No One from Etobon Dared to Complain ...

German and Cossack troops were preparing to retreat from Etobon towards the Rhine River. Insubordination and desertions were becoming even more of a problem, putting the Etobonais at continued risk.

Saturday, November 4

The Cossacks are leaving the village.  Thinking of the future, they ask me for a certificate of good conduct!  It was pretty delicate to edit.  Finally, “During the period October 24 to November 4, 1944, no one from Etobon dared to complain to me about the Cossacks of the 15.201F stationed in this village.  Etobon, November 4, 1944.  For the executed mayor, J. Perret.”

I did not seal it.  I told them the mayor had the seal in his pocket when they killed him.  Mama roasted two chickens, one for us, one for Jarko, the hermit of the pines, who is finding the time really long.  Coming back from taking him his chicken, I met Mario, from Frahier, who had just repaired the electric line.  He says the Germans had evacuated Frahier all of a sudden to go as reinforcements in the Vosges, and that we’ll soon be liberated.  (Mario was killed a few days later by a shell.) 

Here, our boches act like they’ll be staying forever.  They’re building an oven to cook lice in the cellar of the girls school, and to get bricks for it, they demolished the scale house.  An Austrian adjutant, a good guy, is doing the work.  He’s strong as an ox.  He says to me, “Can’t do any good.  Don’t know if the stove is good, it’s for the Americans.  He works with one hand, because the other one’s in a sling, after he gave it a good hammer blow.

Monday, November 6

Saturday, the big boche George brought a cow, picked up who knows where, into our stable.  A while later I heard him shout, “Papa, Papa, cow!”  She was calving!  Ten minutes later, “Papa, Papa, oh, cow! Oh, cow!”  She calved again.  I didn’t want to get involved.  Let him deal with it.  He dealt with it very well.  Without hesitating, he put the two calves to suckle.

Tuesday, November 7

The rain just won’t stop.  Georges, soaked to the skin, comes back from the front, which he’s supplying, with a second cow!

Life has changed since we’ve gotten electricity back.  The Doktor just burst into our kitchen without giving an explanation.  Maybe to see if we were listening to the radio.  None of our boches got up to salute him.  He grabbed one by the nose, saying, “Is this what you do when an officer enters?”

This evening, a terrible storm, the wind so violent that we couldn’t hear 18 shells exploding.  For two days now, the Germans have not responded.  Karl is writing, Willy is playing with Philippe, Georges speaks his joy at having bought a wagon for 6000 francs, Suzette reads, Mama knits and I note the happenings of the day.

Wednesday, November 8

Rain, rain … At the forge, two boches demand tin solder.  I’ve hidden it.  They search everywhere.  I get mad.  So, one of the two, who speaks French more or less:  “Ah!  You’re getting angry!  Look what I found.  Enough to put you in prison!”  And he showed me some machine gun sights, abandoned by the Polish in 1940, that they then take to the Tyrolian adjutant at the louse oven.  I went to see this adjutant.  “Do not worry at all.”

Willy told us today that a shell had killed ten of their men in a shelter.

We Remember ...

There were more signs that the Germans were disengaging ... the Etobonais were able to ring the church bells on November 11 without permission and without complaint from the occupiers. Convoys continued to bring the dead and wounded from the front by the main road.

Thursday, November 9

The Germans have been waiting impatiently for November 7,  presidential election day in the U.S.  And it’s Roosevelt again.  They are not happy.

Emile Bonhotal, on a work detail to dig trenches at the front, hid the rifle of one of the guards.  (The rifle was found two months later, intact.)

Saturday, November 11

The eleventh of November!  We remember … We had two pastors today, M. Lugbull, who went on to lead worship at Belverne, and M. Nétillard, who led worship at 3:00.  Without asking anyone’s permission, we rang the two church bells.  No reaction at all.

Ernest was the only German in church.

Sunday, November 12

Rain and snow.  I took Jarko a piece of  sheet metal, a leather apron, and a calf skin to cover his hut.  He’s also received a sack of carrots, a sack of apples, an alcohol lamp, a cooking pot.  With that, he can hold on even in a big snow.  He has good sheep’s wool socks and René Bauer’s sabots, which were found in the school after the departure of our 67 men.

In front of the school, in a lake of mud, incessant comings and goings of trucks, cars.  Those that return from the front in the evening are usually loaded with wood.  Behind them, the dead.  On top, the wounded … The boches who’ve been stationed in this village won’t do us any violence when they leave us.  We know them.  We know if they’re Catholics or Protestants.  But those at the front!  We can expect anything.

Monday, November 13

A supposedly new invention is building up the morale of our occupiers.  It’s a winged torpedo, the V2, that goes up to 100 kilometers (they say!)  We’ll see.

Willy Imbey comes back muddy, his feet swimming in his flooded shoes.  We offer to dry them for him.  “Not worth the trouble.  Tomorrow, impossible to put them on.  Always in water.  Soon kaput.  Same to me to end like that.”

"Papa, soon over!"

As the liberators grew closer, even the German troops realized the end was coming. Some bid farewell to the Etobonais, and some just disappeared.

Tuesday, November 14

Surprised by a storm of shells in the village, I went to a shelter, dug out of solid rock that Jules Mignerey had made.  There, we talked about a lot of things, especially the “doctoresse” Deville-Rauch, this Parisian woman, taking refuge in a house where three cousins have been shot.  What shame!  We’ll take care of her, and soon, too.

An order not to leave the village.  The shells are falling one after the other.  We stay warm in our own homes, at the mercy of these infernal things … This evening, a big commotion.  In the dark of night, in the rain and wet snow, trucks going every which way.  Guttural shouts, “Halt!  Stop!” … It’s sinister.  Is it the end?

Wednesday, November 15

Up before dawn, I spot a 2-wheeled caisson for a 52mm mortar in front of my house.  I went up to it and removed a piece, most likely the breech, and hid it under an old sack.  A little later the Germans load the caisson onto a truck along with the mortar, which will never fire again.

In the afternoon, while I was harvesting the last of the cabbage, at the Goutte Evotte, fifty soldiers, in several groups, came down from the front, ragged, haggard, drained, carrying the heaviest objects suspended from poles.  I’ve never seen anything more miserable.  To the last, to try to get them to talk, I offered some apples.  “Krieg nix gut.  Amerika is coming.”  One of them says, in French, “This damned war, the men too.  Ah!  Finished, finished.”

What a mess, everywhere!  Sacks of potatoes are sacks of mud!

Big George is loading his wagon with all his possessions.  The two calves, oats hay, one cow tethered behind, the other having been reclaimed by its owner.  “Goodbye!”  He hands us 400 francs and ships the horse. 

There aren’t many Germans left in the village, ten in all, including Imbey, who asks me to hide him so he can give himself up.  He claims that Montbéliard is in the hands of the Americans.  “Tomorrow, prisoner.  You tell Americans, give myself up volunteer …  If George not had his horse, he be American too.  Good beast, George.  Eat, sleep …”

Thursday, November 16

When he saw me, Jarko threw his arms around my neck.  “Papa, soon over!”

Fritz, the big marshal, asks me for a bill for the oil they’ve burned.  I write him one for 200 francs.  He tears it up.  “Another.  For 400.”  And he pays it.

When Willy Imbey comes to say, “Goodbye,” I’m astonished.  “So, why?”  “Me not leave comrades.  Impossible.  Come back tonight.”

"Goodbye, Papa!"

The German troops were leaving Etobon, but they were not leaving empty-handed. They planned to take all of the cattle with them as they retreated towards Germany. For Jules Perret, the acting mayor, it was one more blow.

Friday, November 17

Last night, just as I had gone to sleep, the sound of voices.  They were calling the two – Evalt and Elmout – who sleep above our cellar.  We hear the sound of ambulance engines being put in our barn.  I get up and go into the house.  In the kitchen, Karl was fastening his pants.  “Leaving, Karl?  I can hide you.”  “Can’t.  Too many kamarades.  Me leave with them.  Bad luck.  So much bad luck.”  He started to cry and so did I.  He embraced me.  “Oh, Papa, goodbye, Papa!  Me come back when war over.”

Doctor Rudy Rauch, during this bombardment like the one at Verdun, came back to look for his Dulcinea.

A little while later, a storm of shells.  Nonstop, one after the other, twenty on the village.  For once, Philippe is seriously scared.  We run for the cellar.

At Jules Nardin’s, two shells traversed their living room without exploding.  One on my sister’s roof, one on Charles Surleau’s.  The water line was broken at Bichon’s.  One on Manuel’s abandoned house.  The barn doors were torn off at uncle Jules’, at la Cornée.  All in all, more fear than damage.  Our luck is holding.

Someone’s asking for the mayor.  I present myself to an officer accompanied by two men.  “In one half hour from now, all horned livestock are to be assembled in front of the school.”  I tell him I’m sick, I can’t walk.  Mama intervenes.  She yells at him something awful.  What a hero!

So, limping along, I go with them.  Tears and moans all around.  And no one to go with the herd, and no rope.  Order to release the animals, to drive them to the front of the school, where they arrive from all around.  What a zoo!  What a mess!

The worst, when Albert brings his poorly castrated bull that jumps on everything.  He starts up, here and there, and clears out the place.  The cows save themselves.  You had to laugh.  I was holding our Friquette.  The others went to pasture at the Pré de la Valle.

The officer went crazy with anger.  He throws his cudgel, which brushes men, then takes out his revolver, which he brandishes, orders several men who are there to follow him to attack the herd.  No one moves.  From the window of the town hall I see the valiant officer and his two men chasing the cows all the way to Le Chat’s orchard.  They gather up a few including Jacque’s two and la Friquette – I didn’t take Lisette out of her stall – and they take them away.

A while later, a cow has appeared at our front door.  La Friquette has come back, along with Jacques’ big cow.  As for the colt, I hid him in one of Albert’s sheds, behind the barrels and the rabbit cages.

In all, they couldn’t have gotten more than five cows.  But they’ll be back tomorrow.

Lucie Goux and the Liberation of Etobon

The Etobonais knew that Allied troops were approaching, but they weren’t sure how far away they were or whether they’d arrive in time to save the village. As the Germans departed, they had one last plan to destroy Etobon and its inhabitants. A contingent of fifty German soldiers was approaching the village from Chenebier with orders to burn Etobon. They had already dug holes for mines around the church at Chenebier, where their men had been murdered, and the rumor was that they planned to force the Etobonais into the church and then detonate the mines and burn the building.

One brave villager, Lucie Goux, saved her neighbors by daring to walk towards the Allied tanks coming from Belverne to let them know that the road had not been mined and that they could advance quickly. The Allied troops reached the village before the Germans did, and Etobon was liberated.

After the war, Lucie was cited for her bravery. Her award is pictured below. The translation is: “Homage to the French Resistance. The Commanding Colonel of the Franche Comté and Territoire de Belfort Inscribes on the Roll of Honor of the Resistance Under German Occupation, Lucie Goux, at Etobon. Citation: she went towards the liberating French troops, thereby hastening the liberation of Etobon and avoiding the deportation of its inhabitants who were surrounded by a German detachment.” The citation is numbered 447 and signed by the FFI Commander.

The first part of Jules Perret’s account of that glorious day:

Saturday, November 18

We get up, really perplexed.  A few more boches at the school tying up their equipment on “borrowed” wagons:  “bring back right away.”  Their cannons have moved out.  But the big gun that rings like a bell is still firing.

Around eight o’clock, some girls from Héricourt, who we think are spies, announce they’re going to evacuate us.  If only Philippe were in Switzerland!  Follow along after the boche wagons?  Never.  We’re going to head for the woods.  Mama prepares a mountain of bundles.  Who’s going to carry all that?  Impossible.  At around 9:30 I decide that we’re staying, we’ll barricade ourselves in the cellar, under God’s care.  All of a sudden, Mama’s energy vanishes.  She stretches out on the chest at Albert’s and doesn’t move.

A little later, we hear an amazing sound of movement on the Bois de Vaux road.  The church bells at Belverne ring with all their might.  What emotion!  Our liberators?  Yes, it’s them!  But they would have arrived too late – for the second time – to a village in flames, if it had not been for Lucie Goux, née Bonhotal.  She’s the one who saved us.  As soon as she heard the bells of Belverne, she set out on foot.  Halfway to Belverne, she saw soldiers advancing carefully, sounding the ground with mine detectors.  At that rate, it would have taken them 10 hours to get to us, and in two our fate would have been decided.  With all her might, Lucie Goux yelled at the soldiers:  “Come quick!  They’ve left!  There are no mines on this road!”

So, they rushed ahead.  And, at that very moment, fifty boche were coming from Chenebier with the order to evacuate the inhabitants of the “terrorist village” and to “burn it.”  Some even said that they wanted to shut us in the church at Chenebier like they did at Oradour, and blow it up!  In any case, the mine holes had already been dug!

Things happened quickly.  At 10 o’clock, as I was sitting beside Mama, still stretched out on the chest, I hear shouting.  “Here they are!  Here they are!”  Oh, you who have never experienced a moment like that, you can’t understand!  I rush outside, I see two tanks in front of the house, surrounded by a cheering crowd.  They weep for joy.  They embrace the soldiers.  They cover the tanks with chrysanthemums, they toss fruit to them, they hand them bottles.  Long live America!  The soldiers we’re celebrating seem surprised to find a village with all these people, because they don’t know our story.  They’re wearing strange headgear.  We ask, crowding around them, “Who are you?”  They respond, “We’re French, like you.  We’re the resistance from the Haut-Vienne {in the Massif Central, capitol: Limoges}, la Corrèze {in central France, capitol:  Tulle}, and l’Yonne {in north central France, capitol:  Auxerre}.”  New transports of joy, tears, too:  “You came two months too late!”  “Why?”  “They massacred 40 men, all our youth!”  We see their faces harden, their fists clench.

After the tanks comes the infantry.  Among them, armed and helmeted, five women, very dignified, one whose husband and son had been shot.  She can understand us!

At that very moment, there appeared at the corner of the Goutte au Lijon, a little ahead of the others, the advance guard of the fifty boches ordered to burn the village.  These seven men, suddenly finding themselves 200 meters from French troops, were so surprised that instead of retreating, they threw themselves in the ravine of the Goutte, where, caught in a rat trap, they became Kamarades.  The rest of the band, hiding behind a curtain of trees and seeing their opportunity lost, fled across the fields.