“They’re essentially volunteers” Meredith says this morning as she waters our visitors.

Whitey-pink and bluey-mauve; they arrived, it seemed, overnight; all of a sudden–there they were.

This morning they are enjoying the shifting light–a static ballet–barely responding to the whisper of a breeze; stick figures in an orchid conversation.

It’s mercifully cooler than yesterday–better for humans, cats and stick-people alike.

Beau likes to walk in the orchid forest early before the sun comes round to the courtyard;

…then rest in the shade on the cool metal seat of the wrought iron garden chair.

Behind my ear a small bumble bee is enjoying bounty from our extended orchid family, buzzing between mauve and pink, making them sway a little as he lands..

Three white butterflies swoop in–fighting among themselves; clearly two’s company three’s a crowd.

Ben rushes in–he never saunters–and settles at the dry food plate, before heading for the water bowl. It’s tough for sleek black cats in the near midday sun.

For a little longer we’re all happy to be in the courtyard–but the heat is rising–the skin starting to prickle–and soon we’ll make a dive indoors.

Stay awhile-stick people. We think you’re beautiful!

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They came down out of a brilliant blue sky in almost perfect order–lining up to land within feet of each other–on an isolated hilltop north of Brassac in the alpine part of our department–the Tarn.

They were greeted by a group of Resistance re-enacters–young men and women  in authentic wartime garb and equipment, who hurried forward to help gather up the parachutes–as actually occured in 1944 by moonlight.

The jumpers–a Frenchman and five Americans flown in expressly for the occasion–all Special Forces–played the game and patted their greeters warmly on the back–relieved to see a friendly face after their hazardous flight into occupied France from the American base in Algeria!

The large crowd of onlookers, after readjusting their necks, showed their appreciation with applause and whistles.

Speeches were made and thanks given.

We all sang or hummed La Marseillaise and the Star Spangled Banner and a thousand photographs were taken.

It was a memorable moment–and a fitting tribute to an act of derring-do, 75 years ago.

On August 6th, 1944 a US Special Forces team (OSS–Office of Strategic Services, precursor of the CIA) consisting of 15 men parachuted onto this same dropzone around midnight. One broke his leg in the low altitude drop and was spirited away by the maquis de Vabre to a safe house where he was hidden and received treatment.

Two of the remaining fourteen were shot dead five days later by a German patrol they had ambushed.

Robert Spaur, on the left, was one the two who lost his life on a remote and heavily wooded French hillside. His PAT comrades in this photo survived.

Twelve remained to fulfill their mission, which was to work with the local Resistance and prevent the Nazi occupying forces from sending reinforcements to fight the Allies after the Southern D-Day landings on August 15th, close to St Tropez.

Their perilous task was a success. They blew up a key strategic train bridge. Our local town Castres was liberated fourteen days after their landing. The Nazi occupying force–4,500 troops–surrendered. The Allied landings in Provence went ahead smoothly and the end of the war moved closer.

We followed the OSS men’s route from the dropzone back down into Brassac–in our case to enjoy an impeccably-cooked traditional lunch at a local restaurant of salade de gesiers and Joue de boeuf aux carrottes et vin rouge. 

It kept us in the bubble of history for a little while longer, savouring not only the food and company–but the whole remarkable and sobering story of OG Pat*.

• Meredith documented the story here: http://www.ossreborn.com/files/OG_PAT_A_Fresh_LookPhotos1.pdf

Norma LaGueux Hamilton, widow of the Captain of OG PAT, Conrad LaGueux–raises the toast to honor and celebrate those who served.

People came from around the world to attend this 75th commemoration–from California, Florida, Washington D.C., Kabul, Paris and England.

Two of the original PAT team, Bernard Gautier and Robert Spaur, were killed in action and are buried in France–but not forgotten.

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Every time I drive past the Grand Hotel–a somewhat exaggerated description– on my way to the market in Castres, I’m reminded that the building served as local Nazi headquarters from the occupation in 1942 until the Liberation in August 1944.

Liberation declaration, August 20th 1944 on the balcony of The Grand Hotel, Castres

It’s hard to believe that this pleasant market town best known today for its successful rugby team, Castres Olympique, saw German troop patrols and Maquis operations designed to disrupt them–in my lifetime.

The town did not suffer the physical destruction that London experienced in the Blitz, but living for years with the constant threat of betrayal to the occupiers and a knock at the door, leading to deportation and death, carried its own heavy psychological pressures.

We had this in mind when we made the five minute journey to Lautrec mid-afternoon yesterday to cast our votes in the European elections.

Voting for us has become a rare treat.

Losing the right in the UK after living here for fifteen years, meant not being allowed to vote in the 2016 referendum on whether to leave Europe or not–something that would affect us directly.

We felt sore about that.

We can vote in the local elections–but have to wait until we are granted French citizenship to be able to vote in a national election.

We remain (!) citizens of Europe–until the UK leaves–so found ourselves unexpectedly still eligible to vote.

Becoming a French citizen will not involve my magical transformation into the classic British stereotype of a Frenchman.

Beret-wearing, moustache-bearing, onion-selling, garlic-smelling, baguette-carrying Pierre from “over there’–I will always remain inescapably English.

But I will feel–even more than I do now–a sense of belonging.

En plus,  I will be able to VOTE for the government to whom we pay our taxes.

This afternoon, one member of the four man crew engaged in cleaning “our” church is the German boyfriend of the daughter of Jean-Luc, our super-talented builder.

It is a chilling thought that this young man, 75 years ago, could easily have been a member a different four-man crew–a Nazi patrol, hunting the Maquis in the hills around Castres.

Happily for us–and for him–the European Union has been an agent for peace and the Grand Hotel operates now, as just that–a hotel, for visitors from all over the world, including Germany.

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