大象传媒

20/10/44
We pushed off next day, again moving through sparsely populated East Anglian type of country, and seeing practically no sign of fighting. Just before noon we halted in the middle of a largish village by the name of Bemouville. We were immediately surrounded by an excited throng of women, children and adolescents, with a sprinkling of middle-aged men, who hailed us as their liberators.

NO SIGN OF FIGHTING
Apparently the Germans had let the previous afternoon and evening, and until our little convoy rolled in, the village had only seen a few of our armoured cars or tanks, which had gone straight through. They presented us with flowers, apples and pears, and sometimes a glass of wine. We, on our part, speedily divested ourselves of all our chocolate and sweets, to the great delight of the little children, and nearly all of our cigarettes, matches and soap. And all the while there was a flood of questions - where had we come from? Were we staying long in the village? If not, where were we going? Was such and such a place liberated? And a bit later, when the original excitement had died down somewhat, such questions as whether the flying bombs had done much damage to England - for apparently there was a base not far away. And throughout it al ran the refrain 'Hitler capoute n'est ce pas'. Just what 'capoute' means I have never been able to find out, but in general terms it seems to indicate that Hitler has had it.

Within an hour or so, I had spoken ten times as much French as in the whole of the previous time I had been in France. I was rather pleased to catch an aside from one woman to another that "Il parle le francais tres bien", but I fear that I muddle my tenses, genders and so on except when I have thought a little on what I want to say.

Later on in the afternoon, by which time I was thoroughly exhausted, we moved a few miles to join main corps, which had moved across the Seine that day. We all moved again the next day and continued to move, until on the fourth morning we entered Brussels. Over the whole route to Brussels, there were again few signs of fighting, and hardly any of the towns or villages were damaged. Periodically, there would be a lengthy stretch of road dotted with knocked out Jerry vehicles and there was one more dead horse.

Up to Arras, the country was still very rural, with hardly any towns, through rather more pretty villages than usual. It was pretty obvious that we were not very far behind Jerry for in village after village, the entire population had turned out to cheer us through, with just the same atmosphere of excitement about the place that we had encountered at Bomouville. Just as my truck was leaving one village, there was a sudden surge of extra excitement, and many of the people started running in the direction we were going. A minute later I understood. A squad of German prisoners a good 30 strong were being marched in by a couple of rather ancient Frenchmen wearing the F.F.I. armlet and carrying a German rifle apiece. A bit further on we met another squad, about 20 strong, just as heavily escorted. How these villagers cheered. I only caught a quick glimpse of the prisoners, but it was enough to reveal them, almost without exception, as mere boys, worn out and bitterly despondent. One could not help feeling rather sorry for them.

Here I might add that it was from about Argentan onwards that we started to see armed members of the Maquis going out in parties on bicycles or in cars or lorries, or standing at the entrance to side roads as we went by on the main road. But it was the first time we had seen them bringing in prisoners.

From Arras onwards, the country was more heavily populated and more industrialised, and bore the rather messy appearance of an industrial area even outside the towns. Many of the houses had huge advertisements written over their side walls in particular glaring shades of red and blue. Beyond Arras we came to a stretch of cleaner country, and after passing two or three beautifully laid out last-war cemeteries, we caught a backward glimpse of Vimy Ridge, with its twin peaked monument silhouetted against the sky.

Just before Lens we turned off the main road and wandered around the lesser roads south of Lille, apparently because Lille was not cleared up yet. In this area, close to the Belgian frontier, we came across two or three small towns of the artisan dwelling quarter type. I was rather curious to see the ruins of a great number of houses, but ruins which were neatly stacked up and grass-grown. Obviously they did not belong to this campaign; presumably, therefore, they belonged to the campaign of 1940 or possibly to the R.A.F. bombing of Occupied Europe. A little later we stopped in the middle of one of these towns for a few minutes, and after the usual excited greetings and questions from the crowds in the streets, I was able to satisfy my curiosity. Yes, the ruins belonged to the campaign of 1940. The Germans had burnt the houses. My informant was joined by two or three other women in whose faces bore evidence of sorrow and suffering, and were now fierce with deep rooted hate. One of them had seen her two brothers shot by the Germans, and husband of another was a prisoner of war in Germany, where she did not know. 1,700 Frenchmen in all had been shot in this town in 1940, they said. And, almost pleadingly, "When you get to Germany you will cut every Germans throat will you not." Just as we moved off again a party of German prisoners were marched in by the F.F.I. One wonders how they fared in that town that night.

A little later we crossed over the Belgian frontier near Lysoing, looped back into France again to join the main road a few miles beyond Lille, then over the frontier again, this time for good. The Belgians outdid the French in the warmth of their welcome and though the French towns and villages had some pretty good displays of flags, with the tricolour invariably evading in between the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, those of Belgium went one better, with huge and often beautifully worked national flags, in the impressive colours of red, gold and black, waving over the smaller English and American ones. Not that this is meant as a reflection on the French. They had suffered more than the Belgians in this war, and at the same time they had done more towards their own liberation. And perhaps, too, their joy was tempered by the thought of those thousands of their men-folk , who were still prisoners in Germany, and whose fate was very uncertain.

Late that night we leaguered just beyond Youmai, and early next morning we were on the main road again, leading to Brussels which we reached about 11 am. I think it was September 4th.

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