Chapter 4 - An eye-witness account of the D-Day Invasion
An eye-witness account of the D-Day Invasion, as told by Michel Hardelay
Sunday 4th June 1944
On Sunday, First Communions were held in the Vierville parish church. On this occasion, 12-year old Raymonde (née Hue, the future Mrs Watel) got a rare gift for that time, a beautiful blue bicycle, and Huguette, who was staying with a household in our cul-de-sac, had permission for her parents to come to the prohibited area for three days for the ceremony. They were due to leave the following Tuesday and stayed almost four months!
At that time, first communions, baptisms and weddings were opportunities to have exceptional meals with white bread and much sought-after treats. On Monday we finished the leftovers, and on Tuesday we tried to get back to work.
Although I had a few plans of demolished houses to put together for the town hall with a view to future compensation, I decided to take advantage of a beautiful day to begin the creation of a bomb shelter in our little garden, a project already postponed many times.
I did not fear a bombardment by sea but rather a systematic “watering” [pounding? – Editor] of the coasts shortly before the landing to weaken the defences while leaving the Germans little indication of the point of the landing.
In addition, I followed the advice of the English radio in doing so. There was only a small lawn, I had no choice. I had planned a 1.25m deep trench, with 6 steps cut into the earth at each end, the sods removed and piled up to provide an embankment 55cm high on the sides.
After an hour’s work, I saw my neighbour (it was M. Leterrier, the mayor). He was intrigued and questioned me over the low wall which separated us.
– “Monsieur Michel, what are you doing there?”
– “As you can see, I am starting a shelter for the three of us. Now, if you want to help me, I can make it for five by extending the trench by one metre.”
He sneered, shrugging his shoulders, and said, “[The Allies] Won’t show up here,” and went home.
(Forty hours later, at the first explosion, he came with his wife to see if we could accommodate them but he had to face facts, my mother and I took up all the available space. Instead, they went off with a large part of the inhabitants from the east of Vierville to find refuge in the ditches of the fields bordering the road to St-Laurent. They spent the night there to return the next day with the first U.S. units.)
For my part, by the end of the afternoon, I had cleared my six steps and finished an 80 cm. trench, with another two meters being dug to a depth of 45 cm. I did not have the chance to continue the work later, but what I had done would still be very useful to us.
After dinner there was the usual task of watering the vegetables in the vegetable garden with a small water barrel filled from our pump (at the time there was no running water, each property had its own well and pump). Then weeding the flowerbeds, removing the weeds and going to the henhouse to collect the day’s eggs.
Monday 5th June 1944
The night of Sunday 4th to Monday 5th was calm, but on Monday 5th unusual things started to happen.
Every day the mayor would receive orders from the Kommandantur, requisition orders for the next day, transport of all kinds, horses with carters or general directives for the population. These orders were processed by the town hall secretary and forwarded by the country guard to each person, or posted if they concerned all residents.
This week, the country guard had been able to enjoy his Sunday, because no orderly had brought an order to the town hall, that was something that had not happened for more than two years.
The officer who was staying with the mayor had previously given his dirty laundry to his usual washerwoman. He turned up again on the Monday and asked her to give him the laundry immediately, even though it was still just soaking. He took it away dripping with water and left the town shortly after.
I had promised Schlecht, the German who was supervising the demolition team at the beach and who was not as bad as his name might suggest (“Schlecht” means bad in German), that I would go down with a rope to move two heavy iron beams. I had been part of the team the previous week that was tasked with demolishing… my own house! But as a wing had been built only shortly before and was made up of solid beams and a large concrete slab in its lower part I knew that the Germans did not have the necessary equipment to overcome these structures, and I did not want to cause irreparable damage by having a collapse of heavy material on the ground floor slab. The German had had his orders to clear the intact beams. But he agreed to lower them with a rope.
The previous week, I had witnessed a rather comical incident which proved that the Germans were terrified of Allied aviation.
Four of us, supervised by Schlecht, were getting the rafters off the frame while the Germans on the beach pushed in a few tree trunks to complete their defences – they did it with the help of requisitioned fire pumps – when we heard the sound of aircraft engines. It was English light bombers coming to attack the Englesqueville battery.
They passed low over the beach 150m away from us. There was panic among the Germans on the sand: four lay down under their horses, two under the pump trailer, two hid behind the trees, while the rest ran towards the boulevard. As for Schlecht we found him at the bottom of my basement! But the English had not machine-gunned this easy prey.
Early in the afternoon – remember this was Monday, 5th June, 1944 – I took a big rope and a package to drop off at the post office on the way. This package contained a roast veal and was intended for our cousins in Clamart; we subsequently learned, despite what was to happen, that it had reached them – well done to the Post Office which did a remarkable job at that time.
I feared being turned back by the ever-present guard post at the anti-tank wall. To my great surprise, because for almost four years this route had been monitored day and night, there was no German to guard the chicane of the wall, nor the 88 cannon. The barbed wire barriers were open between the two areas and I set off on the sea wall promenade in superb weather, the warm sun compensating for a small sea breeze which made the sea quite choppy. (This report of sunshine contrasts with all the other testimonies speaking of bad weather that day, perhaps it was variable weather – sunny intervals with showers?)
I kept an eye on the cliff top, fearing an order from a sentry to turn back, but there too there were no soldiers.
Schlecht was very surprised to see me arrive unaccompanied. I gave him the rope and returned along the same route, crossing the barbed wire network in front of the boulevard gate. I saw that the top wire had been removed, you didn’t need to move the small, smooth alert wire placed in the centre, and you could step over the other four barbed wires strung 60cm from the ground at their lowest point.
I returned home without meeting a single soul and began to complete the plans requested by the town hall which had provided me with butter paper (parchment paper) as tracing paper was nowhere to be found.
Almost the entire BBC evening broadcast was devoted to “personal messages”. The number of these had increased during the previous week. At the end of the week, Melpomène had abandoned his “green lawn”; on the other hand Verlaine had appeared with “the long violins of autumn”, and this Monday evening the broadcast finished with his rhyme, repeated three times. Obviously this increase gave rise to speculation, but as I did not know the meaning of any of it I could not deduce any information except that major operations were close.
In view of these, I promised myself to finish my shelter as quickly as possible, the next day if possible.
The night of 5th / 6th June
To take advantage of the mild temperature that evening, after the usual chores, my mother and I sat down in the garden. Around 11:30 p.m. (Local time 5 June, but 12:30 a.m. GMT+2 on 6 June) I heard, between the faint noise caused by distant explosions, the characteristic purr of the Flying Fortresses’ engines spread by the sea breeze. Then shortly before midnight there was the great noise of the bombardment of Maisy, near Grandcamp, but from Vierville we could not locate the exact location. The Germans had turned on their searchlights and it was the first time I saw them. (There were DCA searchlights at La Percée and St-Laurent). In the beams we could see, slowly descending, small white dots like snowflakes if we ignored the distance. In reality they were leaflets ordering the coastal population to immediately move away from the coast, as military operations were imminent. These leaflets were partly intended for us, it seems!!
Finally, little by little the noises diminished in the sky as on earth and we went up to our rooms. As I passed along the corridor I glanced at the sea through the bay on the north façade; the sea was a little clearer than the surroundings, the crest of the cliff stood out clearly and, standing and motionless, the sentry of the post recently installed by a detachment of the division arriving from the Eastern Front stood out against the horizon. We could still hear a distant hum (probably the sound of the Force O boat engines which were beginning to arrive in their anchorage area 10 miles off Vierville) and muffled explosions. Somewhat reassured, I lay down on my bed without undressing completely, and fell asleep.
I was awakened around three o’clock (4:00 a.m. GMT+2) by the noise of an airplane engine growing rapidly. I had time to jump to the window at the same time as a whistle was heard and I saw the glow of two bombs exploding on the crest of a cliff on a plough belonging to my mother, 35 m away to the right of the sentry who had crouched slightly, and 200m away from our house. Six other bombs fell on the side of the cliff without causing any casualties or damage, except for transforming the small vegetable garden of the villa “Les Fusains” into an immense funnel of sand. Sensing the consequences of these events, I dressed myself completely, warned my mother and the maid, who had been awakened by the explosions, to do the same, to be ready for any eventuality, and I went to my observation post every quarter of an hour.
But nothing unusual happened until sunrise (the sky that day was mostly overcast, with only brief sunny intervals, and the Sun only rose around 6 a.m. GMT+2, after the start of the bombings.) There was a band of stagnant mist on the horizon, and silence except for a dull hum. (I later concluded this dull hum was the sound of the Allied boats’ engines, which was transmitted by the water much more than by air, and so it was picked up many nautical miles away). The sound grew more and more. And then suddenly the curtain of mist was torn and revealed thousands of boats: a superb and grandiose spectacle!
I shouted to my mother: “Look at the sea!” and passing by the window of the house, seeing my neighbour coming out of his house, I shouted to him too: “It’s the landing, go and see the sea and admire it.” My neighbour passed through his vegetable garden, behind his house, accompanied by his wife; the household next to his house and Huguette’s parents did the same. They advanced to the barbed wire bordering the supposedly mined land and contemplated the spectacle.
So all nine of us were stunned and ecstatic by the picture that presented itself to our view, when the cart arrived pulled by a fast Norman trotting horse and driven, it seemed to us, by a German non-commissioned officer, bareheaded, in tunic, open and baggy shirt above his breeches. (Michel Hardelay related this episode directly to Cornelius Ryan who featured it in his book, “The Longest Day”, published in 1959. Subsequently the filmmaker Darryl Zanuck was inspired by Ryan; the result was what many regarded as fictional events in the film, but Hardelay told it how it happened, and his story is believable – Editor)
The story is told below.
(Film stills copyright 20th Century Fox: “Fair Use” claimed.)
Tuesday 6th June 1944
Cornelius Ryan (author of the book “The Longest Day”) stated that Major Pluskat was present at this time in his artillery observatory at Sainte Honorine (but this was later strongly contested by Germans in his unit; whatever the case, there was surely a responsible soldier in the observatory capable of telephoning what he saw). He, or someone else, informed his corps commander that an innumerable fleet was heading towards him, but each corps commander demanded confirmation and additional information from their unit commanders placed on the coast.
So it was that a non-commissioned officer from the company stationed in the sector and belonging to the 352nd division was ordered to go to the Vierville cliff and report what he saw. This order had reached the captain (commanding the 11th company, at Than Manor) following instructions passed down from the major general.
This soldier, accustomed to being woken up or waking up his men with the classic joke “Get up, the Tommies are coming” checked that the order really did come from his captain, then dressed quickly, borrowed the coffee porter’s cart and headed towards Vierville, at a slow trot. He passed the grocery store on rue du Hamel au Prêtre and turned left into the meadow where the gap in the barbed wire network was. This field rose slightly towards the overhanging path leading to the post (WN70) located above the Cordelay villa and, as it was bordered by tall grass, you could only see the sea after you had crossed it.
Arriving at this place the soldier stood up, saw the Allied fleet, raised his arms to the sky, jumped from the cart and sprinted towards the post held by his men.
The horse, for its part, turned around and returned to its stable at a fast trot. Sensing that shots were going to be fired given the proximity of the boats, all the villagers went back to their homes, my mother took her jewellery and her money and headed towards our shelter. I joined her with a chair and before going down the six steps I placed around ten nearby faggots of earth across the trench.
As soon as we arrived in the shelter, the firing started. It was a little after 5:30 a.m. UK time. Records confirm the naval gunfire began at exactly 5:50 a.m., 10 minutes before sunrise.
It is difficult to know for sure which of these shots, directed mainly at the coastal defences, could have struck in the village itself. It is now believed that Vierville was targeted at the time by destroyers, and by medium artillery – 127mm calibre – from the battleship Texas.
At 6:00 a.m. the following buildings were hit by medium calibre shells:
– The rear wall of the mayor’s house in the village
– The gable of Maison Jean on rue Pavée
– the bakery on rue Pavée, (2 deaths – 10-month old Jacques Leroux, son of the baker, and Pauline Bernasconi, 20-years old, an employee of the baker
– The old turret standing alone in the castle park
– A dormer window on the 2nd floor on the façade of the castle
– The roof of the corner turret of the castle
It is probable that all the buildings near the church were damaged during the bombing of the bell tower around 2:15 p.m. on June 6th, notably the church itself, the presbytery, the Collières’ house, the small house opposite the church, and the rear entrance to the Than mansion. As for damage to the crossroads, post office, school, Pignolet hotel, and bus station, that dates from June 7th at 8:00 p.m., when the Germans blew up the crossroads.
Michel Hardelay continues the story, based on the recollections of neighbour, Louis Coliboeuf:
At the bus station, the Coliboeufs, a household of six people—a father, mother, and four children—resided. The two daughters were younger than their two brothers. The eldest daughter was married to a fisherman from Grandcamp, while the eldest son was stationed somewhere in Germany due to the STO.
For the night, they shared the four available rooms at the station, a common practice among small stations along the narrow-gauge railway line connecting Le Molay-Littry to Isigny-sur-Mer. Additionally, there was an awning to shelter travellers and a partially-constructed cellar, which was unique to this station: none of the other buildings in the village had a cellar.
Outside, the family raised a pig in an enclosure near their dog, Tom’s zinc kennel.
(The small train had ceased operations around 1931, and the rails were removed shortly thereafter. In its place, a daily bus service from Bayeux was introduced, which gradually became weekly due to fuel and traffic restrictions.)
The father, affectionately known as “Father Louis,” held various municipal responsibilities, except for the gravedigger role. He served as a cantonnier, a field guard, and a civilian bellringer. This last job had caused him a significant surprise a few months earlier. While he was attempting to stop the ringing of the large bell, the supporting rope broke, causing the bell to fall and break both his ankle bones. His wife had to temporarily replace him.
The mother, “Mother Jeanne,” managed parcel registration, sold the tickets to travellers, and took on various small jobs during her free time. She was an excellent cook, having previously worked as a cook at the castle of Vierville where the Hausermanns lived. Her sauces were renowned, and she was frequently sought after for wedding meals, baptisms, and communions.
On the night of June 5/6, she had prepared the leftovers of the previous three meals to serve the final meal in a farm in Vierville. After cleaning and putting away the pots and other utensils, having a brief snack, and leaving the farm around 3:30, she was unaware that the conversations and songs over the meal had prevented her from hearing the explosions of the night. When she got home, she had a strange feeling that something was amiss and different from the previous nights. She struggled to comprehend this change, eventually realising that it was the unusual noise. She was accustomed to hearing the characteristic sound of Allied planes and the deafening rumble of bombings, but that night, there was a prolonged hammering carried to her by a gust of wind. (Although there was no sea breeze, a Force 3 wind from the West was blowing, and the noise of the ships was mainly transmitted through the water, making it particularly distinctive.)
On arriving at the bus station, instead of going to bed, she woke her husband and shared her apprehensions with him. He got up, dressed, and went out. He immediately recognised the sound as boats and exclaimed, “There are many boats coming our way!” He then woke up their children, dressed them, and instructed them to pack their essentials into their little suitcases. As the day gradually dawned, he went out and stood at the valley’s notch, gazing at the sea or what little he could see. At that moment, a majestic battleship, accompanied by two other warships, sailed into view.
Father Louis had been digging a shallow trench next to the bus station, and he directed the family all to lie in the trench. As soon as they were settled, a shell struck the pediment of a skylight in the castle (which had not been restored and remained one-eyed, having been cut by the roof). A second shell hit the bell tower of the old chapel. Pieces of stone fell into their trench, prompting them to seek refuge in their cellar, leaving their dog and pig outside.
At about 2.15 p.m. Jeanne heard the ringing of the bells as they fell with the bell tower, when it was shot down. She told her husband, “You won’t have to ring the Angelus or the call to worship bell for a long time.” At that moment, she had no idea that she would spend 36 hours with her daughters in the cellar, including nearly 8 hours without her husband, Louis. She would also witness the workers of the Todt company passing by (leaving their cantonment for the castle, excluding those who were German) as they sought to join the Allies. Later that evening, she would see the American soldiers arrive with some armoured vehicles.
