Sur L’Athos II en route pour Alger.

Le contre torpilleur Tartu qui nous escorte.

Fin novembre à Meknès. François Lasserre est a ma gauche, en saroual. Nous sommes tous coiffés du chèche, comme les spahis indigènes.

 

Toujours à Meknès, devant un char FT (Faible Tournage) datant de 1917. Char Renault roulant à l’effroyable vitesse de 5 kmh !

Year 1941.

In autumn 1940, a new clerk starts at the Court’s clerks office; after having taken part in the combat of June 1940, he was lucky the Armistice intervened just as his regiment was based in the Free Zone. Demobilized, he could return home, in the Occupied Zone (he is from Dax.) He is called Guy Dulau and is approximately 25 years old and, very quickly, we become friends. Before the war, he got engaged to a young Spanish woman from San Sebastian and he is quite distressed to be without any news from her.

In the end of January, since he knows I have an Ausweiss that enables me to go in the Free Zone, Dulau asks me whether he could take this opportunity for me to post a letter from the Free Zone; the letter, intended for his fiancé, is more likely to reach Spain, since the Free Zone remains in contact with Spain. At first, well aware of the risk I run if the Germans discover the letter, I am hesitant; although, as I already said, by now the guards know me well and most times, when I turn up at the guard post, they don’t even search me.

In the end we agree on a middle ground solution that should be easier to carry out: Dulau gives me orally his fiancé’s address in Spain and hands me a small bit of paper with some words for her. With this innocuous bit of paper in my pockets I cross the demarcation line and once in the Free Zone, I undertake to write a letter to his ladylove, in which I explain what is happening and to which I join the note written by Dulau. I give her my address in the Free Zone (a post box in Villeneuve de Marsan) so that she can answer, and I address it all to the “senorita” whose name I have now forgotten but whose address I still remember: Funicular de Archanda in San Sebastian, Guipuzcoa, Espana. Everything goes according to plan. Actually it feels very easy. And that’s how I become a “mail smuggler”.

Incidentally, well after the war I learn that Dulau did end up marrying his “senorita” but I never got around seeing one or the other - thus goes life.

After this first success I am more daring and, by word of mouth, I start to receive mail in two envelopes, the first one with my name, the second with the name of a recipient in the Free Zone, most often someone unknown to me.

Just before the beginning of the war, in 1938, a wood by-product treatment plant (it actually manufactures activated carbon, which is used in the chemical and pharmaceutical industry) the CECA was assembled in Parentis en Born and the executives in charge of its installation and operation all came from the area of Amberieu, in the Ain (from now on in the Free Zone) where there is a similar factory and where they have left their relatives. These people hear from my cousins who live Parentis that, through me, they can perhaps send their families more news than allowed by the inter zones cards, and thus the plant executives write to me. My cousin Simone, a hairdresser in Parentis, also addresses me letters that are intended for her husband, Pierre Manciet who, made prisoner of war in June 40, managed to escape and lives currently in Pellegrue (20 km South of Sainte Foy La Grande) in the Free Zone, where he works at the winery of a fellow fugitive.

At first, I only pass 2 or 3 letters at a time, which I have hidden either on me (against my crotch, between my underwear and the bottom of my trousers) or in the handlebar of my bicycle, or in the part of the framework that holds the seat. I take advantage of how well the warrant officer knows me since he is so used to seeing me pass. It is not so much amateurism as sheer recklessness, as I understand it well today. But at the time, at 17 years old, I believe that luck is always going to be on my side. Nevertheless I don’t think of myself as an hero. It is my way of resisting (oh! what a big word!) and I do it gratis pro deo and certainly not for glory.

On my way back from the Free Zone, I stop at the post office where I collect my mail (always in two envelopes) and which I hide in the same hiding-places, then I get some Viziers on my way, and the trick is played! This goes on for a few months but in September I must put an end to it, as we’ll see later.

In March ‘41, the SS units are relieved and replaced by Werhmacht units; the soldiers seem older, and they are not the very best of the German army. Even though they do not seem to be the elite, they are not the territorial army. Once again I have to make myself accepted by the new officers and soldiers of the checkpoint. But it is true that it is not an abrupt changeover and the previous guards stay 3 or 4 days to fully inform the new ones and, all in all, the instruction about me is given too with the result that I do not encounter any major difficulty to pass the line, at least not at the beginning. Indeed, very quickly, a small hut is built at the point of passage. It is the customs post and it is from now on a German customs officer who proceeds to search the people and the vehicles that turn up to cross into the Free Zone; the soldiers now guard the point of passage and above all they patrol along the railway – the line of demarcation. Therefore at the beginning I abstain from passing with letters in order to “feel the wind,” to see how it is going with the customs officers.

In early spring I finally receive a short letter from Jackie. It is an inter-zones card with a German stamp at the effigy of Hitler, in profile. Thanks to the code we had agreed on before their departure, I understand that they do not appreciate their new life at all. The code consists all simply in the use of the adverb “very”. Example: “The accommodation is good” means that, as a whole, housing is appropriate. “The accommodation is very good” means that there are serious gaps. “The accommodation is very very good” means that their lodging is revolting. Judging by the number of “very, very much” they used, I gather that my poor friends have serious difficulties in adapting to their new life.

The letter, sent 2 months before, passed the German censors who authorised it, undoubtedly reassured by the number of “very, very well” or “very, very good”. But I understood well that, forced to join the Hitler Jugend (Hitler Youth) for Jackie, and the Bund Deutscher Madchen (Association of German Girls) for Marcelle, Jackie and Marcelle are quite unhappy. They give me their new address in Adolf Hitler Strasse in a village in the suburbs of Mulhausen. I reply with a letter as innocuous as possible, but it does not seem to have ever reached them.

At that same time, my cousin Simone Manciet visits us one day and asks whether my mother could make her pass into the Free Zone so that she can go and see her husband in Pellegrue. My mother, who still works at the Tamboury wood factory, knows well all the points of passage under the railway embankment which skirts the factory approximately 400 meters away from the guardroom. These culverted passages make it possible to move rather easily, since they are approximately 1 meter high and about fifteen meters long. The best time to pass is at the end of the night, after the passing of the patrol, easily spied from behind the factory’s heaps of boards. Cousin Simone is thus the first person smuggled by my mother. One hour later I turn up at the checkpoint and in the Free Zone I collect the cousin whom I bring to the French guardroom who then ensures she gets to Pellegrue. Other people, sent by friends or people that we know well, come to us to be smuggled across the line. Not once do we run into trouble, whew!

And then we are well into spring. April saw the Wermacht rush into the Balkans, invade Yugoslavia and Greece and, seizing the island of Crete, get a foothold in the Mediterranean. The Italians, in a very bad position in Libya, receive the back up of Rommel’s Afrika Korps who then reverses a very troubled situation. Another surprising event: Hitler’s protégé of the moment, Rudolf Hess, flees Germany for England. The Germans say that he has suddenly become insane. Lastly, in May we hear of the destruction of the German battleship Bismark that, unfortunately, blew up the Royal Navy’s battleship Hood, a few days before.

Soon the summer is here, and for a long time now we have not had enough to eat. Bread has become foul tasting, corn has gradually replaced wheat or rye, potatoes have become extremely rare, since the Germans have requisitioned the major part of the production to dispatch it to their country. In addition to the nicknames they already have (“Boches”, “Fritz”, “Frisés”, “Fridolins”, “Chleus”, “Verts de gris”) this earns them the nickname of “potato beetles”, from the insect that devastates potato fields.

I resume my postal traffic though I keep them more spaced out as I notice that vehicles crossing the line of demarcation are increasingly being searched. As the “source” of the Gipsies Viziers is dried up from now on (the cigarettes cannot be found any more in the Free Zone) my crossings are less and less justified if only to buy some eggs, rare chickens and beans which I can still get in Villeneuve. When I say “beans”, they too are becoming increasingly rare and from now on are replaced by soya (unknown in the area before the war and that, apparently, comes from Bulgaria.)

Posters, placarded by the German authority, encourage French workmen to volunteer and go to work in Germany. Propaganda insists on the fact that, for each voluntary workman, a prisoner of war will be released.

Vichy French State authorises Germany’s Luftwaffe to make use of the aerodromes of Syria and Lebanon to help Iraq which has just rebelled against the English presence. As a consequence, in early June, the news reaches us that the English troops as well as General de Gaulle’s FFL (Free French Forces) attacked the Vichy French troops in Levant (Syria) who surrender in mid July. A certain number of Vichy soldiers will join the FFL, the others will have the possibility of returning to France.

On June 22, there is an important and dramatic turn of events. Starting the Barbarossa plan, Hitler attacks the Soviet Union and, from the start, the advance of Wehrmacht is dazzling. It is the reappearance of the Blitzkrieg (thousands of prisoners and the Soviet army in rout). Is Hitler going to succeed where Napoleon and his Great Army failed?

From now on, at the cinema, the current events open with the accents of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, an immense V fills the screen, appearing at the same time as the notes Fa-fa-fa-re, Mi-mi-mi-Do sharp. In Morse code these notes represent V (… -) for Victory and the English BBC has, for a long time already, adopted it as the call sign for its programs. Accompanied by thundering music a map of Europe appears on which a small swastika starting from Berlin grows until it covers all of Europe, including the Soviet Union with, in overprinting, German tanks and planes spitting fire and releasing bombs, narrated with a resounding comment: “With the valorous German army, new Europe is on the move. ''

This summer the queues in front of the stores stretch longer and longer and the shop windows do not have a great deal to display. Wool and cotton have disappeared, replaced by ‘fibranne’, a wood fibre. There is no leather to resole the shoes, soles are now made of wood. The “black market” is now well-established but only the wealthy, the traffickers, the “collaborators” at the service of the Germans can benefit from it. The lower class starts to suffer, especially in the cities.

In mid-September, I have a big fright. One Saturday, I turn up at the barrier of the line of demarcation, I have two letters intended for the Free Zone, which I hid between my underwear and the bottom of my trousers. I am used to dealing with the same customs officer but on that day, it is a rather old customs officer (50 years I suppose) that comes out of the hut, untidy and scowling he seems to have had one too many. He comes towards me, walking hesitantly, takes me by the arm, “Kom” he tells me, dragging me into the hut. There, he tells me “alles weg” (you strip.) Since it is not very warm on that day, I slowly take off my sweater, my shirt, my undershirt. The reluctance I display gets me several “Schnell mench!” (more quickly, guy!) I remove my shoes, my socks, and I’m left wearing my trousers and underwear and wondering how all of this will finish. But I’m in luck. A van presents itself to cross and my customs officer rushes to the door to meet it and to make it pull over after having ordered me to strip entirely. His absence will last less than a minute but that will allow me to hide my two letters under the green rug (I will always remember its color) that covers a table and, when the customs officer returns, he finds me stark naked. He searches my clothes, says a , satisfied “Gut” and leaves, while, still trembling, I get dressed and recover my letters. Useless to say that I did not do it again since I had already heard that it was more and more likely that the Germans would set up the Obligatory Work Service (STO) that, a little later, will have thousands of French youths forced to go to work in Germany. If I had been caught, there is no doubt I would have been one of the first to benefit from this measure since I have just turned 18.

At the Court registry office I get to know Thomassin, a native from Lorraine and an interpreter for the Kommandantur. If indeed he works with the Germans, his loyalty is with France. The proof is that, a few days after the adventure I have just related, he comes to find me and tells me that the Kommandantur is keeping an eye on me, after someone anonymously reported my smuggling. I have to take a decision and it will be quickly taken: rather than wait quietly for the Germans to come and nab me, I prepare a small bundle of clothing in a pillow-case and, with 250 francs in hand (approximately 700 Euros), after having said goodbye to my mother, I cross to the Free Zone on October 28, 1941. I have decided to enroll with the French Army, in a regiment as far as possible from the capital.

The soldier.

Once in Agen, with the 5th Infantry Regiment, I go through a medical examination at the hospital Saint Jacques where I am declared fit for the military service, but since I am a flatfoot, I am inapt for the infantry. On the other hand I have the choice between the cavalry and the artillery, I choose the cavalry and sign up for 3 years with the 3rd Regiment of Morrocan Spahis stationed in Meknès, Morocco.

The difficulty is that the German-Italian Armistice councils who control all the ports of the Free Zone let the volunteers bound for North Africa go only a few at a time. While waiting, I am placed with the 3rd Regiment of Hussards (Estherazy Houzard) at Montauban, with the Doumer District, where I arrive at the same time as a Basque from the region of Biarritz, François Lasserre. Very quickly we become friends, live the same adventures in the same regiments, same squadrons until, in November 1944, he falls in a battlefield, but I will have the occasion to return to this later.

For the moment then, there are several of us waiting to depart for Africa; the 3rd Hussard does not have many recruits of its own, so they try to discourage us by saying that the Germans will never authorize us to leave for Africa. They bribe us with promise of better food, less chores, less shifts in the stables, if we decide to remain with the 3rd Hussards. Few are those who change their mind. Admittedly, it is not so bad, really not, but still, we have to deal with the most restless horses; the stable shifts rain on us: the constant cleaning up behind the horses, to collect their droppings or to change their litter, to take care that they do not fight, then between two rounds to try and sleep in the trunk filled with oats; the food rations are of the strictest “jockey diet”: they consist of a portion of so-called meat, no bigger than a small match box and less than one centimetre thick, a quarter of swede or turnip, sometimes boiled carrots, but no pasta. There was a time when soldiers complained of only eating “potatoes” or “beans”. Now, that would certainly be a treat.

Fortunately things don’t stay that way too long. Indeed, in Montauban, in the Andreossi District, close to ours, the 1st Regiment of Spahis Marocains has just returned from Syria; it is not complete since part of its units have joined the FFL of General de Gaulle. Around mid-November, the armistice council gives this regiment the authorization to return to North Africa since the majority of its spahis are from there. Thus the opportunity arises to send us to Africa by making us pass for ex-servicemen of Syria to the Armistice council. Therefore it is with the 1st RSM insignia that we embark on November the 20th, from Marseilles, on the Athos II, after having been reviewed in the seaport by the Armistice council who consented to congratulate us on our resisting the English aggression in Syria. I believe that, hadn’t our fate been at stake, we would have burst out laughing; We, young rookies, hardly 18 years old, ex-servicemen of Syria.

Escorted by the torpedo-boat destroyer Tartu, the following day we disembark safely in Algiers where we are lodged in the barracks of the 13th Senegalese Riflemen, right on the sea front, while waiting to take the train for Morocco. At the barracks’ gate, a score of Algerian kids, “yaouleds” as they are called, offer us dates, bananas, oranges, hard-boiled eggs, all of which are very tempting. It feels like we have arrived in a land of plenty. I buy two hard-boiled eggs from one of the kids and hand a 20 Franc note to another to buy two oranges, but not only does he not give me my oranges but he hares off with my banknote. I will not see him again. I have just learned at my expense that over the Mediterranean, it is better to be cautious. Besides I am swindled on all accounts since the two hard-boiled eggs that I ate made me sick as a dog for the duration of the railway journey - they were surely not of a prime freshness.

And here I am in Meknès where I swap my 1st RSM’s shoulder pads and status of ex-serviceman of Syria for those of the 3rd RSM, still with my friend Lasserre. At once, no time for a breather, we are made to fit into the regiment’s mould. We are going through our basic training, and it ain’t no laughing matter. Marches (by foot and by horse), schooling of the soldier, shootings, reviews, drills, horsemanship, maintenance of the horses and the material, guard duty, in short, we have no time to rest. I am not very tall and we always get around in rows, the tall ones in front and the small ones behind, so when we arrive at the stables to ride a horse, the tall ones, having arrived first, take the best horses they noticed on the first days. The shortest (like me), have to make do with the dregs, the twitchy horses that kick and bite, which do as pleases them and make you fall. Also very quickly I understand that the cavalry is not my cup of tea. But I do not see how I could bail myself out of there.

At the start of December, at the 3rd RSM for only ten days, we are warned that volunteers are sought for the motorized cavalry of the 1st Régiment des Chasseurs d'Afrique (Regiment of African Hunters) in Rabat. It is too good an opportunity to be rid of the horses and, with Lasserre, we volunteer. Things go fast and the following day we leave by train for Rabat.

The 1st RCA is a regiment made up of Europeans in squadrons stationed in Rabat in the Garnier camp and in Casablanca in the camp of Jonquière. Lasserre and I are assigned to the 5th squadron stationed in Casablanca where we arrive with about fifteen other recruits.

Here there are no horses, which is already an improvement. Under the commandment of the corporal sergeant Mercier, we start our basic training all over again and learn how to drive the motorbikes. For the cars and trucks we will have to wait because all the vehicles are tuned to use alcohol as fuel, since the gasoline is preciously preserved for any serious event.

A few days after our arrival, we learn of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour and of the United States’ entry in war. Moreover, since the Germans are stopped in front of Moscow, I am of those who think that nothing is set yet as for the outcome of this war.

My life in Morocco is completely different from the one I lived before enlisting. There is no shortages of anything, or almost none. No ration cards, we have enough to eat, no curfew; indeed there is a German Armistice council in Anfa (the chic district of Casablanca) but it is very discrete. As soon as our military instruction has reached a satisfying level we are authorized to go on leave until midnight in Casablanca where we soon become regulars of the Place de France, the largest plaza of the city, with movie theatres (where US films are still projected) and a bar, “L’automatic “ where one can get both food and drink. On the other hand, it is by foot that we go downtown and return, and that’s an 8 km return journey. Nevertheless we are advised to not venture in the Arab city (Médina) which is well known for being unsafe at night. 1941 comes to an end , and guess how I spend New Year's eve? On guard duty, in the garages!

 ----------------======0000O0000======-----------------

Year 1942                                                                            Top.