlois's hand. "Yours begins now. I hope you're successful and that the Kriegsmarine benefits from your work for a long time. Best of luck."

When Langlois reached the beach, he saw the long row of equipment and crates. He and Planter now wore specially made dark-blue French weather service uniforms.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Planter," he smiled. "Comment ça va?"

"Thank you, my friend." Planter pointed at the departing boat. "Our last link to home. We won't see it again for at least a year." He shook himself off and said, "Let's scout the lighthouse first, without gear." He grabbed a torch and found a barely visible path up the slope.

At dawn, they reached the keeper's house.

"I wonder what kind of place we'll find," murmured Planter, opening the door. He whistled. "They've really prepared the house for us." Then he froze. "Boots off!" he barked. "Or we'll have to clean this right away." They both removed their boots and stepped into what would be their new home.

"I really didn't expect this," said Thomas after their first inspection. "It's fully renovated!"

"With a stove and an oven. I saw wood and peat too. We won't freeze or starve."

Thomas nodded. "Honestly, I thought we'd spend weeks fixing up a deserted shack. Who did all this?" He shook his head, baffled. "It's like they were expecting us!"

"Seems that way," Georg agreed. "Well, that's one thing going right." He clapped his hands. "Let's get our stuff. It'll take hours."

And it did. The men spent five hours hauling all their gear up to the lighthouse. Then they collapsed on the bench in front of the house, sipping water from the crystal-clear stream and taking in their new surroundings.

"A truly beautiful place to perform one's military service," Georg Planter summarized his impressions. "This is really a place of perfect peace."

"And now we're exploring the weather, so war can be successfully waged elsewhere," Thomas nodded thoughtfully to himself several times. "It really is a crazy world." Then he slapped his thighs with both hands. "Let's start by setting up the measuring instruments. I'll get them up and running and calibrate everything. Meanwhile, you can learn how to fire up the stove and the oven. It's likely to be a chilly night."

"Agreed." The men set their cups aside and got to work.

It was already late afternoon at the end of a very long day. The instruments of the weather station were set up, calibrated, and already providing initial readings for temperature, air pressure, humidity, wind speed, and direction. The rain gauge was ready and waiting for its first use. In addition, Private Thomas Langlois began his daily visual weather report, focusing on cloud formations. The shortwave transmitter was set up and connected to a rechargeable battery powered by a small wind turbine. Thomas had prepared the first 10-second message of their twice-daily weather report for that evening -- short enough to prevent their signal from being triangulated. Georg and Thomas were so absorbed in their work that they didn't notice the young woman in black clothes who had suddenly appeared inside the lighthouse keeper's cottage. Only when she cleared her throat did they jump and look at her wide-eyed.

"Bonjour," said the woman in a rather raspy voice. "Well, this is a surprise. When did you arrive?"

Apparently, the young woman was not surprised that someone had moved into the former lighthouse keeper's cottage -- just that it happened at this particular time.

Georg Planter recovered first, stood up, and reached out to shake her hand. "Hello, I'm Georges," he introduced himself briefly. Then he pointed to his partner, who also stepped forward. "And this is Thomas. We were dropped off on the beach this morning and started getting settled and operational."

"I see," replied the young woman. "We were actually expecting you earlier. The governor's office told us you'd be here at the beginning of March." She shrugged. "But now you're here." She nodded slightly and curtsied faintly. "I'm Madeleine Montabon, and I take care of the lighthouse and the beacon with my mother, Géraldine Safrane, and my sisters." She shrugged again, this time looking somewhat helpless. "There are no men left in our family. So, we've taken over their duties."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Thomas Langlois somehow instinctively understood that the absence of men in the Safrane family had a tragic cause. This matched the all-black clothing of the young woman.

"We lost them all in the last twelve months -- my father, my husband, and my brother. It was a terrible year." Then she straightened up. "I have to check the beacon when it starts up," she explained. "It switches off by itself in the morning when it gets light -- saves a lot of kerosene. But the automatic evening start-up is quite unreliable. So, someone from the family goes out every evening to check and, if necessary, switch it on manually." She chuckled softly. "My father used to do that. Now it's usually me." With that, she left the cottage, and moments later, the two weather soldiers heard the lighthouse door open and close.

"Looks like our mission really was properly announced and prepared," Georg marvelled. "I was honestly suspicious."

"So was I. Even better for us. We have a stove to cook on, a heater, and two proper beds to roll out our sleeping bags. Honestly, I thought our first evening on Miquelon would be worse." He gave his comrade a mischievous grin. "And now a family of women shows up, apparently looking after us too."

Georg chuckled softly. "Could've been worse. Seems like this Madeleine has no clue about our real mission and thinks we're French meteorologists."

Thomas nodded. "And from now on, we should speak only French with each other, so no one accidentally exposes us."

"Oui, Monsieur," Georg replied with a grin.

A few minutes later, Madeleine was back in the cottage. "Do you need anything? I'd be happy to bring something tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks, we're good for now." He smiled lightly. "Though I'd love a jug of beer. We've worked so much today."

Madeleine smiled at him. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow. We have a very small brewery in town. And a distillery too. The other two were shut down."

"You distil spirits here?" Georg was almost speechless.

"Yes," Madeleine replied innocently. "Actually, the distilleries and the brewery brought real money to Miquelon. Huge business for our families during US-American Prohibition. Brewed and distilled here, then smuggled into Maine with our small fishing boats. The Americans couldn't get enough -- and they paid well. Unfortunately, business dropped off a lot after the general prohibition ended in the U.S. eight years ago. But we still have customers in New England for our whiskey and gin. We only brew beer for ourselves now." Madeleine curtsied lightly again and turned to go home.

"How long does it take you to walk to Miquelon?" Thomas asked curiously.

"About an hour each way. If I leave now, I'll be home by the last light of dusk."

Georg had whipped up a tasty soup from their supplies on the perfectly functioning stove, which the two men enjoyed.

"Madeleine is a beautiful woman," Thomas eventually remarked.

Georg nodded. "Indeed. So young and already a widow. I wonder if her husband died in the war. Everything seems so peaceful here."