Our sleepy village of Morsalines had it's fair share of wartime experiences. From a German perspective it housed a large conscripted workforce deployed on constructing the Atlantic Wall defences, as well as the H.Q. for the TODT organisation which was the main administrating body for a variety of activities such as road building, defence bunker construction. Ii also had a railway station for transport.

From a defensive perspective. Morsalines had a battery, which with it's adjacent Crasville battery, had a range out to sea of around 11km. Morsalines also had a battery defending the main coastal road. Thus it was an important strategic asset and was regularly inspected by high ranking German commanders, the last of which was Field Marshall Erwin Rommel.

From an Allied Perspective, the Morsalines battery could fire upon ships delivering men to the Allied D'day invasion beaches as well as fire upon the beaches themselves. It was therefore heavily bombed by the Allies in period leading up to D day.

Above photo of Morsalines bunker with it's view of the bay. It housed a 155mm Canon which could fire 3 rounds per minute with a range of approximately 11 km.

Testimony of an inhabitant of Quettehou, War in the Val-de-Saire

[The worst must be feared because the airmen’s targets are very close by. During the bombardments of 9th and 10th May 1944, vast tracts of the heights of Morsalines and Crasville-Grenneville, as well as the tourist road from Quettehou to Montebourg, were totally devastated . In the Russian women prisoners’ camp , six women were killed and so was the local road mender, whose body was never found. ]

The road menders body (Mr Gabriel Fleury) was discovered 50 years after the war. Morsalines as of June 1944, housed a large encampment of forced/volunteer labour of Russian and Polish backgrounds. This was in an encampment at "La Bétinerie" . Opposite this site were housed members of the Todt Organisation, the German management company tasked with building the Atlantic Wall. Cement from nearby Montebourg and sand from nearby Gatteville were brought by rail to Morsalines train station.

[Moreover, several farms and many homes were blown to smithereens. Many people ran unscathed out of their destroyed houses. During the same night, a few stray bombs fell indifferent places, far from their intended targets. In Quettehou, L. Marvie (a day labourer from La Buhoterie) and his wife were taken out of the rubble, seriously hurt; their two children suffocated there. In Valcaville, six members of the same family died. To understand how violent the air raid was on the night of 10th May, you only need to know that on the day after, no less than four hundred civilians were requisitioned with their shovels and pickaxes to rehabilitate the two kilometres of local road that had been torn apart. These people, from Quettehou and Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue, were working when suddenly they were thrown into a panic as someone – quite the joker, he was – raised a false alarm.]

An example of an aircrew who bombed Morsalines, Bill Young and his crew from 44 Rhodesia Squadron took off North of Lincolnshire in the U.K. and bombed Morsalines battery just after midnight 18th May 1944. (They were shot down 4 July 1944 at St Leu d'Esserent with a loss of 6 crew. Bill Young and Jack Wainwright survived, aided by French resistance they later re-joined allied forces).

On the 10th of May Mr. and Mrs. Peltier, hearing the approaching bombers, tried to run for cover in the trees opposite their residence. They didn't reach the trees, but dove into a ditch. They vowed to erect a shrine if they survived. They survived and the shrine with it's dedication can be viewed on the side of the road in Morsalines. The above map with the bombers camera photo inset, shows the area of bombing, which is approximately 500 meters from our house's location.

On D-day at H-hour

[6th June has just been born. The alarm clock on the chest of drawers sunk in darkness shows 3 a.m. Although I am half asleep, I can hear the demoralizing noise of engines purring like a big dozing cat. Dull thumps seem to be coming from the high seas. They are increasingly formidable and come at shorter and shorter intervals; they pass on, in all directions, strange kinds of tremors that give one goose bumps. The whole house is shaking, from the foundations to the apex, as if some Hercules was trying to tear the windows and doors off their hinges. Suddenly a myriad of candles are lit in the skies above. Their blueish or orangey light turns to red and splashes the landscape all around. My God, what is going to happen?

We run across the yard towards the porch, half dressed, speechless with shock and with our teeth chattering, and jump into the empty cattle pond which we have made deeper in case. It is protected by the trunk of the ancient oak-tree. I hurriedly block the front with bundles of sticks and we huddle around the leaning tree, gasping, and listen to our beating hearts. From time to time, smoking shrapnel embeds itself into the ground with a violent impact. In front of us, behind the dark shape of the proud old fort, a heavy cruiser in battle position is outlined against the dark; it is massive, impressive, formidable. Fire is spitting out of the mouths of its guns.

All around, navy shells are falling profusely. La Pernelle and Grenneville are taking it right in their “innards”. The German artillery is trying to retaliate, but the hissing intensifies and pursues a trajectory scattered with sparks. Compact groups of planes, looking as if they are carrying heavy loads, are heading towards the centre of the Cotentin. The Krauts are yelping in their burrows in the enclosed plots behind Thybosville; they must have understood now that everything has gone wrong for them.

There's not a shadow of doubt for us now: the landing has begun!]

Above: On 6 June 1944, at 5 a.m. Walter Ohmsen was the first German to sight the Allied invasion fleet through the battery rangefinder. His battery also sank the lead Destroyer of the invasion fleet, USS Corry. (although records were changed at the time to indicate she had been sunk by a mine).

Underneath is the English transcript from messages intercepted via the Enigma machine at Bletchley Park, showing that the Commandant of the German sea defences had recommended him for an Iron Cross on the evening of the 6th June

He was decorated with the Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross at Morsalines Battery on 14th June, 8 days after D Day, having defended the Crisbeq battery herioically against the Allies. The father of three daughters, Walter Ohmsen died in Kiel on 19 February 1988.

[I am consumed by curiosity! Although my wife is trying to hold me back, I venture to leave our shelter and take a few shy steps. Dawn is starting to break and this makes me want to see things, and to understand. Moreover, we will have to go about our daily chores. I can already hear the cows calling; they well know it’s time we relieved their udders.

A great many reconnaissance aircraft appear; they manoeuvre gracefully and brush past the treetops. A hail of bullets is fired and there is a strong smell of powder in the air; all around, lying in the enclosed fields or still hanging from the elm trees standing on the embankments, parachutes discharged of their passengers are now gently flapping in the wind.

From the makeshift observatory where I have nestled, I see a myriad of ships of all tonnages cluttering the sea’s horizon in a grand spectacle. The purplish-blue edge of the coastline from

Quinébille-Les Gougins and well beyond Sainte-Marie-du-Mont is literally buried under flakes of cotton-like smoke; the winds send the smell of fires towards us.

I am milking a cow when I suddenly hear salvoes of machine-gun fire on my right, in a field below close to the Mansais hamlet, and they bring me back to reality. Guns retaliate.

Unfortunately, a little group of parachutists has been prematurely dropped into the “lion’s den”.

They fight back to the last, and mean to sell their lives dearly . All this… all this is…the beginning of the battle of Normandy.]

On D'Day at around 2 am on the morning of 6th June 1944, at least 3 sticks of 82nd airborne paratroopers jumped from C47s over the local area. They, along with at least 3 other aircraft, were 25 km off target. According to Mr. Mouchel's account they fought and 'sold their lives bravely'.

However, at least one stick of approximately 18 paratroopers jumped close enough to Morsalines for Captain Andrew J Hawkins Jr., Sergeant T.Sample (319GFAB) and Private Clinton S. Ford (508th Parachute Regiment), to land in the back garden of a house at the back of Morsalines. Private Clinton S. Ford was awarded the Silver Star July 14th 1944. Sergeant T. Sample was killed in action 18th June 1944. He rests in Plot C Row 9 Grave 1 at the American Cemetery Colleville-sue-Mer.

The plaque below is attached to the house.

Captain Hawkins and Private Ford took refuge in the local railway station goods yard. German troops were sent to search for them, but they succeeded in killing the five German troops.

They then took refuge at a local farm.

As the inhabitants were threatened with harsh penalties for harbouring the enemy, it was decided to move them to the Lefillatre hideaway at Rideauville. From there they were put in touch with Mr Charles Levaillant of the local resistance. Local historians reported that they were then kept locally until the Allied troops reached the area by the 20th of June.

However, from our investigations, it is probable that Mr Levaillant knew the whereabouts of between 30 and 50 paratroopers cached by the resistance in the area. Mostly they were hidden in camouflaged 'hides' that hunters traditionally used for hunting.

Captain Hawkins apparently picked up a small group of men and proceeded towards Octeville l'Avenel and surprised the small German force occupying the village. Having cut telephone wires, he realised that his small force would not be able to withstand a German attack and so, leaving wounded with the local priest, he lead his men back to Allied lines.

Above photo taken at Octeville l'Anaville shows Captain Andrew J Hawkins Jr. and Mr Charles Levaillant.

Although not part of our Morsalines story, we established during our research into this photo that Mr Charles Laine of Videcosville and Mr Lefilliatre of Rideauville were was also associated with the local resistance and that Captain Bill Brubaker survived the war.

Based on their uniform and their relaxed manner, it is also likely that the P.O.W's in this photo are from the TODT organisation, and could well have been Polish, Russian or even French forced labour 'conscripted' by the Germans.

Captain Hawkins went on to take part in Operation Market Garden all the way through the German surrender.

Mr Charles Lavaillant received the US. Presidential Medal from General Eisenhower for his part in assisting the Allied men. Pictured below is Charles Lavaillant, the medal he received and a photo of Captain Hawkins which was sent to Mr Lavaillant after the war as part of their ongoing correspondence.

Close to the nerve centre

[The die is cast: our department is offering the first holocaust on the motherland’s altar. It is to be submitted for some time to the worst agony it has ever been through over the centuries. Since the Allied troops arrived on the beaches of our peninsula , each day that goes by engraves a glorious page for posterity. The history of the martyrdom of our “Norman Versailles” and of Montebourg, the little “Cité cassine”, will soar over future generations.

Yet the fate of Valognes (almost totally destroyed by air raids ), is not like that of Montebourg and its surroundings: the nerve centre of the third front is in this village, and it is here that, after they have joined forces with the parachutists, the ultramodern American army outflanks and paralyses the too-famous German tactics of General Rommel.]

Field Marshall Erwin Rommel (The Desert Fox) did in fact visit Morsalines on at least two occasions to inspect the beach defences (The Atlantic Wall installations) as well as the Morsalines Battery and the Batteries in adjacent Crasville. His inspections took place during January and May of 1944.

Above, Field Marshall Rommel inspects beach defences and a photo of Morsalines Beach with it's 'spagehetti' defences.

From the “Door to the Lower Val de Saire” we attend (or rather hear) the drama unfolding on the other side of the Ozeville heath. The cannonade, at times closer and at times further away, indicates to us that the battle is ebbing in and out, and relentlessly unfurling over mountains and valleys. Peaceful little towns are sacrificed too; they are already no more than a mass of half-burnt ruins.

Three out of four farmhouses and farmyard buildings are wrought bloody havoc on and then burnt. Many a badly damaged church is ripped open, and the gaping church towers now leave visible the bells, which no longer ring the symbol of human life.

In Saint-Marcouf, Quinéville, Saint-Floxel, Ozeville, Azeville or Joganville, enclosed fields, hunting grounds and country lanes are scattered with dead bodies lying higgledy piggledy amongst rotting carcasses. Figures later showed that in this canton, 80 percent of livestock died during the upheaval. A nauseating smell contaminates the region.

Many civilians died in tragic circumstances. The invasion was so quick that they did not have time to leave their homes or their farms. And where could we have gone? And as long as there was still a glimmer of hope, as long as it was still possible to light a fire in the fireplace (the soul of the house), we stayed! But the mourning intensified. There was not one family without one or several members missing. How could it have been otherwise when the battle had been so horrendous? Some hand-to-hand fights took place in the very same shelters where farmers, their families and farmhands were awfullycrammed for whole days and nights.

Hitlerian rage is let loose by some SS soldiers. Some lose all control over their actions. In a particularly sad instance, several people are killed at point blank range by a Nazi madman. (I will not write a painful narration of the different phases of the battle ofMontebourg as even a whole volume would not suffice – and stories like these should berestricted to those who truly lived it.)

Polowski !

These were dreadful times, and everyone did their best to lift their own, pretty low, spirits.

In your heart of hearts, you often thought (slightly egoistically): “they have no strategic interest here” or “time is on our side”.

Combined action by ships and aircraft does not relent. Shells of all sizes are still falling all around. Crossroads and communication routes are particularly targeted. Woe betide you if you drive a horse-drawn carriage on a road: air gunners will be quick to detect you. The “giant bird” will circle over you like a vulture, and then swoop down and shoot, and hardly ever miss its target. Saloon cars, tracked vehicles, coaches and distorted and burnt pieces of iron litter the banks and block the ditches.

Some people escaped the battle: they are dishevelled, in tatters, covered in mud, and walk in single file along the hedges and on the roads where they are hidden by trees; their arrogance has been replaced by a deep despondency. This you can see in their “hunted beast” look: “Kamarad’s… beaucoup kapout! ” one of them tells us.

It is not easy to go on working on farms in such conditions and for an interminable period of time. It goes without saying that some of the staff on our farms in the thick of it all quicklyswarm to places they deem safer. On the other hand, conscientious farmers are like acaptain on a sinking ship: they don’t abscond from the job. Dairies are closed: so what?

The cows get milked in the middle of a field and that’s it. It is perfectly clear for him that there will be no abstaining from work. Many farmers make butter, often with makeshifttools. Fat has replaced bread, which has become more and more rare and less and less good. Sugar is replaced by saccharine . There are “black sheep” hanging around with the “jerries”. People say it has always been like that during invasions in the past.

On an ordinary, clear and sunny morning, I reach the mount, half-fortified by trenches and bunkers, occupied by a small group of fearful “Jerries”. This is where my flock of about fifteen dairy cows is phlegmatically grazing. They seem to take pleasure (as true Normans would) in mocking the last masters of the area , for whom a strict discipline keeps them from milking the animals. Busy keeping a ceaseless watch along the zigzagging trenches which “overlook” the main coastal road, they become visibly less numerous, particularly since the celebrated D-Day when all the company went north to attack the Montebourg frontline . At the end of the trench, hidden under branches, a middleaged, disillusioned-looking, hunky fellow looks at me as I am milking the cows. We are only a few steps away… Curiosity overwhelms me for I would like to know his inner thoughts. On a neutral tone, I look to find out. Using gestures, we manage to understand one another. Pointing his finger at the glittering surveillance planes flying in all directions over our heads, Iask him what he thinks of the allied landing. “Nitch goud! war” the soldieranswers, brutally knocking his weapon against the schist wall of the trench. “What are you going to do if they come here and catch you”, I ask. “Kamarad”, he answers, his arms raised to the sky. Then crossing his wrists one on top of the other: “Trip to Canada!”. I understand and he does too.

Further on, at the other end of the field, I start working on another cow.

Between two young elm trunks in the double hedge, half visible in the foliage, a very young watchman points his binoculars and gazes at the modern armada anchored on the dancing waters of the sun-bathed shore. The periwinkle blue eyes of the soldier are deep and soft, hisface trusting, open and almost joyful. As soon as I have finished with my cow I walk nearer to this man, whose attitude is surprising. He beckons and hands me his “spyglass”. While I fill my eyes watching allied tanks roll up the beach between Sainte-Marie-du-Mont and Saint-Martin-de-Varreville, my strange companion, standing behind me, starts softly whistling “La Madelon”, that popular marching song. Quite amazed, I look at him with a stupefied gaze. Then the poor fellow puts his hand on his heart and murmurs: “Polowski!” . Was he sincere?

Yes…

A week later in the middle of the night, taking a huge risk,I spontaneously agreed to hide this Polish man and a compatriot in the hay in my attic for two days and two nights. In the meantime, I heard a Polish officer had been found in a field along the shore near the Morsalines redoubt, and taken in and nursed at the Red Cross civilian facility: they were elated when I quickly led them to their compatriot.

A little later, I learnt from a reliable source that Edmond Borkowski and Bronisouav Chonosjski, freed from the Nazi yoke, had joined the legion to fight again and help free their heroic nation.

A walk by night

Hitler’s “krauts” do not care at all about the laws of war. They want us to obey them until the last minute, but he who laughs last laughs longer!

First, the setting of thousands of “anti-glider” poles nicknamed “Rommel’s asparagus” was inefficient and useless. Forced labour with shovel and pickaxe is no longer working and the male population is relieved. However, farmers are more and more compelled to horsedrawn conveying and night carrying of various ammunition is increasing. But all this is not a foreboding of the privilege our whole Val-de-Saire is going to benefit from.

The overjoyed population eventually realises their unexpected luck on seeing the last pockets of resistance leaving without further ado and… without “goosestepping”, they take refuge on a new defence line which they say is “kolossale”! They call it elastic strategy. For us, it is a long-awaited good riddance! Here and there a few artillery pieces and antiaircraft defence cannons still remain only to keep hiding the reverse side. The unsightly four-wheeled carts have definitively disappeared from our roads.

As was mentioned before, the technique used by German authorities to remedy the transportation crisis affects every owner of horse and cart.

As I am one of the affected, this evening I invite my reader to sit with me in my cart. Let us be brave, this might be the final journey. Are we going to Tourlaville? to La Glacerie? to

Gonneville? Do not worry! We will only know when we arrive, unless the common leader, a horseman facing us, should tell us. Under the linden-trees of the village square, our“mastif-interpreter”, gun under his arm and pen in hand, “barks” the plan to his partner. Westand in the shadows of dusk. Night has already come when the convoy breaks up to fill the carts. It is to gather again on the side of the Theil-Cherbourg road. Departure time is set at midnight. Thank God the explosive stores in the banks of the pathway leading to the church of Saint-Vigor-de-Quettehou are almost empty: it is exactly like going to confession! You have to wait for your turn.

An invisible plane is approaching; it must be after us. Instinctively I set my horse and cart close to the wall of the presbytery wall. A loud detonation is heard up above. It is a tracking light. Its blue light reveals our surroundings. We can see as if in broad daylight.

Exasperated by our ironical indifference and by this brutal call to reality, Satan’s henchman – or Hitler’s rather – is fuming with rage. That true Hun yells louder than ever. Unable to make us hurry, he shoves aside whatever is in his way and loads more than half the equipment on his own. Slowly, without any hindrance, the caravan starts. This unknown route does not seem to suit Mouvette, my good mare: I feel she is sulking. When she smells a “green suit” she snorts and shakes her head (this is probably her way of protesting). Well, that’s life! Characters cannot change and… animals are like humans. Just like her master… she is very nervous!

Around us, it is pitch black. It feels like charging into a huge curtain dipped in Indian ink.

The only lighting we get comes from the tiny intermittent red spots at the end of theingrained smokers’ cigarettes, although it is forbidden to smoke. The drivers are sullen. No voice is heard amidst the clattering of the wheels and the clip-clop of the hooves of our good Percheron mares. Lulled for a long time by this monotonous tune, we drive for some distance until we hear again the rumbling sound of the engine of the bomber plane. Boom! Boom! That’s it - about a hundred yards before us, the road has been cut by bombs. The poor beasts rear in fright, their muscles trembling, their nostrils fuming. We comfort or pacify them, each in our own way. In the meantime the new-style “Don Quixote” riding his old jade tries to find his way. If all roads lead to the town, those chosen by our ominous leader are certainly steep climbs and deep hollows full of potholes. Our destination is reached only when dawn comes. The dark mass of Brillevast castle is visible in the centre of a wood. Needless to say, we have no concern for the architecture or period of the building. Our one and only aim is to be home before daylight.

We are made to turn left, under the shadowy arch of centuries-old trees. Tonnes of ammunition are scattered there in indescribable disorder. This is where we empty our carts. Luckily, on our way back, cloudy weather and a fog as opaque as pea soup protectus from deadly machine-gun shooting. It is 8.30 am when my good Mouvette, totally exhausted like her worn out master, finally enters her stable and hungrily snorts her oats.

Animal spirit

Finally! The last Hun left forty-eight hours ago with… the last cow! Do not smile… I mean that they took with them the last animal in the herd requisitioned by those modern “Ostrogoths”… it was not so perfect that they left alone.

You should know that cattle from the Quettehou area are not collaborators! See for yourself. On the day before the great departure, those devils from the Kommandantur had set up a true imitation theft on a farm in the Val Vacher (a predestined name) in case the planned contribution should be unsatisfactory. In a very short time, that farmer’s cattle was taken to the set place and eventually released.

In such a case, the contributor who would not have obeyed this order would have seriously neglected his duty of solidarity. Born by many, the weight is not so heavy. So as soon as I get the injunction from the village police officer, I have no hesitation! If that is what is needed to make them go, I will heartily contribute mine. Of course we do it… asbadly as we can, using rotten or paper ropes. As a result, during the night, more than twenty of the thirty or so animals to be killed break their lead and promptly scarper from the imminent death that they clearly sensed. Most of these animals, guided by instinct, return to their owners’ farms. Mine, possibly not as intellectually gifted as the rest, went to the wrong farm. It was kindly welcomed by M. Eugène Lefèvre, a friendly farmer living near the village.

From fear to joy

The incomprehensible marine bombardment on the peaceful village of Quettehou in the night of 20th June seems to prove that the liberators did not know the Germans had definitely retreated in the night of 19th June. A wave of panic brings out cold sweats in everyone when the battleship unveils its true intentions. People in Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue had the good sense to hoist a white flag in the morning. As the area seems to be calm, the inhabitants of Quettehou are about to do the same. A shell lands in the garage of the village mechanic, then another one almost immediately in the tax collector’s garden. Nothing more is needed to stimulate some smart fellows’ brains and destroy belated prejudices. Quick! A huge tricoloured flag is spread over the square and the iron rain stops. The agile “kites” dive towards the roofs; they fly so low that they seem to want to touch down on the streets. An aviator standing in the cabin waves in a friendly way. It is over. The storm has stopped.

Flags are flown in Quettehou, Saint-Vaast, Barfleur and in all the villages of the canton.

Happiness is overwhelming. But let us be clear – it is a measured, healthy, human happiness, in no way forgetful of other people’s misfortune. It blooms on young people’s faces and pervades the smoky, crumpled creases of tricoloured flags taken out of their hiding places. These dear little ensigns, too, flap in the warm wind of summer and sing their own happy song of the liberation and resurrection of France.

It is true the Hitlerian monster is not yet down. Its hungry claws will plough through new ruins for some time yet and feast on other victims. However, because of enthusiastic hunters ceaselessly running after it, it goes on an exhausted moaning trail back to its lair.

Describing the arrival of the first Americans in our area would be repeating what we have all seen on pictures or read in war magazine articles. There are not so many ways to show your happiness. Everywhere the scene repeats itself: outbursts of joy, toasts, cigarettes, laughter, flowers, and even kissing: “three kisses, as is the custom around here!”

Of course, before going away, the enemy has left mines in bridges and main crossroads to slow down the progress of motor and armoured vehicles. However, for some reason oranother, the dynamite does not often have its way.

Large trees have been sawn down across the road to Valognes, near my friend René Galel’s farm. Several energetic woodcutters willingly give a hand to free the way. A beautiful oak tree head is immediately baptised “Tree of Liberty”. Securely fastened to a tractor, it is triumphantly pulled over three kilometres and brought at dawn to the middle of the market square.

In the evening, some slightly drunk, funny chaps sit astride some branches, like Bacchus on hisbarrel, and give a performance in a cacophony of jazz and baritone.

At home, of course, this memorable day fills us, too, with an indescribable joy. To somehow mark these historical moments composed of anguish, happiness and hope, I spend my evenings writing a comprehensive story of the hardships, which were overcome by the resourceful and indisputably Norman character of the good people in the Val-de-Saire.

Of course the war was not over. Although Cherbourg was liberated by 20th June 1944, the war continued in Europe until Germany's surrender 7th May 1945.

German P.O.Ws were used to start repairing the damage caused by the war up until 1948. Many of them were housed temporarily in Morsalines, ironically ustilising the accommodation that they had used to house their own conscripted work force during their occupation.

A major undertaking was the removal of mines and other obstructions laid by the German. This work was carried out by German POW's under French supervision.

Above: A poignant reminder here in Morsalines. If you know where to look, you will find a lonely memorial to the two Frenchman and 5 unrecorded Germans who were killed clearing mines on the beach just before Christmas 1945.

In conclusion, the majority of the recounting of Morsalines belongs to Mr Alfred Mouchel. The original French text can be found here, and the original English translation with all due credits can be found here.