by Virgil R. Marco Sr., 366BS Tail Gunner, 305BG

(Because of a language barrier and sixty years later I found out that the Greek-Frenchman I wrote about was not Greek.  My good friend, Frederic Docq, was determined to find out what happened to the Greek-Frenchman, so he telephoned the Town Hall in Bouconville concerning a Mr. Lucien Borniche.  He was then referred to Mr. Lucien Borniche’s former neighbor, Mr. Jacques Philippot who also knew Mr. Borniche’s close family friend,, Dominigue Gilbert.  Together, Mr. Philippot and Mr. Gilbert  supplied Frederic Docq with the new information and photos for this revision.

Mr. Borniche was a native born and not born in Greece.    He made a career in the Army serving in countries of Syria, Lebanon and Morocco.  During World War I he traveled to several countries of the Dardanelles such as Greece and Turkey.  At the end of his army career Lucien had attained the rank of Master Sergeant.

When his Army career ended Lucien worked for the National Forestry Commission and wasresponsible for the forest of Vauclair.  During the invasion in 1940 he refused to evacuate and remained in the village of Bouconville.

Lucien had a maid named, Suzanne Godat who had a dreadful facial scar.  This scar was caused by an accident while riding with Lucien on his motorcycle.

He often hunted with his “gun dog”, Russe.  He supplemented his food supply with the product of his hunt such as wild boar and pheasant.   Lucien also raised his own tobacco and prepared it for his smoking needs.

Lucien Borniche was a member of the Resistance Organization, Samson, and worked with Lieutenant Bob Pique who was a member of the Comete Escape Line.    He provided food and shelter for many allied airmen at his home and was awarded the

“Legion of Honor” on July 14, 1987.  Lucien served as Mayor of Bouconville and died on October, 14, 1987 at the age of 96.  He was a very nice person loved by all who knew him.)

         Winding up a hill the car finally came to a stop in front of a high brick wall with jagged pieces of glass embedded along the top to thwart any unwelcome intruders.  We approached the gate where Mr. Dupont hammered with his fist until a middle-aged man near his age opened the gate inviting us in.  From the looks of the grounds this must have been a barnyard of sorts at one time with chickens and a cow or two at least.  A dog came barking and bounding around the house until quieted by his master.  We followed the two men inside the house.  Much to our surprise a young man greeted us speaking with an English accent.  He introduced himself as F/Sgt. Ronald Scott with the RAF Squadron 44.  Ron had been hiding here about a week.  Ron spoke French fluently and became our interpreter.

          The distinctive odor of potato soup welcomed us as we entered the kitchen.  We took our designated seats around a large wooden table where Gene, Ron and I discussed our stories of evasion.  The soup was delicious.

          Here is Ron's story.  Ron was a radio operator on a British Lancaster bomber that was hit by enemy fire one night on its return trip over France.  The crew was ordered to abandon ship.  Ron found himself floating down in the dark sky near a village where he found help at the home of a middle age widow living alone.  Ron was a handsome young Englishman about twenty two years old.  He studied French in College and spoke it fluently.  The widow was about thirty-five.  Unfortunately the widow became very fond of Ron during his two-week stay at her home.  On several occasions she made romantic overtures, but Ron would not respond.  He planned to get married when his plane was shot down.  He worried about his girl friend continuously, knowing she had been notified that he was missing in action.  Being unfaithful was out of the question.  After telling this story, Ron began describing his girl friend's beautiful features with excessive pride.  To prove it he pulled her picture from his wallet.  He was not exaggerating.

          "What was to become of us now that we were in the custody of the French Underground?"  That was our first question to Ron.  He answered by saying that we would be moved to Paris, then secretively transported across the English Channel in Allied PT boats.  This was very good news as it gave us hope of getting safely back in England soon.

          Mr. Dupont departed after we ate, giving us an invitation to visit his village again after the war when he could be more hospitable.  Our conversation with Ron continued.  It was good to have a new friend who could understand French and translate it for us.

          The housekeeper removed the bandages from Gene's wounds that had now become infected.  After cleaning the wounds with soap and water, she dressed them with new bandages.  She repeated this process every morning.  There was no medicine available and bandages were scarce.  Therefore she had to wash the old bandages for use the next day.  Being a good nurse was one of her attributes besides being a good housekeeper and cook.

          The housekeeper was a woman in her early thirties.  Once attractive, her face now carried the aftermath of a terrible accident.  We speculated that it was the result of the war in some way.  Both sides of her forehead bulged like two pink balls fused together with a horrible scar separating them.

          During the two-week stay with our new host (who was not Greek but a native Frenchman), we found very resourceful.  Some of the food we ate was obtained from his hunting trips.  Our meals often consisted of meat from a wild boar or pheasant.

          Our host also grew and prepared his smoking tobacco.  Each night after supper he brought down dried tobacco leaves from the attic, sprinkled them with water and then gently turned them forward over and over until he had a roll four inches wide and two inches thick.  After tying both ends with string, placed the roll on the wood burning stove to cure the next day.  By the following evening the roll was ready to be cut into fine pieces at which time he placed the roll on the table and with his razor sharp knife cut the tobacco.  This supplied his habit for the next day.  He usually smoked an old pipe, but occasionally he rolled a cigarette for smoking.

          One night after he finished cutting his tobacco, he began working with a map.  Ron inquired what he was doing with the map.  He replied that he was pointing out enemy military installations in the local area for Allied Command in England to bomb.

          Several days later during the morning hours we heard the air raid sirens and the roar of the heavy bombers approaching.  They sounded like B-17s or B-24s.  Minutes passed then the house shook and a loose windowpane rattled along with the dishes as the bombs exploded.  We were close to the target.  Was this the bombing our host planned?

          That afternoon our host entered the front door with a large smile saying, "Boche Kaput! Boche Kaput!"  His gestures reminded me of the Movietone News pictures of Hitler's joy when France signed the peace treaty at Versailles.  Our host was now enjoying some of his revenge.  He informed us that the target was destroyed.

          On May 8, 1944, a young man from the Underground arrived at our hiding place in Bouconville and took our British friend with him on his motorcycle.  We assumed to Paris since this was part of the escape plans.

(All reference to Greece has been removed in this revision)

© Copyright Virgil R. Marco, Sr. All rights reserved.