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What follows are the World War Two experiences of Edward L. Jouault, 1913—1976.

Normandy, June 1940

The news from the front was progressively more disastrous. Since their breakthrough at Seden, the Germans had advanced in leaps and bounds. Dunkirk was practically over, and, although we had succeeded in evacuating the greater part of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), nothing could disguise the fact that we had taken an awful thrashing.

The French forces had been taken over by General Wegand. A half-hearted attempt was being made to hold up the German advance on the line of the Seine. It was an attempt that was doomed before it started. The British forces were the 51st Highland Division and the 1st Armoured Division, to which I was attached. These were the only fighting forces left to them through the Field Security Police (later known as the Intelligence Corps).

The phoney war

I was stationed at Rouen and attached to the French Bureau Central de Renseignements Militaires (BCR) in the rank of sergeant. My job had proved quite interesting, and I’d spent all my time checking rumours of enemy agents here, there and everywhere.

Nine times out of ten, the cases upon which I had been engaged proved to be nothing more than a wild-goose chase. Now and then, however, they appeared worthwhile, and I’d find something for the French authorities to act upon. Had the phoney war - the period of apparent calm and inactivity at the beginning of the war — continued, I would have been quite contented to carry on.

Longing to be of service

In the last few weeks, things had become so bad, however, that I had become extremely dissatisfied with the job. I longed to be of greater service and take a more active part in fighting the enemy.

My chance to do so occurred on 6 June. This was the day I learnt from my section officer, Lieutenant Bogis-Rolfe, that a Sergeant Issac had been cut off by the rapid advance of the German Armour. It was feared he would be, if not already had been, taken prisoner.

Issac was Jewish

Issac was engaged in the same type of work as me, and I knew him personally. He was a very likeable chap, who had been a Fleet Street reporter before the war. Unfortunately, he had never been able to master the art of riding and maintaining a motorcycle, with which we were all equipped for our job. To all intents and purposes this rendered him immobile.

We now feared he might have been captured. From the start, we had never given him much chance of survival if he were ever to be taken prisoner. First and foremost, this was a risk inherent in the work. However, second, and in my opinion of equal importance, was the fact was that he was a Jew.

Not prepared to be discreet

I had never cared one way or the other about the Jews in general. In this case, though, I knew and admired Issac. Part of my admiration for him stemmed from the fact that he was quite incapable of concealing his Jewishness. Indeed, if he were to be captured, he would probably go out of his way to impress upon the Germans that he was a Jew.

What made it even more likely that he’d not dissemble was the fact that he had volunteered for the forces. He was about 36 and therefore past military age. For him joining up had been something he’d considered a particular duty because of his race. For this reason especially I esteemed him and would do what I could to help him.

Taking advantage of the confusion

I had a long discussion with Bogis-Rolfe and persuaded him to let me try to get to Forges les Eaux, where we had last heard from Issac, and attempt to bring him back. As the position around Forges les Eaux was very hazy and the whole situation rather fluid, I felt, amid all the confusion, that I had a reasonable chance of getting him out.

Before I could do anything, though, I had to obtain permission to proceed. This meant a visit to brigade headquarters, situated near Totes, about 32km (20 miles) north of Rouen.

Not clear about events

I set out at 10am. It was a lovely day. After clearing the outskirts of Rouen and one or two roadblocks, I found the road empty except for the occasional farm cart carrying a few refugees.

I arrived at HQ and was shown into the map room. There I stated my mission and asked for permission to proceed. Everyone seemed a bit in the dark about things, about what exactly was happening.

Initially, the brigadier informed me that Forges les Eaux was not occupied then later changed his mind and said it was. I considered my hunch to be as good as theirs and, promising to be careful, I said I’d report back exactly the position at Forges les Eaux.

Absolute silence

I left HQ at about 11am and returned on the road along which I had come. When I reached Sierville, I branched east toward Buchy and Forges les Eaux. As I passed Cailly, I noticed the road was deserted. I stopped my motorcycle briefly and listened out for any sound of firing or some such. All I got was a deathly silence.

I arrived at Buchy at about 11.30am. The village was empty. There were an assortment of criss-crossing tyre marks on the road, but I had no means of knowing when they had been made or whether they belonged to Germans or Allied vehicles.

No firing, only a house ablaze

A house down the street was burning fiercely. There was still no sound of gunfire. Indeed, all I heard was the relentless crackle of the blazing house. I approached the house and tried one or two of its doors, but they were all locked. It seemed to have been abandoned. I wanted to make doubly sure and shouted out loud, but I had no reply.

The sun was shining, and it was a warm day. The countryside looked peaceful, but I had an awful sense that it wasn’t. I had begun to feel extremely uneasy. None of what I found there was at all as I had imagined. The silence especially was eerie and unsettling. I found it almost hypnotising.

It was at this point that I nearly turned back. Only the thought of how ridiculous I would look and feel if I returned to HQ and reported I had seen nothing kept me moving forward.

Evidence of a battle

I returned to my motor cycle and set off again. At about noon I entered Forges les Eaux. Several houses were ablaze. From the spatter of bullet marks on the houses and the pockmarked road signs, I could see that there had been some sort of fighting there. Apart from that, though, there was only the ominous silence again. It occurred to me that by some sort of miracle we might have succeeded in driving back the Germans. That would partly explain why I had met no one on the road for the last 24km (15 miles).

Issac’s billet was empty

Issac’s billet was empty. Gear of all kinds was scattered about, which indicated that Issac, and whoever else had been there, had left in a hurry. I decided that as Issac had left, to all intents and purposes, the best thing I could do was to follow suit.

I took the road leading south to Argueil, hoping I might gain something of value to HQ. I still thought it possible that either the British or the French had managed to drive back the Germans. Therefore, I was not greatly surprised when I saw at the crossroads, some 900m (1,000 yards) ahead of me, what appeared to be a tank.

Caught in a hail of bullets

I stopped my motorcycle and stood there gazing at the vehicle, trying to make out if it was German or one of ours. I had an answer of sorts when I found myself suddenly the centre of a volley of machine-gun fire. The bullets sang and whined around me, striking the motorcycle between my knees, puncturing the front tyre and perforating the petrol tank.

It took me a split second to leap off my bike and jump down into a shallow ditch. The bullets continued to rain down on me as they ricocheted off the road. I had never been under fire before and felt petrified. I thought my number was up, and all I can recollect are thoughts I had of my mother, becoming, for a few moments, a frightened child again.

The tank rumbles toward me

The firing stopped. As I lay in the ditch, panting with fear, the sound of rumbling brought me to my senses. I glanced up cautiously to see the tank heading down the road toward me. If I remained in that ditch, I knew I would be either killed or taken prisoner.

I scrambled to my feet and, in a crouching position, ran for dear life toward a thicket about 90m (100 yards) down the road in the direction of Forges les Eaux. The tank immediately opened fire again. Bullets whistled round my ears once more, as I dodged and wove, expecting any moment to feel the brutal shock of a bullet tearing into my body.

Sanctuary of a thicket

By some sort of miracle I reached the thicket and tore in there, heedless of the brambles and twigs. I stumbled finally over a log in the undergrowth and landed flat on my face.

I did nothing but lie there for a few minutes, cowering behind the log, my breath coming in great sobs. I felt a warm stickiness around my left knee. Looking down at my leg, I saw my trousers were torn and soaked in blood.

With a field dressing, I bandaged my leg, which at first looked horribly bloody but eventually proved to be quite superficial. The wound was about three inches long and a quarter of an inch deep. It had bled profusely, soaking my trouser leg from knee to ankle. Judging from the tear in my trousers, it must have happened when I had first come under fire, sitting on my motorcycle. Strangely enough, I had felt nothing at the time I was shot.

Fear turns to anger

Eventually, I got my breath back. As I did so, I felt my initial fear being replaced by a mounting sense of anger. I was furious with myself, at what I considered the cowardly behaviour that had me grovelling in a ditch like a frightened child then making me run like a scared rabbit. I was also angry with whoever who had encouraged me to behave like this, with whoever had almost succeeded in bowling me over for good.

I peered over the log and could just make out the tank some 30-odd meters (40 yards) off. As I did so, the turret hatch opened, and a German soldier appeared out of it, a pair of binoculars clutched to his face and trained on the thicket. I slipped my rifle from my shoulder, released the safety catch, set the back sight and worked a round into the breach.

Slowly I drew a bead on him, then held my breath and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, and I reloaded and fired again and again until the magazine was empty. Only then did it dawn on me that the extra ammunition lay in the pouches I had strapped to the carrier of my motorcycle.

They shell the thicket

I do not know to this day whether or not I hit the German. But I must have come pretty near to it, because after that first shot he seemed to fall back into the tank. The turret doors remained open for quite a while.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the crew came up with their reaction and began to shell the thicket. After firing about five rounds, which all landed well to my rear, they stopped. After a few minutes, during which the tank stood quite still, I heard a further rumbling, this time from the direction of Forges les Eaux.

Waiting for death

As I wasn’t able to see what was coming up behind me, I had no option but to lie there and wait. I hoped, somewhat forlornly, that the source of the rumbling might be friendly. The noise stopped some 50m (50 yards) to my rear, after which a machine-gun opened fire on me. There was nothing I could do except stick as close to my log as possible and wait for the end.

Shouts succeeded the gunfire, followed by the sound of rustling in the undergrowth around me. I spotted a German soldier about ten yards away, and so I shouted, ‘Kamerad’ and stood up. I remember shutting my eyes, expecting to be shot at any moment.

When I opened them again, it was to see three German soldiers standing in front of me, grinning. One of them relieved me of my rifle. Swinging it by the butt, he smashed it against the log.

Meeting Rommel’s 7th Panzer Division

I was ordered out into the road and on to a tank. As I did what they asked, I looked toward Forges les Eaux and was amazed to see a long column of tanks, troop carriers and lorries. Although I did not realise it at the time, this was Rommel’s 7th Panzer Division.

We moved off down a side road that led us through Rouvray and Bosc. I was on one of the leading tanks, and the rest of the division followed on behind. At one point the gentle slopes of the countryside levelled out to reveal a convoy of about 200 assorted vehicles. I had the opportunity to inspect them carefully, to note the number and type of each tank as well as its armaments.

I noticed that several of the heavy tanks carried what appeared to be a 75mm or four-inch gun. I was to meet this type of tank again the following year in North Africa. It was said at the time of the first tank battles with the Afrika Korps that they were carrying these guns for the first time. This was not the case, because I quite definitely saw otherwise in France.

‘The war is over for you’

About 1.30pm we stopped for a short while. Before long, a half-track vehicle drew up alongside. I could see that it contained high-ranking officers. Ordered off the tank, I saluted and was then asked, first in German then French, which I speak fluently, the name of the division for which I had been acting as scout.

I told them it was the 1st Armoured Division. I added that the division was spread out in great strength, covering Rouen, although I knew there were practically no troops there at all. One of the officers, a general, asked me, in French, if my leg was all right and then if I wanted anything. I said I would like a drink. At a signal from him, I was handed a water bottle — which I later discovered contained lemonade — and told to keep it.

The general then said, ‘The war is over for you. France is finished, and England will very soon want peace.’ At this, I saluted, and he got back in the vehicle, and they drove away. I realised years later that this man was none other than Rommel himself, whom I shall always remember as kind and chivalrous.

At risk of our own fire

I had been picked up by the Germans at about 12.30pm. We had then advanced about 16km (ten miles) without encountering a living soul. At about 2.30pm, we were halted by gun- and machine-gun fire at a spot near Heronchelle.

During the engagement I huddled behind the turret of the tank, scared stiff that we might be hit at any moment. I could hardly imagine a worse way to die than by our own fire. When it was quickly overcome, I must admit I was glad.

After the action, which lasted just five minutes or so, we drove up to the point from where it had been coming. There were several dead or wounded French soldiers lying around there. I was allowed off my tank, and, accompanied by a German orderly, instructed to remain where I stood. We would, they said, be picked up shortly by troops following behind.

‘War is foolish’

After they’d gone, I made myself as useful as I could by dragging the wounded out of the sun and placing something under their heads to act as a pillow. Some of the wounds looked ghastly and made me feel sick. A German doctor stopped briefly to dress the wounds. As he dealt with one particularly grim case, he glanced up at me and said, shaking his head, ‘Das Krieg ist dumm’ (‘War is foolish’).

When the doctor left, I found myself alone with the German orderly. I carried on trying to help the wounded and searched for water to quench their thirst. Instead of water, I found three bottles of red wine, which the orderly insisted on keeping for himself. I was not to give them anything to drink, he said, indicating their abdominal wounds.

Determined to escape

The orderly’s sole intent was to open the wine. As he had no corkscrew, he tried to break off the neck of one of the bottles, smashing it completely in the process. I persuaded him to let me have a try with the second bottle, while he tried his luck with the third and last bottle.

As he was attempting to push the cork down in to the cavity with his thumb, I lifted my bottle and brought it down on his head with all my strength. At this, he slumped to the ground unconscious.

I took the remaining bottle, pushed the cork into it and handed it to the French soldiers, warning them only to take sips. With reassurances that I would endeavour to send some of our own troops to help them, I left, taking the road to Martainville.

I was determined to escape. The thought of spending the next few years, if not the whole of my life, as a prisoner of war was anathema to me.

In disguise

The first place I reached was a deserted farmhouse. In a stable I found an old pair of corduroy trousers and a sheepskin coat. I hastily removed my torn and blood-soaked trousers and battle-dress jacket and put them on instead. In my new set of clothing, I resumed my journey.

It must have been around 4pm when I heard the familiar rumbling of tanks behind me. There was no cover of any sort on that particular stretch of road, so I shambled along, trying to look as much as I could like a French peasant.

Daft even to consider escape

When the first tank drew abreast of me it came to a halt. A German soldier climbed out and began to search me. Unfortunately, I still had with me my identity discs and pay book, which of course he soon found. Shouting at me and saying something that sounded like ‘Englisch soldat’, he ordered me up on to the tank, which then drove off.

We arrived shortly at the village of St Aignan, where I was ordered down from the tank and herded together with about 100 other British soldiers. I talked to several of them. None had taken part in any fighting. Having found themselves cut off from their units, in much the same way as me they’d been picked up by the Germans.

Morale was pretty low. When I spoke to a few of the men about the possibility of escaping, they either took no notice of me or simply told me I was daft.

A master of disguise

In small parties of about six, we were allowed to cross the street to buy cigarettes from the village store. When my turn came, I bought a beret and, as they had no shirts, a woman’s white-flannel nightgown. I stuffed these items beneath my coat and returned to the main group.

Behind a bunch of men, standing grouped together, I managed to crouch down, strip off my shirt and exchange it for the nightgown. I handed my old shirt, pay book and identity disc to a sergeant in the Engineers, whom I asked to keep them safe for me. I put on the beret and waited.

A farm labourer from Buchy

About an hour later we were ordered to appear one by one before a German IO or intelligence officer. When it was my turn, he spoke in English and asked me to which unit I belonged.

I replied, in French, that I was a civilian, a farm labourer from Buchy. When he asked what I was doing among the prisoners of war, I explained that German soldiers had picked me up on the road and brought me there. I did not know the reason why.

He turned to a German non-commissioned officer or NCO and rebuked him, reminding him of their explicit instructions not to interfere with civilians. With that, he simply sent me on my way.

Joining the refugees

I headed off in the direction of Buchy. Once clear of the village, I left the road and skirted back and round the village again. Crossing the main road between Buchy and Vascoeuil, I turned south. I dared not risk the open road and kept in a southerly direction until darkness fell, at which point I took to the road again.

Fortunately, I knew the area, having made myself familiar with it over the previous months. I was in heavily wooded countryside, which I guessed was the Bois de Lyons. About midnight I came to the village of Charleval, where I started to run into refugees, and together we reached Les Andelys in the early hours of the morning.

Caught in an air raid

A heavy air raid was under way in Les Andelys. All hell had been let loose. Dead bodies lay scattered at the side of the road. There were horses crying out and refugees screaming as bombs crashed and burst along the road and among the houses. As I walked, with increasing difficulty, I felt something clinging to my feet and reached down in the dark to find the entrails of a horse entwined around my ankles.

I began to feel utterly exhausted, and my knee was stiffening up. I was so past tired, though, that I just kept going, as if I were sleep walking in a nightmare. I dared not stop. If I did, bombs or no bombs, I would fall asleep.

Shaken awake

We could not cross the river at Les Andelys, so we pushed on southward. As dawn broke, I became aware that I was part of a vast stream of refugees. I managed to cling to the back of a cart, and, for the first time in my life, I swear that I was walking and sleeping at the same time.

Ultimately, I must have collapsed, because the next thing I knew I was being moved very roughly. I found myself lying on top of a cart, being shaken awake by an extremely irate French officer.

Mistaken identity

We had reached Vernon and the bridge over the Seine. I was dragged from the cart and searched. Although I speak French fluently, I do so with a hint of a Belgian accent. Coupled with the fact that I had no identity papers, this was considered enough to class me a German fifth columnist and get me put up against a wall to be shot.

I told the French official again and again that I was British. To no avail. I found myself reduced to tears of exasperation and bitterness. After all I had been through this was how it was to end.

Some respite

Eventually, somehow, I persuaded my tormentor to allow me some respite. We made a deal. When one of the British tanks in the area showed up, I would be allowed to talk to a British officer.

As luck would have it, shortly thereafter a British tank appeared, and I was allowed to speak to an officer and explain my predicament. Under French guard, he sent me to a British intelligence officer, where I had no difficulty in making myself known.

Posted as missing

My unit under Lieutenant Bogis-Rolfe was at Pacy, some 10km (8 miles) away. I could be offered no transport, so I had no choice but to hobble there myself over the next three hours.

I crawled into Pacy and found Bogis-Rolfe. I told him all that had happened to me. I had been posted as missing. Everyone thought I had been taken prisoner. Apparently, not long after I had left, there was an unequivocal announcement that the Germans had taken Forges les Eaux.

No word of Issac

During my absence, there’d still been no news of Issac. Weeks later, he did succeed in joining up with us again, though it was not until we got back to England. Apparently, he had escaped Forges les Eaux on an old bicycle and dodged around until eventually he’d managed to find his way back to our lines.

I slept for about 12 hours and then typed my report, which was sent to divisional HQ. It was some time later, while I was lying, recovering, in hospital in Stirling, Scotland, that I learnt I had been awarded the Military Medal. I took personal receipt of this from King George VI at Buckingham Palace.

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