You can read the previous part of Philip’s story here: Travelling from Fontainebleau
Nearing escape
Our destination was to be La Rochelle, where my father’s boss had said the CPR was to establish its base. I recall going along a road and coming to two farmers blocking the road with twelve-bore type guns slung across their bodies. They told my father that no-one was allowed into the Departement (i.e. County) because the town (I think they were referring to Bordeaux) was overflowing with refugees. We arrived at La Rochelle. It seemed crowded, but my father managed to book a room at a Hotel – ‘L’Hotel des Etrangers’ (quite apt!). That day was the one on which we achieved the longest distance cycled throughout our exodus; my father recorded that we had covered 130 Kilometres – quite some distance, really, even though it could be said that we were by then “In Training”! The date was June 19th, eight days since we had left our flat in Paris’s suburbs, and we had cycled some 520 kilometres, and given that we had squandered one whole day waiting in Fontainebleau, a mere 60 kilometres from Paris, we had covered 480 kilometres in 6 days.
Father established that a ship had sailed from La Rochelle that morning, taking the British Consul with it; it subsequently transpired that Norman Spencer had got on board that ship having managed to get on a train which took him to the port, so he got to England well before we did. I do not know if my father made contact with his General Manager, but clearly there was not going to be a CPR Office in the town, and I do not think my father made contact with any other colleagues. So it was a question of spending our first night in comfort at the hotel, and off again the next day. My parents made some essential purchases in the town, and we had a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant, and retired to bed having had wonderful hot baths, and we lost no time falling asleep. At midnight we were rudely awakened by the air raid siren – all guests had to assemble in the Foyer; we went downstairs, sat in groups in the foyer listening to anti-aircraft guns and bombs falling on the Harbour (La Palice). About 2 hours later the “All Clear” sounded, and we went back to bed.
At 6 am another air raid alert sounded – so back to the Foyer; the All Clear sounded an hour later, but there was no point in attempting to sleep. We dressed, had some breakfast and got ready to set off once more – my father said that as the Authorities were admitting no more people to Bordeaux, it was a question of heading for Bayonne, at the point where the North South angle of the French Atlantic coastline bends ‘left’ to the West towards the Spanish frontier. Our problem was the need to negotiate the huge inlet of the Gironde river before we could start to head South properly. The ‘order’ to head for La Rochelle, given in Paris, was to be a costly detour in terms of time and mileage. We set off probably having had a worse night’s sleep than on our previous stages, albeit that we had spent it in ‘luxurious’ comfort.
Back on the road…
So it was ‘back on the road’ once again, and since it was 8 pm when we had reached La Rochelle after our Marathon mileage, we had not in fact had that much rest. (The rumour in the hotel about the previous night’s bombing was that the German air force had attacked the harbour as it said that some American supply ships had docked bringing guns and ammunition for the French – a totally unfounded rumour it transpired).
Despite none of us having gear changes on our cycles, I do not recall all that many instances of our having to dismount and push our steeds up hilly roads – very likely because the Western part of France is not particularly hilly. However, I acutely recall one afternoon when we had dismounted and we were all pushing our way up a long long hill in the blazing sun, when we were ‘overtaken’ by a platoon of about 20 soldiers, also on bikes. I have never known such an instantaneous change in the ‘feeling’ of my stomach – for so far as l was concerned these soldiers were speaking German! Their uniforms were Khaki, but their “tin helmets” strapped to the backs of their kit containers on their backs, were not of the ‘Tommies’ design – they were much more like the German tin helmets which came lower-down to protect the neck; also I had seen that their tunics had puce coloured tabs at the corners of the high tunic collars, with a number on them. My father had clearly sensed my changed behaviour, and quickly caught up with me and said “it’s all right son – they are Belgian soldiers speaking Flemish”. Thus the water departed from my knees, and I looked more compassionately on the Belgians riding up the hill, their rifles slung across their backs, and I recall thinking “it’s a long way from Belgium”.
Another occasion which increased the heart rate a bit was when we were cycling – in fact ‘freewheeling’ down a long slope towards a fairly large river, when my father noticed some soldiers at each end of the iron girder bridge roadway – they were French soldiers. It seems they were Sappers fixing detonation charges to the bridge in preparation for blowing it up when German troops should appear. We felt glad to have passed over it; one soldier waved and called “Bonne continuation!” which was nice of him.
I think it was our second or third day out of La Rochelle when our customary Hay Barn or Cattle shed ‘bedrooms’ were exchanged for wonderful Farmhouse luxury. The farm at which my father had enquired if we might stay the night was that of a wonderful couple – they insisted on our sleeping in the ‘Best bedroom’ and so we did: wonderful fresh clean sheets, and lovely old rustic wardrobes: we had a lovely night’s sleep, and tearful good wishes from them as we next morning early, hoping that we would reach England safely.
Family in the south of France. “I think they were a little suspicious of us, and grudgingly allowed us in one of their barns”
The further South we went, the poorer the farmsteads seemed to me. As we neared the extreme South West, the local folk took on the appearance of a Gypsy race – possibly Basque blood. I recall that the Farmers seemed far more suspicious of us, and permission to stay was either dismissed or given grudgingly. But one such morning we were surprised to be asked by the Farmer’s wife if we would like some milk before we set off. We gladly went in to the extremely primitive huge kitchen, where, from an aluminium can, she poured into bowls milk literally fresh from the udders – I remember it was warm, lumpy, and with bits of grass floating on the surface! However, to start our day with something warm and sustaining inside one was more than welcome.
I do know that each morning my father took out his wallet and quiet words were spoken – sometimes there were words of protestation that they could not think of accepting money, but I think my father prevailed – we were glad enough to have cover over our heads at night. So far there had in fact been no rain, but in so saying, I am anticipating what was to come. On one occasion as we were fairly far South a Gendarme told my father that there was fighting in the streets, but I did not hear where that was supposed to be -though I do recall at times we were told that the Germans were already beyond where we were.
Read the next part of Philip’s story: “Summer 1940. Bayonne and to sea”
Comment on the story here.