Lilliane Merle

“Early June 1944:  more and more raids/sorties by the RAF over Germany and the French coast, especially Normandy. Frequent air raid warnings.

5^th June 11pm: air raid warning – siren. Only an hour ago aircraft flew over the city and the alarm rang  out… all of us had come to learn the noise of a German aeroplane engine is distinctly different from the humming of a British plane engine.

There didn’t appear to be any retaliation from German aircraft… no anti-aircraft fire. We could hear muffled sounds in the distance… a disrupted night – around 3 in the morning there seemed to be some bombing in the vicinity of the railway station.

5^th June 6am: bombing of the Paris-Cherbourg railway line. In town, a handful of German officers were walking very quickly, gas masks in hand (not looking too proud) there are relatively few of them in the town centre… everything points towards a landing.

Mum sends me to get some bread. In the queue at the bakers I meet my English teacher who tells me she is pleased that “they” are coming. She could already picture herself having 5 o’clock tea with British soldiers at her table! 

However, the poor woman was killed amid the ruins of her apartment block that very afternoon.

5^th June 9am: my grandfather came to our apartment at 120 Rue St Jean to ask us… “What are you thinking of doing? Personally, I  have no intention of repeating what we did in 1940 and taking to the road – I am taking my chances and staying in Caen.”  (Place Courtonne is where he, my grandmother and a sweet little black dog lived on the first floor of a four-storey apartment block, near the Bassin de Plaisance.) My Dad replied that we too are going to stay and see how things go. Everyone is silent for a moment. On my little desk I place, open, the score of the English National Anthem. Mum prepares a few things – clothes, objects… just in case.

Around 1.30pm: intense bombing of Caen – bombs fall all over town at the same time. Caen is showered with bombs – the harbour area, the Place Courtonne, the Rue St. Jean, the Château etc. taken aback by the impact of the bombs… right, left and centre, houses collapse and fall like dominoes. When a bomb falls there is total darkness and a greenish dust spreads everywhere leaving an acrid/bitter taste in the mouth. 

No sooner had the curtain of dust lifted than my Dad went to the window to check the state of affairs in the streets outside. I quickly grabbed him by the arm to bring him back towards the centre of the room underneath a beam where Mum had positioned herself. It was while I was moving away from the window that I was struck by some pieces of flying glass – one in the right arm, the other in the right leg; just some bleeding, frightened more than harmed. 

During the bombing I had seen my Siamese cat scurry under the bedside table in the blink of an eye. When the dust lifted so we could see again, I grabbed my cat, put on his collar and lead and he got onto my shoulder. We had to get out of there, avoiding collapsed walls and ceilings.

My Dad had a little bike and a trailer which hooks up behind and in which we put some luggage, bags, bundles of clothes and my violin.  I don’t know if it was from habit or if he was thinking of returning, but my Dad carefully locked the apartment. Once we got downstairs, outside into the rue St. Jean stepping over piles of stones and beams the thought occurred – where do we go?

My grandparents lived in Place Courtonne near the Bassin de St. Pierre on the first floor of a 4-storey block. They were among the 21 people killed there in the bombing which took place at 13.30. 

So we went to see some shopkeeper friends who lived almost opposite our apartment. Their house had not been damaged. At around 4pm there was further heavy bombing of the city centre around Rue St. Jean and Rue G. Dupont.  Our friends ran a little grocer’s with a bar/cafe (commonly known as a bistro).  There were seven of us there, plus one cat and one dog taking shelter under a broad beam. The house resisted the bombing, and we were unscathed. After the planes had passed over, we went on our way. Our friends stayed on, worried because their son had spent the night of the 5^th/6^th June guarding the Paris-Cherbourg railway line. All able-bodied men had to take turns undertaking this duty by order of Kommandant Petain following sabotage of the line.

Once outside, having sheltered for a while from flying glass under the porch of the Église St. Jean, my Dad ran into one of his pupils. My Dad was a teacher at the Ecole Primaire Supérieure and at the École Normale for Primary Education.  “Where are you going, M. Merle? I don’t know where to go myself, I have no family left.”  This pupil was a member of the emergency teams and advised my Dad to go to the EPS in the Rue Bayeux in a part of town as yet untouched by the bombing. This was a good idea – it was a boarding school, so there was the possibility of food and lodging. 

There was something of a lull, and we put back into the trailer the bundles and so on which had worked themselves loose from their bindings of string made from paper which was all we had during the war. We then set off across the ruins, huge piles of stones, sections of wall and so on. We went down the Rue St. Jean, then Rue Gabriel Dupont. The Place du Monument aux Morts was clear, no sign of any Germans at the military HQ!  We carried on along the Prairie, taking Rue Sadi Carnot, Rue Daniel Huet and the Boulevard de la Prairie. The fire station which had stood opposite the Prairie now lay in ruins, all that remained being a section of wall 3 or 4 storeys high with the WCs of the apartments visible one above the other, and all having had their doors torn away by the blast.

We continued via Boulevard Bertrand and Place Guillouard, a beautiful square with magnificent chestnut trees. On the left-hand side of the square was a cinema, the “Trianon”, and on the right the old St. Etienne church which had been severely damaged by the bombing. The bombing here gave the earth the impression of having been ploughed; in front of us there was an enormous bomb crater at the bottom of which I saw the chest of a man buried in the debris… and a dead cat.

Our path then led us via the Place des Tribunaux, Rue Guillaume le Conquérant and Place des Anciennes Boucheries to Rue de Bayeux, where we stopped at no. 72, the École Primaire Supérieure for Boys which was to become our home base, so to speak. 

Late afternoon 6^th June: Welcomed by the Head of the school. I must emphasise the heavy responsibilities assumed by the Head of the boarding school in which there were pupils from the region, from the neighbouring  départements of Manche, Orne and Eure as well as from the surrounding countryside where fighting was taking place. Many of these pupils would gradually return home during the fighting, taking a chance that they would avoid artillery fire. As for us, we had a look at the premises, the rooms formerly occupied by class supervisors (surveillants), the dormitories, the restaurant where we would take our lunch and evening meal, which were provided by a Polish couple employed as cook and gardener and provided with tied accommodation. 

We needed to sit down and take stock. Having seen the bombing of the rue St. Jean, Mum was unwilling to stay in a house. Behind and adjacent to the school (in the “Hastings” area of town), there was a large field with specially adapted trenches. So we decided to live in the trenches, as we could take our meals in the school and sleep in the trenches. We used mattresses from the school, placing them on wooden props which were lying around, covering the trenches with soil and placing sandbags at the edges – problem solved.

The fighting continued during the night, with muffled noises coming from the plain toward the sea.

7^th June 2.30am: bombing, artillery fire

After lunch I chanced going inside the school. Passing through a corridor and an attic room, I found a door giving access to the roof, which was dominated by the siren. I climbed the little access ladder and positioned myself between the cones of the siren. From there, as far as the eye could see on the plain, a huge tank battle was taking place near Epron, a small village near Caen. From my elevated position I watched and gave a commentary on what was happening. My voice carried to the trenches and then the shelling started up again.

Mum told me to get down. In truth, it was getting dangerous. With shrapnel falling all around and smacking against the roof, it was high time to get down. I made the most of a lull in proceedings to get back to the trenches. There was a bit of a commotion on the German side.

8^th June: the Germans set up anti-aircraft weapons along Boulevard Richemond. From that moment on we were very close to the lines of fire – our trenches were only a few metres away. It  was all going on above our heads. Once the British air force had located the German anti-aircraft batteries we were treated to an unforgettable display of agility, speed and precision from the Spitfires which would dive and spray the German positions with fire. The RAF pilots risked their lives with their skilful flying. During one of these air battles, I saw an RAF plane get hit and the pilot parachute out; night and day, the two sides exchanged fire.

The month of June came and went, each day being much the same. But hope was in the air, despite everything. Life in the trenches became more organised – my siamese cat even got used to the noise. One day a poor cow, frightened but uninjured, wandered into the field containing our trenches. Mum, although a bit of a “townie” in these matters, went and fetched it hoping to be able to milk it. After a few false starts – success!  This ensured we had milk up to the end of June. My cat had never seen such a big creature!

Every morning around 11 o’clock the Germans would shell us. On the morning of 3^rd July, about 4am… the Germans arrived in our field brandishing their machine guns and shouting: “All civilians must leave.” They then set up flame throwers, hellish machines which spit out fire through 6 or 8 holes. We went back into the school being careful we were not followed. But they were preoccupied with setting up their machines. 

We were not too proud of ourselves though, because two days earlier a member of the Resistance had arrived on foot from Le Havre with a handcart containing straw, bundles of clothes, cushions and a mattress, all of which concealed a radio transmitter set which kept us up to date with operations, and we said – “What if the Germans pick up the wavelength of the transmitter? What will happen then?”  Fortunately, nothing happened – they did not search the handcart. Phew!

At the beginning of July the Germans were starting to feel under pressure with the advance of the British and the Canadians who, as Pierre Dac at the BBC might have said, had absolutely no fear. You could feel a sense of excitement around Caen.

We did not know where to go. I had a school friend whose parents lived in Rue Bicoquet, not very far from the École Primaire Supérieure. Their property was single-storey, the rooms arranged off a central corridor, and with a garden.

They agreed to put us up. We stayed for just one night, persuaded to leave by more frequent and longer bursts of shellfire. And so we headed towards the St. Etienne part of town. We had been told that at the Place des Anciennes Boucheries, at the junction with Venelle St Benoȋt there was a cellar specially adapted as a sort of bomb shelter which could take us, so we went to take a look. It was below a chemist’s which was run by two brothers who were former pupils of my grandfather at the  Music School.  The cellar was solidly built with accessible basement windows. 

4th July: we had only just arrived at the cellar when there was heavy bombing by the Americans. The building collapsed – but the cellar stood firm, and we had air from the basement windows. The fire brigade gave us shovels and pickaxes so that we could dig ourselves out, but we managed to get out, uninjured, through the basement windows. A close shave!  And my cat went mad.  

5th July: bombing by American “Flying Fortresses”. The bombs fell randomly around the city – the bottom of Rue de Bayeux, on the Place des Anciennes Boucheries, Rue Caponière… a German Tiger tank driven by a SS man was going round in circles looking for a way out. He was positioned bolt upright on the turret – what would he do?

As a result of the heavy bombing of the Rue de Bayeux two houses collapsed. There were fatalities and all that could be seen amid the debris was a child’s cradle hanging from the window lock. Shortly afterwards, fire took hold of the Place des Anciennes Boucheries. Fortunately in Rue St Martin there was a well and when I saw people making a chain to pass buckets of water, I joined in – I was the only girl amongst all the men. Years later I learned that the large man beside me was M. Max Maurin, the “Deputy Prefect”.

After the high drama of the cellar, we went to the Church of St. Étienne. We were piled into the church – seated, lying down and it was here for the first time a saw a hay cart.  

8^th July: heavy bombing about 9pm… the fighting was getting closer.

Canadian and British tanks arrived in Caen coming from the direction of Carpiquet, to the west. They came from the top of the Rue de Bayeux and the Rue de Bretagne. Mum called out in English to a soldier who lifted her up on to the tank beside the turret so that she could show him the best way into Caen avoiding the SS tank. In another part of town two Germans set fire to their munitions truck. And it was said that the SS man had got blown up in his tank by his own ammunition! There was lots of excitement and commotion. Small groups of people approached the tanks… the joy of liberation broke out!

Canadians, British and French troops waved to us from their tanks. Words and sentences were exchanged between civilians and military in sometimes halting English and French. Occasionally a strongly-accented old French would reach our ears. But the war had to go on – they had to push on into the centre of town to wipe out the last remaining nests of Germans hiding in the cellars of bombed houses. 

9^th July: Liberation of the western part of the city of Caen.

 

The Germans still held eastern Caen, lying on the other side of the river Orne. Now it was the Germans firing at us. Despite this uncomfortable situation, a ceremony to mark the liberation of Western Caen was organised by the local Résistance and France Libre. The flag of France Libre was raised on a lamp-post in a small square near the Église St. Étienne,  Place Monseigneur des Hameaux, in the presence of General de Gaulle, Field Marshal Montgomery, General Koenig and representatives of France Libre in Britain. Jean Marin and some members of the Resistance spoke on the French service of the BBC in London, and we could sing the Marseillaise without fear of arrest.

The ceremony was brief, and the generals went back to the hostilities. The Germans sent some fire our way. The shells fell nearby, so we went back to the church to take shelter. During the night shells fell on the church. We stayed there one more night, desperate to know if we could stay in our summer house at St. Aubin sur Mer.  Mum set off to find someone in charge on the British side to find out if it was possible to travel to the coast. 

We left Caen and stayed for three or four days in a refugee centre at Douvres-la-Délivrande before setting off for St. Aubin. We travelled in a British military vehicle with a Fire Support Regiment who were heading for St. Aubin in order to occupy a large villa – the Villa Jean Louis, which was in a street just opposite our house. When we got there, our house, which faces the sea, had been hit by navy shelling and was uninhabitable; the front was shattered and the roof had collapsed in on itself forming a sort of Victory salute to the Liberation. The villa which the British were to occupy, on the other hand, had not been hit, sheltered as it was by other houses. But from then on we stayed in St. Aubin, in a house a bit further on which had not been hit thanks to being protected by a neighbouring house. This was a draughty house – there was no glass in the windows, no electricity and so we used oil lamps – in other words, indoor camping.

During July: the Germans occupied Le Havre, situated just on the other side of the bay from us, and from time to time (and always at the same hour) they would send a ‘plane and some shells over to our side, to be met by British ant-aircraft fire.

It was an unforgettable sight – the sea black with boats and the impressive canopies covering the landing craft to protect them from German aircraft. On one occasion I found myself in the trenches up on the cliff with some British soldiers when a German ‘plane from Le Havre came and tried its luck above us. He quickly turned back – it was just before the famous “five o’clock tea” which the British were not about to miss!

The British disembarked at Ver sur Mer and at Asnelles, the Canadians at Bernières. I also saw Australian soldiers disembarking, they were clad in navy blue with broad-brimmed felt hats. There was a constant unloading of equipment: jeeps, amphibious and caterpillar-track vehicles, tanks – an unbelievable amount of traffic. To cross the road in this little village took half-an-hour to reach the other pavement! I saw a bus which had been converted into a mobile operating theatre. And when you think that all of this equipment came out of the “belly” of these freighters, and that they were still coming in September! Supplies were stocked at the Casino in St. Aubin sur Mer which was converted into the NAAFI . 

The soldiers were kind and gave us chocolate, sweets, tea, cigarettes, soap – even oil for our lamps because we still had no electricity. Relations between the local population and the soldiers were very good. Mum invited some soldiers to our house at this time – two British with whom we have stayed in touch since 1944, one from Liverpool and one from Bournemouth, and two Canadians, one from Québec, one from Montreal. Mum also made the acquaintance in St. Aubin of a retired Scots couple who were stationed in St. Aubin and who also became friends. He, Mr. Wilkinson, was responsible for the maintenance of British war graves in the cemeteries along the coast.

The advance of British troops moved North in September. We were liberated, relieved and free of occupiers. Life would gradually return to normal, leaving behind the injured, the dead, the ruins. When you have lost everything, it all has to be rebuilt. 

It was good to sleep in a bed, under a roof. My cat thought so too – I thought he deserved a medal after all he had lived through! 

A distinction must be made between the British Air Force and the American. The Americans released their bombs in clusters haphazardly and from high altitude, whereas the British would take risks in order to target particular objectives.

I would also like to emphasise the important role played by the BBC. During the war, it played a part in victory. The broadcast “Les Français parlent aux Français” was of the utmost importance, providing as it did hope, contact with the Resistance, news and personal messages. If we had not had “Ici Londres”, we could not have escaped that foul Occupation. Thanks with all my heart…

and thanks to Churchill!“

We were delighted to meet Lilliane in 2014 when she joined our group for dinner on the invitation of her lifelong friend, Normandy veteran Alan Henry, whom she first met as a British soldier in 1944.  She was so pleased to be with all the other veterans and thanked them all profusely for the liberation of France seven decades earlier. It was so moving for the veterans to hear that despite all the loss and suffering she and her family endured, they had no malice for the allied forces who brought such destruction.  To them it was the necessary price to pay for their freedom and she would always be grateful to them.