1999 - Chemin - S Ottis
Fifty Five Years On – The Chemin de la Liberté
On the 08 July 1999, with a group of Americans, Belgians, Dutch, English, and French hikers, I left the town of St Girons, and began retracing the escape route over the High Pyrenees Mountains used by escapers and evaders in WWII. Each of the hikers had his or her reason for taking on the hike. Many had fathers or other family members who were evaders. Others took on the trek as a challenge and others, like myself, engaged in this physical torture because they wanted to gain a historians perspective of an act about which they had studied and written.
To everyone who asked why I should do such a thing, I explained that I wanted to know what it was really like to be an evader. I thought that to successfully cross those mountains would give me the answer. I knew my experience would not be the same, after all I had bought hiking boots, had broken them in during long walks, and had been working out in a gym for months to get fit, so unlike the airmen, who had been living in cramped places, had injuries, and had no fitness training. I had good food, had a good pack that I had been walking around with full of weights, and I would not have German patrols searching for me around every bend. This hike would be much easier.
Little did I know that when I left the little bridge in St Girons, how well I would learn my lesson! As the first few hours were more scenic than difficult we all chatted as we walked, having all met up in the first two days. After a couple of hours I could now feel the start of a blister on one heel. I mentioned this to a new Dutch friend who offered tape which I gladly used. The walk continued climbing up quite an arduous winding route up a rocky incline, followed by a steep walk over several years of fallen leaves through a forest, before we stopped for lunch. Two hikers had already decided they would go no further and would finish at the mid-day stop. I now questioned the wisdom of continuing if the rest of the day was to be the same.
At the lunch break another new friend, an Englishman, patched up both my feet for me, and after a rest and lunch, I was ready to continue the route, although still not sure that I should. I did not want to quit. I felt better when I heard that others had dropped out, and others also had sore feet. Dutchman Gert Overeem, and Englishman Roger Stanton now became my guardians. Roger was determined that I should reach Spain and placed me right at the front of the walkers with him, to set the pace. I appreciated the encouragement from both men, although I believed that I was slowing the group down. By now I was growing closer to people in the group, many of whom were also struggling, and did not want to let anyone down. I also reminded myself that evaders had struggled, many of them had badly blistered feet too. By the time we had reached the first night stop my feet were not good. Roger once again patched them up. We all ate well, but I did not sleep well. The next morning I went through my kit with Roger and unloaded all but the bare necessities from my pack. Roger had a backup plan to share my kit amongst his team of British soldiers (who had agreed), that if I ran into further problems with weight they would carry my kit.
The walk started well the next morning, but at the first stop I sought help for my feet. This time my feet became an international affair. While everyone rested, Roger and one of the Belgians taped up my feet and heels so that nothing would come off, and a fellow American Lyn David provided a dry pair of socks to finish the job. We started off again with hardly any pain to my feet. I was however becoming more and more tired as we climbed up to numerous ridges, only to see more ridges ahead, the ground was clearly not going to level out. After a while I stopped looking. My pack did not feel heavy, but when I leaned over on my walking stick for a break, the pack tipped me to the ground! Set back on my feet by Roger and Gert I kept going. I watched Roger’s feet in front of me and focused on keeping in step. Now in between the two men Roger told me to only watch the foreground and plod on slowly. It was at this point that I recalled the story of an evader called Roland Barlow who had said that only by watching the guide’s legs in front of him was he able to continue. When Roland fell to the ground with total exhaustion his guide threatened to shoot him. Roland laughed, he could not move. I mentioned to Roger about a break. No gun was waved at me and we stopped.
Sensing I was now struggling, my footsore Belgian friends offered high protein rations to eat, and I was made to drink more water. These were ‘suggestions’ given in a manner with which I should not argue. Again we started walking and after a short period I again lost my balance, and I noticed that my feet were all right, but that I was losing strength in my legs. The three Belgians behind me took my pack off me and ignored my protests. The pack was shared out to Pascal Herman, Bob Croes, and Alain Ancker, with Bob taking the bulk. Johann released one of his carabiners, hooked my water bottle on to it, and fastened it to my belt. I set off again behind Roger with Gert behind me followed by the Belgians and the British. Each time I got tired they stopped with me until I was able to continue. Fifty five years ago other Americans were struggling, helped by French, and Belgians. Now another American was struggling to make the same trip, once again assisted by Belgians, French, and English.
We finally reached the lunch stop on the second day at the Col de la Core. We had a chat, and Roger and the team offered assistance to the night stop at Subera. It was suggested that I then made a decision whether I wished to continue. From Subera the route would be even more difficult, very steep and dangerous. As I sat on the grass I knew that my hike was over. Many people had already dropped out. I sat teary-eyed with my many helpers, and thanked them all for their assistance. The Col de la Core was the last point a vehicle could get to, to extract me from the walk. Others also left at this stage. When the walkers left we stood miserably on the side of the hill and waved. The last man I saw disappear behind rocks was a Dutchman who waved to me and blew me a kiss.
Later, on meeting the walkers in Spain, I was reminded what I had accomplished. I had probably come closest to experiencing what it was like to be an evader. That may be true. The route was a long, difficult and dangerous route for those who continued. I had experienced the good fortune of the close relationships that developed between evaders and those who helped them. Those who could help and those who could not, and I made bonds with my fellow walkers that led evaders to remain in contact with their helpers many years after the event. I felt the anguish felt by evaders who could not make the walk through injuries or weakness.
It took over two months to recover from trying to cross the route, but I will never regret having tried. I will regret not crossing the French-Spanish border at the mountain summit. I did not sign the blue Visitors Book for the people who had completed the route, but I know that I gave it all I had, and I can honestly say that I experienced what it felt like to be an evader crossing the Pyrenees.
In September of the following year I was invited to the new Comète Freedom Trail event, and again met up with my friends, English, Belgian, Dutch, and French.
This time the event started by parachute in Belgium, and cycled, and I followed the route by train to Anglet. This time I was able to sign the visitor’s book as a walker, made all the more special as I was the only American to walk the new Comète route. Few historians are fortunate enough to be able to touch the history they study. I have been very lucky to have been able to touch it, and to share the emotional, mental, and physical journey taken by evaders and helpers. For this I will always be grateful.
Sherri Ottis
Mississipi