Vous êtes ici

Testimony of an inhabitant of Quettehou War in the Val-de-Saire

Author: 
MOUCHEL Alfred
Text collected by Etienne Marie-Orléach
Translation Jean-Louis Beaufrère and Gilles Carré
Proofread by Tanya Hart

Testimony of an inhabitant of Quettehou War in the Val-de-Saire1


The worst must be feared because the airmen’s targets are very close by. During the bombardments of 9th and 10th May 1944, vast tracts of the heights of Morsalines and Crasville-Grenneville, as well as the tourist road from Quettehou to Montebourg, were totally devastated2. In the Russian women prisoners’ camp3, six women were killed and so was the local road mender, whose body was never found. Moreover, several farms and many homes were blown to smithereens. Many people ran unscathed out of their destroyed houses. During the same night, a few stray bombs fell in different places, far from their intended targets. In Quettehou, L. Marvie (a day labourer from La Buhoterie) and his wife were taken out of the rubble, seriously hurt; their two children suffocated there. In Valcaville, six members of the same family died.

To understand how violent the air raid was on the night of 10th May, you only need to know that on the day after, no less than four hundred civilians were requisitioned with their shovels and pickaxes to rehabilitate the two kilometres of local road that had been torn apart. These people, from Quettehou and Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue, were working when suddenly they were thrown into a panic as someone – quite the joker, he was – raised a false alarm.

Early June 1944

Both light and heavy RAF4 bombers have been intensifying their attacks for over a week. They bombard the heights of Morsalines and Crasville every day, almost without intermission. Unfortunately, the bombs all too often fall haphazardly, according to fate. The houses that have collapsed are countless. In many of the homes in this area, there have been one or several casualties.

The atmosphere is fraught with worry. We are on edge after such upsetting events. We are all waiting. But what are we even waiting for? Nobody knows exactly. We have had days and nights of difficult moments. The call for final judgment would not make a stronger impression on us than these diabolical crashes that make the ground quake and both people and animals tremble. In each farm and each home close to the targets, people are busy feverishly digging or improving shelters they want to be indestructable. Alas, at the slightest warning sign, whole families go to ground as if they were mere cottontail rabbits – but are they safer there? Can there be any such thing as a safe place when it takes less than two minutes for the flying machines to annihilate the result of two years or thousands of hours of work spent on building and reinforcing concrete structures?

In Quettehou as everywhere else, the enemy is scared stiff as the landing seems to be getting closer and closer, and the feverish preparations are accelerating. The Teutons5 are more cantankerous than ever. At Quettehou’s townhall, the Kommandantur6’s enraged interpreter stamps the floor with his boots. This clean-shaven ‘supreme being’ follows farmers with his wild cat’s eyes, full of hatred and guile, whenever they drag their feet.

With his enormous square head he ticks off individual requisition orders and yaps each of them on and on, and they are obviously imperious. Each of them bears a postscript in red ink, which reads: “All incompetents will be shot!” Don’t say you weren’t warned! So there is nothing to be done and we have to obey. The Mayor doesn’t have a life anymore; he is old and helpless and can only kowtow.

Men, horses, carts and cars are reserved for Hitler’s henchmen. Everyone finds a way to deal with the situation and girds their loins – all the more so as this tiresome situation cannot last much longer.

Strollers who, on a normal day, walk up the hill above Quettehou and Morsalines are struck by the splendour of the view that unfolds before their eyes. It is from this beautiful string of hillocks, now transformed into ugly forts, that our worried “defilers” try (like Sister Anne7) to see if anyone is coming.

Will this sumptuous emerald crown which adorns the Briny Deep from Port-en-Bessin to Barfleur be indented, torn and mutilated by the inevitable confrontation here or there?

Over there, fences originally made for the “late” Maginot line are partly immersed and their unsightly carcass is half covered with kelp; this grotesque fan-shaped shield stands all along the bay of Morsalines8. Further away, beyond Grenneville and Aumeville-Lestre, this strange ribbon looks like the long skeleton of a giant prehistoric reptile.

Like a figurehead, La Hougue seems to stretch out its long arm into the foaming waters as if to stop people desecrating such a beautiful and dear place, a real natural wonder.

On D-day at H-hour

6th June has just been born. The alarm clock on the chest of drawers sunk in darkness shows 3 a.m. Although I am half asleep, I can hear the demoralizing noise of engines purring like a big dozing cat. Dull thumps seem to be coming from the high seas. They are increasingly formidable and come at shorter and shorter intervals; they pass on, in all directions, strange kinds of tremors that give one goose bumps. The whole house is shaking, from the foundations to the apex, as if some Hercules was trying to tear the windows and doors off their hinges. Suddenly a myriad of candles are lit in the skies above. Their blueish or orangey light turns to red and splashes the landscape all around. My God, what is going to happen?

We run across the yard towards the porch, half dressed, speechless with shock and with our teeth chattering, and jump into the empty cattle pond which we have made deeper in case. It is protected by the trunk of the ancient oak-tree. I hurriedly block the front with bundles of sticks and we huddle around the leaning tree, gasping, and listen to our beating hearts. From time to time, smoking shrapnel embeds itself into the ground with a violent impact. In front of us, behind the dark shape of the proud old fort, a heavy cruiser in battle position is outlined against the dark; it is massive, impressive, formidable. Fire is spitting out of the mouths of its guns.

All around, navy shells are falling profusely. La Pernelle and Grenneville are taking it right in their “innards”. The German artillery is trying to retaliate, but the hissing intensifies and pursues a trajectory scattered with sparks. Compact groups of planes, looking as if they are carrying heavy loads, are heading towards the centre of the Cotentin. The Krauts are yelping in their burrows in the enclosed plots behind Thybosville; they must have understood now that everything has gone wrong for them.

There's not a shadow of doubt for us now: the landing has begun!

I am consumed by curiosity! Although my wife is trying to hold me back, I venture to leave our shelter and take a few shy steps. Dawn is starting to break and this makes me want to see things, and to understand. Moreover, we will have to go about our daily chores. I can already hear the cows calling; they well know it’s time we relieved their udders.

A great many reconnaissance aircraft appear; they manoeuvre gracefully and brush past the treetops. A hail of bullets is fired and there is a strong smell of powder in the air; all around, lying in the enclosed fields or still hanging from the elm trees standing on the embankments, parachutes discharged of their passengers are now gently flapping in the wind.

From the makeshift observatory where I have nestled, I see a myriad of ships of all tonnages cluttering the sea’s horizon in a grand spectacle. The purplish-blue edge of the coastline from Quinébille-Les Gougins and well beyond Sainte-Marie-du-Mont is literally buried under flakes of cotton-like smoke; the winds send the smell of fires towards us.

I am milking a cow when I suddenly hear salvoes of machine-gun fire on my right, in a field below close to the Mansais hamlet, and they bring me back to reality. Guns retaliate. Unfortunately, a little group of parachutists has been prematurely dropped into the “lion’s den”. They fight back to the last, and mean to sell their lives dearly9. All this… all this is… the beginning of the battle of Normandy.

Close to the nerve centre

The die is cast: our department is offering the first holocaust on the motherland’s altar. It is to be submitted for some time to the worst agony it has ever been through over the centuries. Since the Allied troops arrived on the beaches of our peninsula10, each day that goes by engraves a glorious page for posterity. The history of the martyrdom of our “Norman Versailles” and of Montebourg, the little “Cité cassine11”, will soar over future generations.

Yet the fate of Valognes (almost totally destroyed by air raids12), is not like that of Montebourg and its surroundings: the nerve centre of the third front is in this village, and it is here that, after they have joined forces with the parachutists, the ultramodern American army outflanks and paralyses the too-famous German tactics of General Rommel.

From the “Door to the Lower Val de Saire” we attend (or rather hear) the drama unfolding on the other side of the Ozeville heath. The cannonade, at times closer and at times further away, indicates to us that the battle is ebbing in and out, and relentlessly unfurling over mountains and valleys. Peaceful little towns are sacrificed too; they are already no more than a mass of half-burnt ruins.

Three out of four farmhouses and farmyard buildings are wrought bloody havoc on and then burnt. Many a badly damaged church is ripped open, and the gaping church towers now leave visible the bells, which no longer ring the symbol of human life.

In Saint-Marcouf, Quinéville, Saint-Floxel, Ozeville, Azeville or Joganville, enclosed fields, hunting grounds and country lanes are scattered with dead bodies lying higgledy piggledy amongst rotting carcasses. Figures later showed that in this canton, 80 percent of livestock13 died during the upheaval. A nauseating smell contaminates the region.

Many civilians died in tragic circumstances. The invasion was so quick that they did not have time to leave their homes or their farms. And where could we have gone? And as long as there was still a glimmer of hope, as long as it was still possible to light a fire in the fireplace (the soul of the house), we stayed! But the mourning intensified. There was not one family without one or several members missing. How could it have been otherwise when the battle had been so horrendous? Some hand-to-hand fights took place in the very same shelters where farmers, their families and farmhands were awfully crammed for whole days and nights.

Hitlerian rage is let loose by some SS soldiers. Some lose all control over their actions. In a particularly sad instance, several people are killed at point blank range by a Nazi madman14. (I will not write a painful narration of the different phases of the battle of Montebourg as even a whole volume would not suffice – and stories like these should be restricted to those who truly lived it.)

Polowski !

These were dreadful times, and everyone did their best to lift their own, pretty low, spirits. In your heart of hearts, you often thought (slightly egoistically): “they have no strategic interest here” or “time is on our side”.

Combined action by ships and aircraft does not relent. Shells of all sizes are still falling all around. Crossroads and communication routes are particularly targeted. Woe betide you if you drive a horse-drawn carriage on a road: air gunners will be quick to detect you. The “giant bird” will circle over you like a vulture, and then swoop down and shoot, and hardly ever miss its target. Saloon cars, tracked vehicles, coaches and distorted and burnt pieces of iron litter the banks and block the ditches.

Some people escaped the battle: they are dishevelled, in tatters, covered in mud, and walk in single file along the hedges and on the roads where they are hidden by trees; their arrogance has been replaced by a deep despondency. This you can see in their “hunted beast” look: “Kamarad’s… beaucoup kapout! 15” one of them tells us.

It is not easy to go on working on farms in such conditions and for an interminable period of time. It goes without saying that some of the staff on our farms in the thick of it all quickly swarm to places they deem safer. On the other hand, conscientious farmers are like a captain on a sinking ship: they don’t abscond from the job. Dairies are closed: so what? The cows get milked in the middle of a field and that’s it. It is perfectly clear for him that there will be no abstaining from work. Many farmers make butter, often with makeshift tools. Fat has replaced bread, which has become more and more rare and less and less good. Sugar is replaced by saccharine16. There are “black sheep” hanging around with the “jerries”. People say it has always been like that during invasions in the past.

On an ordinary, clear and sunny morning, I reach the mount, half-fortified by trenches and bunkers, occupied by a small group of fearful “Jerries”. This is where my flock of about fifteen dairy cows is phlegmatically grazing. They seem to take pleasure (as true Normans would) in mocking the last masters of the area17, for whom a strict discipline keeps them from milking the animals. Busy keeping a ceaseless watch along the zigzagging trenches which “overlook” the main coastal road, they become visibly less numerous, particularly since the celebrated D-Day when all the company went north to attack the Montebourg frontline18. At the end of the trench, hidden under branches, a middle-aged, disillusioned-looking, hunky fellow looks at me as I am milking the cows. We are only a few steps away… Curiosity overwhelms me for I would like to know his inner thoughts. On a neutral tone, I look to find out. Using gestures, we manage to understand one another. Pointing his finger at the glittering surveillance planes flying in all directions over our heads, I ask him what he thinks of the allied landing. “Nitch goud!19 war” the soldier answers, brutally knocking his weapon against the schist wall of the trench. “What are you going to do if they come here and catch you”, I ask. “Kamarad”, he answers, his arms raised to the sky. Then crossing his wrists one on top of the other: “Trip to Canada!”. I understand and he does too. 20

Further on, at the other end of the field, I start working on another cow.

Between two young elm trunks in the double hedge, half visible in the foliage, a very young watchman points his binoculars and gazes at the modern armada anchored on the dancing waters of the sun-bathed shore. The periwinkle blue eyes of the soldier are deep and soft, his face trusting, open and almost joyful. As soon as I have finished with my cow I walk nearer to this man, whose attitude is surprising. He beckons and hands me his “spyglass”. While I fill my eyes watching allied tanks roll up the beach between Sainte-Marie-du-Mont and Saint-Martin-de-Varreville, my strange companion, standing behind me, starts softly whistling “La Madelon”, that popular marching song. Quite amazed, I look at him with a stupefied gaze. Then the poor fellow puts his hand on his heart and murmurs: “Polowski!” 21. Was he sincere? Yes…

A week later in the middle of the night, taking a huge risk,I spontaneously agreed to hide this Polish man and a compatriot in the hay in my attic for two days and two nights. In the meantime, I heard a Polish officer had been found in a field along the shore near the Morsalines redoubt, and taken in and nursed at the Red Cross civilian facility: they were elated when I quickly led them to their compatriot.

A little later, I learnt from a reliable source that Edmond Borkowski and Bronisouav Chonosjski, freed from the Nazi yoke, had joined the legion to fight again and help free their heroic nation.

A walk by night

Hitler’s “krauts” do not care at all about the laws of war. They want us to obey them until the last minute, but he who laughs last laughs longer!

First, the setting of thousands of “anti-glider” poles nicknamed “Rommel’s asparagus” was inefficient and useless. Forced labour with shovel and pickaxe is no longer working and the male population is relieved. However, farmers are more and more compelled to horse-drawn conveying and night carrying of various ammunition is increasing. But all this is not a foreboding of the privilege our whole Val-de-Saire is going to benefit from.

The overjoyed population eventually realises their unexpected luck on seeing the last pockets of resistance leaving without further ado and… without “goosestepping”, they take refuge on a new defence line which they say is “kolossale”! They call it elastic strategy. For us, it is a long-awaited good riddance! Here and there a few artillery pieces and anti-aircraft defence cannons still remain only to keep hiding the reverse side. The unsightly four-wheeled carts have definitively disappeared from our roads.

As was mentioned before, the technique used by German authorities to remedy the transportation crisis affects every owner of horse and cart.

As I am one of the affected, this evening I invite my reader to sit with me in my cart. Let us be brave, this might be the final journey. Are we going to Tourlaville? to La Glacerie? to Gonneville? Do not worry! We will only know when we arrive, unless the common leader, a horseman facing us, should tell us. Under the linden-trees of the village square, our “mastif-interpreter”, gun under his arm and pen in hand, “barks” the plan to his partner. We stand in the shadows of dusk. Night has already come when the convoy breaks up to fill the carts. It is to gather again on the side of the Theil-Cherbourg road. Departure time is set at midnight. Thank God the explosive stores in the banks of the pathway leading to the church of Saint-Vigor-de-Quettehou are almost empty: it is exactly like going to confession! You have to wait for your turn.

An invisible plane is approaching; it must be after us. Instinctively I set my horse and cart close to the wall of the presbytery wall. A loud detonation is heard up above. It is a tracking light. Its blue light reveals our surroundings. We can see as if in broad daylight.

Exasperated by our ironical indifference and by this brutal call to reality, Satan’s henchman – or Hitler’s rather – is fuming with rage. That true Hun yells louder than ever. Unable to make us hurry, he shoves aside whatever is in his way and loads more than half the equipment on his own. Slowly, without any hindrance, the caravan starts. This unknown route does not seem to suit Mouvette, my good mare: I feel she is sulking. When she smells a “green suit” she snorts and shakes her head (this is probably her way of protesting). Well, that’s life! Characters cannot change and… animals are like humans. Just like her master… she is very nervous!

Around us, it is pitch black. It feels like charging into a huge curtain dipped in Indian ink. The only lighting we get comes from the tiny intermittent red spots at the end of the ingrained smokers’ cigarettes, although it is forbidden to smoke. The drivers are sullen. No voice is heard amidst the clattering of the wheels and the clip-clop of the hooves of our good Percheron mares. Lulled for a long time by this monotonous tune, we drive for some distance until we hear again the rumbling sound of the engine of the bomber plane. Boom! Boom! That’s it - about a hundred yards before us, the road has been cut by bombs. The poor beasts rear in fright, their muscles trembling, their nostrils fuming. We comfort or pacify them, each in our own way. In the meantime the new-style “Don Quixote” riding his old jade tries to find his way. If all roads lead to the town, those chosen by our ominous leader are certainly steep climbs and deep hollows full of potholes. Our destination is reached only when dawn comes. The dark mass of Brillevast castle is visible in the centre of a wood. Needless to say, we have no concern for the architecture or period of the building. Our one and only aim is to be home before daylight.

We are made to turn left, under the shadowy arch of centuries-old trees. Tonnes of ammunition are scattered there in indescribable disorder. This is where we empty our carts. Luckily, on our way back, cloudy weather and a fog as opaque as pea soup protect us from deadly machine-gun shooting. It is 8.30 am when my good Mouvette, totally exhausted like her worn out master, finally enters her stable and hungrily snorts her oats.

Animal spirit

Finally! The last Hun left forty-eight hours ago with… the last cow! Do not smile… I mean that they took with them the last animal in the herd requisitioned by those modern “Ostrogoths”… it was not so perfect that they left alone.

You should know that cattle from the Quettehou area are not collaborators! See for yourself. On the day before the great departure, those devils from the Kommandantur had set up a true imitation theft on a farm in the Val Vacher (a predestined name) in case the planned contribution should be unsatisfactory. In a very short time, that farmer’s cattle was taken to the set place and eventually released.

In such a case, the contributor who would not have obeyed this order would have seriously neglected his duty of solidarity. Born by many, the weight is not so heavy. So as soon as I get the injunction from the village police officer, I have no hesitation! If that is what is needed to make them go, I will heartily contribute mine. Of course we do it… as badly as we can, using rotten or paper ropes. As a result, during the night, more than twenty of the thirty or so animals to be killed break their lead and promptly scarper from the imminent death that they clearly sensed. Most of these animals, guided by instinct, return to their owners’ farms. Mine, possibly not as intellectually gifted as the rest, went to the wrong farm. It was kindly welcomed by M. Eugène Lefèvre, a friendly farmer living near the village.

From fear to joy

The incomprehensible marine bombardment on the peaceful village of Quettehou in the night of 20th June seems to prove that the liberators did not know the Germans had definitely retreated in the night of 19th June. A wave of panic brings out cold sweats in everyone when the battleship unveils its true intentions. People in Saint-Vaast-La-Hougue had the good sense to hoist a white flag in the morning. As the area seems to be calm, the inhabitants of Quettehou are about to do the same. A shell lands in the garage of the village mechanic, then another one almost immediately in the tax collector’s garden. Nothing more is needed to stimulate some smart fellows’ brains and destroy belated prejudices. Quick! A huge tricoloured flag is spread over the square and the iron rain stops. The agile “kites” dive towards the roofs; they fly so low that they seem to want to touch down on the streets. An aviator standing in the cabin waves in a friendly way. It is over. The storm has stopped.

Flags are flown in Quettehou, Saint-Vaast, Barfleur and in all the villages of the canton. Happiness is overwhelming. But let us be clear ­– it is a measured, healthy, human happiness, in no way forgetful of other people’s misfortune. It blooms on young people’s faces and pervades the smoky, crumpled creases of tricoloured flags taken out of their hiding places. These dear little ensigns, too, flap in the warm wind of summer and sing their own happy song of the liberation and resurrection of France.

It is true the Hitlerian monster is not yet down. Its hungry claws will plough through new ruins for some time yet and feast on other victims. However, because of enthusiastic hunters ceaselessly running after it, it goes on an exhausted moaning trail back to its lair.

Describing the arrival of the first Americans in our area would be repeating what we have all seen on pictures or read in war magazine articles. There are not so many ways to show your happiness. Everywhere the scene repeats itself: outbursts of joy, toasts, cigarettes, laughter, flowers, and even kissing: “three kisses, as is the custom around here!”

Of course, before going away, the enemy has left mines in bridges and main crossroads to slow down the progress of motor and armoured vehicles. However, for some reason or another, the dynamite does not often have its way.

Large trees have been sawn down across the road to Valognes, near my friend René Galel’s farm. Several energetic woodcutters willingly give a hand to free the way. A beautiful oak tree head is immediately baptised “Tree of Liberty”. Securely fastened to a tractor, it is triumphantly pulled over three kilometres and brought at dawn to the middle of the market square.

In the evening, some slightly drunk, funny chaps sit astride some branches, like Bacchus on his barrel, and give a performance in a cacophony of jazz and baritone.

At home, of course, this memorable day fills us, too, with an indescribable joy. To somehow mark these historical moments composed of anguish, happiness and hope, I spend my evenings writing a comprehensive story of the hardships, which were overcome by the resourceful and indisputably Norman character of the good people in the Val-de-Saire.

  • 1 Val-de-Saire (meaning Vale of the River Saire) is a lush area situated in the north of the Cotentin Peninsula. Alfred Mouchel, who was a livestock farmer there and loved the arts, literature, poetry and painting delivered a double testimony: in 1947 he wrote his first record of his experience of D-day and the ensuing battle around where he lived. This testimony can be found in the book published by René Herval, Bataille de Normandie (« La guerre au Val-de-Saire », in R. Herval (dir.), Bataille de Normandie : récits de témoins, Paris, Notre Temps, 1947, vol. 1, p. 120-125). This short text tells of the suffering endured by the population submitted to the laws of war as well as the hopes and the joys linked to the Liberation. Thirty years passed and Mr Mouchel took to writing again. This second testimony, available at the Mémorial de Caen archives (class number : TE 114), is longer and less consensual, particularly when it deals with the period before D-day. We have decided to incorporate the 1947 testimony into the second one: it appears here in italics. Researchers will find it interesting to see how the author’s perspective has changed over the years.
  • 2 A six-gun-coastal battery set up on the heights of Morsalines was targeted by this bombardment on 10th May 1944. Considering its range of about twenty kilometres, it had to be dealt with by Allied forces before the landing at Utah Beach.
  • 3 After the best German troops were sent to the Eastern front, men and women were sent from the occupied territories in Russia; there were so-called volunteers of different nationalities, as well as Russian prisoners who had been promised German nationality.
  • 4 Royal Air Force.
  • 5 The French “Teuton” is a pejorative term for the occupying troops often used at the time.
  • 6 German for military headquarters.
  • 7 Sister Anne is Bluebeard’s wife’s sister in Charles Perrault’s tale Bluebeard.
  • 8 These Cointet-elements were to be used in the Maginot line, and many were then sent to Normandy to be used in the Atlantikwall as beach obstacles.
  • 9 A group of American parachutists was to jump over Ravenoville, but arrived instead somewhere close to Quettehou, about 15 km from their rallying point. About ten of them were taken prisoners by the Germans. The others were killed or found a hiding place until the Americans arrived and liberated the village on 20th June 1944.
  • 10 When the Germans fiercely resisted in Montebourg, General J. Lawton Collins’s troops made for the West coast of the peninsula. Barneville was liberated during the night from 17th to 18th June. The US 4th Infantry Division then drove up north to Cherbourg.
  • 11 Valognes had been an administrative, religious and military centre since the 17th century. It owed its nickname, the Versailles of Normandy, to its many grand townhouses (hôtels particuliers). Montebourg owes its nickname, “cité cassine” to its Benedictine abbey built by a monk from Mont-Cassin in Italy.
  • 12 Valognes was bombarded on 6th, 7th and 8th June 1944 and reduced to rubble.
  • 13 In the Manche département, about 100,000 heads of cattle and 10,000 horses were killed.
  • 14 The word “Boche” (Hun) was used instead in 1947.
  • 15 An approximate rendering of “Kameraden” (comrades) and “kaputt” (dead).
  • 16 To compensate for the absence of staple products, people used “ersatz” goods, that is, substitute goods.
  • 17 “The last masters of the area” replaces the original “vert de gris” i.e. “Jerries”.
  • 18 Montebourg was of considerable importance to German troops. It was one of the last protections before Cherbourg and they sent several battalions there, including the 919th, to protect the town.
  • 19 “Nicht Gut” meaning “Not good”.
  • 20 A rumour born from the 19th August 1942 raid on Dieppe where almost 4,700 Canadians fought, many of whom were taken prisoner. As a reprisal after the execution of a German soldier during an attack in Sark in October 1942, German authorities ordered the 1,376 Canadians caught in Dieppe to have their hands bound. The Canadian government then decided to apply the same measure to an equal number of German prisoners held in prison camps in Canada. The Canadian prisoners remained handcuffed until 22nd November 1943. Two years later, the Canadian troops landing in Normandy in June 1944 were seeking revenge. A second rumour was spreading in the ranks of the Reich army: some Indian elements inside the Canadian army were scalping German soldiers. This is the origin of that fear of the Canadian soldier, the fear of revenge.
  • 21 “Polish”.
Archive Number:
  • Numéro: TE114
  • Lieu: Mémorial de Caen
X
Saisissez votre nom d'utilisateur pour Mémoires de guerre.
Saisissez le mot de passe correspondant à votre nom d'utilisateur.
Image CAPTCHA
Enter the characters shown in the image.
En cours de chargement