The Heritage Corner - June 16, 2010
David Swanzy

Personal Memories of World War II
David Swanzy

As a first grader in 1944, living at the top of Shelbyville hill, I would have known nothing of France and little of World War II except for the loss of my brother in the skies over a small village in southeastern France. That tragic event had a monumental effect on me, and its continuing discussion in my home shaped my earliest impressions of Frenchmen as well as how menacing World War II must have been.

Wars and their aftermath, I was convinced, were the most devastating and feared occurrences a person could endure. My interpretation of frequent “family talk” was that the foreign occupation I feared was actually taking place in France. To make matters worse for me, France was where my brother was shot down and declared killed in action but, maybe instead, was wandering around in the thick of the conflict.

Because the French Underground was so helpful to Americans, I surmised, Frenchmen were among the kindest people in the world. At least, I certainly hoped so, since it seemed so likely that my brother was depending on them at that very minute.

As I imagined it, little “underground” tunnels went just about everywhere, and if the way were pointed out to him, my brother could make it back to safety. Now, what I realize today is that you need not be a youngster to have such thoughts. While I was in the dentist chair in New Orleans after a trip to France, my dental hygienist asked with total seriousness, “When you were in France, did you get to see any of the remains of those French underground tunnels of World War II?” It was such a naïve question that I could only respond with a smile. Even that was a bit difficult, since my mouth was still full of dental tools.

I did get a chance to gain accurate details of the French Underground in 1995, when I was invited to attend the 50th Anniversary Ceremonies of VE Day in the small French village of La Tour d’Aigues. I went immediately to the Hotel de Ville, where the entire village could be seen from Mayor Maurice Lovisolo’s office balcony. With an eight-foot American flag prominently displayed, it was obvious that the mayor was serious about his VE-Day celebrations and grateful for America’s role.
The next day, after driving past streets to be named Robert Swanzy and Lupe Montana, both of whom were killed in a July 12, 1944 air battle over their village, we went out to the farm house where the plane went down. With great assurance of the facts, Louis Demissy, local president of the French Veterans Association, gave an account of the crash as we stood at the very spot where my brother’s body came to rest.

“With all four motors still running at full speed,” Monsieur Demissy stated with some emotion and authority as he had undoubtedly done countless times before, “the plane broke off one of its wings as it clipped the grove of trees to our left and then slid across this vineyard until it finally stopped just short of this farm house here in front of us.”

It was not until that summer, over fifty years after his death, when I began to bring closure to my quest to place my brother’s death in perspective. I soaked up their stories about the plane crash, the community’s subsequent involvement, and their attitudes about the occupying German forces. However, it was another set of captivating stories--the actions of the local Resistance fighters, the French Underground—that my new French friends wanted even more to tell.

By the end of the summer, I had gathered a wealth of information about specific actions of Resistance fighters in the South Luberon region, the geographical area in southeastern France where La Tour d'Aigues is located. Indeed, I heard the details of how the remainder of the crew survived in occupied territory due to the heroic actions of the French Underground. On BBC radio when they heard the coded message, "Jenny Doesn't Like Chocolate," these Resistance fighters sprang into action to begin what would be their successful search for eight airmen who had just parachuted from a doomed American B-24 bomber. The Americans who dropped from the sky would be living in the woods, in constant danger, with these French maquisards for the next six weeks. (Excerpt from the book, Jenny Doesn't Like Chocolate, pending 2010 publication: McFarland Press)