Western Front ~ Villers Bretonneux and beyond

DAY EIGHT ~ Easter Saturday: 11th April 2009.
At the Adelaide Cemetery in Villers Bretonneux, we began our last day on the Western Front. We spoke about the significance of the events here and about how little they are understood in relation to the ANZAC legend of Gallipoli. In 1915, there were in excess of 23,000 Australian casualties in the eight months spent fruitlessly in the Dardenelles; the equivalent number of casualties was inflicted upon Australians in an eight week period on the Western Front. Two quotations were used to emphasise the importance of the young men who had fought and died during the Great War in France. The first came from the opening pages of Les Carlyon’s book, The Great War:
There were so many of them, more than 300,000 and we never really saw them. Not when it mattered to see them anyway. Not when they were doing the things which marked them as different then and now, from the rest of us…. They are still (here) so many of these men. Those who are to be found in the archipelago of cemeteries that stretches from Villers Bretonneux to Passchendaele; and those who are not, lie under the fields of corn and sugar beet.
The second came from former Prime Minister Paul Keating’s speech on the occasion of the re-interment in Canberra of the Unknown Soldier, who was previously buried at the Adelaide Cemetery, which was spread before us in the early morning sunlight:
Out of the war came a lesson which transcended the horror and the tragedy and the inexcusable folly…It was a lesson of ordinary people… the soldiers and the sailors and the nurses – those who taught us to endure hardship, show courage, to be bold as well as resilient, to believe in the ourselves, to stick together…That is surely the spirit of the ANZAC story, the Australian legend which emerged from the war. It is a legend not of sweeping military victories so much as triumphs against the odds, of courage and ingenuity in adversity. It is a legend of free and independent spirits whose discipline derived less from military formalities and customs than from the bonds of mateship and the demands of necessity. (1993)
We spent over an hour in the cemetery, noting the awful details on headstones: their ages (Private F. Smith, Age 17); their relationships to one another (Lieutenant R.G. Henderson, Age 25 Died 9th April 1918; and his brother, Private H.G. Henderson, Age 19, Died 4th April 1918); and messages from loved ones (“Oh for the touch of a vanished hand, for the sound of a voice now still.”). We tried to comprehend something of them and the enormity of their sacrifice, all the while, feeling humble, grateful and an overwhelming sense of sadness.
Our spirits were lifted when we entered the village. The welcome we received at Villers Bretonneux was as friendly as we had been lead to believe. Pictures of kangaroos were everywhere. Scenes from Port Campbell and other Victorian tourist destinations were displayed in the School Assembly Hall, together with the plaque, “N’oublions jamais l’Australie.” “Do not Forget Australia” was prominently displayed in the school yard and over every blackboard in each classroom. Barbara, our hostess, introduced us to Jean-Pierre Tranchard, the Vice-President of the Association whose 60 members maintain the superb private museum at 9 Rue Victoria. The museum contained many photos I had not viewed before. One, sourced from the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, showed a young Australian soldier with a cheeky grin buying chocolate from a French woman. Poignantly, there was an etching of Marysville in its early settlement days. The citizens of Villers-Bretonneux raised more than 10,000 euro for the Victorian bushfire appeal Jean-Pierre said. “You helped us in our hour of need, so we help you”, Barbara explained. Amanda Stefancic presented Barbara with a St. Francis Xavier plaque in gratitude for their contribution to the bushfire appeal and in recognition of Australia’s ongoing connection to this town and its friendly citizens. Barbara was delighted.
The site of the Australian Memorial emphasized the quality of the Australian troops on ANZAC Day 1918. How triumphant they must have felt when they surveyed the surrounding landscape spread before them like a patchwork quilt. When opening the memorial in 1938, the French President, Albert Lebrun described the Somme Valley as being “drenched with the blood of Australian soldiers”, who sought to resist the German invaders:
I have expressed the opinion that there is no spot on the whole of the tortured soil of France which is more associated with Australian history and the triumph of Australian soldiers than Villers Bretonneux.
The memorial certainly was an impressive one, and yes, there were far too many headstones: the three sided wall which wings the 30 metre high tower lists the names of 10, 982 Australians who died in France and who have no known grave. In a twist of bitter irony, this memorial to the “war to end all wars”, wore pock marks from bullets and shrapnel from the next world war, which of course began in 1939 - the year after the memorial’s dedication ceremony.
At Hamel, we visited the more recently established Australian Corps Memorial Park. Simply to stand on the site was again to appreciate the genius of Sir John Monash as a military planner and strategist. Commanding all five Australian Divisions, he used intense, co-ordinated attacks by artillery, planes and tanks to sweep the Germans form Hamel. For the first time, planes were also used to drop supplies to advancing troops. He seemed to possess the imagination and the attention to the welfare of his troops which so many generals before him had lacked in World War One. The battle was a stunning success, particularly in the context of the war of attrition waged between 1914 and 1918. Monash’s troops had achieved their objective. The battle was won in 93 minutes. Private Harry Dalziel from 15th Battalion won a VC here. When he returned and looked out across Hamel in 1956, he said: “The whole place was covered in greenery – wheat, poppies – all kinds of agriculture. It just didn’t seem to be the same place.” We too had difficulty imagining how “tortured” this sun drenched emerald place must have been in 1918.
There were less lunch dramas at Albert than there had been the previous day. Our tour guide in the subterranean Somme 1916 Museum cast a spell over the boys in the group with his knowledge of weaponry. As had been the case with each of the other cemeteries, there was something more to see and to learn. The British trenches alone had stretched for 6000 miles according to one calculation. Captain Neville, whose idea it had been to kick footballs as his company walked towards the German lines on 1st July 1916 had been killed along with nearly all his men. He was buried at Carnoy Cemetery. Two footballs were recovered from No Man’s Land.
From Albert, we made our way to Peronne and the Tincourt New British Cemetery. John and Marsha McCallum-O’Dea were on a pilgrimage to find a relative, W.J. Corkery. Rosie and Stephanie Appleton were seeking L.C. Roth. Both were found. Perhaps, in future tours, all of us should have someone we can seek out; it would help to consolidate the connection between the generation of young man who lie in Flanders fields and the Somme Valley. How fitting it was to end our tour in Peronne, where we had begun five days ago.
The blades of the wind turbines turned slowly on our journey home. So much had come to pass. There was so much to remember.
During The Great War, the troops had used humour to make their experience more tolerable. They had sung such songs as Mademoiselle from Armentieres. We penned our own version at sang it raucously on the bus as we returned to Amiens:
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Came to romp in gay Paris
And in Fromelles met Jean-Marie
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
We laid a wreath at Menin Gate.
Never can forget a mate.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
St. Francis Xavier came to France, parlez vous.
Fausto came and drove the bus
But couldn’t communicate with us.
Hinky dinky parlez vous.


DAY NINE ~ Easter Sunday: 12th April 2009.

At Fausto’s suggestion, we dashed from Amiens at 8.30 to avoid heavy traffic and the street closures associated with a cycling event. Consequently, our rooms weren’t ready when we arrived in Paris. The morning in Picardy had been misty and we had had showers on our trip south. Steadily, however, the day improved; spring sunshine greeted us and we strode happily along the semi familiar avenues of Paris. We dived into the Metro like locals, our destination Notre Dame.
The queue to enter the magnificent cathedral snaked across the square before the entrance. Those who wished to go to mass were directed to a different line. Soon we were within the shelter of the massive building, edging our way forward with thousands and thousands of others. There were television screens relaying the distant preparation of the Mass. Although in French, the order and intonation of the ceremony was recognisable. If one closed one’s eyes and listened, the cloying perfume of the incense could take one back centuries. The full choir filled the space. The organ reverberated majestically. A single voice danced in the arches, then floated heaven wards.
Blossom adorned the streets of the Ille de la Cite. We strolled along the stalls beside the Siene. Cards, posters and berets were purchased before our rendezvous at the statue of Charlemagne. A performer posed as Tutankhamen briefly in front of Notre Dame. Gendarmes moved him on. Some bought crepes for lunch and were entertained by the antics of the cooks. There was a carnival atmosphere in Paris. This day was for families, children, couples, friends.
The entertainment continued at Monmartre. Buskers danced and sang on the steps leading up to Sacre Coeur. Commissioned to celebrate Paris’ deliverance from total destruction at the hands of the Prussians in 1870, the building lacks the majesty of Notre Dame. The setting is dramatic but the building itself was reminiscent of a frosted wedding cake. The ceremony we glimpsed was more formal and the atmosphere less welcoming than at Notre Dame, where there had been a greeting to visitors at the conclusion of the Mass and the congregation had applauded. Here signs shouted “Silence!”
Outside, the narrow streets of Monmartre teemed. Shops sold the same T shirts, scarves and trinkets. Crowds elbowed their way good naturedly to ice-creams, cakes and coffee. The lanes beyond the shops and cafes were quieter. I wandered by Le Lapin Agile, and lingered by a vineyard and Renoir’s former lodging.
After carousal rides and another Metro excursion, we made our way to Bateaux Parisiens just as dusk was falling. We floated gently past the labour of centuries, buildings, bridges, walls, statues. Finally, we delighted in the Eiffel tower at night, twinkling in raiment.





DAY TEN ~ Easter Monday: 13th April 2009.
I had been too hot in a shirt yesterday, so I decided to wear my new Villers-Bretonneux Tshirt. Hence, the mists rolled in and the temperature plummeted. We struck north again, with a new driver, bound for Normandy.
Bayeux is a picturesque town. The famous tapestry, commissioned by William the Conqueror’s friend and ally, Bishop Otto of Bayeaux, is indeed a masterpiece. The quality of the craftsmanship and the skill with which the events, the participants and their responses have been rendered is remarkable. For example, Harold’s humiliation when he informs King Edward the Confessor that he has taken an oath of allegiance to William; the figure is shown to be ducking his head in shame. The boat and cavalry sections were vivid and memorable. The way in which the figures positioned under the main frames enhanced the meaning of the tapestry as a whole was fascinating. In the battle scenes, for example, the line which had other stages represented water or earth, came to symbolise rivulets of blood, under which were dead and dismembered bodies. The carnage was dreadful. The death of Harold, coming as it did through an arrow in the eye, was represented as an act of divine retribution for Harold’s failure to honour his oath to William.
The tapestry highlighted a recurring theme on this tour; the violence of war and the inevitable suffering it can inflict, usually on the innocent. The tapestry’s image of the mother and child fleeing their burning house was particularly poignant. “War is hell’” General Sherman of the American Civil War once remarked. Again and again, history provides us with ample evidence of the truth of his observation.Yet time and again, our collective memory of it horrors diminishes allowing personal ambitions, pride or petty jealousies to lead us in to violence.
Bayeaux had not been on our itinerary, yet it was the highlight of the day. We lunched at Arromanches les Bains (magnificently on seafood) then, as scheduled, proceeded to the museum at 2;45. Unlike the museums at the Western Front, this one seemed to be a celebration of war. The 1950s commentary was intent on congratulating the victors. To be fair, the harbour created was a remarkable feat of engineering. One of the main costs of the Allied victory, however, seemed to be the sacrifice of a lovely fishing town to tourism. Everything from badges to bullets could be bought. A souvenir called Churchill’s Boutique captured the mood of the place. Buses roared down laneways designed for horses, carts and pedestrians. The locals seemed to withdraw to the periphery – to fly kites on the strand or to sip cider behind high walls in their gardens. How tranquil this town with its light caramel stone houses with steep slate rooves, attics and shuttered windows might have been without the invasion which began on 6th June 1944.
Given the scale of the invasion (135,000 men landed on the first day) and the proximity of the event, the scores of buses in the car park at Omaha Beach should not have been a surprise. Nor should the size of the cemetery been a shock, yet it was. The sheer number of stark white crosses was staggering. There was an eloquence in the setting - the still pools of water, the pine lined paths, the sea lapping at the base of steep grassy slopes – which was moving. Above all there were the simple white crosses stretching as far as the eye could see.
On the journey back to Paris, the rich velveteen fields of emerald laced with hedgerows and studded with woodlands and farm buildings rolled away from the bus windows. Many of us slept. All were still.