The Way Back Home — Part 2

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Jack Davis and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Way Back Home — Part 2

By
Jack Davis

Zero hour! It had begun - the invasion! London had given the word and Churchill declared that if England, indeed if a free world was to survive then the beast would have to be bearded in his own den. The BBC pledged information and hourly bulletins crackled through many a cunningly concealed radio as a glimmer of hope, a lifeline, to those now lying under the jackboot of Germany.

The occupied countries listened in fearful anticipation. How would it all end and to who would the laurels of victory go?

02:15am, 6th June 1944. Silence was no more! The incessant drone of aircraft engines announced clouds of parachutists dropping out of the night and the air was thick as guns and cannon, spitting cordite and belching smoke, flame and metal venomously spoke of a battle for space. Sea vessels of all shapes and sizes heaved as they disgorged men, machines and supplies to a first precarious foothold. Overhead, fighter planes screamed defiance. Bombs blasted the earth apart. Chaos was king! What, if anything passed through the mind at this time? Who would see tomorrow? How many would live to reminisce? Only time would tell. Meanwhile the urgency of establishment and consolidation was essential.

Dawn dragged on into daylight and the invasion was leaving its mark. On the ground, the scars of forced entry into France and the man and machine which were to go no further. Overhead the screech and trail of the fighter plane dogfight and the heavy grind of the laden bomber's engines. The stench of explosive lingered in the nostrils. The clamour of landing still clanged in the ear, and now, facing away from the sea, the eye was drawn inland to where the menace really was.

Men and machines scattered inland towards predetermined positions and, not surprisingly, in the confusion, some became separated from their units and now had to proceed as best they could; my group was such.

We congregated in the best cover available - under trees next to a small field. A short distance away, a few cottages overlooked a stream, where we observed passing troops taking the advantage of a swift "face wash" and whilst the senior rank of our group consulted together as to which way to go, two of us decided to, join the melee. We did, and were shocked to find that upon return to the field, the place was deserted. Now what? Bit of a daft thing to do, wasn't it? So what happens now?

The area was a moving mass of troops and vehicles and my newfound friend (Dick by name) and I discussed how best to "catch up." We eventually saw the funny side and, with an infectious grin, Dick said, "Before we can think straight, a cup of tea is called for."

Before leaving England, each of us was issued with a small square box inside which were emergency rations, consisting of a square of porridge oatmeal, a few biscuits, some sugar, a packet of sweets and a bar of chocolate, two OXO cubes and a couple of squares of compressed tea and dried milk. The question now was how much we ought to consume (after all, they were EMERGENCY rations) so we decided - one square of my tea, and two of Dick's biscuits. Thus fortified, we considered our next course of action and reluctantly decided to split up for the time being. He was to stay put in case our unit returned for some reason, and I was to "have a look around". At least we knew where each other was, when and if we made contact. So, off I went.

Which way now and by what route? Take care. Watch out! Is that "one of ours" and “who's that over there? It looks innocent enough, but wait - is it friend or enemy agent? And what of the unseen? Could it be a sniper's bullet or concealed mine?”

Laden with packs and loaded rifle, dripping perspiration, boot-encased feet becoming sorer by the minute, I pursued my elusive unit along the dusty road into the distant gloom.
As time passed I became anxious as to my whereabouts, and as I contemplated, a bullet whined past my head. I immediately dropped to the ground. Where on earth did that come from and who fired the shot? I waited with bated breath. It seemed an age; all was quiet. I raised my head and carefully looked around. No one in sight except, in the near distance, a woman. Could it be her? I thought not, and as I glanced away, a second bullet rudely interrupted my thoughts. I challenged, with rifle at the ready, and she disappeared into the woods. A mystery!

Keep going! I talked to myself in an attempt to keep calm and reassure myself that soon, I would be with my unit and, three miles on (and it seemed like thirty), I came upon crossroads and heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of British MP's who, after questions and answers, pointed me up the road and eventually into a noisy farmyard full of filthy but friendly faces. My unit at last! And how welcome the question, "Where on earth have YOU been?" There was, for the moment, no plan for the unit to move out and, having assured Dick that I would return to where we had parted company, I set off to find him again - somewhat of a daunting experience as daylight was beginning to fade and, as before, extreme caution was called for.

It seemed a bit odd - me going one way and troops and tanks going the other, but nevertheless, I was comforted by the fact that in the immediate area there were "more of us than them!" The sky was almost on fire with shell bursts and the clatter of gunfire never ceased. Aircraft roared overhead and, on the ground, there were the wrecks of those, which were to fly no more.

Eventually, as daylight finally disappeared, I came upon Dick, as he sat, greatcoat draped around his shoulders, within the glow of a little stick fire. He was relieved to see me, but all the same, I observed him to be low in spirit, somewhat surprising in view of my good news. "What's up?" I asked. "Too late now to start back. We'll have to wait till morning and I don't fancy the idea of kipping here for the night - a bit too open - planes and bombs flying about and snipers snooping around." Nevertheless, we decided to stay until early the following morning - try and get SOME sleep - and we agreed to take turns "on watch."

The only covering we had was our ground sheets, so we fixed them with twigs, over our blankets and lay underneath the 'sheet' still wearing our greatcoats. Our packs served as pillows. Dick's was first watch. For the first ten minutes or so, I slept soundly - until a violent explosion! We sprang to our feet in fright, and, as we looked upward, observed a bomber (ours or theirs we didn't know) hopelessly on fire and seemingly heading in our direction. "RUN," we yelled at each other, and made a dash for it - into a cornfield as it happened. The plane came down and pitched on to its side, soon becoming a charred wreck (we assume the crew baled out.).

The next terrifying experience was when, soon afterwards, another plane (could have been the one which shot down the bomber) strafed the ground with gunfire. No further sleep that night for me, albeit Dick eventually "got his head down" for a while. At dawn, using all available cover, as Dick and I set off to rejoin our unit we suddenly stopped at the sound of approaching motors and slipped into a ditch. Now what? Was it theirs or ours? They were ours and we needed no second invitation to "jump on".

Welcome as it was, our transport was far from comfortable. We juddered across ploughed fields, negotiated bomb craters and slid along roads churned into quagmires by advancing tanks, passing through villages where the Cross of Lorraine hung limply from battered windows. Eventually we arrived at our destination, where, with our colleagues, for the first of what would seem a thousand times, we "dug-in". Daylight gave way to darkness. Sleep? The elusive pleasure of rest? As Juliet said of Romeo, "Wherefore art thou?" Both night and day, the air was almost metallic with bomb, shell and gunfire as the enemy attacked allied positions. His decree? Thus far and no further! He simply could not allow the precarious foothold to become an established bridgehead, and the allies must not be allowed another step forward or the further turn of a wheel.

Early one morning the order came - "Move out" (destination not notified) and, three days later, we arrived at the small Port of En Bassin (Normandy), which, until that particular morning had been occupied by German forces and which was to play a vital part in the battles for Bayeux, Caen, the Falaise Gap and the Argennes. France waited with bated breath. Would the Germans give ground? The answer to that question came on the day that French, American, British and Russian flags hung in victory from the buildings of Bayeux. The ensuing battles raged, first one way and then another, as one side gained and then lost the advantage. Slow but sure and notwithstanding heavy losses, the Allies inched towards the Falaise gap, the gateway to Belgium, beyond which was laid the heart of Germany.

The landscape was mutilated. Tanks littered the plains, dwellings and other buildings were completely destroyed under incessant bombardment and people sought refuge - any refuge from the onslaught. But of course one must never forget the vital work of the F.F.I., the French underground movement, members of which were in every town and village. Much had been done by this secret organisation to hinder the enemy and undermine German morale, by sabotage and the passing of information. Had it not been for such, the more difficult would have been the battle against the evil of Nazi Germany.

On high ground, overlooking a sleepy little town was a Chateau - an idyllic spot - peace and tranquillity. But not today, or yesterday, or even the week before! The place had been a battlefield as the Allies fought their way into the enemy stronghold and the chateau was now but a suggestion of its former grandeur. Down in the-town, whilst some people remained and refused to move from what had been their homes, many-others, now refugees trudged away in silence. The area was now an allied "transit camp" where men fed and slept prior to moving forward and through which supplies and ammunition were funnelled to the battlefront. This was Argennes, beyond which lay the gateway into Belgium.

As we moved around the town, the locals were undoubtedly pleased to see us. We exchanged the inevitable "Bonjours" and "Bonsoirs" (that being the extent of our French language ability) and in time, faces became familiar as kindness and hospitality were extended to the "friendly invaders". Whilst here, we met Madame "No Name" (she never told us), dark featured, perhaps of gypsy blood, stern but kind and although resources were frugal, one day she invited my mate Taffy and me to lunch. Her home had unfortunately been destroyed during the advance, yet she was neither angry nor bitter. She considered the loss a worthy price to be paid for the end of German occupation. In her plight she had wondered how and where to find shelter for herself and young son and daughter. Why did she not turn the goats out of the shed and live in it herself. What a thought! But then again, at least they had what she had not - a roof over their heads.

Not without difficulty and hard work, the goat shed was cleaned out and she salvaged what she could of her home. Curtains were hung around the walls, a small bedraggled sideboard installed with a single bed for herself, whilst the hayloft became the children’s' bedroom. A small wood-fired stove served for both cooking and heating. She was rather proud of the transformation. This now was "home" and here it was-that Taffy and I "enjoyed” bread and goat's cheese with Madame No Name and her children, laughing as we did, at each other's attempts to communicate in either "pigeon" French or English.

We were billeted at the chateau, the home of Monsieur and Madame Hommais. They had, of course, known better times, but they also were hospitable and were quietly pleased to have the English as their guests - more so, because previously they too had been subjected to the arrogant German occupation. The enemy ideal for the officers and serving as a good “look-out”, being on high ground had commandeered the building.

Not until later, as they recounted their tale, did we learn that they and their son Jaques (along with Madame "No Name") were members of the F.F.I. As with all resistance workers, secrecy was vital. Passwords/coloured hankies/coloured pieces of paper - all were part and parcel of communication.

Gunfire, planes and bombs announced another day. Minds were quickly concentrated and all eyes turned to observe the direction from whence the attack came. Standing by Madame Hommais was a German officer. She remarked, "The English guns seem to be accurate." "Yes," he replied, "but I hope their bombs are off target." "C'est le guerre," "she responded. "How lightly Madame speaks. Are you not afraid?" "Why should I be? I have no fear of death. My peace with God is made. But what about you, Meine Herr, are you not afraid? What, I wonder, will happen to you!”

The German officer stared her in the face for a moment, and then turned away in silence.
That evening there was a knock at the door and as Madame Hommais went to investigate, an observant German curiously followed. "Oui" he heard her say. "My husband is feeling much better today, merci," and she moved away from the door. "Who WAS that?" she was asked. "And what did they want?" She remained silent. He insisted. "ANSWER me!" "Only someone enquiring about my husband's health," she said. "I don't believe you. It's been obvious you're up to something." "I tell you again," she said, "My friend asked after my husband." "LIAR! We have been watching you. We suspect you're a member of the F.F.I." Madame Hommais nervously left the room. "Sleep well, Meine Herr - if you can!"

She now knew the utmost caution to be more than necessary and, later that day as she walked to the butcher's for provisions, she happened to see, reflected in a shop window, that same German, following and observing her every move. That night, Madame Hommais stood by a small window at the head of the stairs out of which she could see planes sweeping in with their cargo of destruction. German defence batteries blasted their response, and she observed one bomber hit by a shell and its wing set on fire.
The crew apparently thought urgent evacuation necessary and parachutes began to blossom beneath the stricken plane.

"Santa Maria," she whispered, "keep them safe." "I THOUGHT so! Now I AM sure! You ARE one of them!" She was startled by the voice out of the darkness behind her. "Why should I NOT pray for the inhabitants of my own village?” "It is not for those you pray, but for those cursed English pilots. You will live to regret your actions, Madame. I will see to that. And we will speak again - be assured!"

He disappeared, as his attention was quickly drawn to the disturbance of downstairs where, by the sound of the commotion, his colleagues were undoubtedly in some disarray.

Madame took a back stair and called her son, Jaques. "Quick," she said, "An English crew has just baled out over there," She pointed to where she thought they may have landed. "I am being watched. If you love France go and try to find them. Take them to where you used to play with your friends when you were little, but be very careful. Be brave. Speak to no one, I tell you, no one, whether they be German or French." Jaques was frightened, but nevertheless, dodging this way and that, keeping out of sight as much as he could, he went as directed and arrived at a cornfield, where he stopped and listened. His young frame quivered as his heart pounded within him! He heard whispered, voices; English so he thought, and before he could make a further move, someone from behind, reinforced his question with a pistol to Jaques's back. "Who are YOU and where have you come from?" "Over there," Jaques pointed. "I am French and I was sent to help you. Germans are not far away and you must hide, quickly. Trust me."

Pr-BR

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