Road to Bordeaux
CIVRY LA FORÊT,May 23. — It is hard to distinguish one day from another in one’s mind, the events surpass each other with such rapidity. The horrible battle is going on day and night, with the Germans pounding on to the sea. . . . The roads are frightfully encumbered now with convoys of all sorts — troops, provision trucks, and of course refugees. The caravans have begun to arrive out here in our countryside, which is west of Paris. Up to now we have had the motor and bicycle refugees; now we are getting the oxcarts, the pushcarts, and all the pathetic straggling hordes. Some look relatively comfortable in huge hay wagons half-filled with straw and fodder for the horses, and often with an improvised covering of canvas stretched on barrel hoops. Most of the locomotion is on foot because the poor horses are worn out — they have been incessantly on the move for two weeks! One poor pathetic little horse, about the size of a Shetland pony on a starvation diet , was pulling a small, springless wagon, filled mostly with hay for the beast, while the woman and three small children dragged along beside, the lit1lest being allowed to ride from time to time. They had come from Liége. Little boys in the villages stand at the crossroads with buckets of water for the horses and the automobiles. The convent at Fermaincourt has organized a soup kitchen. They have been at it all week, cutting up vegetables and boiling huge kettles of soup over an open fire by the side of the road just at the entrance to the village. The children are given bowls of fresh milk and the grown-ups are handed out cider and watered wine.
Every now and then a detachment of soldiers come along, part of the retreat from Belgium and Holland, some in charge of a sergeant, others in groups of five or six with no one in charge. I found fifty of them billeted in Civry when I got there for the night. They said what they had lived through was frightful, and that they couldn’t believe what was happening to them. One of them had been in a detachment of twenty-five men stationed in a small garrison at Cambrai, and when they were told to take up positions for combat they thought it was some sort of practice — they just couldn’t believe that they would be ordered to defend the town with ordinary muskets and a few cartridges against motorized, armored units. Not many of them escaped. The five who did said they had the luck to find an automobile with four dead Frenchmen in it, so they simply got in and drove off — there was nothing else to do. They are not considered deserters, as we all know that the order for retreat was given very soon. They are being regrouped here far behind the lines and will be sent up again to the front as soon as their matériel arrives. The morale of the men I have talked to is perfectly remarkable.
PARIS, May 31. — A rather quiet day on the whole; everyone seems to be feeling very much bucked up over the heroic and successful retreat of the troops in Flanders. They are getting them over to England in spite of the Boche. Ominous clouds over Italy, and everyone expects Mussolini to come in on the wrong side any minute now. But no one seems to fear this issue. It is just passed off as one of those setbacks one has to expect, and the ultimate outcome, Hitler’s defeat, is practically assured, although it is admitted it won’t be easy, and the toll will be heavy.
Paris is still pretty normal, cafés and dining places are filled, and automobiles seem to circulate, in spite of the radical reduction on gas cards. We have had no cannon fire nor any alertes for over two weeks. I must say the psychological effect of this war from the air is a deepseated one. One listens calmly, of course, to the approaching whirr of a plane, but the thought invariably darts through one’s mind that perhaps this time it is a bomber bent on business.
June 3. — We have lived through the first bombardment of Paris. I happened to be just back from duty at the hospital, having left at one o’clock. As I got to my front door, the sirens started, so I decided to get to the bomb shelter across the street. There wasn’t much time — I should say about three minutes — before the cannonade started, and the roar of an incalculable number of planes could be heard even underground, as could the sound of bombs dropping here and there.
I talked to a workman from one of the factories which were hit. He said they hadn’t time to get to the shelters, so that he and a few others crouched in a corner by the supporting column of masonry, He was even jocular when he described the quantity of plaster dust and sand that blinded them after the bomb crashed, and how they all started sneezing and coughing.
One of the girls in our Ambulance service had the wall of her salon blown out while she was having lunch. She also said the bombing had occurred just about three minutes after the alarm had sounded, and, thinking she had ten minutes grace, she was trying to finish her strawberries and cream.
It appears that a revised list of casualties has been announced. It is much higher than at first suspected — over 250 killed and 650 wounded. It is dreadful and heart-rending.
CIVRY LA FORÊT,June 9. — Here for the week-end. Jacqueline is here recuperating from jaundice, but I shall drive her back to the convent at Dreux tomorrow morning before returning to Paris. I don’t feel worried about her because the Sisters assure me that they will evacuate the school in time (in case the Germans get too near). Dreux is west of Paris, and they could easily get a train there for Bordeaux, where there is a château in the environs waiting to receive them.
This morning I had my first experience with a blessé civil. One of the farmhands next door, a child of fourteen, got his foot caught in a threshing machine, and badly mangled. Of course the telephones are not working except for the military, so some vague message was sent by a passer-by probably. At any rate, by the time I heard about the accident and went over to see what I could do the foot was drained white. With great difficulty I persuaded the peasants to let me take him to a doctor.
We started toward Orvilliers, where there were soldiers billeted and I thought I might find a military doctor. There was one, who had in fact just, arrived with a whole new contingent, one ambulance, and many trucks of soldiers — reënforcements going up to the front, I supposed. The doctor was very nice and had me bring the patient to the peasant, house where they were setting up a Red Cross station. When he saw the foot he said he did not have the necessary equipment and I had better take the boy on to Houdan, ten kilometres away, where there was a mixed military and civil hospital. So we bundled the patient back and off I went to Houdan. On the way back through Orvilliers, I ran into the army doctor again, so invited him for tea.
Later. — There has been a terrific bombardment in the direction of Mantes and the Seine, and wild rumors kept coming through that Mantes was a mass of ashes and that the Germans were at Magny-en-Vexin, about thirty kilometres from us. Refugees from Mantes are beginning to go by, but they do not stop — they are trying to get farther on by nightfall.
The doctor appeared for tea with his sergeant, and I found out why he could not handle my civilian case. Their contingent is in retreat from the front and they have nothing left — only one ambulance out of I don’t know how many, no equipment, and very few survivors. He wouldn’t say much, being an officer. He must keep up the morale of the rest. We chatted awhile and then they left.
They had hardly gone when a soldier knocked at the gate to ask if I could do anything for one of the men in his contingent who had been run over by a truck two days ago and had been on the march ever since and was now in pretty bad shape. They were being billeted in a farm across the way, so I went over to see. Since the man was still able to walk, I decided to drive him to the doctor, who examined him and said he could go on after a proper rest in a bed. I said I could supply the bed. This group in our village is the pitiful remains of a detachment practically wiped out at Amiens. They have been in retreat for days — no officers left, only a sergeant major.
June 10.—Jacqueline and I arrived at Fermaincourt (Dreux) at 7.45 in the midst of a bombardment, the second they had had since the night before. All the nuns and children were hurrying (but calmly) to the cellar, where we all herded together, the children droning Hail Marys with one Sister while the others gathered at the entrance to discuss the situation. The directrice said news had just come that the station had been bombed and that there were no trains out from Dreux. They had no cars except mine, and no way of escape. So I offered to take whomever I could besides Jacqueline. As soon as the bombardment was over we packed up what we could of Jacqueline’s clothes and strapped her bicycle on the front of the car and her mattress on top, decked with leaves and branches as camouflage. And there we were, suddenly turned into fleeing refugees just like all the others.
We were five plus the luggage — two other children and a Sister besides ourselves. We had to drive through Dreux to get on the road to Chartres, which was the way we were going to get to Châteaudun and back to Civry. At Civry I had stocked some gas, so I intended to go back to get it. I myself had no intention of going to Bordeaux yet. My idea was to get Jacqueline and the others safely on a train for there, then return to Paris and join the hospital as soon as I could.
We picked our way through Dreux guided by the soldiers in charge, who detoured us through the less demolished streets. Fragments of glass covered the entire surface, and small shell holes made driving difficult. Distracted people were trying to put order in their halfdemolished houses. There was no panic. The people simply looked worn and harassed as they went about, their tragic tasks.
We were again detoured outside of Dreux and were not allowed to take the main road. The side roads were marked by clouds of dust raised by the caravans, one car behind the other going about twenty kilometres an hour. We stopped many times at crossroads to allow the military to go through. It was three o’clock when we arrived at Châteaudun. We found a Franco-American dispensary with two women in charge who were most kind and helpful. There was one train for Bordeaux, changing at Tours, due to leave at five the next morning. Being assured that my charges were in good hands, I left to return to Civry.
On the way back I learned the news of Italy’s entry into the war. It was awful, awful to think of my little boy in Megeve on the Italian border — and I thus separated from both my children! I got into Civry at dusk. There was no use trying to go on to Paris without lights, which are not allowed. So I decided to wait until dawn. The sound of bombardments made sleep impossible.
June 11. — At two-thirty I got up, but there was no sign of dawn. At threethirty still no daylight. Then I realized that we were in some sort of fog or smoke screen. Day began to dawn vaguely through a yellowish-black haze. I got off on the main road to Paris. It was evident that the city was being evacuated. I wondered if, once in, I should ever get out. The outgoing line was moving more and more slowly.
I got to Paris about six-thirty and went straight to my house to see if I should find news from Megeve. There was none. Nor was there anyone left in the apartment house but the poor old concierge, weeping pitifully because she had no way to leave. I decided to take her with me and try to get to Châteaudun as soon as possible. I was sure that if there were no trains out. of Paris there would be none at Châteaudun, and my poor child and the Sister would be caught in a horrible jam in some station.
No time to take any belongings other than the ones I had with me. I strapped on my bicycle, an old extra tire, one more can of gasoline, and we were off. The blackish-yellow pall hung over everything, settling on our faces as a greasy black covering. Most people said the Allies had produced the smoke screen to protect the evacuation of Paris. Others said the Germans had done it in order to be able to cross the Seine.
It took us two hours to reach a suburb ten kilometres outside of Paris. Three long streams of cars, fender to fender, moved slowly out on the road to Orléans.
Because of my uniform I managed occasionally to get behind a military convoy, and in that way we could make about twenty kilometres an hour instead of five for a short distance. Then one of the soldiers directing the traffic would decide that, since I was driving a private car, I should have to follow the civilians.
I stopped to send a telegram to the hospital and one to Megeve telling where I was heading for. Not much hope that telegrams would arrive, but everything must be tried. I felt I had made a fatal mistake in going back to Paris. Since I could not have helped with the hospital until I knew that at least one of my children was safe, I should have gone straight on to Châteaudun instead of getting into this horrible exodus.
BORDEAUX, June 14.—At last arrived, after having driven from dawn to sundown every day, never stopping, eating bread and chocolate whenever the caravan of cars was halted. I followed the route the train should have taken.
After Tours the going was easier, with the exception of two punctures and the standing in line for hours to get gasoline. You had to get it in a tin — they wouldn’t let the cars line up at the pumps, and first you had to get a permit. As dusk began settling I would go down some side road to a farm and ask to sleep in the barn. I was never refused and generally was offered milk and eggs à volonté.
It is wonderful to be here in Bordeaux and to have found my child. They had a really terrible journey, much worse than mine.
The Consulate gives no hopes for boats going to America, nor any promise that my French children can get visas. Anyway we are safe for the moment, Jacqueline and I, and I trust my little boy can leave Megeve in time.
This is a copy of the letter Jacqueline has just written to the family: —
BORDEAUX, June 15, 1940
I think it’s high time I should start writing to the family. I’m really awful about writing. How are you and Kiki? You know I was in a Dominican school near Paris lately, but there was no question of staying around Paris, so the school closed; two girls and a Sister fled with me down to Bordeaux. We got on a refugee train; it was too awful to talk about, and I’ll never forget it: just like those dreadful dark stories one hears about the last war, only worse!
Mummy managed to join me; she came down in the car. Apparently the roads are just as bad — one long caravan of carts pulled by miserable horses, most of which die on the roadside, people who have come all the way from Belgium on foot, children separated from their parents in the rush, old people left to die because they can’t go on. It is a regular stampede south, south, always south, with the Germans behind and above bombing the caravans.
I’ve seen too much — horrible things you can’t imagine — soldiers back from the front with nothing, in a state of nervous breakdown, something unbelievable. They say this war will make lots of crazy people. I’ve seen plenty already. I’ve seen German planes, heard bombs and cannons, seen women collapse in stations from fatigue. And yet all this is nothing but the backstage of the great show. Mummy is trying to get my papers and passport ready to leave here from Bordeaux probably. I might not even wait for Giles, who is still up in Haute-Savoie with friends.
We have left our flat in Paris with everything in it, and our sweet country place all in bloom, and our cats. The Germans are not so far from there now. Oh dear, I wonder what we’ll find when we get back.
The Dominican Sisters are very nice. The Mother Superior is a mulatto, and she’s a dear. They really don’t mind if I’m not a Catholic — I just don’t say anything. After all, one is allowed to think as one likes.
Please give my love to everybody.
JACQUELINE
BORDEAUX, June 20.—The fourth day of waiting! — while the German armies forge steadily ahead in the direction of Brittany, Bordeaux, and Lyons. Waiting, waiting to hear the outcome of the French offer of an armistice.
Having lived through the first bombardment of Paris, we managed very well through the first bombardment of Bordeaux. It started sometime after midnight and was almost as violent as the Paris one. They tried to get the stations and the port, but missed the former and did little damage to the latter.
You could hear the bombs whistle as they fell. They wrecked several apartment houses, bursting with people, in the neighborhood of the station. The Church of St. Michel is partly demolished, and all the stained-glass windows blown out. Behind the church a whole apartment house was completely wiped out. Two others were sliced exactly in two by a bomb which fell, pulverized one house, and burst a water main in the cellar, where about twenty-five people had taken refuge. They were all drowned. One house, with its side sliced off, remained otherwise practically intact; mirrors and pictures still hung on the walls unbroken.
After the bombardment began the exodus of the Bordelais, resembling only too well the evacuation of Paris. Our convent is filled to overflowing, people sleeping in the barn and in tents. We are now forty-eight, where we were twenty-five last week. I have a pass and can drive into Bordeaux.
I have taken off my uniform, as I can’t find my hospital unit and it is better to be a civilian when the Germans arrive.
June 21. — Went in to Bordeaux to help at a refugee centre in one of the stations. It was disheartening to see the poor devils arrive by train, bicycle, or on foot. They are utterly beaten.
The evacuation of the northern and northwestern regions of France has left the villages and small towns completely desolate. When these last straggling refugees went through there was not a loaf of bread, nor a single occupied house. Unless they happened to meet retreating soldiers with a soup kitchen, they simply starved. The oldest and the feeblest starved to death.
It is pathetic to see them, flopped down on the floor and steps of the station, amid their own and other people’s filth, refuse, greasy papers, and mangy baggage — some sleeping, others just stupidly sitting, waiting for I don’t know what.
There is food enough here. The markets are filled with fresh vegetables, fish, and fruit. Every morning a motley collection of cars line up around the central markets. Ambulances, military trucks, private cars, pushcarts. There is a waiting line before the grocery stores, but everyone eventually gets served.
One of the familiar sights along the road is the tandem outfit, usually a man and a woman, sometimes with a child strapped between them on the crossbar. Saddlebags hang over the wheels at the sides. Blankets are rolled across the handlebars, and kitchen utensils clatter against the mudguards. Arriving at the American Consulate yesterday afternoon was just such a team — two students from Montparnasse, the girl a small frail American about eighteen, her companion a Hungarian. They were almost the last to leave Paris. They walked their machine in and out between the cars.
As they were nearing Dourdan in a long line three cars deep, they were suddenly surprised by three planes they first thought were French, until they swooped down within inches of the tops of the automobiles and began machinegunning the compact mass of civilians. The havoc was indescribable. Three times the planes returned to the charge.
The tandem team, being already on the edge of the road, managed to get under a clump of trees, and thus escaped. This was nothing to what they ran into in Etampes. Just as they had passed under the railroad bridge near the station a bomb demolished the bridge, trapping two buses and a private car. The screams of the wounded and the cries of the terrified women and children were stifled in the thick white dust which rose from the pulverized masonry. Blood stood out in liquid brightness against the white background. A child with his foot in ribbons was sitting at the side of the road, his eyes staring, too stunned to realize what had happened. A young man in plus-fours holding on to a demolished bicycle, blood gushing from the main artery in his neck, propped himself against a lamp post, like some monstrous modern crucifixion.
The girl cyclist and her companion had flattened themselves against a wall that by some miracle remained standing. There was nothing to be done. One of the crushed buses had caught fire and in turn set fire to the car just ahead. The fire engines were trying to get to the spot. An old man was crying distractedly to his wife who had died in his arms, her left side torn away by shrapnel.
June 25. — The armistice is signed, and hostilities ceased last night at one o’clock. It is a day of mourning for the French. All cafés and places of amusement are closed. There will be a national ceremony for the dead at the Cathedral of Bordeaux today.
Flags fly at half-mast. Sad people line the roads, watching the last of the French troops move out to make way for the Germans, who will come in tomorrow.
The government is moving to Clermont-Ferrand, but no news can be sent out by radio or cable or post. I shall try to get this out by plane tonight if mail still goes. We are prisoners of the Nazis.