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After spending six weeks in the Marne, I was about to leave. I knew I would never forget the wonderful people I had met there. I certainly have not. My only regret is that during my stay, I failed to improve on my French. Perhaps I did pick up a few swear words, but the rest of the language still remains elusive. As arranged, the Comet Line guide, Madeleine Bouteloupe, was waiting far me at the railway station. She was pointed out to me and I was given a ticket for Paris. She was a slim girl I would say, in her mid-twenties, nothing startling about the girl. She could easily be overlooked in a crowd. We hung around until the train was about to depart and then boarded, moving separately to a compartment with spare seats. The journey passed without incident. On arrival we boarded a metro for the area of our safe house on Rue de Sommerard, not far from Notre Dame. Madeleine led me to the home of the Waeles family who lived in a top flat at No 11 Rue de Sommerard. The flats were built around a hollow courtyard, each flat having a three-foot iron fence facing the open side of each veranda. M. Waeles was in his sixties, a retired French military officer, I believe. Mme Waeles was about the same age, but of a very nervous disposition. Marte Marie, their daughter was a very well educated girl in her early twenties. She worked for one of the engineering factories, controlled by the Germans. She gave me a lot of useful information, which I did my best to memorize and pass on to our Intelligence. They all spoke fluent English.
During my stay in Paris, I was taken out by various helpers, mostly members of the Comet organization. First, I was measured for a suit of clothes and once acquired, I felt a far less conspicuous being and so long as I kept my mouth shut, had no fear of being rumbled by the Germans. We went sightseeing and did the Left Bank. I also went to the Notre Dome where a wedding was taking place. During one of those outings, I was taken to a store and had snapshots taken for identity papers to be forged on my behalf. I cannot remember the name I traveled under, but I remember I was a labourer of some kind. I think I was very lucky never to have to prove my identity at any time. I would have had no chance. Shortly after my arrival at the Waeles home, I was briefed on my escape route from the flat should the Germans decide to carry out a search. On the sound of their approach, presumably the thunder of size tens clattering on the stairs, I would dash out to the veranda and leap down to the opposite veranda below, probably a jump of 12 feet. The drop below was about 60 feet. I am sure the distance across looked more like 30 feet to me. A young senior priest assured me it was possible, as he had done it. I expect he tried it out from a much lower floor and with plenty of cushions if he missed. Thank God I didn’t have to do a repeat performance on behalf of the Waeles family.
Later in the war Madam Waeles was imprisoned for twelve months in Le F rennes prison. She was held on suspicion of giving aid to the Allies. During her time in jail, she did all kinds of little jobs to keep herself sane. One such task was using only chicken bones as needles, and threads drawn from her clothes and blankets, she managed to embroider a small tablemat. She gave it to me when we met again after the war. It is now proudly framed and on display. Marte Marie was warned of her mother's arrest but managed to avoid capture by moving to Vichy France. We met several times after the war, the last time in 1992. She died in 1995, but is survived by a daughter who still keeps in touch.
On the first Tuesday in June, I was told the final stages of my journey had been arranged and I would be setting out the following evening. I could hardly wait for the next day to arrive. It was seven weeks since I had tumbled onto France. My guide would again be Madeleine and she would be working with another - a young man whose code-name was Franco. With my phony documents in my pockets (and a French magazine to read on the train), I left Rue de Sommerard to follow Madeleine to the Metro for the Gard du Sud. She bought tickets to Bordeaux, our destination, but unintentionally forgot to give me mine, causing me unnecessary grief later.
While waiting for the train to pull in, we were joined by Franco. I noticed another small group of travelers close by. To my utter astonishment, the tall guy in the middle of the group was none other than my crewmember, Alf Martin, the bombardier. I think our eyes met at the same time. A wink was the only form of recognition we could afford, plus perhaps a little "smirk".
As the train pulled in, Madeline indicated my corner seat in a compartment very close to her own. I got settled in and paid no attention to the three other passengers in the compartment. I opened my magazine and pretended to read it, turning the pages at appropriate intervals. The play seemed to work - none of my fellow travelers took any interest in me. In due course, the ticket collector appeared. "Billets s’il vous plait". He ordered. The other three produced their tickets promptly. I was in a cold sweat. All I could do was wave my hand nonchalantly up the corridor and say, "Avec Mademoiselle, Monsieur". The inspector must have "caught on" for with a slight smile he moved on to the next compartment. I think the others didn’t feel at all comfortable after that, for they left their seats and did not come back.
I was on my own for over an hour, I should think. Suddenly, the corridor door slid open and standing there was a beautiful girl. She started to chatter away in French, far too fast for me to make out what she wanted. I came out with my stock phrase, "Je ne sais pas, mademoiselle." She promptly replied, "Aviateur Anglais, eh?" To which I replied, "Oui Mademoiselle". She gave me a sweet smile, and with a "Bon Voyage" quietly closed the door and moved up the corridor. The remainder of the journey to Bordeaux passed without further incident.
Needless to say, I did not get any sleep on that journey. At last Madeleine appeared in the corridor, signaling to me we were about to arrive. As she left the train, I followed her at the usual discreet distance. Once out of the station, we joined up with Alf Martin's group of three. In addition to Franco, there was a third evader, Douglas Hoehn, an American, who had bailed out of a Flying Fortress shot down over Northern France on a daylight raid. He had had a harrowing experience - his fellow crewmembers being machine-gunned as they floated down by parachute from away up. He did a free fall from 25,000 ft to 2,000 ft before pulling the ripcord, and so landed unharmed. He was introduced to Alils group just two weeks earlier and was still suffering from a good deal of shock. Nowadays, it would be called "stress". We were soon joined by Franco, who was a young Belgian student and a trusted member of the Comet Line. He spoke English, Spanish and German, in addition to his mother languages, just the "boy" with whom to travel. I meet him often at the Comet Line Reunions. Franco was only a code name. His real name is J. F. Nothomb, DSO.
We made our way to an outside table at a nearby cafe for drinks and to discuss our next move. Franco had it all worked out. Alf and I managed a few words together, but had to keep to a whisper for fear someone would "cotton on".
Franco told old us we would have lunch and then return to the station to catch a train for Dax, about a two hour journey to the southeast. With about two hours to catch our train, Franco took us to a small restaurant for our lunch. Much to my dismay we were shown to a table next to one with a party of half a dozen German soldiers including an officer. All the time I thought the officer had his eyes on me in particular. As soon as the meal was finished, I signaled Alf and whispered, "Washroom, follow me!" pretending to go to the washroom. We went out the rear door and waited for the others to come and join us. We made our way to Dax by railway, while Madeleine and the other girl remained in Bordeaux. Leaving Dax station, we headed along the road going south to a small garage where we were each supplied with a bicycle. They were by no means first class machines. I guess the salesman was aware Franco was not in a position to haggle.
We set off for Bayonne but we had only gone about two miles when I sustained a puncture and Alf's chain broke. We were able to repair the puncture without any trouble, but Franco had to return to the garage to get a new chain. Waiting by that roadside where there was no cover made us stick out like a sore thumb. Fortunately, we failed to arouse any curiosity from passers by, either German or French. At last Franco arrived with the chain and we were soon on our way. We kept to minor roads whenever possible, making our afternoon jaunt of some 45 miles.
The journey did not go without incident. Franco had decided the order and formation of travel. He would take the lead. About a quarter of a mile behind him would be Alf and Doug. I would bring up the rear at a similar distance behind them. We had been going for about an hour, as far as I can remember, when a fighter aircraft suddenly zoomed across the road and started firing. At first, we all thought it was firing at us. After a further run on the same alignment, we concluded there must be a Nazi firing range close by and so we had nothing to fear. Later, we came to a long steep hill. Franco was disappearing over the top, Alf and Doug were pushing their bikes and were halfway up, while I had just jumped off ready to start my push when an army three tonner German style ground to a halt beside me. Two German soldiers jumped out of the back and gave me a tirade in German. Not understanding a word they were saying, I could only reply with "Je ne sais pas, monsier". They immediately hustled me up to the driver's window. He looked out and gave a similar mouthful, but this time in French. I gave him the same reply but in his own language. His reply was, "Merci, Monsieur". The soldiers got back on the track and they drove off. Some ten or fifteen minutes later, I found a very shaken Franco waiting by the road for me to join him. His first words were, "What exactly did you say to the German NCO when he questioned y0u?" I told him the absolute truth, word for word. He said "nothing else". I said, "No!" He heaved a sigh of relief and said they were asking directions to a nearby village. I could not have given a better reply or been more correct.
Our journey lasted until just about 10 pm, when we reached the outskirts of Bayonne. We hid our bicycles in an old garage and hung about the area until darkness had really set in. Franco then set off through the side streets to a riverside cafe. We followed at a discreet distance. The cafe was owned by an incredibly fat, jolly Frenchman. His very presence made you forget all your troubles. He soon had us sitting down to a tremendous meal. I remember it included sauté potatoes, omelets, fried eels, and green peas with wine and coffee. We spent the night in a first floor bedroom overlooking a wide bridge over the river. We were all pretty flaked out and slept until near mid-day. I remember watching a phalanx of German soldiers goose-stepping across the bridge singing Lily Marlene. I must say they looked very impressive, compared to the three disheveled evaders in that bedroom.
A meal was sent up to us and we whiled away the hours until early evening, when we left the cafe one by one. Franco and I fetched the bikes while Alf and Doug hung about near the bridge. Once everyone had a bike again, we set off south for St. Jean de Luz. Much to my surprise, we were rejoined by my guide, Madeleine, who had traveled direct to Bayonne from Bordeaux. She paired up with Franco and they took the lead posing as boyfriend and girl friend. I brought up the rear as usual. It took us a good three and a half hours to complete the journey as we went by minor roads and sometimes, mere cart tracks, to avoid possible checkpoints in this very sensitive area. We entered St. Jean de Luz at about 9.30pm, but as it was not yet dark, Franco instructed us to hang about on the outskirts of the town until it was. He said he would join us. I think that's when he saw Madeleine safely away on her return journey.
I am sorry to say she was betrayed to the Gestapo in 1944 and sent to a concentration camp. The Americans liberated the camp and Madeleine returned home to her mother but was so starved and emaciated that she died within a few days. We whiled away the time as best we could, strolling along the riverbank. We stood for a few minutes watching a fisherman on the opposite bank, casting his line without any apparent success. We were joined by a German soldier, complete with rifle. My two fellow evaders decided to move further along, leaving me to deal with the situation. The German turned to me and in questionable French, asked me if the fisherman had caught anything. I quickly decided my French was not good enough to tell the truth, so I did the opposite, saying "Un grand poisson". This seemed to satisfy him, for with a "Bonjour, Monsieur", he was on his way.
At about 10.30 pm to my great relief we were rejoined by Franco. He led us down side roads to a railway embankment where we were met by another guide, who was no doubt a local. He led us to the next rendezvous, a farmhouse nestled under the mountains. Here we were each given a pair of cotton trousers and rope sandals. Our own gear was bundled up into a pack to be carried on his back. We set off over prickly fields and down narrow lanes. God knows how many fields we crossed. That guide never let up for a moment. He was no slouch, I assure you. Eventually at about midnight we arrived at a farmhouse and had a much-needed breather. We were made most welcome - sandwiches and hot drinks were awaiting us. The guide had done a good job keeping us well to time. He handed us over to a new guide whose job it was to get us over the frontier and into Spain. His name was Florentino, a Basque, and a big man who was astonishingly fit and agile in spite of being in his mid-forties. He was a professional smuggler, wanted equally by both the French and the Spanish police. Later, more so than ever by the Gestapo. After the war he was the subject of our own television programme, "This is your Life". He died at the age of 82 in July 1980 and was buried at a cemetery in de Socoa, Ciboure. He had been honoured by all the Allies for his outstanding bravery and help to so many escapers.
We set out again, this time led by him. It was so dark that I could only make out the position of the man ahead by his luminous watch, his wrist being held watch uppermost behind his back. The guide kept up a tremendous pace. We panted along behind as best we could. We were now traveling through mountain terrain. The ground was overgrown with a prickly plant, something like a blueberry. The barbs went through our thin trousers and embedded in our shins. After the first fifteen minutes or so, one became immune to the pain. I know later, when I examined my shins, they looked as if they had been run over by a herd of porcupines. The first mountain we crossed was on the French side it and not all that high. As we were going down towards the frontier, we followed sheep tracks passing through woods and then the prickly stuff, when we were in the open. At last we reached the flat ground just on the north bank of the Bidassoa River. The far side of it marked the frontier. Caution was very much a key word.
Florentino carried out a reconnaissance and was soon back. As he led us down to a shallow part of theriver I was sure he could see in the dark. Here it was only thirty yards across, but was quite fast flowing. The first pair to go was Doug, assisted by Florentino, and followed by Alf, being helped by Franco. Being a pilot, I suppose, I had to go over solo, assisted by a six-foot pole. This I used to steady myself by placing the end on the riverbed on my downstream side as I edged my way across. The water came up to my waist. Once over on the Spanish side, our elation knew no bounds. Anyone seeing our behaviour would have said to themselves, "What on earth are those dumb characters doing?" Silence was still the order of the day. We crossed at 4 am, exactly fifty days to the hour after we, bailed out.
We still had to proceed with extreme caution. The Spanish were not noted for their friendliness. If the patrols caught you, there was a chance of being returned to the French side, or given a short haircut and an unspecified time in Spanish prison!
We quickly left the riverbank and climbed rapidly up a hillside through dense undergrowth to a railway line. It was so dark we had to resort to our luminous watches again, following our guide in line astern. Suddenly there was a crashing sound, followed by the breaking of bushes. Alf had lost his footing and disappeared down the slope. He managed to arrest his fall ten feet below the railway track. We soon had him back in line, but our hearts were in our mouths. Was there a Spanish patrol in the area and, if so, had they heard the racket? It took quite a while before we calmed down again and began to breathe more easily. We continued to follow Florentino along the railway track. The south side seemed to be flanked by a sheer wall. Then there was no Florentino! Where was he? A loud whisper, coming from several feet above, was the answer. He let down a rope and hurled us up to the ledge on which he was standing. After another short climb, we came to a road, which we crossed and immediately began the real climb, which was a hands and knees affair and seemed to go on for the rest of the night.
At dawn we came to a plateau and the going was far less difficult. Next, we were going along a road carved out of the mountain by Franco's prisoners of war. It certainly made our path much smoother that night. I don't know if the road was ever completed. Eventually, we came to farmland where we left the road and took to the fields. I spotted some cherry trees loaded with ripe fruit. As a Devonshire schoolboy, I was an expert at raiding the local farmers' orchards and I found I had not lost the skill. I was soon descending from one of the trees with a large handful of the delicious fruit. Little did I realize that within four years, I would be back flying planeloads of the self-same fruit to the London markets.
Shortly after this, we were nearing the farmhouse, which was considered to be at the limit of Florentino's safety zone. Franco made the decision that he and I would carry on to San Sebastian, while Doug and Alf, who were both pretty leg weary, would go under cover at the farmhouse. We split up there and then. Franco was anxious to reach San Sebastian during the workers' rush hour, which should make us far less conspicuous. We set off again, knowing we could not afford to loiter and we certainly did not. Passing through a small village, Franco popped into a small fruit shop and bought some oranges. We sucked them as we hurried along the road to the town of Irun and made a beeline to the tram terminus. My orders from Franco were to board the rear of the tram with him, stay in the rear and keep my mouth shut. After climbing aboard with a crowd of babbling Spanish workers, Franco bought a couple of tickets, passed me one, and took up a position in the main compartment. I stayed at the rear, hanging on to the guard rail. Was I a weary man? Every time that tram hit some points or came to a halt, my knees buckled. I only managed to keep on my feet by keeping my arms and elbows locked in the guardrail. Mentally, I felt quite alert, but my limbs seemed to be on strike. I now know how a marathon runner feels before giving up. After trundling through what seemed miles of San Sebastian, we at last reached our stop. I followed Franco along the street for some distance, compelled occasionally to rest on a shop windowsill until able to continue.
I felt very conspicuous but didn't seem to attract any attention. At last we arrived at the house of a Spanish lady and her husband, situated quite near the sea front. Even then, the beautiful white sandy beach caught my eyes. The lady of the house soon had a hot bath ready for me. Thiswas followed by a couple of glasses of Anis, the local brew, which made my toes curl, and then a most gorgeous meal. That lady sure was a fantastic cook. After the meal, it was bed - a beautiful bed. That evening, Franco went back and made contact with Alf and Doug, bringing them back using the same route. On arrival, both were suffering from severe tummy pains, but were back to normal after two days rest and some food served by our hostess. On the fourth day, we received a message that we were to be taken to the British Embassy in Madrid by car.
We said our farewells to Franco and our Spanish hosts. At 10 pm as instructed, we made our way to a selected rendezvous where a large, dark limousine would draw up and the rear doors open. It happened, we took our seats quickly, shut the doors and we were off. Real cloak and dagger stuff!
We journeyed all night, driven by one of the Embassy staff, accompanied by his wife, and arriving in time for breakfast. It was on Thursday, 10th June, 1943. Now at last, we could relax in our newfound freedom, while documents were prepared for our return to UK via Gibraltar. Meantime, the Air Ministry informed my wife by telegram that I had arrived safely in a neutral country. This information was strictly confidential and should not be divulged. She was so delighted and scared she didn't even tell her mother. Bless her! Some ten days later, a letter from me arrived from the Madrid Embassy. The writing was recognized and the secret was out.
We joined up with six other evaders, three of whom had spent a few unpleasant weeks in a Spanish jail. Our journey to Gibraltar was by train and was a nightmare for me. For some reason, either I turned too quickly or had slipped in some way and one of my spinal discs became displaced. This happened the day before we started out on our train journey. The pain was excruciating, I could neither sit nor stand. What a trip! Thanks to a Cpl. Medic in Gibraltar who was able to massage it back in position and give me instant relief. Many’s the time it has happened since. It was finally attributed to my non too gentle landing on my bum following my bail out by parachute!
Passing through the Spanish customs was a bit of a farce. They tried to be as awkward as possible and probably our "couldn't care less" attitude didn't help. I understand by International rule escaping prisoners have the right to move freely from one neutral country to their own without hindrance. Alf and I were within that rule, but Doug, being an American, was not. The question asked by the Spanish customs officer was, county and town of birth, please! Doug replied, "Canterbury, Yorkshire". A good job neither of them was much good at English geography!
Once in Gibraltar, we were issued with a new battledress each with our appropriate badges of rank and insignia. I didn't know at the time, but was later informed by the RAF Pay department, that I had forfeited my rank of Acting Squadron Leader as soon as I crossed back into British Territory. This was on the grounds that I was no longer filling a vacancy.
My rank was restored when I returned to "flying duties" after my Survivors’ Leave. Money was deducted from my first monthly pay cheque to balance the difference between S/Ldr and F/Lt with the resulting cheque to last out my three weeks holiday amounting to eighteen shillings and sixpence! What a greeting for one who had come home to iight again. Later the regulations were amended for future evaders, but it was not made retroactive.
We were flown back from Gibraltar in a Dakota and arrived at Whitchurch, Bristol early on 22 June. We were whisked off to London for debriefing after which we were given travel warrants and leave passes. I sent a quick telegram to Betty, my wife, to meet me in Yorkshire the next day. Alf and I made it back to Pocklington that night for a real night of celebrations. The next morning I joined friends at Ripon to meet Betty off the Scottish train. She was expecting to meet a poor emaciated figure of a man, instead of the bronzed hero, back from the Mediterranean.
We both looked back on those days and remembered all the brave people who made that home coming possible. But for them I would not have two beautiful daughters and a pampered old age!