The WW2 Ghost Town You Will Never Forget

by James Robertson (Australia)

I didn't expect to find France

Have you ever had a travel experience so significant it left a scar upon your life for a decade? My first visit to Oradour-sur-Glane did just that. While spending time in the French province of Limousin at 11-years-old, my parents took me to visit France’s most child-friendly holiday location! The ruins of a village decimated by the Nazis. I was not mentally mature enough for what I found there. It was an experience I would never forget. It has stayed with me for the last ten years. Hell, I even wrote a song about it for my high school rock band. I couldn't expunge this place from my memory. That’s why, a decade later, I decided to return to Oradour-sur-Glane with my girlfriend in tow. It was a brisk January day. Sky shone spots of warm light, jackets of grey clouds cloaked the sun. The outskirts of the original town stretched out in front of us. There stood a roofless brick construction with fire damage around the windows, painting the shop’s name with charcoal: “Postes, Telegraphs et Telephones”. We trod slowly down the overgrown tram tracks as the gravity of what occurred here set in. When France was defeated at the dawn of the Second World War this area fell under Nazi control. But resistance fighters pushed back. Four years into the war, Nazi enforcers learnt that a Waffen-SS officer was held prisoner by the French resistance in a provincial town called Oradour-sur-Vayres. The similarity of the two towns’ names led to a colossal mistake. We passed a garage, then a pharmacy and also a school, as the plaques informed us. Scrap metal lay out in the open homes. Twisted bicycle parts, rusted stoves and dilapidated bed frames. In the open square lay the browning corpse of an automobile, puncture holes dotting the bonnet. On 14th of June 1944 a headstrong SS-Sturmbannführer Adolf Diekmann led his battalion to seal off the wrong Oradour. The town’s men were all shot in the legs and set alight with engine fuel and matches. 190 men were killed this way, right where we stood. I felt the life drain from me. Cold grief entered my veins. I put my hand on the side of the car. The memory of it remained strong. As hard as it was, we continued walking to the church. Like most of the buildings the roof was gone, scorch marks lined the edges of the ceiling. No furniture remained and the bell that once tolled in the tower sat by the front door, grotesquely disfigured from flame. With most men away fighting, the town was mainly populated by women and children. While the remaining men were shot, 450 women and children were locked inside this church. The whole building was set ablaze. Those who tried to escape were knocked down by gun fire. Only one woman survived. Walking back through the town, my girlfriend stopped by what was once a café. She pointed at the rusted pulley used to extend an awning across the shopfront. It gave shade to ordinary people sipping their coffees at little tables, peacefully watching as mothers pushed prams and children played in the streets. We held each other and cried. In hindsight, Adolf Diekmann’s orders to decimate the town were clearly crimes against humanity, but you’d be surprised to know that Erwin Rommel and the Vichy Government protested against Diekmann’s massacre. They even intended to reprimand him for his actions. But Diekmann died in the Battle of Normandy soon thereafter, along with most of his battalion. No-one was ever brought to justice. As we came to the exit we saw three little brown bodies hurry away into a drainage hole. We stopped and watched the drain in complete silence, waiting for whatever it was to return. In a minute, three marmots slinked out of the drainage hole and cautiously trod across the field. They squeaked and nibbled at the grass near our feet. Nothing could undo the wrongs done to this town, but life had found a new home in Oradour-sur-Glane.