Down Memory Lane
Return to Belgium and France
October 1990
By
Francis X. Harkins
This trip had its beginnings on a warm Sunday afternoon some forty-eight years ago - August 15, 1943. Some of the details were a little hazy with so many years gone by. When I eventually got into this after a trip overseas in October to participate in the 50th Anniversary of the
"Comete Escape Network," I found my recollections coming into focus as a result of the reunion with friends and helpers who risked their lives to get Allied military personnel safely out of territories overrun and occupied by Nazi forces.
Now like they used to say before the "Lone Ranger" radio and TV episodes; "Let's return to those thrilling days of yesteryear." On that Sunday in August, the 390th was scheduled for a bombing raid on a Luftwaffe fighter airdrome near
Vitry-en-Artois, just south of Douai, France. In those hectic times, the mission was what we termed a "Milk Run." Consequently, it was expected that we would not encounter much opposition from enemy fighters or heavy concentrations of anti-aircraft "flak" on the route to and from our target. All went smoothly from takeoff at our base in
Framlingham, through the varied pirouettes of getting twenty-one B-17s into a combat element formation headed toward the coast of Belgium. Except for the ever present expectations that at any moment we might come under attack by the yellow-nosed ME109/FW-190 fighters flown by the "ABBEVILLE KIDS," things were somewhat uneventful. Most of the crews had seen the Luftwaffe's crack fighter squadrons in action against us on a previous mission, and they were aerial acrobats. We very much respected and dreaded their courage and flying abilities. The various Nazi fighter bases in France and Belgium were headquartered from Abbeville, France, hence where "nom-de-guerre." Their primary job was to concentrate air attacks against our bomber formations and make us pay the price for conducting daylight raids, which the RAF considered extremely hazardous and not worth the impending casualties. As I recall, we had one passing attack by a small element of FW-190s. Official records reveal that our Group managed to shoot one down before they headed toward the larger elements of B-17s enroute to the primary target.
After unloading our bombs on our airdrome target, we turned back to the coast bucking a seventy mph head wind enroute to our base. We came in like a lion and were now going out like a lamb with a ground speed of about 100 mph. The result brought us out near Dunkerque on the coast of France. Thus, we were like sitting ducks for a flak barrage which exploded in front of our formation. Reactively, our close elements scattered like a covey of quail. Our aircraft was damaged with the outboard engine trailing smoke, when suddenly we went into a steep climbing turn. At the Bombardier position in the nose, I did not realize what happened during those few seconds of disbelief that we were in serious trouble. I guess I assumed that we had a direct hit which damaged the tail section and, Bill Lawrence our pilot, gunned the engines to climb and clear those other aircraft close by. I did not know until months later that another aircraft 's propeller had cut the tail section away. During those split seconds, there was no thought of terror of what next. This mental numbness was quickly shocked when we turned over and started spinning upside down in a flat spiral. The centrifugal force was so great that I could not move my arm or body off the floor from the crouched position I was in after being struck on the head by my flopping 50-caliber machine gun. Fortunately, I was wearing my steel combat helmet which absorbed the blow, but that was the least of my troubles at the time. We were up about five miles from terra-firma, and I prayed for enough time to get up and clap on my parachute pack and make a hasty retreat from our doomed aircraft. God was merciful. After this terrifying interval, the aircraft slowly rolled over and started into a more accommodating conventional spin. I was tossed backwards and managed to release my chute pack from the wall mount and promptly clamped in on the body harness. As I crawled toward the open escape hatch which Joe Birdwell the navigator, had released, I checked my chute pack again, and to my great "humor" noticed I had clamped it on upside down; the ripcord was on the left side not the right, as should be the custom in these circumstances - not an unusual occurrence I later found out in a debriefing session after I got back to England some months later. One would have to go through this in haste to see how readily this would occur. Nevertheless, I decided not to experiment with the odd coupling and proceeded to redo the affair prior to exiting for another frightful look at Mother Earth so serene below. As you recall, our training for these exciting events stressed the desirability of delaying the opening of the chute when bailing out at higher altitudes to speed up your free fall and eventual arrival to thwart the intentions of the enemy to meet you with an armed welcoming committee. This being the second time I had to resort to the saving grace of the lovely white silk canopy, did little to lessen the anxiety over whether everything would come out okay. Being an expectant father in a hospital waiting room - and I'm an expert on this - cannot compare with the nail-biting tension one feels before the final decision to go for the "gold" and pull the darn ripcord. After sweating out a zillion childbirths, I pulled the handle out and the whole ensuing series worked as you now know. All was somewhat peaceful as I swung back and forth, except for the roaring whine of our aircraft as it headed down and eventually exploded as it crashed. But suddenly to my wondering eyes did appear an oncoming yellow-nosed fighter with all its frightening gear. I can still recall the sound as it came directly toward me as I oscillated in the strong wind. It sounded like a Model A Ford roadster with ten engines floor-boarded in a hell-for-leather race.
Well, another zillion childbirths while I prayed the rosary with my maternal Grandmother's beads strung about my neck. Those beads were always around my neck each time I flew. My prayers were answered again as the "Abbeville Kid" banked his FW-190 around me about fifty feet away. He circled me a few times as he radioed in my location in descent. The pilot sported a large feathered red plume draped back from the top of his flight helmet. He banked close by me again, waved his hand, smiling so it seemed at my ashen face, and then went on his way with a thumbs-ups. I confess his behavior granted me a few moments of relief and happiness before I noticed a couple of military vehicles a few miles away heading out from the closest town. Suddenly, the ground was coming to meet me in the worst way, as I was swinging backwards in the wind. It was a rough greeting and I had my head banged about again, plus suffering other various aches and pains. While I was coming down, I must have looked like a church bellringer playing the "Minute Waltz" as I tugged each shroud line to recapture air in the collapsing canopy and gain some vertical stability. Loads of fun and games.
Fortunately, I landed in what appeared to be a large field of wheat with many stacked shocks. A teenaged French lad came rushing up to help me out of my harness. He wiped the blood from my face and eyes with the silk chute, then hid all my gear under the stacked wheat. He grabbed my arm, got me on my feet and pointed toward a wooded area not far away, and off we went in a stumbling run. As I recall, it was about six or seven in the evening and still very light. We paused in the woods to catch our breath and check my pained condition to see if I could continue on. We then slithered our way through the trees and brush toward some old farm buildings not far away. No sounds or visible sign of the search parties headed toward the area. When we approached the barn, an elderly farmer and his wife came out to determine what my odd presence involved. There were hurried remarks between the boy and the farmer, and the wife then ran toward the house as I was hurried into the barn.
Here and there were stacked bales of hay, many dusty old burlap bags, and a heap of old hay and dry manure. Shortly, we could hear the noise from approaching trucks up the road and shouting soldiers over the din. I was motioned to crawl between the baled hay and mixed manure pile, then, I guess, the burlap bags were scattered over my spot in a manner I suppose appeared normal disorder in an old barn. The farmer and boy presumably assumed their work-a-day chores around the courtyard and barn and the trucks drove up and soldiers started shouting and raising a big fuss. The old man joined in their chorus, and I would say there is much to admire in listening to a Franco/Germanic cursing duet. Meanwhile, the farmer's wife came out to applaud the first act. The second act commenced when I heard them enter the barn in full voice, whereupon one of the spear carriers took up a pitchfork and started to frighten the numerous mice and yours truly with vengeful thrusts near my den of sneezes. I pinched my nose to guard against such an embarrassing "faux pas." Fortunately, Colonel Klink's minions tired of the search episode and amidst their heated ("AUFGESCHOBEN-1ST-NIGHT-ANFGEHOBEN) AUF WIEDERSCHENs and AU
REVOIRs" in reply, they left us to take their act elsewhere. Then when signaled all was clear, I emerged looking like the Scarecrow in the "Wizard of OZ." The wife then went to the house and came back with my new costume to replace my flight suit and good leather boots. I then discreetly changed to exclamations of "Voila, creme de la creme bon vivant." To you Anglo-Saxons that roughly translates to "See there, the very best man about town." I had donned an old dress shirt that somehow retained its coherence with remnants of ring-around-the collar, baggy trousers a la Charlie Chaplin, and a moth savored jacket much too small for my heroic shoulders. My shoes were styled in the mode of Adlai Stevenson's old campaign brogues. To the forgetting or uninitiated in old political humor, that meant holes in the soles with a cardboard liner which one prominently displayed to TV cameras while seated on a park bench quoting Plato's words of Democratic wisdom. So much for political levity. Now starts the "Man from Uncle" or if you will, "007" scenario. Well no, not the movie's 007 - there were no voluptuous
"charmants fatales" in this script.
Bedecked in my Christian Dior finery, I am off in the gathering darkness with my young
"compagnon-de-voyage" to a rural bistro to partake of some ersatz beer, bread and cheese to sustain my spirits for what lies ahead. I really could have sacrificed this for a double Johnny Walker Red. About to quaff my warm beer, a young girl hastily entered the room and whispered a message to mine hostess. Quickly I'm rushed out the back door and shoved face down into a hedgerow and symbolically warned to be silent. Colonel Klink's spear chuckers are about in the gloom seeking out frightened and hungry American Eagles. Apparently, a hunting Hun entered the tavern, drank my beer, looked around and stomped out mumbling something like
"schweinhunt." He then came along the path next to my hideout shouting, obviously, more obscenities about the quality of the beer, and I could discern the glint from his rifle bayonet. I thought it all would dampen my joys after a night about town and the bayonet really did the trick - my trousers were damp. "Sic transit gloria
mundi!"
Well, then when all seemed safe again, my young bon ami emerged with a bottle of peasant (no label) wine and a half of a loaf of French bread under his arm. We sneaked along the hedges and across a ditch and field to an abandoned farm shed; he indicated I should dine and then sleep off the evening's escapades, and he would return for me the next day. At that juncture, I was a little hungry, too tired to negotiate over my accommodations and recalled the old proverb, "a half a loaf is better than none." I wish I could have said the same for my sleeping accommodations. The rural French must have an "affaire d'amour" with old hay and dry manure in old barns. Maybe they use it to cultivate little snails into fat escargot. Escargot or not, I had a cold, sleepless night; the pint of wine was of no help, restless on a somewhat fragrant and lumpy mattress - all the while trying to decipher the strange sounds coming forth in the darkness.
About midmorning, my young helper returned to my great relief, as I contemplated my fate -was it friend or "enema" upon hearing the approaching footsteps. Bright and cheery, he offered me bread and cheese but somehow neglected to bring the "cafe au
lait." As I dined, I got the impression that I should stay hidden until the evening when he would return and we would be on the road again to another safe place more hospitable to my needs. All of the foregoing took place in about eighteen hours from the start of my initial arrival on the continent. When it was dark, my young helper returned and we were on the move again to my new hiding place. We made a brief stop at the family farm for a bowl of hot soup, another bottle of Vin Blanc and some bread to tide me over until the next day. We then went to a large grain barn where I was to hide in the loft overnight and wait for another helper who would come the next morning. I spent the night with a colony of chiggers and scurrying rodents, but the wine served to alleviate my distress. I finally relaxed and dozed off with the thought, later made into a popular song by John Denver: "Thank God I'm a Country Boy."
The next morning my new guide arrived with a truck to take me to Bourbourg. He was a railroad superintendent on "Rail Francais
Nord" and had a R/F armband and a false identity card ready for one of the "escape photos" I carried for such an event. At Bourbourg we boarded a work train ready to leave for
Dunkerque. It was an old rail rattler and the box cars resembled the storied "Forty and Eight" trains of WWI legend. As I recall, the name referred to the place which could accommodate forty soldiers and eight mules - or was it the other way around. Nonetheless, the title was later used to commemorate the veterans who suffered the indignities and hardships endured tending their mulish companions during the Great War.
After arriving in Dunkerque, we strolled along the beach walk to the "R/F" building to wait out the next train to
Lille. As we enjoyed some ersatz beer, the R/F superintendent, who spoke good English, pointed out the vast array of shore armaments and barricaded mine fields offshore ready to repulse any future invasion in that area. We later returned to the station and boarded the work car of the train now ready to depart. He told me that we would stop at some towns
enroute, and that I would be met at Armentieres by another helper.
I will never forget this train ride and still can't fathom how I became such a celebrity
enroute. At one stop, four elderly Frenchmen came into our car with some fresh eggs, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of Eau-de-Vie - home grown cognac. Two eggs were cracked open into a glass tumbler and then drenched in cognac. Amidst gestures that I consume the concoction and gain the strength and vigor it would provide, I could not offend my benefactors. I raised this potent honor to my lips to a chorus of
"votre sante" and managed to swallow what seemed like two soft golf balls floating in liquid fire. The bread helped to uncross my eyeballs, as they chuckled at my reactions and departed. I had the impression that they thought me destined to "Inky dinky parlez
vous" with the Mademoiselle from Armentieres. If you don't "comprehendre" or have never heard the old marching song of U.S. troops in WWI, I'm not about to enlighten you here.
Upon arrival in Armentieres, I was taken to the home of a middle-aged couple as my "safe house" for a couple of weeks. There, I joined our co-pilot, Bill Middledorf and learned that our pilot had been captured and that
Birdwell, our navigator, and our engineer/gunner, Walt Sentkowski, were safe and in hiding on the outskirts of town. Sad to relate, the remaining five crew members in the rear of the aircraft had been killed. They were Pat Caron, Bill Murphy, Bernie Stevens, Romaine Fiffe and Pete
Mrjenovich. Although we were a crew for only about five hectic months, I can still recall each of them individually and am proud to have served with them to that last day.
I remained in this "safe house" for seventeen days before resuming my travels to Paris. The escape network decided that Middledorf and I should be separated and sent out on different routes. He was on his way after about ten days. A week later, I resumed my travels and rode the train from Lille to Amiens in company with the wife of the local pharmacist. She delivered me to another network unit and "safe house" where I would stay before going to Paris the next day.
When an allied evader was turned over to another unit, the procedure called for an interrogation to assure that you were genuine and not a trained Nazi special agent. When I arrived, a group of men and some women who could speak English were present. They started the questioning to get my answers and reactions to various U.S. and
G.I. slang or idioms such as: "What do G.I.s call their bedding? What is P.T.? Sing the Air Force song!" The last one, "What does
V.D. stand for?" was asked by one of the ladies, and I drew a complete blank much to the consternation of all present. For the life of me, I could not recall
"V.D." as something familiar in my innocent state as behooves a shy Catholic boy. After a blank and ominous pause, the lady said as a soldier I must have been lectured and warned of the scourge of all armies -venereal disease. Well, my innocence saved the day, as 1 could sense the warm rush of blood to my neck and face in a blush to end all blushes. Everyone then broke into loud laughter, and two buxom matrons enveloped me in their arms and otherwise, kissed me on both cheeks and exclaimed something like: "Mon
cher, Francosi, c'est magnifique garcon." I guess they thought me a wonderful, innocent boy. I later found their solicitous concern for my innocence carried to Gay
Paree. There I was "sheltered" with the Chief Agent in a fancy "maison de tolerance," while he prepared my forged documents and arranged for another safe house in which to hide. He told me about the activities in the hotel but cautioned that I would not meet any of the
"charmate demoiselles," as the girls would just gossip about their Americain friend. the safe house he arranged turned out to be the apartment of Farther R.
Beauvais, parish priest and his mother and sister. My six days in Paris with Abbe Beauvais and his family were to be the focal point for the trip my wife, Doris and I made last October. But, more of that later, if you will oblige me to reminisce as my story unfolds.
Two noteworthy events took place while in Paris. First, I had a much-needed bath and a change of clothes. I really needed to scrub down with strong soap and a stiff brush to alleviate the damage to my hide by the biting chiggers which had been my companions since those initial nights spent hiding in old barns. The second event occurred about a week later in the early evening of the night I was to leave by train for Bordeaux. About six o'clock, the sirens sounded warning of an approaching air raid by some of my buddies in the 8th Air Force. As I recall, the apartment was located on the fourth floor of a triangular shaped building. I could hear the "flak" explosions and drone of B-17 bombers headed in our direction. I opened the doors to a small, narrow balcony where I could view the unfolding air actions. It turned out to be awesome.
The "flak" batteries located near the Eiffel Tower began to fire and three B-17s were destroyed in the first barrage. One exploded in a bright flash from a direct hit, another was coming apart as it spun out of control, and the third was afire as it headed down toward our location. A number of the 500 lb. bombs, originally intended, I presume, for the Renault factories on the River Seine, were released and they came down on the other wing of our building. Abbe
Beauvais, his mother, sister and I knelt in what we thought were our last prayers, as the explosions blasted the windows and the plaster from the walls and ceilings of my "safe house." After the dust had settled, my new escort, "Franco" arrived about an hour early and hastened my departure. It seems that Nazi Officers and families were living in the same building. Many casualties resulted from the bomb explosions, and the area was subject to tightened security measures by German troops. After hasty "au
revoirs," we left the apartment building by way of basement door, and eventually joined up with a Canadian airman and the woman who escorted me from Amiens to Paris. I later learned that my escort, "Franco," was the legendary Baron Jean F.
Nothomb, the wily leader of "Comete," the escape network. Baron Nothomb and the Chief of the Paris Section, Count Jacques Le
Grelle, devised the plans and made all the arrangements in Belgium and France for Allied airmen to evade capture and eventually escape into Spain. The woman we met had first class rail tickets for the train to Bordeaux and identity papers which permitted us to ride the train into southern France. To avoid arousing suspicions, we boarded the train separately and departed about 8:00 p.m.
Upon arrival in Bordeaux, my papers were checked and I then joined up with Franco and the Canadian. We left our woman escort and took the next train to
Dax. When we arrived early next morning, we departed the station and casually strolled to a bike rental rack. I was provided a 26 inch girl's bicycle which served to torture me during the 25 to 30 mile trip into Bayonne. It was a ride well remembered, over hill and dale, across streams into wooded areas trying to avoid road patrols and detection at guarded bridges. When we came to a remote area, Franco, our guide, was joined by another cyclist. They exchanged greetings and chatted a bit before our new companion dropped back to the rear of our caravan. We road along at somewhat loose intervals, sufficient to keep each in sight of the others so as not to arouse suspicion should we encounter patrols along the way. At some points we left the road and entered wooded areas and came out along back dirt roads to avoid the check points near military installations or other guarded areas. At one point, we stopped on a bushy knoll and lunched on bread, cheese and warm beer supplied from the backpack carried by our new friend. It turned out that he was a Belgium intelligence agent on his way back to England after about six months gathering close contact information in Holland, Belgium and France. Our on-the-road meeting was planned in advance, as he was to accompany myself and the Canadian across the border. When lunch was finished, we rode helter-skelter down a dry and rocky creek bed to the road. Fright and discomfort mean nothing when you're excited and having fun. We went off on some back roads to bypass Bayonne and Biarritz and continued on toward the town of St. Jean de Luz. Here a bit of deception by Franco was taken as he stopped at a bridge crossing and engaged the Nazi guard in an animated conversation. This allowed the rest of us to leisurely peddle by without challenge to have our papers checked again. Franco then passed us by down the road, chuckling as he rode by.
As we neared St. Jean de Luz, Franco acquired another cycling companion. This time it was a lovely young brunette peddling slowly along the road. They rode along together, apparently talking over plans for the next phase of our journey. A little way south of town, she led us into a walled courtyard of a small farm estate. This was to be our last, but well remembered, "safe house" for our escape. Our new friend was an American student attending an art school when we entered the war, and she chose to remain in Southern France to continue her studies. I presume she was later recruited by agents working with the
"O.S.S.," Office of Strategic Services, to assist in the escape network - only one of the many surprising events during my journey. After dinner, she had to leave and arrange for the Basque guides who would take us across the border the following evening. That memorable evening ended with a kiss and warm embrace in parting for sweet dreams that last night in France. Now that is my type of "Esprit de Corps" - a brief "affaire d'amour."
About dusk the next evening, we walked into the hills to a small farm near the border to join up with our Basque guides. Franco, the Belgium, and the guides talked over the details and plans for our midnight walk into Spain. As they conversed and waited for darkness, we were fortified for the trip with goat's milk and cognac cocktails. Our Belgium comrade extolled the virtues of the concoction for strength and vigor, and I had to agree. These were shaggy, free-roaming Angora goats. The wild aroma of the milk, now curdled by equally wild "Eau de Vie" proved that one had to be strong of heart to get the elixir past one's nose and settled in one's stomach. But then, one cannot offend one's host. The guides could speak enough French and Spanish to get by, but their own language is incomprehensible, and their words seem to come from their chest and not the throat and mouth.
The Canadian and I were briefed by the Belgium on what to expect along the route and warned to be silent and follow our guides' actions without hesitation or question. Then around ten o'clock, Franco left us to return to town as we started on our journey south to the border crossing. As I recall, there was about a three-quarter moon shining in and out of low drifting clouds. Our movements were timed to these clouded periods. A small river defined the actual border, but we had to cross patrolled railroad tracks and a barbed wire fence before we could reach the river on the French side. After about an hour scrambling through the hills, we stopped on a bushy slope to time the guard patrols along the tracks below our position. When all was in tune and the moon obscured, the Belgium and one guide slipped down across the tracks to the fenced area. We were then cleared to follow, crouching low to cross the railroad bed. Unfortunately, the Canadian stumbled on the track and slid down the slope midst a clatter of heavy gravel and stone and muffled Basque expletives. Dogs started barking and lights came on some distance up the tracks as we scrambled over the fence and slithered hastily into the heavy brush along the river bank. As we anxiously awaited a darkened moon or signs of pursuit, the barking subsided and lights went out, so all seemed safe to proceed for the moment. As the moon was clouded again, we waded into the river which was slow-moving and not above my waist. We cautiously slipped along among the rocks and waded out onto Spanish soil, safe and free if we could avoid the Spanish border guards at daybreak. We still had about five hours to go before reaching a mountain farm near the town of
Irun. I was rapidly becoming dehydrated from the exertions and nervous perspiration, and there was no water safe enough to drink. Things got worse around dawn. We were spotted by a Spanish guard who shouted from the ridge across the valley separating him from our party. Our guides took off down the opposite slope of our ridge path into the brush as we followed to the sounds of rifle shots aimed in our direction, I would surmise. It was an exhausting cross-country run and the vigor from the previous night's goat's milk cocktails was rapidly dissipated. We could hardly keep up with our guides. Finally, the farm house came into view and I barely made it to the door, exhausted and badly in need of a drink of water. No such thing, as in those days if you did not partake of wine, beer, coffee or goat's milk, you did not drink. It seems that water was the most dangerous thing one could consume. We were provided a bottle of wine, and one mouthful nearly turned me inside out. After a few hours sleep and then some soup, the three exhausted escapees were taken in a horse drawn cart into
Irun.
Arrangements had been made by the British Consulate in San Sebastian for accommodations, a more appropriate wardrobe and food and rest prior to our journey to Madrid and eventually to Gibraltar. I spent about eight days in Spain and Gibraltar. My experiences and the events leading to my return to England were interesting, but not part of the motivations for our trip last year.
Now all the foregoing leads into the whys and wherefore of the trip my wife, Doris, and I made to France and Belgium last fall. Back in February, 1988, I received a letter from Belgium, written by Count Hughes
LeGrelle. He wanted to know if I recalled events in Paris in 1943, and if I remembered his father, Count Jacques
LeGrelle, Chief of the Paris Comete escape network at the time. He obtained my name from the French priest, Abbe R.
Beauvais, who hid me in his family's apartment in Paris. It seems that I had written my name on a cardboard insulator for a light switch in this apartment. This was done at the priest's request just minutes prior to my hasty departure that last eventful night in Paris. Apparently, he reinstalled the insulator as a safe hiding place should the Gestapo trace him to the Comete network. As events later unfolded, they did find him sometime in March 1944. He and Count Jacques LeGrelle were captured and imprisoned in
Dachau. Father Beauvais' mother and sister were also arrested and evidently perished in a prison work camp, as no records were ever found to determine their fate.
Sometime in 1987, Father Beauvais, while retracing his experiences in the Paris network, recalled that he had hidden some name about in his wartime apartment. He revisited the old location and found the insulator with my name in the light switch he used so many years ago. As he could not communicate in English, he asked his friend, Hughes
LeGrelle, to try to contact me and others he sheltered during the war. The exchanging correspondence with Hughes and, through him, with Abbe Beauvais led to warm and abiding friendships over the years. His invitation to come and stay in his home in Belgium and participate in the special 50th Anniversary Reunion of the Comete escape network to be held in Brussels could not be put aside. After the death of this father, Jacques, in June last year and in view of Abbe
Beauvais' advancing age, we could not do otherwise.
Doris and I made arrangements to fly to Luxembourg where our host met us upon our arrival on October 9th. On the way to his home near Waterloo, he took us to
Bastogne. He wanted us to see the Historic Center War Memorial erected by the Belgium people to honor the American forces, especially the 101st Airborne Division which defeated the Nazis in that historic battle in December 1944. This was the scene you old warriors will recall, where in answer to a Nazi demand for surrender, the Commander of the 101st, General
McAuliffe, sent back the short reply: "NUTS." The Belgiums have a profound admiration and much affection for American doughboys, based on the battles fought during both World Wars. They know that much Amercian blood enriches their soil and have an expression in French -
"Nous n'oublierai jamais." We shall never forget. After that memorable tour, we drove to Hughes's home in Bousval about an hour's drive outside of Brussels. Part of the cellar and the foundation of his home date back to the sixteenth century. They place great value on antiquity as we learned from tours with our host in Brussels, Bruges, Antwerp, and Ghent.
Naturally, the high point during our trip was the first visit with Father Beauvais at his apartment in Paris. It would be an understatement to say it was just a moment of smiles and greetings. There were tears of sadness and joy and warm embracing befitting our emotions and a reunion of our lives to be remembered forever. Later in the evening, we wined and dined "a la
Francaise" at a fine restaurant until the wee hours of the morning. We stopped to view the Eiffel tower beautifully illuminated in the late night sky before returning to our hotel. We spent all the next day with the energetic Abbe on a "Tour de
Paree" via the Metro to visit many of the wonderful historic glories of his city. We did not get back to his apartment for late supper until after ten o'clock that evening. During our stay in France, we rode the TGV high speed train to Lourdes and spent a few days there visiting the Shrine and historic sights associated with its founding so many years ago. On returning to Paris, we switched to a train going to
Chartres. We visited the magnificent cathedral which evolved from a small shrine, dating back to the 4th century, to the unparalleled work of art and beauty it is today. After returning to Paris and more sightseeing, we later drove to our host's home in Bousval in Father
Beauvais' Volkswagen camper. It must have taken us an hour and then some to drive through Paris traffic and reach the highway to Belgium. Nothing I ever experienced in the cities of New York and Washington could compare with the motorized frenzy around the Arc
d'Triomphe.
Our final special events took place in Brussels. We attended the reunion luncheon banquet with the remaining leaders of the Comete network. I had the pleasure of again meeting Baron Jean Francois
Nothomb, the wily guide, Franco, who helped me escape to Spain about forty-eight years ago. We also attended a commemorative Mass and concelebrated ecumenical service in Brussels at the Kockleburg Basilica with our benefactors and other military personnel whom they helped escape. It was a very moving and beautiful event with ceremonial choral groups from Belgium and England participating in the services.
We managed to do more wonderful sightseeing in Belgium with our host and Father
Beauvais. Finally, our time to return home arrived and Huges LeGrelle drove us to Luxembourg for our flight back to Washington.
October 18, 1991
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