June 1944: Arthur escapes up a mountain (variations on a theme)

 One of my favorite things when researching my grandfather's story, is when I happen upon the same story, either written at different times or written by different people.  The details often vary a little from version to version, but comparing them allows me to get a better feel for what really happened.  Here's a particularly exciting story that happened to my Grandpa Arthur, written over a period of 44 years. I'm going to present them in the order that I encountered them.  At the end, I include an excerpt written by Dr. Michel Planas that I believe describes the same hike.

1988: I recorded Arthur's oral testimony:

     Then we had a long, long march up the valley because a parachuting was coming, and the same night we went up the mountain. This was very, very … I had to carry my submachine gun, my radio, ammunition for the submachine gun, grenade – not plastic grenade, but ordinary grenade – and food and my personal belonging. I was loaded by I don’t know how many pounds, but this was very, very heavy and we had to walk very, very fast, because they expected Germans to be behind us in a hurry, and it was extremely hard. 

    I love mountains, but that day I hated them. I thought that an additional few steps would not be possible – we came to the end of our endurance, and we kept going and going and going, faster and faster and faster. Well, okay. 

    Well then we came back down again.

1974: In 2021 my mother gave me a written account that she found in Grandpa's effects after he died.  I believe Arthur wrote this in 1974, just before his oldest daughter (my Aunt Lilly) died of multiple sclerosis.

    Almost at the same time a news reached our commander through intelligence that Germans were preparing an expedition in our direction. Did they know about the parachuting? In any event we had to move at once and fast and climb the mountain. Pack mules and men formed a long line on the hunter’s trail, sometimes in the open, sometimes hidden in timber. I was heavily loaded. “Biscuit” box, not heavy but unhandy with sharp corners, submachine gun, cartridges (or bullets?), knapsack with personal belongings and some food, a canteen with wine, hand grenades. We had to carry a lot of ammunition, much more than regular infantry soldiers, because we had no supply service and had no adequate means of transportation.

Orders kept coming “faster, faster please”. Soon the muscles started aching. Still faster. It seems that two hundred yards more is the maximum the human strength could stand. And we kept going for miles. Faster, faster please. Each step caused a pain, an acute pain, an actual suffering. What else could we do? Germans were perhaps behind. Abandon part of the load, a few grenades? No! No! No!

Finally we are on the plateau, breathing heavily. A few patrols are dispatched around. The antenna of my biscuit radio is soon supported by the branches and leaves of an oak-tree. Everybody remain silent, so the enemy could not spot us easily. I fell asleep.

Midnight. The night is cool, very cool indeed, on the mountain top. Somebody wakes me. Get up! What is the matter? We are going back down! But parachuting? There will be no parachuting. Why? Nobody knows, but Captain Sanglier, perhaps.

1944: In 2022, my aunt sent me a folder of materials that had also been in Grandpa's effects, and in that folder, I found an article that Grandpa had written in the fall of 1944. It was handwritten in French, on the back of a police report, of all things.  

But here's the version of the story he wrote in October of 1944 (I've updated the punctuation and and capitalization a little). The language is often poetic, and any awkward phrasing is due to an imperfect translation:

    The order to march has just been given. The company leaves its advanced position facing the plain to join its comrades holding the plateau some thousand meters above. The interminable column winds its way along mountain paths and tracks, sometimes visible from afar, sometimes rushing into the woods, where the friendly foliage hides it, one might say materially, from foreign birds of prey. 

    Little by little, the pace of our progress slows. A growing fatigue takes hold of each man, whose shoulders bend under the burden of the mountain bag, weapons and as much ammunition as it was humanly possible to carry. The march has already lasted several hours, and the company is not yet halfway there. Time passes. Each step begins to cause muscle pain, which rapidly increases. Another couple of hundred meters, and we can't go any further, it seems. But at the end of this distance, the willpower wears us down, and we're still moving forward... We're still 10 km from the goal, drops of sweat flood our faces, drip into our eyes, blinding us, but we're still moving forward....

    A storm hits the mountain. The sky is furrowed with lightning. The thunder seems to want to burst the rocks. A torrential rain floods the woods. It seems that the earth and the heavens merge into a single chaos. There's not a thread of dryness left on us. The shoes, weighed down by the water they absorbed, wade through the sunken path, which suddenly became a torrent. But we are moving forward, we are still moving forward….

    Night has fallen by the time the company finally arrives at its destination. It will occupy two farms and a sheepfold. In near-darkness, as there is no electricity on the plateau, the various groups hunker down in the sheds and haylofts. We organize the guard service and the kitchens.

1955: Michel Planas wrote a history of the the maquis unit both he and my grandfather served in, and this is what he wrote about what I believe is the same event:

    We leave at nightfall and we take, above our cantonments, the forest path which cuts LA RAYE obliquely... 

    Night had fallen very dark. 

    No more road, we advance painfully while dragging the heavily laden mules. 

    After four hours of effort, we arrive in the grassy areas of the plateau where we find the Marquet farm which was still burning. 

    We set up the locations for automatic weapons and establish the guard tower. Then, we enter a small sheepfold that served as a grain shed and we take a few moments to rest a few tens of meters from the road... 

    At dawn, we have the visit of MERMOZ from the BARBU Community who resided in the farm located below the road to the South West of our position... 

      We go down again with Richard on OURCHES ... After an uneventful descent and a short hello to Compagnie PIERRE, we arrive at OURCHES where a few hours of sleep seemed welcome.

--Dr. Michel Planas, 1955 

Bibliography:

• Planas, Michel. History of the 4th Company 2nd Battalion FFI of Drôme or; Three Doctors from the Same Family in the Maquis. 1955