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Having spent days on the run, I was tired, wet and hungry when I knocked on the door of that cottage. The door opened and facing me was a little man, even shorter than myself, by at least three inches.
I had no fear of being overpowered. He was a gamekeeper by trade and did not hesitate to welcome me into his home. His first words "Les Bosches" followed by a double "spit".
He shouted for his wife to come downstairs. She came down carrying a baby in her arms. Both father and mother were in their twenties I should think. I met the baby again in 1967. She was married then with a baby of her own. I was soon tucking into a good breakfast of eggs, plenty of bread and butter and coffee. Even the coffee tasted good. I hadn't had a hot drink since leaving Pocklington. Henry Michael, that was my helper's name, suggested I should get to bed and have a good sleep while he contacted some friends to work out a plan. Having eaten, I thought a wash and shave would not come amiss. With French and various mimes, I conveyed the idea to Henri. He promptly placed a shaving brush and a cutthroat razor in front of me with a mirror and some soap. I set about the task. I had never used a cutthroat before. I was alright shaving my cheeks, but as soon as I tried to do around the chin, blood began to flow. I looked helplessly at Henri. He waved me to a chair, grabbed the cutthroat, pushed my head back and applied the blade to my throat. A thought flashed through my mind. "What if he decides to cut it?" I'm too late now anyway. It was for my moustache because he whipped it off saying, "Not for French men". Having survived, I was able to go upstairs to a bed. I thought was going to sleep for hours. I doubt if I had more than two before I was fully awake again. Earlier, Henri had said there were a few things he would need to purchase. Did I have any French francs? The escape kit held plenty. No trouble meeting his requirements, which were clearly minimal, so the money was promptly handed over.
It wasn’t long before Henri’s wife came up with more food for me. She managed to convey to me she was expecting him back about 5pm. Sure enough, he arrived pretty much on time. His first priority was to get me out of uniform, and into one of his spare suits. Spare? It was a real cast off, if ever I saw one, also built for a midget! The trouser legs came halfway up my calves and the jacket sleeves not far below the elbows. The shirt was for a 14 1/2" — I was a 16”. I looked swell! He collected my uniform, put it in a milk churn and buried it in the wood saying, "Apres le guerre" he would dig it up again. Now was the time my thoughts flashed to the missing identity discs. How was I going to talk my way out of that one if the Germans picked me up?
Henri informed me of arrangements he had made for the next day! How on earth he fixed it so quickly, I will never know. I was certainly a "first" for all the brave folk who helped me during the next five weeks.
At 5 am an Tuesday, Henry and I set off on bicycles for the nearest village, Yviers. Only when we came to the first downhill stretch did I realize my bike had no brakes. Henri thought it quite impolite when I started overtaking him. Pointing frantically to the brakes, he got the message and a broad grin spread over his face. On arrival at the village square, we drew alongside an open truck, tossed our bikes aboard and climbed in beside them, joining several other workers heading for the small town of Moncornet, the nearest one that boasted a railway station. On arrival, we disembarked, grabbed our bikes and wheeled them up to the station. Henri bought tickets for Rheims but found the train wasn’t due for some time, so we left there for the nearest pub. There were half a dozen customers already imbibing. Henry joined them, ordered himself some wine and then, much to my consternation, turned to me and asked me what I wanted. My French dried up for a few seconds, then I remembered " une biére ".
The barman seemed to catch on quite quickly, and without hesitation, soon had a glass of brown liquid in front of me. Henri carried on yapping with the other customers as if he had known them for years. Perhaps he had. I shall never know now. I drank sparingly and did my best to keep my eyes down so as not to attract attention or encourage a casual conversation. Now I think of it, and remember the way I was dressed, they probably thought I was not the full "Franc" anyway.
At last it was time to leave for the station again. I did as briefed by Henri. We hung around until the train arrived at the platform. It was the corridor type. We put our bikes in the guards van and Henri entered a compartment via the corridor. I boarded the same coach and moved along the corridor taking up a position where I could see him when he got off, and so follow him. The train was routed through Laon. It seems that the Germans had a special squad there who operated a checkpoint. To avoid this, we would leave the train at a small station before that town and board it again at another point on the other side.
Just before the "off" there was a bit of an interruption when a small squad of German soldiers arrived, complete with rifles. The train was pretty crowded. I was really shaken when they entered our coach and took up positions on either side of me. To try not to look too terrified, I pretended to chew some gum. The soldier next to me said, " Quelle heure est il, Monsieur". I guessed he was asking me the time, but my limited French wouldn't allow me to give him an answer, so I extended my watch arm up in front of his eyes. The short sleeves of Henri's jacket made reading the time quite easy. With a polite "Merci Monsieur", the German went back to admiring the countryside while I finished off my imaginary chewing gum.
When the train arrived at the small station of Gisy, I think it was, we disembarked, collected our bicycles and set out for same small cottages up the road. There, a fellow gamekeeper friend of Henri's was expecting us. A meal was prepared and ready to serve. The whole family made me very welcome. I never did know their surname but Henri's friend was called "Albert" and we agreed during the short time I knew him, that should I manage to get back home safely, I would ask the BBC to send the message, "Albert est bien arrive". That message was broadcast some 8 weeks later. Most of my helpers heard it and celebrated the news, or so I was told when I returned with my family in 1966.
After a lengthy discussion between Henri and Albert, Henri left for the station and the train to Rheims, where he would go through the checkpoint. The plan was that I should catch the same train at the other side of Laon, at the wayside station of Eppey. He would be at the window of his apartment and I would climb aboard and take up my position in the corridor next to him. He took with him a basketful of vegetables and fruit.
I climbed on the back of Albert's motorbike and we set out on a lightning cross country dash through woods and the small tracks surrounding Laon, missing tree trunks by inches. After the first mile or so, my hair settled back down and my eyes receded to their normal position. Albert was a Steve McQueen and he wasn't acting. It was for real. Needless to say, we made it in one piece. On arrival at the Rheims Station, Henri slipped me the basket of goodies and headed for the exit. I adopted my vacant look and followed closely. The Germans ignored most of the passengers, ourselves among them, thank goodness!
Walking through the streets of Rheims, tracking Henri was not nearly as fearful as I would have imagined. With so many people about, the Germans did not seem all that conspicuous. Eventually, we arrived at a detached house in the residential area. I was welcomed by Mme Lechenteur, a very brave lady who, after the war, was decorated by the French, the British, and the Americans for the outstanding aid she gave to Allies during the occupation of her country.
For the next few days, I stayed upstairs in her house. I did not know until after the war, that her husband, a doctor, carried on with his normal practice, while I was hiding on the floor above. Shortly after my arrival, I was cross-examined by a young man who had an air of authority written all over him. His name was Christian Hecht and he was the leader of the local 'Resistance'. He was trying to establish if I was a genuine British airman, or a German posing as one. After answering various catch-questions, I asked him if he ever listened to news. He said of course, he did. I then said, "What about last Wednesday, 15th? The pilot's report on the Stuttgart raid - I was that pilot. He said he thought he had heard my voice before. From then on, all doubts were gone and the tension eased considerably.
Christian reckoned he could get a message through to England to let my wife know I was still in the land of the living. Perhaps it was a coincidence, because my wife did receive a telegram from a friend stating that I was alive and well. This was followed by another to say the news was not confirmed. Even so, it gave my wife some hope when later I was put on the missing, presumed killed list.
On Sunday 26th April, Christian arrived again with the news that I must move on. The Germans were carrying out random searches in that particular area. Christian could speak excellent English so we were able to discuss and plan a move without any difficulties. He had arranged my move to the to the village of Mailly Champagne, to stay with the local butcher, Pierre de Kegal and family. That night, Christian, driving the butcher's van (no windows), would pick me up in the local square. I was to climb into the back where he would close the door and set off far Mailly. He explained to me that we could possibly meet a roadblock, and if we did he would be for the chop and I would most probably just become a P.O.W. Would I be willing to back him up and shoot our way out? What could I say? All I could do was accept the revolver he offered me and keep everything crossed.
It was about 10 pm when I climbed into the back of the van. The doors were shut and we set off at a reasonable pace, twisting and turning out of the city. Then we were racing through the countryside. I couldn't see out at all, everything seemed to be going without a hitch. Suddenly, there was a screech of brakes and we came to a skidding halt. I thought, "this is it, now I'm for it". As I heard the driver's door slam open, there was a quick clump of hoots coming to the rear. I fumbled with my revolver as the doors opened. Christian stood there, all 6 ft 2" of him with a smile on his face saying, "Do you need a "pit stop" as well? I couldn't really say what I needed at the time. However we were soon on our way again and arrived at the de Kegal’s without further incident.
The house was detached and had its own courtyard entered from the village main street, with the gable end of the house backing onto the pavement. The family was made up of Mum and Dad, Auntie from Belgium, and five children. The eldest, Madeleine, was eleven years of age and the only one among the kids who understood the significance of my presence. To them, I was Uncle Albert from Belgium and had come to visit Auntie. My French was terrible and my 'Flemish' non existent, so who can wander when the nine year old naively asked, "How is it that Uncle can’t understand us and he can't understand Auntie either." I am not sure what explanation she was given. I was very fond of that little soul. When I arrived at the house, she had a very, very inflamed knee, caused by a festering abrasion on the kneecap. The knee was twice its normal size. I spent the first four days making up poultices and bathing it with great success. She was so patient and even after, when grown up, referred to me as "My Doctor". One day, just as we sat down to a meal (Pierre was not home at the time), we heard the tramp of heavy boots in the courtyard. Mum panicked while Madeleine, with great presence of mind, quickly cleared my place setting away into the sink. She then ushered me up into the attic extension. It turned out to be a false alarm I'm happy to say. Pierre was elated at playing such an important part. He might well have been a little indiscreet in confiding in friends. Once he took me to tea at the local schoolteacher's cottage on the outskirts of the village. The story got out that the teacher had promised the best behaved pupils would be allowed to see a real English pilot. Christian Hecht got wind of the yarn and decided it was high time I was moved again.
Pierre de Kegal was picked up by the Gestapo in June '44 and died in Dachau concentration camp in Dec '44. I kept in touch with the family guardians for the first few years after the war and met Madeleine for the first time 50 years later in 1993 and have remained in touch ever since.
Christian arrived one evening on a tandem bicycle. I viewed the contraption with some trepidation. Christian set my mind at rest by assuring me I would only be second pilot. All I had to do was supply half the horsepower required to keep it in motion. After wobbling for the first 100 yards or so, we managed to get a little coordination into the job and made our way by woodland paths and minor roads to the champagne farm of M. Cheminon in the neighbouring village of Villers Marmary. I spent a few days hidden there, while Christian looked for a place further afield. During that time I worked in a cellar, voluntarily, I must add, sorting potatoes, washing and bottling wine and, of course, drinking a few! Probably enough to make my stay unprofitable to M. Cheminon I have kept in touch with him since the war and visited with my family in 1966. He was a marvelous host and I have continued to exchange annual greetings with his descendants ever since.
After only five days, Christian had found a new home for me in the village of Beine- Navroy, a few miles east of Rheims. The farmhouse was in the middle of the main street, and the door to the main part of the building was approached through an archway leading into the farmyard and garden at the back. The farm buildings backed onto a lane running parallel to the main street. This was my escape route should the Germans mount a search. I slept in a ground floor room with the window facing the yard. The window was left open and a bicycle was left propped up outside ready for my rapid departure.
My host was M. George Lundy, a single man in his early thirties. He was a very quiet man who lived with his mother. They had a housekeeper who did the cooking and cleaning. I spent a very pleasant ten days there. I was able to sunbathe behind a corrugated screen in the garden and idle the hours away. In the evening, out came the champagne. I soon acquired the taste and still have it. Another diversion was a visit to his brother and sister- in-law, who lived further up the street -an excuse for more champagne of course.
Christian's mother, Maurice, used to cycle from her home at Sillery some 3 or 4 miles away to bring me English cigarettes and English books to read. She was the perfect silver-haired mother figure and a true French aristocrat. We kept in touch until she passed away in the early '70's.
In spite of the seeming "good life", I was impatient to be on my way. Was I going around in small circles, I asked myself. What were the chances that we would make some positive progress soon? I discussed this with George. A few days later, while I was basking in the garden, George came up to me to say he had a friend visiting from Rheims. He had been told that this gentleman had already moved a British airman out of the area. Would I be prepared to reveal myself to him? I've always been a bit of a gambler and I was sure if I remained in the area, sooner or later, I would be caught. I took a chance and agreed to have a talk with Joseph Berthet, the gentleman concerned. Arrangements were quickly made for me to join him the next day at his flat in Rheims. That night we had a small farewell party and the message "Albert est bien arrive" was noted. It went out over the air less than two months later. It must have given some little satisfaction to M. Joseph Berthet and M. George Lundy for alas both were arrested by the Gestapo the following year and sent to Dachau concentration camp, never to return. However, I was pleased to meet George’s brother, a local councilor, during my visits back in 1966 and 1991 and express my gratitude to him and his family for his brother’s bravery.
A plaque has been mounted in the main street of Beine Navroy so that their greatest hero will not be forgotten. Joseph Berthet is listed among the World War II heroes of Rheims and his name will now always be there for posterity.
At dawn the following morning, I set off on my bicycle led by Christian Hecht, for M. Berthet's flat in Rheims. We made our way to the outskirts of the city, keeping to the smaller roads and then by side streets to the one in which he lived. The flat was one of several in one building. His was on the second floor. Joseph lived alone and went off to work each day. I think I stayed with him for nearly a week. During that time I was visited by a lady who was a go-between for the Comet Escape Line. Unknown to me of course, she was also a member of the Red Cross and was instrumental in my future progress. During one of those visits, we mistakenly thought the Germans were at the door. We spent half an hour hidden in a wardrobe. Very cramped, I assure you. We emerged when it was apparent the visitors had gone away. Arriving home from work one day, Joseph suggested it would be good for me to get out of the flat for an hour. Would I care to follow him while he went out shopping for the week's groceries? I thought it a great idea. We were soon on our way through the crowded street to the market. There were plenty of Germans about, a few from the local airfield I suspect, as was well as the normal occupation troops. I managed to keep Joseph in sight. All at once I saw a very attractive young lady coming towards me. The collision was not premeditated I assure you, but we did manage to bump into each other. I was most embarrassed and like a true English gentleman, blurted out "I beg your pardon miss". Heads turned, she stopped and stared with her mouth open. I realized my mistake and before she or any of the nearby Germans could react, I was dodging rapidly through the crowd. We completed our shopping without further incident.
My next and final move in the area was to the flat of Mlle Germaine Geoffroy, a friend of Joseph and I think a workmate. She was probably in her mid forties and was a real tough cookie - a very capable person indeed. She showed no fear of the Germans and did not seem to be worried about the consequence of her actions should she be found out. She left for her work each morning at eight o'clock and returned at five o'clock. It was lonely in the flat all day on my own. Some days I would stand at the window and thumb my nose at the passing Germans. I made sure they weren't looking my way first. Very childish, I admit, but it helped to pass the time. On another occasion, she arranged for two of her nieces to visit me for coffee in the afternoon. Their English was on a par with my French, so the conversation wasn't exactly sparkling, but the sign language was terrific. I heard later that Germaine had firearms hidden about the house. If it was true, it was just as well she was never found out. I met her again on my visit to Rheims in 1966.
One evening, we had a visit from the lady who was in touch with the Comet Escape Line. She informed me that arrangements had been made for me to travel to a "safe house" in Paris. My guide would be Madeleine Bouteloupe who would be pointed out to me at the station on the morning. At last, now I was on my way. I owe so much to Mme Chatelin, who was the go between. She was a most wonderful old lady who served in the Red Cross during the two World Wars. She helped sick and wounded on both sides. We became firm friends and exchanged letters until she was well into her nineties. After she died I remained in touch with her daughter and family. I visit them regularly. Her grandson, Eric is a firm supporter of the "WWII Escape Lines Society" and has even retraced the routes we used over the Pyrenees as a tribute to those who did it in more hazardous times.