(This e-mail, which I have edited, along with some photos by Frederic Docq of my parachute landing site provided the information for the revision of “My Longest Day”.  The “Collages” were created by the writer.)

Feb. 25, 2007

Hello Virgil,
 
This morning at 10h00 AM, at the village of Beaumé, I met Mr. Michel Bonnet the, son of Pierre Bonnet and his family.  They were all quite happy to see me and they were quite surprised to learn that I went to the USA to visit Joe Rhodes in December.  They were surprised to hear that I knew your subject... etc well.  They pointed out that there was an error in your story.  Pierre Bonnet led you to the priest Alphonse Pire in a village call "IVIERS" and not to Aubenton.  In 1944, this priest was with "IVIERS", after the war he went in Aubenton.  Here is the photo of the Church.  Mr. Pierre Bonnet lived at this time in Hurtebisse a hamlet of Aubenton. He had just married and his first son Jean Claude was born here.   They lived with his grand- parents.   I met the former wife of Pierre Bonnet this morning.  She was charmed to have your news, as of Joe... de my voyage to the USA... etc.
 She told me that they hid in their house an Airman of your plane, but she does not know any more his name (Bill Bergman?)   They had just hidden him in the top of the kitchen.  They had built for him a kind of small room with boards, a bed... etc.  The whole was covered with hay. It was necessary to remove the hay to reach him.  Germans searched all the village, house by house (hamlet of Aubenton "Hurtebisse").  The German soldiers questioned our family, of course everyone said that they did not know anything, then a German soldier furious because he was annoyed that we did not understand his language drew his gun and fired it at the ceiling.  Fortunately it was not close to the American hiding in the attic.  Then the Germans left.  The Bonnet Family was terrorized.  Mrs. Bonnet married again after the death of Pierre.  Her new husband saw the B-17 crash-land.  He was on the road of Leuze with Aubenton.   He said to me that B-17 went in straight line before its fall.  He saw the parachutes.   Then the bomber passed over him.  He saw it break a concrete post of the powerline close to the road of Leuze/Aubenton.  He informed me that this shock on the right wing deviated the trajectory of the bomber. Then he saw the crash landing in the field.  He hesitated to go close to the bomber, but he remembers well that an aviator limped.  He saw the aviators leaving towards woods, the bomber was on fire.   He approached a little more... in little time after German stationed in Aubenton came with a kind of tracked machine. They were furious.
 
He told me that Germans were assembled in cloché (bell tower) of the church of Aubenton to make the guard.  Germans had ordered that nobody leave.  With rifle machine gunner of cloché (bell tower), this German had drawn several times on what moved...

Best regards, Fred

My Longest Day

(Revised March 4, 2007)

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

Audio 1     Audio 2

Dallas, Texas

April 18, 1944

Hello Sunny Boy!

             I intended calling you "Honey Boy" but Sunny slipped out of the pen before I realized it.  My thoughts come and go at random.  They don't know the first principle of discipline do they?

I now hear a plane zooming over head and wonder where you are at this moment.  When it is 12 P.M. over here what time is it over there?  Oh, how I wish I had liked to study Geography and things of that sort when I was a little girl.  What I try to learn now does not stay with me.

            Well after a wild chase to over take your box of candy that I mailed yesterday with your temporary address on it, finally recovered it this morning and after having it repacked and wrapped again it was replaced in the mail about noon.  I pray that candy will not have as hard a time reaching you as it had in getting away from here.  Again I repeat the "Oh Henrys" are from Bobbie Nell.  The "packers" had to leave out two and I gave your little brother one as I knew you would not mind.  I took out the cup cakes I wrote you about as I was told they would be spoiled by the time they arrived there.

           One grand day I’ll make you a lot of nice cookies and when you come home-oh well I won’t go into that now, but you can imagine.

           Although I have not seen A.P. Wiley’s mother lately, I heard that A.P. is a Sgt. now.

           There was a little piece in the paper that your grandmother saw tonight that mentioned a tail gunner from Dallas, Texas.  As no name could be mentioned we could not help wishing we knew just one name that might give us a clue.  Do you still have the same plane?  Surely there is no harm in my asking that.

           There is a lot going on around here but since most all of the interesting young men are gone there is not much interesting left to write about.

           Your little brother says you are in Edinburgh.  I wonder!  He is really growing.  Mr. Block did a very nice paint job on your bicycle and your brother, Paul, is very proud of his "new" bicycle that his brother, Virgil, gave him.  I'm sure you remember he sold his bicycle to buy a Bond.  Which reminds me another Bond came from you yesterday.

           Please take good care of your-self my darling.   Don't flirt with any more danger than necessary.  Everything will turn out right one of these days.

Hoping to hear from you again soon will say good night for now.

            Lots of love from all

                        "Especially me"

                             Mother

                        211 Anteara Road
                        Biltmore,North Carolina

          At about 04:00 hours on the morning of April 24, 1944 “My Longest Day”, the crews of the 366th Bomb Squadron of the 305th Bomb Group were notified to wake up and prepare for a combat mission.  I was awakened by a loud voice and the bright light of a flashlight poked through the blackout curtain at the entrance of our nissen hut.  The loud voice informed the Lincoln crew to "rise and shine".  I turned over one more time in an attempt to find a better position on the uncomfortable straw cushions used as a mattress before getting up.

          We had just arrived from the States in March and were assigned as a replacement crew to the 305th Bomb Group, 366th Bomb Squadron around the first of April.  For two crewmembers this was their first mission.  For the rest of the crew it was their third and fourth mission, not enough to be recommend for the Air Medal.

          Our crew was commanded and piloted by Capt. J. W. (Bill) Lincoln.  Bill Lincoln had served with the Fifth Armored Division prior to Aviation Cadet training commanding tanks in the Mojave Desert.  Bill preferred planes to tanks and became a heavy bomber pilot.

          By researching what happened on Monday, April 24, 1944, I learned that our squadron, 366 of the 305th Bomb Group was part of an armada of 750 heavy bombers of the 40th and 41st Wings headed for various targets, near Munich, Germany. 

          After breakfast Jim and Ed reported for "Sick Call".  The Flight Surgeon diagnosed their illness as bronchitis and they were sent to the base hospital for treatment.

          At briefing an officer gave us details of our mission.  The target was an aircraft repair depot at Oberpfaffenhofen, 15 miles south of Munich, Germany.  When the target was unveiled, everyone groaned.

          The briefing officer informed us that British P-5ls were scheduled to escort us over the target area.  He made a point of emphasizing the fact that he did not believe they would arrive, by saying "Don't count on fighter protection over the target today".

          After receiving our briefing instructions we walked to supply near by and checked out our flight gear (oxygen masks, parachute harness, parachute, intercom, escape kits, etc.).  Then we boarded a truck to transport us to the plane we were to use on this mission.  The plane had eighteen missions and belonged to the other crew in our nissen hut.  They were on furlough to London for a little rest.  Our plane was being repaired because of a recent, near tragic accident on April 20th when we just missed colliding with another plane head-on.  Upon arrival we were notified that take off time was not until 10:00 hours giving us more time to prepare for our flight to Germany.

          While waiting to enter the plane, I met James Mayfield who replaced Jim Ransbottom in the ball turret and Bill Bergman who replaced Ed Schwartz, one of the waist gunners.  Once aboard the plane, I removed my GI shoes and placed them in my parachute bag containing my personal belongings.  I then put on my heated boots, "Mae West" and parachute harness.  At this point I should have tied my shoes to my parachute harness which I did the first two missions.  They seemed to be in the way then.  Why make this trip uncomfortable.  The mistake would haunt me later.

          By 10:00 hours the sky was filled with many heavy Bombers, like swarms of bees searching for their places in a planned formation, lining up systematically across the sky, heading for the English Channel and occupied Europe.  When we reached the channel, all the guns were test fired.  My twin fifties passed the test, but later failed.

          Nearing the target, someone on the intercom said, "Looks like the "Limey" P-51s are showing up at 1:00 o'clock high".  No sooner spoken, I could hear and feel the plane vibrating from our fifty caliber guns firing.

          Suddenly silver Messerschmits flew past and down in front of my guns.  I immediately depressed the firing lever only to find the right gun would not fire after the first burst creating a situation where I could not hold the left gun steady.  It would pull to the right.  This was due to the adapters at the end of guns that were designed to steady them when firing together.  In gunnery school at the Las Vegas Army Airfield, I was taught to "Aim well and shoot straight".  This was not possible at the moment.  Consequently, the enemy planes escaped unharmed from my marksmanship.

          The right gun would not eject the empty shell and jammed it against the breechblock, causing the automatic firing to stop.  I had to remove the empty shell by hand before the gun would operate again. 

          After the twenty or so ME-l09s disappeared, I looked at the group of B-17s behind and to my left and saw four or five planes peeling off from formation, their engines smoking.  Crews began evacuating them until the sky was dotted with parachutes.  Then some of the planes burst into flames as they fell earthward.  From my research years later I came to the conclusion that this Group must have been the 92nd as they lost four or five planes on this mission.  While I was firing my guns at the Messerschmits, I heard Capt. Lincoln on the intercom saying "Al, feather number one engine.  It's been hit".  I could then feel the vibration of the bomb bay doors opening when Capt. Lincoln yelled at the Bombardier, "Shut the bomb bay doors.  We are taking our bombs to the target".

          I learned years later that the 41st Bomb Wing bore the brunt of the attack from an estimated 200 enemy fighters.  They lost 15 of their heavy bombers. 

          Our three remaining engines could not maintain enough air speed to stay in formation.  We began to drift back.  I looked up and saw a group of Fortresses above us with their bomb bay doors open.  I wasn't the only one aware of this.  The pilot reduced the air speed of the engines allowing the planes above to fly past eliminating the danger of their bombs hitting us when dropped as we were approaching the target.  We continued our flight over the target alone and dropped our bombs.  The escort we expected finally appeared.  They were American P-47s not British P-51s.  Our pilot radioed the P-47s and asked for an escort home, but the reply in a very southern accent was "We have to stay with the main group of planes.  You will have to get home the best way possible without an escort".  The bad news made the Swiss Alps appear more and more conspicuous, causing someone to suggest that we go to Switzerland, which was not very far away.  Once there we would be interned for the duration of the war.  This suggestion brought an immediate reply from Capt. Lincoln that we were going back home to Chelveston, England.    We were unaware that 14 damaged B-17s from our armada would make their way to Switzerland instead of trying to fly back to England. With one engine out, we began to drift further and further behind the main group of planes until they disappeared from sight.  We had now lost altitude from 20,000 feet to about 5,000 feet.  I remember a discussion on the intercom debating our course.  The Bombardier was giving directions when the pilot said "Shut up Mickey, we have a navigator".

          Shortly after this conversation, a large city appeared before us.  Someone pointed out the balloons anchored by cables above the metropolis.  Instead of flying away from this city, we flew over it.  This stirred up a hornet's nest below.  Antiaircraft guns began firing.  Flak was popping all around us.  It felt and sounded like someone was throwing gravel on the plane when in reality the gravel was thousands of lethal steel splinters.  I could see some of the guns firing from flat bed railroad cars.  I saw puffs of smoke popping behind us coming closer with each puff until I heard a loud explosion and the plane shook with such intensity that it knocked me off my seat.  The pilot instantly took evasive action flying down to the right.  As soon as we were level again, puffs of smoke appeared on the right of us, each puff coming closer.  Down and to the left the plane flew until we were treetop high above the ground finally out of range of the enemy guns.  I recall one of the crew saying, "We must have flown over Frankfurt by mistake".

          Someone inquired about our altitude and the reply was 1,400 feet.  I noticed that we were beginning to pass over small villages.  I could see their church steeples were blown off.  I assumed we were over Belgium or France.  This destruction must have occurred when the enemy over ran these countries at the beginning of the war.  Everything looked peaceful now.  The farmers were working in their fields, stopping occasionally to observe our crippled plane flying low overhead.  Where was the enemy?  Flying this low, could we avoid the many enemy flak guns along the coast before crossing the channel.  We were also easy prey for the Luftwaffe.  Where was the Luftwaffe?  We had been flying along time with out being fired at.

         At a German airfield in Resigny, located between Aubenton and Rozoy, two fighter pilots, Lt. Werther and Lt. Hans-Ulrich Tartsch, received their orders to find and destroy the crippled bomber reported flying low toward the English Channel.  They ran to their FW-190s and quickly took off for the kill.  Flying much faster and lower than the slow, American bomber the German pilots began sneaking up to the crippled bomber’s rear.

          It was about 17:00 hours when I saw a dot about the same altitude and to the rear of our plane.  I called out the enemy FW 190 to our crew and began firing my guns.  The right gun jammed immediately, and I continued firing the left gun.  I could see fire on both sides of the FW 190's wings.  For a second I thought I hit the FW 190, but it was soon apparent that the fire was from his guns shooting at me.  I ducked my head down behind my guns, my only protection as 20MM shells began bursting above my head, ripping the skin of our plane.  The noise of the exploding shells was deafening and with my eyes shut, I could see flashes of red and orange for the next few seconds.  Now I knew what it was like to be in front of a firing squad waiting to be executed.  When I opened my eyes after the explosions stopped, I was still alive.  I felt some pain on my forehead.  It was a relief to find my head still on my shoulders even though some blood was oozing down my face.  Small pieces of metal from the enemy shells or from our plane were embedded in various parts of my face.  I tried to communicate with the rest of the crew but my intercom would not work.  After I'd crawled back to the waist section of the plane, the other FW 190 made his attack, 20MM shells popping all around me.  One of the two waist gunners, Bill Bergman, had already bailed out after the first assault.  I was wondering if the pilot and copilot were alive, flying the plane.  I saw the ball turret gunner, Mayfield with blood pouring down his face from a bad wound on his forehead, standing in the radio room, pointing at the body of the radio operator, Denemy, on the floor.  Gene Snodgrass left the plane.  I waved at Mayfield to leave the plane.  Looking down out the side door seeing Gene's chute opening, I made my decision to jump not being aware that the pilot was in the process of crash-landing the plane.  My last remembrance of the plane was the number of large holes in the right wing, some large enough for a grapefruit to go though.  My chute opened with a terrific jerk.  Suddenly I hit the ground.

          Meanwhile unknown to us Capt. Lincoln and the rest of the crew up front with exception of Phil Campbell who bailed out after the first attack made a successful crash-landing in a cow pasture near Leuze, France, near the French-Belgium border.  Four of the five remaining aboard the plane scrambled out quickly to find that the rest of the crew had bailed out except the radio operator, I. W. Denemy, who had been killed by the FW-190's bullets.

          An hour after the crash-landing, a heavyset farmer and Mayor of Leuze, Julian Mahoudeaux, who had heard the crash, came wandering along a path through the woods to offer help.  The survivors were the pilot, Bill Lincoln, copilot, Al Pagnotta, bombardier, Milton (Mickey) Goldfeder and top turret gunner, Joe Rhodes.  Julian hid the flyers in the nearby woods, Foret de St. Michel, which became their home for the next 13 days and kept them supplied with food brought from his home in the small village of Leuze.  As the Gestapo was still searching for the downed airmen in the crash area, the four airmen left the woods wearing civilian clothes given them by Lucian.  They walked at night to Rocroi a city a few miles east of where they were hiding in the woods.  Another Frenchman hid and fed them for the next few days in Rocroi.

          While in Leuze in June 2006 Frederic Docq randomly asked people about a B-17 bomber that crashed landed near Leuze on April 24, 1944.  He was quickly directed to Mrs. Mariette Hesters who lives in Aubenton. 

          Frederic had a glass of red wine with her and her husband while Mrs. Hesters told this story.   She remembered it well.  Mrs. Hesters pointed to the sky several times telling about the American and German planes south of Aubenton.  She said, “The American bomber was going down gradually at a slow speed.  I saw approximately three or four parachutes pop out of the bomber too low as when the parachutes opened the airmen hit the ground.  She said that her father collected a member of the crew who had a broken leg.  The poor fellow suffered very much.  My father put him in a wheelbarrow and fixed a support for his leg.  We learned that he was taken to the hospital in Hirson.  His name was Sgt. James Mayfield.  He died later on June 19, 1944 in the hospital in Reims.  In Leuze at the small cow pasture where the plane crashed landed, my father collected wind breakers and trousers, etc of the crew members who fled the crash.  My parents threw them in the septic tank of our house.  The Germans were not likely to put their noses at this place.  Our house was located at Leuze on the road to Aubenton.  They told me that less than one hour after the crash-landing at least 50 Germans invaded the area.  They excitedly search the crash area asking everyone if they saw any surviving Americans leave the bomber and where they fled.  The people panicked a little.  My parents later received a letter of Thanks from the American Government for their helping James Mayfield and the other airmen”.

          Frederic Docq was introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Roger Chauderlier who owned the cow pasture where the plane crashed.  Fred asked for permission to use his metal detector on the pasture for metal parts that may have been left from the B-17.  Mr. Chauderlier was glad to see Fred and to learn more about the famous B-17 bomber and which he witnessed falling on his pasture. 

          Mrs. Chauderlier said she remembered that day with her mother when they were gathering wood for their horse drawn wagon.  They heard burst of machine gun fire, looked up and saw the B-17 passing low over them.  Mrs. Chauderlier said it was so low it hit an electric concrete pole which bordered the road which goes from Leuze to Aubenton.  The bomber hit the ground, broke the barbed wire fence separating the other pastures sliding on its belly a distance of 50 to 60 meters.  She remembered the landing gear was up and the propellers plowed the ground and became twisted.  Our horse pulling the wagon of wood became insane from the noise of the crash spilling the load of wood over the pasture.  My mother became petrified and could not move as a result of the crash which landed 30 meters in front of them.  They witnessed the German plan circling above the crash site while the American airmen evacuated the plane in a hurry one by one.  They appeared surprised to see somebody close to them.  They removed Isaac Denemy from the plane, set the plane on fire and fled into the woods.  I was surprised to see two days later the funeral for Sgt. Denemy held by 30 or 40 Germans who took part in the funeral.  After the crash landing Mrs. Chauderlier and her mother returned to recover their horse and wagon.  They ran to find and warn her father.  When they found him they could see smoke rising from the crash site.  Her father immediately requested they take civilian clothes to the American airmen.  They found the small group of Americans in hedges bordering the cow pasture.  The Americans changed quickly and we led them in the forest toward Leuze.  Food was then brought to them.

(This information was supplied by French Historian, Frederic Docq of Remilly-Aillicourt  after travelling to Leuze in June 2006.)

           Phil Campbell had bailed out over the village of Mont St. Jean near Aubenton, France and hid in the woods where a French boy named Raymond Honotea helped him by bringing food and civilian clothes.  On April 29 Phil was moved to Auge where he stayed the next six weeks.

          Bill Bergman had landed near Aubenton also where he found help from two sisters who hid him in their home for the next three weeks.

          One of my first thoughts was to hide my parachute from the enemy pilot above.  I jumped up, disconnecting my parachute harness and began to hide the large white parachute by raking freshly plowed dirt on it with my hands.

          It was a good feeling to be safe on the ground even though I was behind enemy lines.  I was relieved to find the pain in my hip was not too severe to prevent me from walking.  My next thoughts were, "How long could I evade capture?"  I could not speak French or any foreign language, only English. I wished I had taken French or Latin in high school.  It was too late now.  I became twenty years old my last birthday, January 10.  This young age proved to be an asset as I looked younger than twenty.

                     After covering the parachute with dirt, I turned to see a middle-aged man a few yards away. I rushed over where the farmer was chopping weeds and in a very nervous and excited tone of voice exclaimed, "I am an American". 

        The friendly response I expected never came.  I was ignored as if I did not exist.  He obviously did not want to get involved.  I heard a voice calling my name "Virgil, are you OK".  I turned around and saw Gene Snodgrass running toward me from a wooded area across the field.  At the same time I saw a woman and a young girl who apparently were working in the field also running in my direction, saying something in French, pointing toward the woods.  Both were crying.  It appeared they were crying because of our misfortune. However, I learned later that James Mayfield jumped after me and his chute failed to open. This must have been a horrible sight to witness.  We looked up to see the enemy plane circling the woods toward us, and we fell to the ground as the plane flew overhead apparently toward the place where our plane went down.  As it passed out of sight, we got up and ran as fast as we could for the woods.

          While running, I realized that I had failed to tie my GI Shoes to my parachute harness.  They were still in my parachute bag in the plane.  I thought about my 45 caliber pistol and candy bars also in the bag.  They were no use to me now.  A snicker would taste good, as I had not eaten since early that morning.  I was running with only one electrically heated boot on.  The other boot had jarred loose from my foot when the parachute opened.  These boots were designed to keep my feet warm while flying at high altitude, not for walking.  I needed walking shoes that would not identify me as an American flyer.  Gene and I ran to the nearby bushes and trees where we crawled inside to hide and discuss our predicament.

          Gene first complained of a bad burn on his left wrist.  A 20MM fragment caught in the wires of his heated jacket, creased his upper arm, fell down his sleeve burning his wrist.  He told me that he landed in a tree where his parachute was still hanging.  Gene was fortunate to have his GI shoes on.  He did not use his electrically heated boots, but wore his wool flying boots over his shoes.  After removing the flying boots, he was equipped with a good pair of walking shoes.

          We opened the escape kits carried in the jacket pocket of our heated flying suites.  We found silk road maps of France, Belgium and Holland, a chocolate bar, a tiny compass, a rubber container for water, some water purification pills, photos of ourselves, Dutch and French money and a card with French and English phrases such as “I am an American Flyer.  Will you hide me?  I am Hungry.”  The civilian photos of us were used later by the Underground to prepare our French Identity Cards.  I remember Gene's first words when we were opening our escape kits.  "Oh boy, Virgil, now we are going to meet all those beautiful French girls. 

          We left our hiding place and began to explore the terrain.  Down a ravine we walked where a boy named Pierre Bonnet approached us.  He shook hands very vigorously, pumping my arm several times.  His grasp reminded me of how I was taught to shake hand while as a freshman at Texas A&M University.  Pierre then made signs for us to follow him.  We followed about twenty-five feet behind, across an open field where we came to a large forest.  Pierre pointed to my watch indicating he would return at midnight and from the card of French and English phrases, informed us that he would bring some civilian clothes.  Darkness set in soon after he left.  Sitting at the base of some large trees, discussing our predicament, we were startled by a herd of wild boars rushing past us.  Apparently they were as afraid of us as we were of them.

          At approximately midnight Pierre arrived with two pair of black coats and pants.  He also brought me some hobnailed shoes.  We removed the wool liners in our electrically heated flying jackets and wore them for shirts.  When I put on the hobnailed shoes, I thought I had a good fit.  I soon found out they were too large, causing the heavy, stiff leather to rub painful blisters on the back of my heels.  The night air was cold but the jacket liners kept us warm.  Our new friend led us out of the woods to a cobblestone road where we walked on a short distance before I began to feel pain caused by my new shoes and sore hip.  Blisters were beginning to form on my heels.  It was difficult to walk quietly on the cobblestone road with metal cleats on the soles of my shoes.  The noise from the cleats alerted the sleeping dogs behind the high fences that a stranger was approaching their domain.  When the barking began, we walked faster, especially when we saw the outline of lights around the closed window shutters, indicating the villagers were aware of something disturbing their dogs.

          After approximately an hour's walk (which seemed to me much longer because of my painful feet and hip) we reached our destination, the home of a Catholic priest, Father Pire, in the village of Iviers, near the French-Belgian border.  Apparently the black coats and pants we were wearing had belonged to the priest who could write English better than he could speak it.

          The priest immediately drew some water from the pump in his kitchen sink, providing each of us with a pan of water and a bar of soap.  It was very refreshing to be able to wash my minor facial wounds and my dirty hands.  Father Pire assisted Gene with his badly burned arm by cleaning and putting bandages on his wounds.

          With a sharp knife, the priest sliced the crusty cheese, placing the slices on a plate in the center of the old table.  He then filled our glasses with wine.  With his knife he cut each of us a large slice of bread apologizing for the poor quality.  All the good white bread was being baked for the Germans only.  Our hunger probably made the cheese and bread appear even more delicious, but tasting the wine brought out all the digestive juices necessary to make the snack very enjoyable.  Father Pire proudly informed us that the French saved their best wine by spreading propaganda immediately after the occupation that their best wine was the poorest quality and poorest was the best.  The Germans promptly confiscated the poor quality wine for their use leaving the good wine to the French.

          While savoring the wine and eating the cheese and brown bread, we told the priest of our plan of trying to reach Spain.  In our training we were told stories of down airmen getting back to England by way of Spain.  The priest smiled and said that he did not believe we would ever reach Spain safely.  He gave us a good road map, far superior to the one in our escape kits.  The priest circled special villages in a westward direction from Aubenton, pointing out that if we needed help to go to the Catholic Church in the villages circled.  (Because Father Pire circled the town of Aubenton, we thought we were in Aubenton.)  The priest was anxious for us to leave as soon as possible.  Therefore after a very short visit, Father Pire led us to the road indicated on the map and bid us farewell.  We thanked him for his help, then turned and started walking down the dark, narrow road wondering if we would taste the good wine again.
         

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