Imagine excavating a Roman fort, publishing your interpretation of it all, and then meeting a time-travelling legionary who points out that you have it all wrong. Worse still, he goes on to say that digging any more Roman forts would be pointless because he can find detailed drawings and descriptions of every one ever built.
Some people think that tackling the archaeology of the recent past is a bit like that. If there are still people around who may actually remember the site before it became archaeology, and there are aerial photographs, maps and documents, what more could geophysics and spade work possibly tell us?
In fact, there is a growing interest in the archaeology of the Second World War, and increasing recognition that its remnants can offer exceptional insights into that horrific conflict; revealing things that were never written down or photographed, and remembered by nobody.
It would be reckless, of course, not to make use of the surviving documents and first hand accounts where they exist. However, despite a thorough search, very little information about the German anti-aircraft site at Les Gellettes had come to light. But then, why should we be surprised? Locals with cameras were not welcomed by the Germans and a defeated army would hardly bother to leave a comprehensive archive of its unsuccessful occupation. While we did manage to track down some useful information about German anti-aircraft sites elsewhere, none seemed to closely match the layout of this site.
This was going to be an extraordinary dig; a unique opportunity to excavate a German defensive site, on British soil. But how should we approach it?
Well, returning to the Roman fort analogy, we expected that the site would comprise not only the remains of the military structures themselves, but also evidence of where the personnel who operated the site lived. Just like excavating a Roman fort it would be important to understand both the structure of the site and the human story behind its operation.
A walk around the woods revealed lots of promising earthworks, some of which matched the evidence from the single RAF reconnaissance photograph of the site. But there were many features that could not be seen in the photograph. After taking stock, we planned to investigate one example of each type of earthwork feature. This is a simple archaeological evaluation approach that is as applicable to prehistoric sites as it is to 20th century sites. Excavating and recording a section through the earthwork bank of a 20mm anti-aircraft gun emplacement is no different to putting a section through the bank of a Roman fort. Except in one important respect.
Two thousand year old ammunition, such as sling shot and ballista bolts, will not explode in your face. Some of the material left behind by the Germans 65 years ago, however, is still highly dangerous. After the liberation of Jersey there was a campaign to clear up the vast stocks of munitions, but there were limited options for their disposal. A lot was simply thrown into the sea, but much was simply buried in the nearest available hole. It was these holes, the trenches, dug outs and gun emplacements, that we were about to excavate. A tense safety briefing left us in no doubt about the potential dangers of failing to treat rusty cylindrical objects with the respect they deserved.
Unstable machine gun and pistol ammunition is bad enough, but on this site we were also faced with 20mm and 88mm shells. The later could bring down an aircraft flying at 20,000 feet just by exploding somewhere near it, so clearly they could make quite a bang. In my opinion, however, the most troubling prospect was encountering the mines commonly used to defend the perimeters of German sites. The Schu Mine (Shoe Mine) was a devious contraption. Its explosives were contained in something that resembled a homemade cigar box. Its minimal metal content made it very hard to detect. Worst still was the 'S' Mine. If you trod on it, a charge would propel its case 3 feet into the air where it would explode, sending ball bearings searing through whatever stood in their way. The French called them the 'Silent Soldier', the Americans 'Bouncing Betty' and the British, 'Debollockers'.
Skilled local metal detectorists swept the ground for us before we opened any trench. Then, if we came across anything sinister we called in the official responsible for dealing with Jersey's explosive wartime legacy. We had cause to be very grateful for his services.
We began to get to grips with the site, revealing the construction of the gun emplacements and how the anti-aircraft guns operated together. It became apparent that elements of the site had been altered from their original design. The German invaders, themselves under siege since the Normandy landings in 1944, grew very concerned about defending their anti-aircraft site from attack on the ground, converting former shelters and communication trenches into firing positions.
The rubbish thrown into fox holes painted a vivid picture of five years of wartime life at this anti-aircraft site. There were cooking utensils, bottles, tins, toothpaste tubes, boots, and even a comic fake medal, obviously made by some wag with plenty of time on his hands. Probably the most poignant find of all was a butter tin. Food parcels containing New Zealand butter and many other necessary provisions had been conveyed to the starving Islanders by the Red Cross ship SS Vega in December 1944. There were no parcels for the Germans who, well and truly cut off from their supply lines, resorted to eating their horses, and dogs and cats.
