France, 1944: A view from the Ground

By Dorice Barroux Lindsey
Venice, Florida

In 1944, I was 14, living in the town of Chatou, about 10 km. from Paris, France, when during one of our frequent air raids, our eyes were, as usual riveted toward the sky and our excitement reached a crescendo as we saw B-17 Flying Fortresses in the distance, heading our way. They would bomb Villacoublay airfield, bridges, factories or rail centers not far from us.

One day, they bombed a bridge 2 miles from us and the next day, pieces of human bodies floated down the Seine river across from our garden. Arms, legs, body parts would get caught in the weeds along the river.

We had been under the German occupation for four long years and looked forward to being liberated.

Across the street from us was a R&R home for SS troops who had been wounded on the Russian front. My father had been arrested by the Gestapo and after spending eight months in Fresnes prison near Paris, we were told he was in the concentration camp of Buchenwald, where he was allowed to write us a censored letter, in german only, once in a while. We knew he was alive but had no idea Buchenwald was an extermination camp. The Germans across the street told us that he was in a "work" camp, and was being well treated. (Little did we know...!)

My father came home weighing 80 pounds, a living skeleton, and spent months in bed after his return. Reason for his arrest:

1. A dead German general was found floating down the river Seine.

2. Theft of documents from German offices in Paris, where my father worked as an Interior Decorator.

3. Treason against the "Great Reich".

After his liberation from Buchenwald, he was made Commander of the Legion of Honor for services to the French Resistance and the Allies.

Because he stole the plans of the Luftwaffe and forwarded them to the Allies, he was credited with saving the lives of thousands of Allied pilots. My father had unlimited access to the German occupied airfields since the Germans asked him to make black-out curtains for the windows of the Luftwaffe barracks and thus, he was able to gain information about the number and type of planes the Luftwaffe possessed and gather valuable information to relay to the Allies. He always said he did it because it was his duty, and never wanted credit for it.

We begged him to write his story, which he finally did a couple of years before his death in 1986. The name of the book is: "The man who stole the plans of the Luftwaffe", by Jacques Barroux.

During an air raid, instead of seeking cover in our basement, we would quickly go outside in our garden and look for the first planes to arrive. It would not take long to spot the B-17s in their large formations, leaving contrails behind them. The Germans would immediately begin trying to shoot them down. We would watch in horror as a plane was hit, and one day we saw 3 planes shot down overhead, the date was September 13, 1943. One wing broke off on one of the planes and circled down to the ground while the plane crashed and some of the men bailed out. Some airmen had their chutes deploy, others didn't. Our hearts broke as we witnessed these sights. I am still haunted today by these scenes.

I remember seeing two bodies plunge to the ground without the chutes opening. I saw one airman come down with his chute deployed and watched with horror as our German neighbours machine gunned him.

His head tipped down all of a sudden, and we knew he was gone. Another parachuted to safety on an island across the Seine river where we lived. He was so close, we could watch him wrap up his chute and hide it, about 150 yards from us, then disappear in the woods.

Suddenly our German S.S. neighbours rang our doorbell and demanded to borrow our small sailboat to get across the river to find the airman. We told them this was impossible for it was a sailboat and it would take a long time to get it ready and there were no oars.

They were upset and left, but could realize that the boat would not be of much use to them. Then they noticed our small motorboat on blocks, in our garden. We mentioned to them that the motor was not working and we had no gas anyway. The nearest bridge to access the island was about 5 miles away and we found out later that the Germans had blocked the access to the island to prevent French people from trying to locate and rescue the airman. The Germans went on the island and never found him.

Late that night our doorbell rang. Cautiously, my mother opened the window. It was our town's assistant mayor, who knew my mother was a U.S. citizen and wanted to know if she could come and speak with the airman.

Knowing the Germans lived across the street and watched our every move, and my father was in a concentration camp, and she would have to leave us alone for a while in the night, she offered money and food, but would not leave us, as tempted as she was to go see this airman, her first American soldier. (We heard later that some members of the French Underground crossed the river with a rowboat after dark, found the airman and brought him back to the Town Hall.)

My husband and I attended an 8th Air Force reunion in Georgia in 1999 and they were able to give us the identity of this airman, Rudolph Richer, who was a radio operator on a B-17. He was the only survivor of his crew and was sent back to England via Spain. The whole process took 2 months. He died in 1986 and we unfortunately were never able to meet him.

The day before the liberation of Paris, August 25 1944, we heard rattlling noises in our street. I ran to our gate to see what the commotion was all about. German tanks were retreating. I opened our gate to take a closer look when the Germans immediately pointed their machine guns at me. You never saw a 14 year old close a gate so fast!

The next day, we found out that these same troops had murdered 18 Frenchmen, making them dig their own graves, shooting them and pouring water into their grave to drown those who were not quite dead. There is a memorial at that spot, in Chatou.

Dorice Lindsey