St Marys High School Field Trip Permission Slip: Fill & Download for Free

I’m posting a very, very long newpaper article here so I can link to it, for a Quoran friend who asked about it. He, and you, might want to read it in two sittings.It’s more-or-less typical story written by a 25-year-old Canadian (my dad) who was still working in Paris, against his better judgment, when the Germans invaded France in June 1940. The Germans would have jailed him, or worse, as a national of a country at war with Germany. His escape from France was printed in a Montreal paper.This picture is not from the newspaper, and not of my dad, but sets the scene.Those who persevere will be rewarded by a strafing and a few explosions, but it’s mostly slice-of-life stories about refugees on the run.All opinions belong to a 25-year-old, who changed some opinions but not others in the remaining 75 years of his life….The Standard Magazine Montreal Saturday July 20 1940The day before the Germans marched into Paris a young Montrealer decided to leave. He was Bob Sproule, a former McGill man, and well known skier, who had been working in the big Renault factory truck, tank and airplane works since the war began. Last September he was travelling through France and decided to stay after getting a job in the tools department of the arms plant. What happened to him after he piled his belongings on to a bicycle in a Paris street and headed south is told by him below. We think it is one of the most vivid stories to come out of those tragic last days of Free France.We received 500 francs on account and a slip of paper saying: "You are leaving Paris in a group for Rochefort. If you get separated from your group, continue by your own means," writes Bob Sproule in this graphic account of keeping ahead of the Nazis. He did get "separated," and eventually got to England, where he wrote one of the best of all the "eye witness" accounts of the retreat from Paris.A Day Ahead of the Nazis. by Robert SprouleThe ninth of June, Sunday, I had the day free from the factory to change shift. It was a fine day, so Suzanne and I took the train to Sceaux, a little beyond the suburbs of Paris, for a stroll in the park. Big fleecy clouds were drifting over, birds were singing, roses were blooming, and lovers wandered arm in arm. When we saw a man building a house we admired his optimism, but didn't dream that anything worse than an air raid could happen to it.I was working too hard to bother with newspapers or listen to the radio, but began to be uneasy Monday when I noticed thousands of people around the railway stations, and cars in every street loading for a long journey. The news that Italy had declared war was not comforting, for Muscle-in-i had never attacked anyone who had a chance of hitting back.Tuesday I worked very hard on an order for an anti-tank gun. That was another bad sign - surely no one would think of anti-tank guns unless the Germans were practically in Paris. On my way home I noticed many soldiers among the refugees, coming through Paris alone or in twos or threes, on bicycles, motor bikes, and army trucks. Here and there were trucks, covered with branches as extra camouflage, stopped in side streets while the drivers slept. I had to look a long time to find a restaurant open, and at the hotel there was no one left but the concierge. She said that there had been an order to leave Paris, and she was leaving in the morning. I could stay on, but she thought I was crazy. Well, I still had a job, I explained, and no orders to leave it.All that night we heard artillery. We knew that they were close, but it made me uneasy to notice that it was south of Paris, in the direction of Versailles.Down Tools and GoWednesday morning we continued with the anti-tank guns, but about ten o'clock the chief came in with orders for all the soldiers to go home and come back that afternoon with two blankets and two days' provisions. (All Frenchmen between twenty and fifty, even in reserved occupations, are soldiers.) A warning had been issued to boys between seventeen and twenty to go to the south gates of the city for orders, but this was changed now: they were to go south, where and how they could, and send their address to the authorities when they stopped. For the rest of us, foreigners, those medically exempted from military service, and women, there was no change.No one thought of working any more, except to dismantle some of the most valuable machinery. Those waiting for orders were on the verge of break-down. Women went into hysterics. I was called down for playing the harmonica to while the time away. On the other hand, those taking out the machinery were in high spirits, joking and laughing as happy as could be, partly inspired by Jules - a real character who couldn't be beaten - and partly because they were working instead of moping.About three p.m. more orders came. The soldiers were to leave immediately, by their own means, for Rochefort. The rest were to come at seven the next morning , ready to go to Rochefort, a seaport north of Bordeaux, where we were to work in the arsenal.Factory Left IntactOur factory, one of the biggest in France, was left practically intact. We expected that all the workers would be in the south so that the Germans could not make use of it. Evidently the workers of Citroen, famous for its communists, thought differently. They destroyed their factory, which had already been badly damaged by bombing, before leaving it to what the French government had been calling the communist allies.My dentist had just put in a temporary filling, with the advice: "This will probably be very painful before the week is up. If you can't stand it, just give me a call." I called to see him on the way home, but found his apartment shuttered and deserted. I had been worrying about how to pay him anyway.The jeweler had promised to have my watch repaired by Wednesday, but I found his shop even more securely closed than the dentist's. Too bad, it was a good watch.The Capoulade Restaurant was still open, and well patronized by people who refused to let anyone interfere with the most sacred institution of France - dinner. I followed their example, knowing it would be the last good meal for a considerable time. The possibility that it would be the last on this earth made the roast pigeon with French peas all the more delicious. I had always considered rare wines beyond my means, but now nothing was too good, and money had assumed its proper place as the least of life's objects. A bottle of Savoy's best Russet was put beyond the reach of Attila. (The original Attila was a Savage Hun, who made an awful mess of Rome but never got near London.)5th, 6th, and 7th ColumnsThe artillery made it hard to sleep that night. It was not the loudness, as much as the direction (between me and home), which was worrying.Thursday morning I loaded everything I owned, except a new map of Paris, a pair of ski poles, and some shoes that hurt, on my bicycle. At the café where I stopped for morning coffee three people were agreeing that it was shameful for everyone to run from Paris. "Why, in '14 we were shelled, but no one thought of leaving Paree."A little further on a woman was running through the streets shouting: "Paris is in a state of seige. Forbidden to leave the city." This made me a little sick at the stomach. "This business may take years yet. I don't want to stay and work for the Bosche." I decided that if need be I should adandon my bike and get through at night, across the farms. However, my experience with the fifth and sixth columns told me that, although this was quite possible, it might be an effort to start a panic. (The sixth column is made up of goons who repeat what "they say" until it becomes "I hear", "it appears", and finally "it's a fact that." The seventh column in France was censorship and propaganda, which reduced all thinking people to the state of disbelieving everything the authorities said.) There was nothing for me to do but continue, and say nothing to anyone."In a Time of Panic"At the factory we received five hundred francs on account, and a slip of paper saying: "You are leaving in a group for Rochefort. If you get separated from your group, continue by your own means." There were trucks for some (they were taking them off the assembly line, putting a few boards on the chassis to sit on, and driving away), bikes for those who had them, and those who were left went on foot.In a time of panic such as this, one notices great contrasts of light and dark in human character. I think the word "panic" is justified. People were not screaming through the streets as they do in the movies, but they were running from their homes, with a terrible fear clutching at their hearts which made them far from rational. I saw men screaming at each other for slight motor accidents which would hardly have caused an argument, even in Paris, in normal times.When grabbing what they thought the most precious among their belongings they made the queerest choices, to regret them afterward. One girl I saw had chosen a few things tied in a handkerchief and two enormous books. I myself considered a pair of ski boots and a lump of maple sugar the most precious things I owned. I lost the last half of the sugar somewhere in Europe and arrived in London wearing the ski boots.For the great majority, I am afraid, it was a case of "sauve qui peut", or every man for himself. In my bike garage there were eight cycles stolen the day before the exodus. There were eight who had solved their problem, and may the eight who had counted on their bikes take care of themselves! With magnificent selfishness people with bicycles tied on their cars drove past others painfully fleeing on foot. Many with autos full of goods and chattels (I never did find out what a chattel was, but refugees always carry some.) left friends behind to what they considered, judging from the way in which they were running from it, a fate worse than death.Six in Bicycle GroupOn the other hand, there were the "chic types" like my friend Roger. He ran a very considerable risk, being a soldier twenty-eight years old who would be held on sight by any Germans, to wait for and encourage an old friend who couldn't get along. A friend in need is worth two in the bush.My group was composed of friends on bikes, six of us, aged from seventeen to fifty. The fifty year old was on a bicycle for the first time in twenty-five years, during which time he had added fifty pounds to his waistline. He had put his valise on a truck, but was carrying a small one with essentials. He had a hard time from the start, so I tried to carry his essentials. It felt like lead, but I managed for a mile or so, then handed it to Roger. By the time we were at the top of the hill, in the Bois de Meudon, we decided that we could no longer manage the essentials. We opened the case, and discovered three bottles of wine, four pots of honey, two loaves of bread, and a razor. We disposed of the wine and food in the obvious manner, put the razor in his pocket, and left the valise in the road for anyone who might need it.We thought to try for Orleans, but at Petit Clamart there was only one road left open, and we were told that the Germans were about three miles away on each side. This was still within ten miles of Paris.Real ConfusionTanks, artillery, ambulances, and army vans were going in all directions; soldiers were sleeping beside the road, singly and in groups; while the highway to the south, down the valley of Chevreuse, was blocked by refugees as far as the eye could see."Quelle pagaie!" my friends exclaimed. This was a new word to me, this pagaie, which I had heard on all sides the last few days, though never once before, so I asked for an explanation. It appears that there is no other word which means the same thing: it is something like chaos, confusion, jumble, mess, hurry, but magnified a thousand times. The French government communiqué renders it by: "Falling back in perfect order on positions prepared in advance.""Quelle pagaie!" Baby carriages! Yes, believe it or not, the French army was defeated at Paris by baby carriages. Time after time I saw it: columns of artillery, of tanks, of supplies, of ambulances (I passed the American Ambulance Corps trying to get up to the front) blocked by baby carriages.In movie army demonstrations, the army passes anywhere, especially through groves of nice young trees of just the right size to be pushed over by tanks, but in practice they can not get far except on the roads.Of course the baby carriages did not do it unaided. There were about four million people in Paris, and they all decided to leave at the same time. Worse than that: they were told to leave. Some of them had cars or trucks, many of which broke down, and many more of which ran out of gas. Some, coming through from the north, had farm wagons, pulled by tractors or horses, and carrying families, calves, sheep, pigs, hay, vegetables, and always with a dog tied underneath. Some had bicycles or motorbikes, generally so loaded that they had to walk beside, pushing them. Some were in wheel chairs, pushed by old men or women who were hardly able to walk themselves. Some were on foot, discarding the valuables they had thought they could carry in suitcases or bundles. The rest were pushing baby carriages, some bought for the occasion, loaded with their treasures.A Mistaken PolicyFew of them knew where they were going, few could have been rendered more miserable by any number of Bosches, and few could help France where they were going, or Germany where they came from. When it was too late the authorities realized their mistake and told civilians to stay at home.If there was any reason for leaving, all cars and cycles should have been commandeered, and baggage restricted to one hundred pounds per person. If, as I think, the trek was more harmful to France than to Hitler, the authorities should have confined it to men of military age. But then the authorities must have been the first to go, because by the time I left Paris offical orders changed every half hour, and everyone finished up by saying: "I don't know. No one knows anything."Near St. Remy we turned into a side road to wait for the old fellow. We passed the time chatting with a group of infantrymen resting in the sun. They had lost contact with their base, but didn't seem to care very much. A captain's car was stopped by the traffic so one man got up to ask: "Do you know where our unit is?" "No", was the reply, "Can you tell me where my men are?"All cars were at a standstill (A truck which left the factory at the same time as I did not pass me until the end of the second day.) and a bike proved to be the only practical means of transportation. I was lucky in having one equipped for a trip around the world. I had got it from an American in September when he decided that the best part of the world for a time would be America.All this time we were finding travelling in a group very unsatisfactory. We seemed to spend all our time waiting for someone, and could not really be of much use to one another. Pretty soon I lost the others in the pagaie and, though I tried sincerely to find them, was well satisfied to have no one but myself to depend on. I am afraid that it will be long before I know what happened to my friends.At Rambouillet, about noon, a German reconnaissance plane came over while a long line of army vans and a battery of seventy-fives were passing through. The machine guns on the trucks opened up on him and he flew away. I expected a bomber soon, for one bomb in the road, in the middle of that town, would have been worth a week's fighting, but Jerry passed up the chance.However, three light bombers found us an hour or so later, evidently coming back from a raid for they had no bombs left. There was no army equipment to bother them, so they dropped down and machine gunned the road blocked with refugees. Someone saw them coming in time, and at the warning we all ran into the fields and lay down in the grass. Machine gun bullets thudding into the ground around you serve only to excite your interest. Strangely enough, it is the blare of the exhaust as the plane swoops over your head which is terrifying. (Some clever fellow once noticed this and invented screaming bombs.) Amazingly, no one was hurt, and the column got under way again. Jerry had left us in a hurry because there were two French fighters on his tail. I hope they salted it well.Nothing But SardinesAbout sixty miles out of Paris the traffic was able to move at a fair rate in open country, but every village was blocked for about two miles back along the Paris road. It was impossible to buy gasoline or wine, and about the only food available was sardines. Since September, unreasonable prices in France had been punishable by death, but some shopkeepers could not pass up this opportunity, whatever the risk. On the other hand, I heard of a woman who received applicants for lodging with: "If you have any money you can't come here. If you have nothing, I'll put you up." She had taken in fifty on those terms, had mattresses all over the floor. Another man, with a beautiful big car, took on six penniless Parisian workers, drove them a hundred miles on their way, and spent the equivalent of fifteen dollars for a great dinner. (This was in the south where great dinners were still to be had.) He had plenty of money which would probably soon be useless, so he felt that he might as well get the best out of it while he could. People generally felt the same way about their money, their morals, and their lives.About four p.m. I stopped beside the Cathedral of Chartres for a glass of wine and a piece of bread. While I was waiting, at a sidewalk table, a man stuck up an official poster across the street: "There will be no evacuation of this department, for there is nothing to justify it. Don't listen to rumours. Confidence. We shall win." I felt that I could settle down to enjoy my snack. I was just leaning back when a burst of machine-gun fire at my ear brought me to my feet. Everyone else was jumping and running inside, so I figured that that was the wrong thing to do. I sat down again to watch.The Dive BombersA tank came roaring around the corner at full speed, as if he knew where he was going. Just out of sight he seemed to be met with heavy firing. Six more tanks stopped just in front of me. When the drivers came out to look around I was pleased to see that they were French. A great bedlam of machine guns, quickfirers, bombs, and airplane engines. "Oh! It's only planes! I thought that it was the tanks."It now appeared that there was an aerodrome just behind these houses. ("Good idea", I thought, "to build a cathedral right beside the aerodrome. It makes it easy for the pilots to find their way home.") Jerry had come over at a great height, dived with motors off, and the first thing that anyone knew was that the machine guns were going. They zoomed back again, throwing bombs, and were met by fire from the aerodrome defense. This went on for about ten minutes. They circled back time and again, flying so low that it was almost impossible to hit them."He Refused to Duck"I could watch the flames shooting from the machine guns, and was careful to step back into a doorway whenever a plane started to head my way. The gendarme who had been directing traffic was very excited, running up and down. He was not worrying about anyone's safety - he was trying to keep his eye on the fun. One of the tank drivers got out his machine gun and started to mount it on the roof. "Don't shoot," he was told, "You may draw their fire on the town." He argued and swore, then sat on top his turret, muttering something about not having the right to shoot Bosches. He refused to take shelter, or even to duck, just sat there sulking until he got permission to open up if they came into range after that. Finally some French combat planes came on the scene, and they all disappeared in the direction of Germany.It was interesting to note the different reactions of different people. It is the easiest thing in the world to panic refugees, but soldiers are quite a different proposition. Most of the women screamed at first, and many started to cry. Everyone fell over everyone else trying to get inside. They lay under the billiard table, a good safe place, and along the wall away from the windows, the very best place to get hurt. The soldiers with the tanks took a lively interest in the proceedings, and sheltered behind or under their tanks when threatened. The gendarme was as pleased as a schoolboy at a football match, and was rewarded for his enthusiasm by seeing one plane brought down by machine guns.After finishing my wine I continued south. When it got dark I got permission to sleep in a barn, having put about eighty miles between me and Paris. I thought to take it easy now that I had left the scene of operations behind, but I was awakened before dawn by hundreds of tanks roaring past. It is hard to imagine anything more noisy than a squadron of tanks going at full speed over cobblestones.As soon as it was light enough I started off again, rather shocked to find the road crowded with army trucks, tanks, artillery, and refugees, all going south. Several times that day, Friday the fourteenth, I thought that I was out of the danger zone, only to suffer disappointment on coming across another barricade of farm carts or stones, with soldiers sitting by a machine gun.The roads were considerably freer now, but still jammed up in every town. I made the acquaintance of a group of R.A.F. boys, after passing them in every town and being passed between towns. Finally we got tired of this, put my bike on one bomb carriage and me on another. They thought that they were going to Nantes to operate from there, not having seen what I had seen on the main roads, but then I thought I was going to Rochefort. When we saw a little better what was going on we decided that we were likely to meet again in Blighty. They persuaded me to go to Nantes with them in the hope of finding a ship.We made an early stop at a small town called Bauge, in spite of the fact that there was a gun emplacement set up within a hundred yards of the barn we found to sleep in. We managed with considerable difficulty to find something to eat before turning in for a good night's sleep in new-mown hay.Leisurely BeefsteakNext morning we rolled for a couple of hours through a most beautiful, peaceful, Anjou countryside. We had to stop once where they were felling a tree across the road for a barricade. Everything was so peaceful and contented that we waited long enough to persuade a hotel lady to buy and cook us some beefsteak. We took our time eating it, almost feeling inclined to join the many refugees who had settled here, feeling that they were far beyond the danger zone. At Anger, the ancient capital of the province, life seemed to be going on as though nothing were up. The market was crowded, people were sipping their aperitif in the sun outside the cafés, and others were setting out for a day's fishing. We did not stop, so I could not buy a paper, but I noticed that the headlines had been censored.I wish that I had a picture of our convoy. First came Bob in number one tractor, looking like something between Farmer Jones and John Cobb as he raced along at a steady twenty per. He pulled one bomb carriage, loaded with flares and Harry. Then Jock with tractor number two, pulling three carriages, loaded with gasoline, my bike, Bert, Jack, Butch, and me. Butch is the fine Alsatian dog who had wandered into their tent one night. Jock and he fell in love on first sight, and he had since been all over France on a bomb carriage. There were no mud-guards, and it had rained the day before, so we were not what might be called chic, but as I lay on my back in the sun I could not think of any better way of travelling. The morale was super: we felt and acted as though off for a holiday.Offical HumorNot far from Nantes a column of R.A.F trucks passed us, full of boys with new uniform and new equipment just out from England. They were going in the other direction, heading for somewhere in Europe. "Hey! You're going the wrong way!" the boys shouted. Though they waved back, the new ones did not look any too happy about the whole thing.At Nantes, I went to the British Consul, who told me to go to Bordeaux. At the offices of the French Line I asked whether there were any boats leaving for America. "Yes, we have regular sailings." How much did it cost? "One hundred and forty-five American dollars." Would they give credit? "No." Could I arrange payment by wire to Canada? "Yes." When was the next boat? "The eighteenth of July." He thought that was a great joke!I went to the Youth Hostel to wash up, and mentioned that I should sleep in a barn on the road to Bordeaux. They warned me that the stupidity of the peasants in those parts is unbelievable, and that I should probably be shot as a parachutist because of my accent. They had already attacked some Scottish soldiers because they had heard that parachutists sometimes wore British uniforms. I pooh-poohed this on the grounds that these things always happen to some one else.Suspicious, VeryAbout twenty miles out of Nantes I stopped for a glass of beer. That was a mistake: I should have asked for Vin Rouge, but I didn't think it possible that a pair of very dirty flannels and an imitation Panama hat could be taken for a parachuting costume. To show that I wasn't afraid I had even stopped to listen to the news coming over the village radio, but went into the café when I noticed everyone glaring at me. Sure enough, they brought my beer, but started a great telephoning. They were not very smart about it, for I had finished my beer and started to go before the gendarme arrived. He asked for my papers, so I showed the identity card which is officially required. He wanted more proof, so I showed paper after paper until he got tired and turned away. A crowd had gathered which thought that as I wasn't French I must be Bosche. Fortunately, some even more suspicious looking characters came along and they left me to get after them. "They look suspicious. She's dressed in man's clothes." It was a woman who had found trousers more practical than skirts for refugeeing. I was so disgusted with their suspicious looks that I sang "Deutschland Uber Alles" as I rode out of the village.Discretion got the upper hand on valour that night. I did not ask to sleep in a barn, but continued until it was dark enough to sleep in a field without being seen.On the RailwaySunday I thought it was Saturday, so I hurried to get to LaRochelle before the consulate, the shipping offices, and the Post Office closed. They were all open anyway, but all I could learn was: "Get to Bordeaux", at the station they assured me that the service to Bordeaux was reliable, so I put my bike on a train, intending to arrive there early in the morning.That was the last I saw of my bike. They sent it away somewhere, then told me that there would be no train until the morning. I slept well on the floor in the parlour of the British Consulate.Monday I got a first hand idea of the pagaie in the railway system. We (the consul had given me a lady and a boy to look after) got on the train at six a.m. At seven it started. Two hours late it got to Sainte. Here they told us that it was going to Angouleme, which was not the way to Bordeaux. Some people said it might go to Bordeaux. As they said that it was going the other way, I supposed that it would probably go to Bordeaux. Anyway, as we were comfortable and the lady had a formidable amount of luggage, we decided to stay in the train and see what happened.Eventually we got to Angouleme. The train stopped half an hour in a tunnel, then back three miles down the track and waited another hour. Then they put us out on the track: There were to be no more passanger trains run in France. We walked to the station, where we were told by various officals: that there would be no more trains, that there was a train at seven that evening, that the next train was at eight the next morning, to go to blazes. I was in the station at four that afternoon, on the forlorn hope of getting permission to buy gasoline for a man who had offered to go to Bordeaux if I could get the gas. I heard some one shout: "Platform number four for Bordeaux." I dashed out, rushed my charges back through the luggage room (there was too much crowd at the ticket gate, and no one bothered with tickets anyway), and pushed them onto the train. I just managed to find a doorstep to sit on as the train pulled out. "Oh! hold me on!" cried the little Parisienne beside me, so a fine time was had by all until we arrived in Bordeaux at three o'clock Tuesday morning.From four until seven I slept on a landing of a staircase in the Bordeaux station. This was the only floor space available by that time. At seven o'clock I had a good look for my bike, then gave it up and found the consulate. There were several hundred people there, all with the same idea. We were given, on presentation of British passports, slips of paper to serve as tickets to England. There was a train leaving immediately for Le Verdon, at the mouth of the Gironde. I knew quite a lot about those trains which started immediately, so when I heard a girl offering to share her taxi I jumped at the offer. The seventy miles cost us what used to be the equivalent of fifteen dollars, but we had not much hope of changing francs into money anyway. It was a pleasant, comfortable, drive.At Le Verdon there was no pagaie. A large number of cargo vessels, two transports, and a cruiser were waiting at anchor. A seaman from the cruiser was on guard at the quay. Officers of high rank, mostly of the R.A.F., were directing the embarcation, showing marvelous patience in the face of thousands of foolish questions.Abandoned LimousinesIt was heart-breaking, though somehow we also found it amusing, to see the automoblies which had to be abandoned. People were driving to the quay, unloading their baggage, then leaving their cars. A girl chauffeur of the Women's Auxillary Army Corps drove up a shiny Rolls-Royce, half the size of the Queen Mary. "The junk heap is over there," I told her. She smiled, drove over to the "car park" and left it. Everyone was so glad to see the British Navy standing by that they left their cars with a joke and a smile. If you had so much as scratched their paint a week before, they would have raised hell.Some clever Frenchmen from Bordeaux arrived before long and bought five thousand dollar cars for about thirty dollars.Once aboard the Stad Haarlem we were welcomed with great kindness. There were no passenger cabins or saloons, but sacks of linseed in the holds made more or less comfortable beds. The crew, both officers and men, gave up their bunks to accommodate some of the women and babies. Many slept on deck.Pete, the ship's cook, worked night and day, but the best he could do was tea twice a day, soup once, and one piece of bread for those who got there before it was all gone.The Stad Haarlem had orders to wait at anchor, off Le Verdon, until a convoy was formed."Inferno of Gunfire"About midnight we were awakened by an inferno of gunfire. Tracer bullets from shore batteries and the cruiser drew red dotted lines across the sky. Shell bursts made a display like Coronation Night. A plane flew past on the port side, about one hundred yards away, at low altitude. Then we saw the parachutes in the dim light, drifitng to the water. Suddenly a terrific explosion lit up the bay, followed by quiet. Now for the first time we heard the airplane motors, and discerned a shape skimming the water, heading out to sea.The explosion must have been a mine going off as it hit the water. The plane had come to drop mines among the ships, using parachutes so that they would not strike the water with too great a shock.As soon as it was light the captain started to exchange signals with the other Dutch ship. They decided to leave immediately, insted of waiting for the convoy, preferring the risk of submarines and airplanes to the risk of drifting mines. An hour after we left, one of the mines drifted against a ship and sank it.Most passenger and cargo vessels now carry a gun to protect them against submarines, and another against aircraft. They are also protected, by an electric circuit, against magnetic mines. In addition, the lifeboats are swung ready over the side, and passengers and crew wear life-belts at all times.The Stad Haarlem was on its way from South America when Germany attacked Holland, so that it carried none of these modern refinements. It carried life-boats for about fifty, but did not seem to have any life-belts.The morale on the Stad Haarlem was excellent. Nearly all on board, though relieved to be out of great danger, had heavy troubles on their minds, but this only served to make the smaller discomforts unnoticeable. The crew all had families in Holland, in cities bombed and occupied by the Germans. They spent great pains to make their guests comfortable. A collection was made which amounted to about fifteen dollars per man. They refused to touch it, wishing to have it used for Dutch refugees in England.When asked about her husband (a Montreal man, incidentally), one lady said: "I don't know, I put him on a bicycle in Paris and haven't heard of him since." From the way she laughed one would have thought that the funniest thing in the world, but when she thought no one was looking, she gazed out across the water and forgot to smile.Most of the refugees, though British subjects, had established homes in France. They had packed a few belongings, locked their front doors, and left. In most cases they had lost their luggage along the road.Almost the only ones who had reason to be contented with their lot were about fifty soldiers of various units, happy to be on their way to Blighty.Back to EnglandFriday, June the twentieth, we arrived somewhere in England. When the pilot came on board he was asked the name of the port. "Say, are you pulling my leg? This is Falmouth." Well, he knew that it was Falmouth, because he had been there for fifty years, but how could we have known? At every stage our "Movements were cloaked in secrecy." At Bordeaux they had told us to go to the station as soon as possible, for a train to leave at an ungiven time, to catch a boat which would sail for an unknown destination at a mysterious hour. Probably this was due less to a desire to keep our movements secret than to ignorance of what they would be able to arrange.Although we anchored early in the day, it was evening before the authorities could receive us. Finally arrived on the quay, it was a question of waiting hours to be taken in buses to the "pavillion", a public hall organized to examine and help the refugees. There was, of course, no accommondation left, and private persons could put up only a limited number, so most of the refugees spent the night sitting in the theatre.Then to LondonI happened to get around all this as a friend of some diplomatic people, even thought for a moment that I had found a bed in the finest hotel, but eventually had to be content with a small sofa and a big chair. However, I did have the most welcome hot bath of my life, and a change to clean clothes.The next day was spent in admiring the beautiful little houses and gardens of England, and in becoming more and more amazed that life continued just as it always had. Except for the fact that there were no signposts and that there was quite a number of uniforms (especially women), no one would have suspected that England was at war.That night we spent sitting up in a train, which brought us to London Sunday morning. Sunday night I slept in a bed for the first time since I had left my own in Paris, eleven days before.London looked like London on a Sunday morning, except that the Houses of Parliment and administration buildings were defended by barbed wire entanglements. Sand bag machine gun emplacements were set up on the bridge approaches and at other strategical places. There is one at Trafalgar Square, just opposite Canada House. Nelson looks down on it in amazement. Didn't he show England how to deal with would be invaders? All England is waiting to see whether Nelson is still right.***To finish up, a letter from a London friend, written during the Blitz, after she read the article. (She did not later become my mom.)November 15, 1940 18 Santos Rd. Wandsworth SW 18My dear Bob:No you had not wrote to me before but I forgive you. I expect it is Love Eh? but I knew you had got home safely when I received your paper and I was very pleased to hear you were at home safe and sound. By the way, the article in paper was very good every one here read it. Well Bob it is Hell here you would not know Dear Old London if you were to go to the city you feel like tears it is dreadful and Fulham, Chelsea, Battersea, Westminster, Vauxhall, Clapham, in fact I do not know any where that as not got it. You were lucky to get home when you did. All down the Wandsworth High Street there is no shop windows the Barn Public House the Bank at the corner of Garett Lane the Bull Public House and Brewery in York Road all down. Nearly all Picture Houses got it and St.Martin, St.Pauls and heaps of churches and ever so many houses in Oakhill Rd Rexfield Rd and Cromford Rd all down, people killed. There is not a window in any place in Santos Rd, we are all boarded up, 2:30 in the morning about three weeks ago we had a oil bomb drop in our front garden. Set fire to house and took all the front rails door windows etc all away and next door also. We all thought our last day had come but no one was hurt. The next bomb he released in Oakhill Rd brought down three houses so we were lucky. Every day there are dog fights over head. I think nearly every body as left Santos Rd but I don't think he is going to frighten me away. We all sleep downstairs but it it is nothing but Bomb and gunfire all night Mr Brunt is very frightened but Jock does not trouble much. And now Bob I know you will be sorry to hear that I think the gun fire as killed Cheeky she died in my hands last week I was sorry poor little thing as you know she was such a little dear. She had a heart attack. (C heeky was a budgerigar - ed. ) Well Bob enough of my love. How are you? I am glad to hear you have got a good berth and you have got one of our Evacuees. I am sure he is lucky to have a good home with you. Jock and Florrie, Miss Dunkerly and all here wish to be remembered to you. I was very pleased to hear from you and hope you get this safely. If I were you I should stay where I was as it is no peace for any one here it is hell on earth. While I am writing this our planes are thundering over head that means they are going to meet the devils, so this is how it goes on day and night, every body nearly in shelters all night. Well Bye Bye for now Bob, hope we shall meet again in a much happier London than this. ( We did - ed)I Remain Yours as Ever,