The railway line, Escot Viaduct

Renaud de Changy continues his story from the previous POI Lurbe-le-chateau: 

“The moon is rising, we're leaving,” says Tino, our guide. Tightly dressed and agile in his travel gear, with dark, lively eyes and a beret pulled down over his ear, he commands respect from everyone, despite being only twenty years old. A machine gun across his chest reminds us that, after all, this moonlit walk has a very special character.

On tiptoe, the long snake of our caravan slips silently through the silent grass of the ditches to the edge of the village. We reach the railroad tracks, which we will follow for most of the night. It is ten o'clock. If all goes well, we should arrive at the end of this first stage around six in the morning. Around midnight, we join a caravan converging from another valley. It is made up entirely of English and Americans, most of them airmen. While the guides discuss the route to follow, the schedule, and the likely movements of the patrols, the two groups get to know each other.  Several of us speak English, much to the delight of the Americans, who tell us about their recent adventures. “The most terrible days of my life,” one of them confides. “Hunted from valley to valley, we've had hardly any rest this past week, barely eating, always on the alert and so poorly equipped!” 

The poor people, in fact, have only the clothes they happen to come across: coats that are too tight, pants that are too short, socks in tatters, shoes that are too small with toes sticking out.

The line, already long, has doubled in size; there are now twenty-three of us trudging along the railroad tracks. It seems that we are making a hell of a noise in this sleepy valley. Every rolling pebble tears at my soul with its echoing sound. At any moment, one or the other of us stumbles over a stone that is too high, catches on a rail bolt, or slips on the shiny plates of the small iron bridges, which are becoming more and more numerous. How can we not attract the attention of the alert lookouts, whom I imagine lying in wait in every thicket?" 

Renaud Carpentier de Changy, It's a long way to go..., Unpublished, Louis Loustau-Chartez archives