You can read the first part here:

And for your perusal, here is part two…

The Minister’s Domain

This air force, fragmented in peacetime into small units under the tangled control of territorial commanders and branch inspectors, received its substance from two essential bodies of very different value:

• On the one hand, the corps of career officers and non-commissioned officers,

• On the other, the aeronautical industry.

…The personnel we will see in action in the field were worthy of the best traditions of the French army; their loyalty and sense of discipline naturally kept them in their place in national life. The minister’s role with regard to them was essentially limited to ensuring that their status was respected and taking general measures to protect or improve their family and material well-being.

Aeronautical Construction

However, his task with regard to the aeronautical industry was more complex and difficult; ultimately possessing a substantial budget whose effective use depended on a sound manufacturing policy, his responsibility was directly engaged. The first condition of this policy would have been a clear program of civil and military needs, spread over several years and established in order of priority; but as we have seen, the General Staff was incapable of finalising the operational plan from which this program would have stemmed. For their part, successive ministers showed little interest in this crucial issue, which only their authority would have compelled them to consider; they merely kept the aeronautical industry afloat on a shoestring to maintain its research and manufacturing capacity; but at what cost and with what results!

The process was as follows: a list of incredibly diverse aircraft designs was proposed by the manufacturers; Day fighters, night fighters, multi-seat combat aircraft, day and night bombers, attack aircraft, torpedo bombers, reconnaissance aircraft, observation aircraft, medical aircraft, colonial aircraft, carrier-based aircraft, catapult-launched aircraft, training aircraft, couriers, transport aircraft... and so on.

This list resulted in numerous orders for prototypes, paid for at different rates depending on the results, but the minimum performance requirements were established in such a way that no manufacturer could lose money. This was the first windfall, a kind of subsidy for design offices, practically uncontrollable.

The prototype could be followed by a small production order, sometimes directly by a large production order. Even at this stage, the connection with the manufacturers was illusory; it happened that production aircraft delivered to units remained unusable in hangars, awaiting some hypothetical modification.

The minister was little more than an allocator of budgetary funds; His concern, too often, was limited to preventing factory closures and avoiding upsetting manufacturers who lived like lords. This system fostered slander; some ministers were not spared. If the Air Force General Staff had presented a concise equipment program centred on the concept of air warfare, it is likely that this tendency toward wastefulness and laxity would have been curbed. Its implementation would have forced manufacturers to concentrate their technicians and equipment on the few key aircraft for the battle. British and German industry achieved this; there was no reason why French industry should not succeed.

Three ministers deserve mention, albeit for very different reasons: they would break with tradition and contribute to shaping the face of aviation on the day of combat: General Denain, Pierre Cot, and Guy La Chambre.

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To that end, this week I want to look at François d’Astier de La Vigerie, an aristocrat from southeast France who started life in WW1 in the Moroccan Division before gaining his pilots license. He did well in the air, and was awarded the Croix de Guerre and seven separate citations for various acts of madness/bravery. He spent the 1920s and early 1930s variously in Finland, Italy, fighting in Morocco and by 1936 was the youngest general France had, with command of an aerial brigade, before finally being given command of the 4th Aerial Region. When war broke out again in 1939 General Gamelin, lamentably in charge of defending France, appointed him as commander of the Northern Air Operations Zone. This meant he would be overseeing the French aerial forces getting slammed by Blitzkrieg.

Anyway, you know how it ended. Badly. But in 1952 d’Astier published a book, Le ciel n’était pas vide, or ‘The Sky was not Empty,’ pushing back on the notion that the Allied air forces were nowhere to be seen during the Fall of France, and I thought, seeing as he had to weather the entire sh*tstorm from the top, I’d spend this week letting him have his say. Specifically when it comes to the French Air Force and it’s impact at this stage of the war. Or lack thereof…

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Normandy was first up, and as well as repeating the Sword Beach tour that was so successful last year, Stephen Fisher and I also introduced a long weekend at Gold Beach (above). In a feat of tour guide cruelty, he had our group, which had very much overindulged all weekend long in excellent food and drink, hike up above Port en Bessin on the final morning, but they were rewarded with spectacular views like the one below.

In the course of our Istoria tours, I picked the house I want in Normandy. Not that I have any money, and it’s also not for sale, but I also have a reserve on the seafront in Sword sector because it feels slightly more realistic. At least it looked empty…

Then next it was out to Verdun with the Great War Group to introduce nearly 50 newcomers to that sector of the Western Front. We were accompanied by my hand-knitted little friend. (Thank you Judith!)

The quayside at Verdun is spectacular for sunny summer evenings, with plenty of bars and restaurants.

In one of the French cemeteries, lie the men who were not quite chosen as the French unknown soldier. Below is a moody shot from inside Fort Douaumont, which was so fiercely fought over in 1916. We were lucky enough to have Christina Holstein as a guide. If you’re an English speaker, you’d be mental to head down to Verdun without at least one of her guidebooks in hand…

On the last morning, we also made sure to take everyone to Vauquois to one of the most mind-blowing sites on the Western Front. Here, a village was literally blasted off the hilltop by repeated mining and underground warfare…

Once everyone had left, a few of us remained in France to leisurely look at some more WW1 stuff. Below is a shot from Meuse Argonne American Cemetery, which is woefully under-visited compared to some of the others, but I think is the biggest US military cemetery outside America itself…

Then we pootled off to the Somme to do some recce work for my June tour. This included planning a morning in the French sector, so I could bang on about France’s contribution to the battle in 1916 - which totalled, I think, nearly 70,000 deaths. Below is Belvedere de Frise on the river. We talked about a French Foreign Legion chap from Switzerland that I wrote about on here last week, but it’s also been put forward as having been the inspiration for the Dead Marshes in the Lord of the Rings.

Below is a bucolic shot from a more familiar site for British war nerds. Taken from Hawthorn Ridge crater, underneath the trees in the middle is the famous Sunken Lane, where famous images of the Lancashire Fusiliers were captured before the fighting on 1st July 1916.

We also had to plan some Royal Naval Division content, hence why Judith and I were scurrying about in Beaucourt sur l’Ancre…

The next departure for France was to do some research, and comprised a lap of Brittany…

Obviously we had to start with Mont St. Michel…

Then it was on to Ploumanarc’h, which is famed for it’s red granite coastline…

Locranan frequently makes all those Instagram bucket list posts, and top 10s for the most beautiful village in France - that’s where the photos above and below were taken… It’s like Last of the Summer Wine but with better food…

There are lots of very cool little walled towns too, that have retained their look. This one is Concarneau…

Bigger, but with the same medieval vibe is Vannes (below)

I was very much trying not to make this run to France all about war, but I took this route because I wanted to go ferreting about after some French Resistance people and events in 1944 that centred on this tower

When we got to Rennes, it was a bit of a surprise to emerge from the hotel and find a school building with a direct link to the Dreyfus affair… It was where the trial took place in 1899. Then, lastly for this trip, it was a pilgrimage to one of France’s six book villages where I completely shamed myself…

And then finally for now, it was back to the Somme with an Istoria group. One of the highlights was being able to do Pozières with an Australian guest whose grandfather was here in 1916.

Richard van Emden was with us - on his very first battlefield tour - and demonstrates his superior pointing ability here just along from Bulls Road Cemetery at Flers. He was telling the story of Arnold Ridley, of Dad’s Army fame…

And here’s our group on their French morning! This was taken at the large French cemetery at Rancourt, where we told several stories and explored the memorial chapel set up by one mother whose son died nearby.

Surprised, but also delighted to find a Spad painted up with Georges Guynemer’s insignia waiting for us in the passenger terminal back at Calais…

And one last image - this from our final night in Arras.

Not exactly tangible, which is why instead I want to talk about a modernist writer/poet who went by the pen name Blaise Cendrars, who served here in the winter of 1914-15. Born in Switzerland as Frédéric-Louis Sauser, he was naturalised French in 1916 having joined the French Foreign Legion to fight the war.

A clean cut version of Cendrars from before the war (Wikipedia)

The following is a chapter from his book, The Severed Hand, which is a series of intimate vignettes more concerned with small scale action and human interaction than vast battles. This one concerns a spot nearby called La Grenouillère (frog pond, but we’ll say froggery for the lols) west along the river from Peronne. Before the Brits arrived, before there was an immense campaign on the Somme in 1916, there was a night out on a boat, a lot of infighting, a moody colonel and a great deal of red tape. I think you’re going to like this guy:

We had returned to La Grenouillère… Feillères was only 1,200 metres away. A dense park, through whose leafless trees one could glimpse the outbuildings pierced with embrasures and the ruined roof of a château, just beyond the flooded meadow… Feillères had been lost by the French at the end of September. The Germans, those earth-moving soldiers, had heavily fortified it and, holding the hamlet firmly in their grasp, had even installed heavy artillery there, howitzers that pounded Albert, some twenty kilometres away, behind us. At night, there was a great deal of coming and going at Feuillères, a ring road, left bank to right bank, the road from Combles to Herbécourt crossing this strategic position. Like the bad road upstream from Éclusier to Vaux, entirely underwater and absolutely unusable for us to establish contact with Curlu, this road from Combles to Herbécourt was partly flooded, but the Germans still managed to get their supplies through, and their intense nighttime traffic attracted us indescribably, now that we had found our ferry again.

…We could go by boat, we had to go and see for ourselves, and we had studied the approaches to Feuillères downstream, poorly defended on the waterfront, followed the road embankment as it crossed the marshes, passed under two or three temporary bridges, noted the breaches, reached the road level where the locks were broken and the causeway flooded, pushed on as far as Hem-Monacu and Cléry on the other bank of the Somme, well downstream from Curlu, to survey the channels and the outlet—all this without a hitch. And we returned from these adventurous incursions behind enemy lines in an unimaginable state of exhilaration and contentment, ready to risk everything to carry out an operation on this vital artery, so tempting was the prospect.

Should we tell Jacottet? Opinions were divided. My lads, Griffith, Sawo, and Garnero, were itching to seize a supply convoy, hoping for some food, all sorts of “souvenirs,” and other “nice surprises,” not to mention a good laugh. I, on the other hand, would have preferred a more forceful approach, like blowing up a bridge or two or cutting off the road, but that required proper equipment and no improvisation, which is why I advised consulting the captain. But the guys were laughing at me, especially Griffith, claiming that we would never get permission to go and that at best the matter would be postponed indefinitely, and remembering our previous experiences, and all agreeing that we would only expect trouble from the officers and the general staff if they interfered with our game, this large part of freedom that we nevertheless granted ourselves in the general slavery of war and the army, aware that each of us was only risking our own skin and that, in case of success, the team would benefit from an extra allowance, and in Paris! I was inclined to give in to them... and while we were talking about all this, discussing the plan, waiting for a suitable opportunity or a lucky break to decide, we were secretly making some large bombs, filling our boat with grenades, and stealing muskets and revolvers from the cavalrymen and artillerymen, none of us wanting to use or be burdened with a rifle…

I had brought Monocolard into our team, and it was this joker who unexpectedly triggered the whole affair, an exploit that revolutionised the general staff and earned my five pirates the Croix de Guerre, and for me, a world of trouble, investigations, interrogations, accusations, denunciations, and such suspicion that they almost sent me to Biribi to end my days. [Biribi were brutal French punishment colonies for badly behaved servicemen in North Africa. I’ll do an article on this one day].

But this threat hanging over my head didn’t manage to dampen my good humour, because it was hilarious to see this minor anecdote from the front line grow at every level, snowballing to the very last instance: the administration and offices, the sector authorities and the sticklers for discipline, sergeants, gendarmes, old-timers and veterans of all ranks, civilian and military, and even the ministers themselves, of War and the Navy in Paris, scheming, jealous, calling out to one another, brandishing their great sabres, wielding their thunderbolts, on the verge of issuing an ultimatum and declaring war, waging a war of paper (keeping the other, the real one, the one we were waging, on hold) with decrees, laws, paragraphs, articles, regulations, ordinances, and minutes, as if it were a lost ocean liner and not a hapless fishing boat.

That night, the weather was dreadful.

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A few years before, in tiny Reculey, some 20 miles southeast of Saint-Lô, a local man named Albert, but known as ‘Buret’, had fallen madly in love with a 17 year-old petite brunette named Albertine Lepesteur. A little too madly, it seemed. Anyway, they secured a small farm the other side of Saint-Lô, along with a cow and two pigs and started married life. Nobody else lived particularly nearby save for a 74 year-old farmer named Victor Lemonnier, and aside from him they kept themselves to themselves. Albertine was moody and didn’t like people, and rumours soon began to circulate that she was a witch. But Buret seemed decent, sober and hardworking and soon they were expecting a baby. Even the cow was pregnant, which surely meant that everything was normal.

Then the sh*t hit the fan.

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The 2nd Regiment of Turcos in action 6th August, 1870

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Like the rest of Western Europe, Kitchener was paying no attention to Austria-Hungary or Serbia throughout July, and the reality of the situation only hit home for anyone west of Berlin after the feckless Austrian ultimatum was delivered to Serbia at the end of the month. Ever since the Curragh debacle the previous March, which resulted in the resignation of the Secretary of State for War, Prime Minister Herbert Asquith had been filling the empty role himself. Now, with war looming he realised that he could not continue to shoulder the burden of the two jobs at once.

Kitchener had been home from his post in Egypt for the summer but was about to leave when late on 3rd August, Asquith had dashed off a note. “I was very sorry to interrupt your journey today, and I fear I caused you inconvenience. But with matters in their present critical position I was anxious that you should not get beyond reach of personal consultation and assistance.” Kitchener had made it as far as Dover. On 5th August Asquith managed to convince him to step into the breach at the War Office. “It requires the undivided time and thought of any man to do the job properly… [He] was, to do him justice, not at all anxious to come in, but clearly understood… and… his place at Cairo is kept open so that he can return to it when peace comes back.”

The post had been sold to Kitchener as his duty to King and Country, neither of which he was likely to turn his back on. Inside Whitehall, Kitchener’s appointment as Secretary of State for War was not a wholly welcome decision. He was not a politician, and Asquith did not expect him to be. The Prime Minister was also under no illusions about the abrasive Cabinet member he was assuming, but for him, it was worth the risk. He was getting an icon, one that was willing to slot into his Government in Britain’s best interests. Asquith’s action was shrewd, for he was projecting the image of national unity with this non-partisan appointment. It also saved his own skin, for he was facing a political disaster over home rule in Ireland. But his actions were honest too. At this time of crisis he did not reach out to Kitchener for the sake of his Government’s survival alone. He believed him to be the best man for the job.

Recruitment

Given what he expected in terms of the war, Kitchener was under no illusion about the size of the task in front of him. Allegedly when he walked through the door to take up the post, he was asked to give a specimen signature to keep on file. The pen they gave him was a dud, and as he flung it down he apparently said “What a War Office. Not a scrap of an army and not a pen that will write.”

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‘For three months now, I have been under the command of Captain Pons. In addition to Julot, I have already brought seven other determined young men into the Resistance, five of whom worked with me at the workshop in the Depot. I must now be careful in my comings and goings, especially when I go to Portes.

I haven’t been back to the workshop, so it is in the little café I usually frequent that I have recruited comrades. For in the eyes of the Germans, I am now a draft dodger, a “partisan,” as they say. If the Germans asked for my papers, which aren’t in order, I’d be arrested on the spot and put on a train to Germany. Julot is in the same situation as me. We each now have a Colt in our pocket, ready to fire. We’re not worried. Almost every night, after dark, Julot slips away like a squirrel to his mother’s house and spends the night there; I go back to my room in Portes, after carefully checking around to see if I’m being followed. So far, everything has gone well.

The eight of us make up what the captain calls the “tough guys.” The four draft dodgers are still serving: Bergeronnette, Laridon, Paulin, and me. Bergeronnette was preparing for an exam; Since he was threatened with being sent to Germany, his father, an engineer with the French National Railways (SNCF), came to our house to ask my people to hide him. He’s so young, blond, kind, without a single flaw, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke—a real girl, you know! Julot, as a joke, immediately nicknamed him Bergeronnette (Little Wagtail). He just laughed, because he has a good nature. But don’t be fooled by his sweet, well-bred young lady demeanour… he’s sometimes incredibly bold.

Laridon, on the other hand, is twenty; he wanted to go to the École Polytechnique to become an artillery officer, if our army hadn’t been abolished by Hitler. Description: tall, black hair, like a Corsican, which he isn’t, pale complexion, wears glasses, has poor posture, and above all—something not found on identity cards—never flinches in the face of danger. Cold, calm, sparing with his words. Distinguishing feature: he has a score to settle with the Nazis, his father having been killed in the fighting at Saumur in 1940.

Paulin was a lathe operator in my workshop. Much older than Julot and me, he’s thirty. He’s married. Nothing forced him to join the Resistance. A skilled worker, doing his job properly, well-regarded, arrangements had been made in Portes to prevent him from leaving for Germany until now. We are very close; he’s known me since I was very young. Very serious, rather reserved, because he doesn’t talk much, he’s like an older brother and an example to us… He’s a socialist and has very firm ideas about work, conduct, and society. On these subjects, you mustn’t contradict him, otherwise he’ll throw one of those lines at you: “Ah! You guys, you’re getting on my nerves!” “And we consider it wiser to remain silent because, although he is shorter than me (I’m too tall, thin and nervous), it would not be wise to cross this sturdy, well-built man who hides beneath a placid exterior.

One day in early November, he came to wait for me outside the bistro where I eat dinner almost every night, and said:

“You joined the Resistance… you did the right thing… I’m fed up with making rings for the Germans. I can’t stand those German soldiers I see through the workshop windows anymore, strolling along the tracks at Portes, rifles slung over their shoulders, hands in their pockets, looking like they don’t give a damn about us. We don’t dare believe in the British and American landings anymore, not since they’ve been brainwashing us. In any case, we’ll have to drive them out with rifles and grenades! I’ve been to war, and I know a thing or two about fighting. That’s why I’d like to join the Resistance too.”

“Yes, but what about your wife?”

“I told her a few words about it last night. If I leave, she’ll go to the Vercors, to Vassieux, to her mother’s.

“Will she join the Resistance too?” I said, smiling.

“Exactly.”

“Well, my old friend Paulin, I’ll introduce you to Captain Pons whenever you like. We need a lot of men like you.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

And that’s how my good friend Paulin joined us. Since he fought in the war, and is the oldest and most experienced, the captain put us under his command.

The four of us have free time. Almost every afternoon, we meet at Les Gardettes. Captain Pons gives us our military training. We now know how to operate the British machine gun, the Mauser, the submachine gun, throw grenades, and use the grenade launcher and plastic explosives.

Ah, plastic explosives! What a marvel they are! It’s like very soft putty that you can knead and divide as you please. With its honest, slightly yellowish appearance, this paste, a little oily to the touch, produces a much greater effect than the old dynamite cartridge. It’s also a good paste; it lets itself be kneaded without reacting. You can have fun with it. You can make little men out of it, grotesque heads. But if you insert a little compressed guncotton connected to a detonating cord, or, if you’re in a hurry, a simple “pencil,” which will act in the same way as the guncotton and the detonating cord, then, after half an hour, an hour, two hours—whichever you prefer—it explodes.

The rest of the team includes Julienne Champart, Charlemagne, Rogeril, and everyone from the workshop. Since none of them received their orders to leave for Germany, Captain Pons advised them to continue their work as lathe operators until he formed his own camp. They all come to Les Gardettes whenever they have a few free hours. They form the reserve of our team.

Julien is an eighteen-year-old boy of average height, with an intelligent face and very curly blond hair. He already has a strong personality. He’s an outspoken activist. He’s very ambitious. He attends secret communist meetings and hopes that later, when we’re back in a republic, he’ll become someone in that party. Brutal, he doesn’t hesitate to take on anyone who disagrees with him—he’ll take on the Germans roughly.

Champart, the son of a railway worker, is nineteen. He is very serious, too serious even, wears glasses, and never laughs. He’s so shy he’s sometimes awkward when he speaks. He belongs to the Young Catholic Workers. Julien is his best friend.

Charlemagne is twenty years old. We call him Coin-Coin. A funny face: a trumpet nose, speaks through his nose, and hates the Germans; three months ago, they shot his older brother as a terrorist, after holding him in prison for two months at Fort Montluc in Lyon.

Rogeril, the youngest of the “tough guys,” is seventeen; he’s a Parisian who came to the Drôme region with his parents, who were evacuated in 1940. He speaks like a Parisian street urchin. Clever as a monkey, sly as a fox, stubborn as a mule; all in all, a good lad.

So far, Paulin, Julot, Bergeronnette, Laridon, and I have only carried out sabotage on the single-track Valence-Die line. At a rate of one or two attacks per night, we blew up the rails for nearly ten days. At first, the Germans, who take it much more calmly than one might think, sent teams to carry out the necessary repairs, as they were very keen to keep this line open to maintain communication with Gap. Then, when they saw that we were persistent, they gave up on repairing it, and now the Valence-Die line is unusable.

We are practicing before attacking the main Marseille-Valence-Lyon line, which is occupied and guarded by the enemy. This evening, 28th January, 1944, at 6:30 p.m., we are going to attempt a major attack, under Paulin’s command…

Example of a group of resistance men, including Maquisards, 1944 (www.vercors-resistance.fr)

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Our story begins more than eight centuries later at the beginning of February, 1921, when an engineer from the Mondeville blast furnaces came looking for his mum, which sounds admittedly bizarre. In his defence, the poor woman had been missing for three weeks so I feel like he was leaving no stone (lol) unturned. Anyway, into the caves he went, accompanied by his dog. By this point, the most easily accessible galleries were being used to grow mushrooms, and he was about to venture beyond these, further inside the complex when his dog went nuts. Because in the main hall, hidden behind a pillar, was a corpse. And it was an old woman. Now, he quickly put aside any suspicion that this was his mother, because the body was in an advanced state of decomposition. In fact, a week or so later his mum would be fished out of the Orne-Sea canal, just along from what would soon because known as Pegasus Bridge. That was chalked off as a tragic accident, but what about this second woman rotting in the cave?

(villesducalvados.free.fr)

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It’s been a blast. Along with 40 members, we were thrilled to take Christina Holstein along, who is the best historian writing about this key front in English. As usual, we rotated through speakers, with more than half a dozen chipping in, and our evenings were stacked with social events.

f this has you experiencing FOMO, next year we’re off to the Champagne, for a wholly international look at the Western Front, based out of Reims. Visit www.greatwargroup.com for info on how to join our ranks. But for now, for those who weren’t able to strike out towards the Meuse with us, here are some of the key moments…

Looking far more idyllic than in 1916, our base for the weekend was right in the centre of Verdun.

Chief Trustee and designated Birthday Boy Jim Smithson kicked things off by setting the stage and talking about why the battle took place.

We’d taken everybody off to the rear of the German lines to begin, with a look at a massive gun pit and all the concrete that comes with supplying a large naval gun. Steve Marsdin covered this, and even came equipped with magnets for his map as he revealed the scale of initial bombardments at Verdun in 1916. Grant is posing by a split railway line that runs right up to the pit, built for bringing shells in and out.

Next up we visited Azannes, a hub for the Germans. Trustee Dr. Locky explained German strategy, why this area was so busy, and talked about the scale of early casualties in 1916…

Lovely Jenny made her guiding debut during the weekend, taking on the story of the ossuary at Douaumont, and why the site was selected to house the remains of thousands of fallen Frenchmen from the Battle of Verdun.

And finally for day one, we braved the giant mosquitoes and went into the forest so that Jonny Dyer could tell our crowd the story of Colonel Driant. Pictured above is his bunker, and below you will see Christina adding more to the story at the site where he fell. an absolute character and a devoted patriot, he is one of the most famous Frenchmen associated with the battle.

Day two, and we handed over proceedings to Judith, who guided the group through the ruined village of Bezonvaux. Key to her story was the role played here by a young officer called Andre Maginot. You can click on the link below to find out more about what the man behind France’s WW2 defensive system did in the First World War…

The rest of the day consisted of a lot of me waffling, and I didn’t take photos of myself. I got the chance to share the story of the capture of one Charles de Gaulle in another ruined village, Douaumont, and below is the area where he fell into enemy hands, effectively ending his active participation in the war in March 1916. Again, you can find out more by clicking on the link…

I talked more at Fort Douaumont itself, about it falling into enemy hands in February 1916, but then it was over to Christina, who gave an enthralling walk through tour down below…

There was time to visit the memorial museum and of course, the book shop, before we ended day two at a French cemetery. Christina shared the story of Lieutenant Hans at Fleury, whilst we also visited the seven also rans who almost became the French unknown soldier. Finally, member Alex Lyons produced his great grandfather’s medals, and talked about his role in the Battle of Verdun.

The following morning, we rounded off our introduction to the battle courtesy of Bart Debeer, on the left bank. Finally, because you can’t possibly drive past it, even if it is slightly too far from Verdun, we took everybody to Vauquois. Well the blasted hilltop that was Vauquois. 519 separate mine explosions consigned the village to history, and accounted for 14,000 casualties on both sides.

For those who still were not done nerding, Steve Marsdin and I spent Monday afternoon showing people the eastern extremity of the Battle of the Marne in 1914. Yes, it really did stretch that far, and it was a huge bonus for me to be able to show people some of the key locations featured in Ring of Fire.

The fact that we had been sent for meant that we were to be ordered out on a sortie. We had reached the last days of May, 1940, a time of full retreat, of full disaster. Crew after crew was being offered up as a sacrifice. It was as if you dashed glassfuls of water into a forest fire in the hope of putting it out.

The last thing that could occur to any one in this world that was tumbling round our ears was the notion of risk or danger. Fifty reconnaissance crews was all we had for the whole French army. Fifty crews of three men each-pilot, observer, and gunner. Out of the fifty, twenty-three made up our unit… In three weeks, seventeen of the twenty-three had vanished. Our Group had melted like a lump of wax. Yesterday, speaking to Lieutenant Gavoille, I had let drop the words, “Oh, we’ll see about that when the war is over.” And Gavoille had answered, “I hope you don’t mean, Captain, that you expect to come out of the war alive?” Gavoille was not joking. He was sincerely shocked. We knew perfectly well that there was nothing for us but to go on flinging ourselves into the forest fire… An immense forest fire raging, and a hope that it might be put out by the sacrifice of a few glassfuls of water. They would be sacrificed. And this was as it should be. Who ever thought of complaining? When did anyone ever hear, among us, anything else than “Very good, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Quite right, sir.”

Throughout the closing days of the French campaign one impression dominated all others - an impression of absurdity. Everything was cracking up all round us. Everything was caving in. The collapse was so entire that death itself seemed to us absurd. Death, in such a tumult, had ceased to count. But we ourselves did not count. Dutertre and I went into the major’s office. The major’s name was Alias. As I write, he is still in command of Group 2-33, at Tunis. “Afternoon, Saint-Ex. Hello, Dutertre. Sit down.” We sat down. The major spread out a map on the table and turned to his clerk: “Fetch me the weather reports.”

He sat tapping on the table with his pencil. I stared at him. His face was drawn. He had had no sleep. Back and forth in a motorcar, he had driven all night in search of a phantom General Staff. He had been summoned to division headquarters. To brigade headquarters. He had argued and wrangled with supply depots that never delivered the spare parts they promised. His car had been bottled up in the crazy traffic. He had supervised our last moving out and our most recent moving in - for we were driven by the enemy from one field to another like poor devils scrambling in the van of a relentless bailiff. Alias had succeeded in saving our planes, saving our lorries, saving the stores and files of the Group. He looked as if he had reached the end of his strength, of his nerves.

Antoine Saint-Exupéry (Britannica)

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After an existential crisis to the monarchy in which his elder brother abdicated, 89 years ago today, Britain celebrated the coronation of George VI, better known to his family as Bertie. It’s no secret I’m a fan. I named my cat after him, but today I thought I would share some images from a huge souvenir book of the event that I picked up a few years ago. Above, you can see the royal carriage exiting Buckingham Palace. Below, vast crowds have assembled to see the new king round the memorial to his great grandmother, Queen Victoria, before setting off down the Mall. Temporary stands were put up all over central London on the processional route to accommodate everyone…

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It sits adjacent to the story of Colonel Driant, one of France’s particular heroes in this area of the Western Front, and we’ll be visiting his command post. In 1930, Paul Simon, an officer serving under him with the 59th Chasseurs à pied, published his war memoirs. Included was this chapter about the opening hours of this infamous battle, which is as relentless as it is harrowing…

On 21st February, at 6:30 a.m., I was up. A company of labourers from the 56th Infantry Regiment, commanded by Lieutenant Breuillard, arrived. Lieutenant Leroy, who had succeeded me as head of the pioneers, distributed the tools and established his work plan.

I was surprised to see Colonel Driant arrive, who usually came during the day; instead of keeping his horses at the edge of the woods, he sent them back to Camp Rolland with his orderly, Gaston.

We had been talking for a few minutes when a tremendous explosion reawakened the echoes of the woods; we looked at each other in silence, and I read a certain unease on the colonel’s face. Laughing, I said to him, “Colonel, here’s the first shell of this famous bombardment they’re warning us about...” Little did I know how right I was. The echo of that first shot hadn’t even died away when, from all sides, all over the woods, an avalanche of projectiles rained down.

The colonel ordered the workers of the 56th to take the nearest shelters, and I followed him to Commander Renouard’s command post. I was about to return to my personal shelter, which was 20 metres back, in the middle of those of my company, but the colonel said to me, “Stay with us; since your company is to man the trenches in front of the post, your presence here is no problem at all; on the contrary, you’ll be kept informed of everything that happens and will be able to make better decisions.”

The bombardment became increasingly violent; the explosions followed one another without stopping; The projectiles with which the Germans were trying to crush us were certainly of very large calibre; the concrete shelter seemed to offer us some protection; several projectiles strike it and shake it violently, but without dislodging it.

Out of discretion, I leave the room where the colonel and the commandant are and go to the room at the other end of the post, where Lieutenant Debeugny, the adjutant, Lieutenant Leroy, the pioneer officer, and Lieutenant Masson, the machine gunner, are gathered. An artillery officer, Lieutenant Tillet, joins us, and later in the morning, we see Lieutenant Petitcollot, adjutant to Colonel Driant, arrive spontaneously to rejoin his superior.

This terrifying bombardment is having rather strange effects on us: physically, our nervousness is manifesting itself in a frequent need to use 75mm shell casings, which are conveniently located there, to avoid us going out. We sense that, in this way, we are all trying to distract each other and hide the worry and anguish that grip us. We expected an attack, certainly, but not a bombardment of this magnitude; we wonder what has become of our poor infantrymen in the line, whose shelters are no match for long-term resistance.

The outpost is full; all the engineers, sappers, telephone operators, and liaison officers have taken shelter there, and many infantrymen from the 56th have joined them. The telephone lines are down, and it is impossible for a liaison officer to get through this hail of projectiles that is mowing down the trees like wisps of straw.

Some news is reaching us, however, brought by wounded men who are arriving. We learned that one of the first shells had landed squarely on a 90mm gun located near R3, and that another, striking a crate of grenades, had wreaked havoc on the half-section of my company detached there. Sergeant Lépine, who commanded it, was killed. D’Saudé and Magnenot were stretched thin at the aid station and unable to reach R2 where the wounded were pouring in.

Father de Martinprey, unconcerned by the shrapnel buzzing like a swarm of hornets, arrived to tend to the wounded, and some of us took advantage of his presence to settle our consciences. A rifleman rushed forward in a panic; several riflemen from the 56th had taken refuge with Lieutenant Breuillard in a dugout under construction for the machine gunners; this dugout had just been crushed by a shell, and the men were trapped underneath. The colonel ordered the pioneers to try and free their comrades, and Sergeant Captain, whose bravery I have often witnessed, set off with a few men. Unfortunately, a stove was located in the dugout, and when it overturned, it set fire to the timbers. A few men were rescued with great difficulty, but many, including Lieutenant Breuillard, perished.

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I promised to come back to the story when things took a turn for the worse, so let’s advance into 1943. Traffic had increased on Louis’s three routes through the mountains. Hungarians, Dutch, Germans, Romanians; multiple nationalities passed through the family farmhouse before setting out in the care of their guide.

Sometimes, given that they were already travelling at night on unknown, dangerous paths, they had to be concealed for days, because the weather made the journey impossible. Two of those who remained the longest were Czechs, who had to be hidden through more than a week of pouring rain, high winds and snow on the highest ground. They passed the time peeling cabbages and playing with Louis’s children. Another guest that left a lasting mark on the Pache children was a young woman with a baby. This complicated everything, because if the wrong person heard that baby cry, the game could be up in Vallorcine. She remained for some time, being too ill to make even the risky, easier journey close to the customs post. Louis’s sons remembered her sitting sadly at their hearth holding her child, staring into the fire. On the night Louis spirited her out of the country, his family remembered being immensely relieved when he finally returned home unscathed. Then there was the elegant woman who ate in the farmhouse with her little finger raised, as if she were still in her comfortable house, as if her situation was still the most normal thing in the world. Not every journey was successful. Two friendly Dutchmen were brought back into Vallorcine by gendarmes. They made sure to ignore the Pache children completely as they passed through the village; gave no sign of recognition that would have given up the family. There was nothing but a quick, cheeky wink.

Life for Louis and his family got serious in September.

The Italians left, to be replaced by German troops. The Italians had been allies in the last war, it was impossible for Louis to hate these neighbours. He had never fought them. Yet he was determined to carry on helping desperate people flee France. He’d just have to be more careful, because when the Germans came to Vallorcine, they were different. Any remaining joy was sucked out of life, barbed wire appeared, soldiers patrolled with dogs. No more hunting for Louis, either, unless he was brave and very cautious, because possession of firearms was now going to be supervised properly. The officer in charge was ice cold in his demeanour, he scared the locals with his penetrating, suspicious stare. The villagers nicknamed him Nix.

Normal life was now stressful. The young girl who delivered milk to the Hôtel du Mont-Blanc, where the enemy had set up shop, was now petrified of her rounds, of passing the wire and the German shepherds and the men with guns. Troops would surprise families and burst into homes at night, looking for warm spots in empty beds. Who had fled from under the covers and why? They hunted for outsiders, especially Jews. But they also wanted to know why people were not where they should have been. This was dangerous for the Pache family, because what if they were to demand entry one night and find Louis absent. What would they say? Everyone was drilled with the story:

“Ah, Father Pache, he’s a hard worker. He often goes to Chamonix to pick up clients, and since he’s thrifty, he goes on foot or by bicycle to avoid paying for the train. But it’s quite a trek for him, so he sleeps there, either at the rectory or in an empty freight car left on the platform at the station.”

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Raymond Dumenoir was one of the older commandos at 32, and more commonly known as ‘Pepe’. Born in Paris in 1911, his was a life blighted by more than one war. His father was killed on the battlefield in September 1914, and by 1919, Pepe was a ward of the state. He joined the Free French Forces early, in August 1940 and I think he might have come via the navy. He was one of the earliest French commandos (badge #7) and he was one of only 15 of them picked to take part in the Dieppe Raid in August 1942. He was also present during Operation Hardtack in December 1943. This series of commando raids was directed against German positions in the Channel Islands, Northern France and the Channel Coast. Specifically Pepe sailed with Hardtack 23, the target of which was Ostend/Bray-Dunes. However, their motor transport ran aground on a sandbank and was abandoned.

Pepe was alongside Commander Philippe Kieffer during Hardtack, and would be under his command once again on D-day. The 177 Frenchmen were divided between two landing craft, and with Troop 1, Pepe was on #527 when it hit the sand. The first men got off, slipping and sliding down the planks, some of them falling into the water, and then disaster struck. Kieffer watched in horror as in front of him a shell scored a direct hit and ‘carried away the gangways… in a tearing of wood and metal.’ The men on them at the time were scattered in the blast. Hubert Faure jumped into the water. ‘I was very lucky: a shell exploded right between Lardennois and I. At that moment, my head was under water. When I lifted it, I was completely dazed, I was bleeding from the nose... At first I thought I had been injured because my lungs were like wood because of the explosion... It really handicapped me.’ The rest of the troop still aboard the landing craft retreated and huddled at the back of the barge in terror.

It was then, seeing the carnage to his left, that Lieutenant Jack Berry, instead of scarpering having offloaded his charges from the other landing craft, guided his barge to the side of his mangled counterpart so that the men onboard could cross to his landing craft and get ashore that way. ‘All my friends did it,’ wrote little Jean Morel, a 21-year-old Parisian. He attempted to hand off his Bren gun to a comrade so that he could make the climb. ‘Unluckily, at that moment, the two barges moved apart and I fell in the middle.’ René Lossec watched him thrashing about in the water. He was sure he was drowning. His pack dragging him down, Morel shrugged it from his shoulders and flailed for the shore. René Rossey, born and raised in the colonies, was about to set foot in France for the first time. For a moment, he thought his courage might falter: ‘I had taken shelter behind a big winch that was used to raise and lower the ladders. I saw sparks on it, they were shooting at me. So I told myself that I had to get off. Especially since the barge was starting to move backwards, because since there was no one left, the English had received the order to withdraw. So I jumped and I had water up to my neck. I was holding my rifle and the two magazines. There were sprays of mud… My pants were all torn, I was falling over, I couldn’t move forward anymore.’

A handful of commandos had been wounded by the shell blast that had pulverised their landing craft. 23-year-old Jean Rousseau and 24-year-old Raymond Flesch were lying mortally wounded. Pepe Dumenoir’s belly had been ripped open in the blast. It’s a little unclear as to whether he was on the gangplank when the shell hit, or just on the beach. Either way, he begged others to carry him out of the water, but he was done for. ‘His eyes fixed south,’ wrote Kieffer, ‘towards Paris. He died without a complaint on French soil.’ The day before, Pepe had forced his signet ring into the hand of 29-year-old French-Canadian Jean Pinelli. ‘If anything happens to me, send it to my family after I die.’ At that moment, Pinelli was collapsed on the sand nearby, his legs riddled with shrapnel.

Pepe left behind a widow, Marthe, and one child, neither of whom he had seen since leaving France. She later remarried and had more children. One friend wrote that he was ‘a good man, simple, modest, very courageous’. He was beloved amongst his fellow commandos, and they were devastated by his death:

He had been with us for two and a half years, had undergone special paratrooper training, and had never shied away from any mission or task. He will leave an indelible mark on all of our memories.

This watch was presented to Pepe by his comrades at Christmas 1943. (Collection particulière / Remerciements photos - Mircea Stroe)

Lieutenant Jean Mazéas wrote the following tribute on October 19, 1944:

He died bravely, without a complaint, beside his wounded men. I have been told his last words. They are magnificent and testify to the magnanimity and selflessness of this man: ‘It doesn’t matter to die like this, since it is on French soil and it is for the liberation of our country.’” I hope that her husband’s kind words will bring gentle consolation to Mrs. Dumenoir in her terrible sorrow.

Pepe is buried at the CWGC cemetery at Hermanville along with two other French commandos.

The first is an account from 23-year-old André Héricy, from the Saint-Clair maquis, and his job from 2:00am on D-day was to sabotage the railway line running between Caen and Laval. The maquis were rural bands of guerrilla, resistance fighters in France, and they were called into action via a coded message broadcast on the radio. The sabotage plan to pave the way for the Allied invasion was vast, and included wrecking railway and telephone lines. He’s what Héricy had to say about his experience:

The news came from London. A short message among others, read that same evening by a French voice on the BBC. A pretty message, indeed: “The plowman’s song in the misty morning…” A bucolic message for something of vital importance. That evening, I hadn’t gone up to the hayloft where I hid my radio with the animals’ fodder. But my comrade Le Nevez was listening and reacted instantly: it was indeed the message meant for the Saint-Clair resistance group! He rushed over to my house on his bicycle while his father alerted other members of the group.

He was ecstatic. “It’s tonight!” he told me. “Do you hear? Meet at the Saint-Clair farm.” Without a second thought, I was off. I left my wife with my two-month-old son, grabbed my bike, and off I went! Nothing, no one could have stopped me that night.

You were happy. We’d been waiting for this moment for years. Two hundred metres from the farm, a sentry signalled me to go directly into the woods, and we soon found ourselves a group of about fifteen, each of us arriving individually, of course. I knew the woods well, having spent many nights there since joining the Resistance. And I knew everyone. It was a family, the Saint-Clair maquis.

It was Father Le Nevez, the garage owner from the village of Cesny-Bois-Halbout, who had approached me one day after a meeting of the JAC (Young Catholic Farmers). “Would you be interested in joining the movement?” Interested? Absolutely! I was 21, I’d just got married, I did recreational activities on Sundays to send parcels to prisoners—variety shows, Fernandel’s entire repertoire—but I was burning to fight to drive out the occupiers, like my father had done during the First World War. I knew his campaign by heart, having heard him recount it two hundred times to the clients I accompanied him to, to do carpentry work. At the time, it was roughly 1.5% of the country’s population, according to my rough calculations; although the numbers suddenly swelled the day after June 6th and exploded completely upon the return of the exodus... But that’s another story, unlike the one about the last-minute fake resistance fighters! Anyway. We all met up at the Bois de Saint-Clair. Jean Renaud-Dandicolle, who had joined the Resistance in England in 1943 and was coordinating the maquis, explained the situation to us and asked for five volunteers to blow up the Caen-Laval railway line. I agreed.

If we were there, it was to take action! So we got equipped. Each of us received a 9mm pistol, an American jacket, a satchel full of explosives and detonators, and, as an option, a Sten submachine gun or an American automatic rifle. I chose the rifle. I was more used to it and quite skilled in the shooting competitions at the village festivals. Then we set off by bicycle towards Grimbosq: Le Nevez, father and son, Dan and his son, and me.

We took small paths and made many detours. Then we left our bicycles at the home of some of Mr. Dan’s relatives and continued on foot through the meadows. Another four hundred metres, a high embankment, and we were on the railway line. There was a continuous rumble in the sky, and the horizon to the north, towards the coast, was ablaze. We looked at each other, completely energised. The landing was well underway. It was our turn! What we didn’t know then was that another team, hidden on the other side of the track, was ready to take over should we fail.

We gathered the plastic explosives before kneading them and attaching them along each rail, right at a fork, so that we could detonate eight at once. Dan was our explosives expert, I was on lookout near the level crossing, and Le Nevez was on the embankment. We had three types of detonators: Thirty seconds, three minutes, five minutes. Since no one had worried us, we opted for the five-minute green detonator. We poured it into the plastic, and at “Two!” We pressed the button and leaped like madmen towards the embankment, which we scaled with wings. We hid near the stacks of firewood, our hearts pounding.

We waited. And waited. And then, one after another, we raised our heads and looked at each other with dismayed expressions.

Could it have failed? The five minutes had seemed like an hour. But then the explosion happened. Enormous. We ducked back, putting our hands on our heads. And for long seconds, debris of all kinds and gravel continued to rain down from the sky. We rushed onto the track.

You should have seen the mess! The rails were lifted five metres into the air, the ballast was devastated, the track unusable for fifty metres. So, since we hadn’t had a chance to use our rifles and we were all there, we fired at the apple trees, just like that, to play with, to express our joy, to see if they were accurate. It so frightened a farmer’s wife who wasn’t far away and was already milking her cow that she fell off her little bench, tipping over her bucket. We laughed! We felt so free, relieved, so happy!

We’d got them, the Germans, who thought they were so clever. We’d been lucky, like on other nights when, armed with torches, we went to mark a field and receive the arms drops; five, six tons each time we camouflaged at the Grosclaude farm. “The kite pulls the string,” the BBC announced a few hours before. And the plane would arrive, all lights out, unless there was an anti-aircraft barrage or an interception manoeuvre by the German fighters. On May 18, we had received explosives; on June 3, miniaturised radio receivers, Bandages, cigarettes, and then Sten submachine guns, British machine guns, American carbines, plastic explosives, grenades, tire slashers... Nothing was useless. Not even the parachute fabric from which, after the war, I made rompers for my children!

I was on every mission, as discreet as possible, but I feared the bad French more than the Germans. The orders came from Caen, from Paris, even from London, through a channel I knew nothing about, because above the local level, there was total secrecy. I wasn’t offended. I was just doing my job.

We went to get our bikes. The whole country had heard the explosion, but since we were starving, we stayed for a snack before fleeing at daybreak, still wearing our American jackets. We felt like kings! We passed a German on the road who was getting out. We slipped furtively out of a house where he was supposed to be in the company of a woman. In a flash, four revolvers were pointed at his stomach.

He raised his arms, we disarmed him, and then we let him run off. It wasn’t the time to be burdened with a prisoner. We continued on through the fog and encountered another German who refused to stop. Le Nevez had to fire. But the alarm had been raised.

The escape began. Patrols with dogs and sidecars were on our tail. We plunged into the woods, zigzagging and sometimes carrying our bicycles to avoid leaving tracks. Several times, the barbed wire fences served as antennas, allowing us to connect our mini-radios.

But what more could we know? We only had to listen and watch what was happening in the sky to know that D-day had arrived and that freedom, which was our only ideal, was about to be achieved. To triumph.

André Héricy remained out for eight days assisting the Allies. On July 8th, the Germans surrounded the Saint-Clair farm, killed Captain Jean, his radio operator, and an English airman, and took the Grosclaude family before burning down their house. André Héricy would mourn this loss for the rest of his life. After the war, he became a carpenter, like his father, before retiring and tending his apple trees. He made cider and produced a renowned Calvados. In May 2019, during National Resistance Day, a stele bearing the names and portraits of the five resistance fighters from the Saint-Clair maquis was unveiled in the Grimbosa forest, opposite the railway line that was blown up.

Here’s something stunning for you - it’s in French, but you’ll get the general idea. It’s a video of Robert Le Neves and André walking the railway line in 1994, for the 50th anniversary of D-day. André appears after about 48 seconds:

Let’s fast forward a few hours now to one of the celebrated 177 Frenchmen landing on Sword Beach, who I banged on about quite a lot last weekend. René de Naurois was an eye witness to 4 Commando’s attempts to take Ouistreham and then link up with the British at Pegasus Bridge. A chaplain, he was armed only with a large crucifix on a white cord…

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Vallorcine, nestled in stunning surroundings (Gallica)

The Pache family live in Vallorcine, a tiny village on the edge of Haute-Savoie; not too far from Chamonix. They think the name comes from vallis ursina, or Valley of the Bears. Isolation meant that this was a close knit community, where families had taken root for generation upon generation. Louis had left once before, for another war. During 1914-18 he served firstly in the trenches, with a regiment of Chasseurs Alpins in the Vosges. He received a commendation for shooting a German cavalry officer and then helping to retrieve valuable documents from his body. Otherwise, life was dull and so he sought a change of scene first by applying to join the artillery and then putting his fame forward for the Armée de l’Air.

Louis pictured in the First World War. (Nathalie Pache Ville)

He was on the verge of completing his pilot training when the armistice came, and then he went home. Like so many young men who joined the air services of various nations during the war, Louis was mechanically minded and so he was happy enough to find a job at a garage. This career was not to last. His brother was carried off by Spanish Flu and his mother summoned him home to oversee the family farm. He’d harboured dreams of one day flying again, perhaps being a civilian pilot, but this put an end to those forever. It would be a lifelong regret for a man who loved being in the air. From time to time, he would become withdrawn and depressed, thinking about the road not taken. He cut a solitary figure, and his family could not understand why. Louis did also love hunting, and he was a crack shot, as that German officer had found out the hard way. He also loved the mountains, which he knew like the back of his hand. Can you see where this is going?

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After that, he was in Indochine. One day, I’ll come back to his post war career, which continued there and saw controversy in Algeria where he was the founder of the Organisation armée secrète, whose aim was to prevent independence. That landed him in jail in the 1960s. Pardoned and reinstated, he sat down to write about his life, but having literally just got off the boat from Normandy, today I wanted to use a section of his memoir to talk about that other D-day…

‘THE LANDINGS IN PROVENCE

I will not go into the preparation of this vast operation, which was intended to give the Allies “a second major gateway into France,” after Normandy… I will present myself from the perspective of those carrying out the operation, having been briefed first at the major meeting in Naples at the end of July 1944 at the headquarters of Army “B,” de Lattre’s army…

Objective of the Operation

- Establish a beachhead east of Toulon, capture Toulon.

- Take Marseille and exploit the situation towards Lyon and Vichy.

This operation was entrusted to “Force 163” under the command of General Patch, commander of the U.S. Seventh Army, and comprised:

- the U.S. Sixth Corps with three infantry divisions reinforced by special forces and airborne troops;

- the French Army with five infantry divisions and two armoured divisions, reinforced by non-divisional elements.

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