John Houseman's Diary - Mission EUCALYPTUS (part 6 of 7)

8th August:

We rose late and found these charming people had prepared an English breakfast for us.

George had announced his intentions the evening before of taking us to see a Maquis leader named Stephan. That was that. At 1pm we left. Calling once or twice en route for a drink, and for George to have a chat with the people, we arrived soon after midday at the edge of the cliff overlooking Grenoble. Stephan, a tall tough looking fellow of only 25 had a small Maquis under his command of about __ men. They had lived in the woods for two years or more, and had been in almost daily (and nightly) actions with the Germans. We inspected all the men who paraded for us and looked round the camp. This was an example of a true small Maquis, living rough and mainly upon the spoils of their raids. Their only complaint was their lack of arms. I have never seen a more varied selection of weapons in my life.

George, with his ever present fore-thought, had arranged lunch at the cafe some miles down the road of our return.

I feel, in self defence in case anyone should read this diary, that, while there are, I admit, a number of references to food, we did not spend our entire time in France eating. The fact that we were almost ten days with practically nothing may vindicate a little an intense appreciation of good living when it occurred! What a lunch! I lost count of the number of courses, and I prefer not to give the menu for fear of feeling hungry now. It was wonderful. Soon the proprietor joined us and we were still drinking liquors at 4pm.

A large flamboyant girl waited upon us. Desmond detected a certain nervousness in the girl's behaviour and, as usual, made a point blank enquiry. The proprietor explained and she confessed that, not having seen an Englishman for over four years, she had solemnly sworn to kiss the first one she saw. The Englishman obliged! and George was beside himself with delight.

On the way back we encountered a crowd in a village near St. Pierre. Two men, posing as F.F.I., had robbed a farmer saying that they had been sent for the purpose by the F.F.I. This sort of thing had frequently occurred, and the F.F.I. had their own way of dealing with it. We went into a small cafe where the booty was being counted, which, strangely enough, proved to be an excuse for coffee, more liqueurs and biscuits, and to hear all about it. They were clamouring for the blood of the two men who were standing hand-cuffed by the wall. We were asked our opinion (at least Desmond was) and suggested a public flogging rather than taking the law so completely into their own hands. Later, we heard, the older man was shot and the younger flogged soundly and given hard labour. On reaching our pension, there was soon news about tomorrow. We were to leave for the Swiss border by car at 3pm.

9th August:

Nothing much happened in the morning. After a certain amount of coming and going, at 4pm we were pushed into a car by George and left. The party consisted of George, clad in blue overalls with a pistol secured precariously but conspicuously to his stomach, our guide who drove, a fellow named Christian from Luxembourg (recently wounded in the head by a German bullet) who wanted to cross the frontier too, Desmond and me. We drove fast until we were out of the Chateaux area, when we started to go more gingerly enquiring at frequent intervals.

We took the small tracks down to where we struck the main road. Here, the car was driven into the barn of a farm house, we were ushered into the kitchen while arrangements were made for the next stage of the journey.

Owing to the presence of German patrols, it was no longer possible to travel like comfortable sight seers in a luxurious saloon car, and several schemes were tried. First of all a horse. This was to carry our packs over the mountains while we walked - but whether the horse wasn't up to it or for some other reason it couldn't be found. Next a horse and cart, but the owner driver was too scared. Then a delivery van - the answer.

With a horrible roar and the usual rattle a wood-fuel van appeared in the yard. Our baggage was thrown in and so were we. Our guide, Christian, Desmond and I in the back, George, the driver and a third fellow (also recently wounded) in the front. We lurched forward to Albertville.

The back was pitch dark, though between whiles we peeped through the screen of wood beside the driver's seat. We thundered up the Grand Route, wondering what lay ahead.

Soon we stopped and a brief discussion followed. There was a German control ahead. There was no way of avoiding it, and so only one thing could be done. We closed the hatch and sat in utter darkness. Five minutes to go and we would be through it. The van rumbled forward, and I could hear the excited chatter of the Frenchmen in front.

I felt the bump as we crossed the level crossing which was the guarded point, but having little confidence by now in these blacksmith gasogine wood fuel cars, I confess I felt relieved when the driver's face looked through the hatch with a childish beam of delight (the car steadily gathering speed down hill regardless) and announced we were through.

He had a wonderful disposition. Although risking his life for us every moment of the journey, he seemed to be enjoying it to the full. The very thrill of fooling the Germans as, no doubt, he had done many times before, was food and drink to him. We opened up the hatch for a little more air.

Nothing else eventful happened, except that the van periodically had to be pushed up a hill, until we reached a farmhouse which was our destination for the night. We ate and drank at about 10pm.

Desmond and I were put up in luxuriously comfortable bedrooms in the Mayor's house - the F.F.I. representative was sent for and asked to produce a petrol driven car to take us on the following day. We rose at 5 am and the car was there.

10th August:

The next part of the trip was up the Grand Route itself - a long section of it being exclusively controlled by the F.F.I. The sun came up over the mountains as we drove. At Ettienne we stopped for petrol and to change a wheel, where we had coffee in a cafe, and saw the permanent evidence of German reprisals shown by bullet holes in the boarding opposite. We drove on comfortably towards Chamanix.

I have omitted to mention a stop we made before St. Gervais. Our guide was making one of his frequent enquiries about German troops in the neighbourhood. This time we heard that four soldiers had just passed and were walking along the railway line close by. The car was at once hidden in the yard belonging to our informant. With beams of pleasure and anticipation, George and Christian went to 'get' the Germans. They returned disgruntled and annoyed in half an hour or so, as the local Resistance chief had forbidden them to shoot the Germans because they were unarmed. A very striking example of the honour which still exists even among the Resistance, thousands of whom had been murdered and tortured.

Within five miles or so of Chamanix, we were driven up a long winding track which terminated in a small mountain village (we had lunched on our rations in a pleasant little cafe where we had collected a guide and where a woman, a complete stranger, shook hands with us and thanked us profusely for coming to France). We left the cars here and started to walk. A stiff climb until we reached a little ski-chalet at the top, just beside Chamanix ski lift and vehicular railway. We sat for a while drinking beer before descending to Chamanix.

It was a simply wonderful spot. Mount Blanc on our right towering above us with the glacier running down its northern side - and before us in the vast valley was Chamanix. Half way down, we stopped, while one of the guides went forward to make enquiries. He returned after an hour or so, to tell us that there were 800 wounded prisoners in the town. This, in the opinion of our escort, made it too dangerous to take the main road. We went on down to meet the local F.T.P. at a cafe on the outskirts of the town.

It was decided to continue from there to the Swiss border by the mountains - a decision which proved very regrettable for me! We set off at 5pm.

The others wanted to rest and leave the next morning, but Desmond persuaded them to start at once and to sleep in the mountains. A much better plan. The climb throughout was a nightmare. Fortunately, I was soon relieved of my pack by one of our new guides. In a state of semi-exhaustion (speaking for myself anyhow) we arrived at the F.T.P. establishment half way up the mountain. Here we had supper.

Desmond pointed out a peak to me as we were leaving and said cheerfully "That's where you've got to go". Of course I didn't believe him - it was higher than anything I had ever seen before. I soon regretted to find that he was right. It seemed endless. I had to concentrate harder than usual to convince myself that everything comes to an end sometime, and only just succeeded. At last we came to the summit, and collapsed.

After resting for a while we carried on for a mile or so to a mountain hut where we slept on straw. We slept like logs except the wretched Desmond who had a bad stomach and accused me of snoring - I didn't realise I had the strength left to do so. Two more guides arrived in the night.

11th August:

We were up and on our way before day break. The next part was downhill, but only for a brief spell, when the most tortuous climb followed. An amusing incident occurred when Christian, clad in a very inconspicuous pair of shorts and when traversing a slippery and rather dangerous rock face, was unfortunate enough to put his foot in a wild bees nest. His reactions were a sight never to be forgotten, far better than any Punch and Judy show. By 10 am we reached the next summit, partly under snow.

It seemed strange to me that throughout the majority of this journey, we were able to follow a well beaten track - we even met people coming in the opposite direction - why I can't imagine.

Here we said 'good bye' to our original guide from St. Pierre who had been so charming and helpful to us throughout. In half an hour we were drinking hot milk in a tiny mountain chalet.

The rest of the trip to the plain between Chamanix and Switzerland was all down hill and much easier going, except for a horribly dangerous crevasse which had to be crossed, with the aid of a steel rope. Desmond's disinclination towards heights nearly met its Waterloo.

When the valley was well in sight, two of the guides went to see if all was clear and to contact the F.T.P. which they did. We went into a small cafe to discuss our crossing of the frontier.

We felt exhilarated. The climb was over and Switzerland only a stone's throw away. Tonight, we hoped, we should be in the Legation.

Many alternative methods of entering Swiss territory were put forward, including going with the tobacco smugglers, a round-about route taking two days and so on. Desmond and I soon decided, however, that to go in via the ordinary frontier post, dressed as we were, and quite openly, was best. We wanted to avoid any delay and unnecessary formalities once we were inside. The frontier post was only an hour and a half to walk. We arrived there about 5.30pm at La Chatalard.

The frontier guard came to speak to us. George explained that we were two British officers, that we wanted to cross the frontier if it would be possible to see the Consul at once. He went to the phone. He returned after a few moments to say 'nothing doing'. We persuaded him to try again emphasising that he should verify that, if we did cross, we could, without fail, see our authorities. This time it worked and he confirmed that we should be put in touch with the Legation without delay. We leaped over the barrier. The completion of our long trek and of all our efforts seemed in sight.

In the guard room we were searched, and it was fortunate that we had destroyed all recent papers before crossing, as the inspection was not altogether unexpected. We were hurried onto a train for Martigney - Christian had not been allowed to enter.

It was a very pretty country by this mountain railway, in the company of a very benevolent private soldier armed with some form of 'musket', who handed us over to a corporal at Martigney. We asked him where he was taking us, and he said to 'a camp' for the night.

The 'camp', so called, consisted of a room some 20 feet square on the second floor of the Police station, overlooking the street. The door was unlocked, and we were let in. Straw surrounded the room on two sides, the rest of the furniture consisting of a trestle table and two benches. We took a very poor view of this sort of hospitality, and lost no time in saying so. Desmond demanded to see the officer in charge, which was promised for 8 am the next morning. They gave us a plate of food, and we went to bed. We felt very disgruntled. Another day was being wasted, and there appeared no reason why we should not go straight to the Legation or, at least, telephone them. However, we had no option.

At 8am the officer appeared, and Desmond explained politely but firmly our reactions. They then took us to the doctor for a medical inspection and then back to our prison again.

As we were starting lunch at noon, a civilian police official came in saying that we had to leave for Berne by the next train. Our spirits rose. As we'd had our packs permanently packed, no time was lost. On the station and in the train, people were extremely kind to us - evidence of a very pro-British feeling everywhere. They gave us chocolate, cigarettes and beer in the restaurant car. Three and half hours to Berne.

A very pleasant Swiss Private met us at the station - we went by bus to the military police station. Here we filled in forms and hung about for ages - were interrogated by a civilian intelligence representative. He promised we should see the Legation that afternoon or the following morning. No such thing. We went to our hotel with our escort at 5.30pm. We had now become suspicious, though it seemed possible we were being held back until we had seen the Swiss Colonel next morning.

We had an excellent dinner in the hotel and went to a cinema afterwards. A comfortable room which Desmond and I shared, our escort slept in the adjourning one.

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