by Damien Lewis
Orléans lay around 100 miles to the south of Paris, and the rail line was known to also carry passenger trains. Garstin was cautioned to ensure they hit the correct one, or hundreds of innocent civilians might die. It was up to him to secure intel locally in order to select the right target. How they were going to do so when dropping in blind was anyone’s guess, but at least Garstin was blessed with having two French-speakers on his team.
Not only that, but by a stroke of good fortune Lieutenant Wiehe had relatives living in the area, or at least close enough that they might be of some assistance. With Mauritius being a former French colony, the links with the ‘old country’ remained strong. He had an aunt, Fanny Harel, living in a chateau in La Guette, a hamlet situated a few dozen miles to the east of the DZ. If push came to shove, Wiehe might call upon her for a place of hiding or to help gather intelligence.
Garstin and his men were warned about enemy forces stationed in the area – namely some SS units, an infantry battalion and a squadron of German tanks headquartered at Fontainebleau, a town lying to the south of their area of operations. And with that, the intelligence briefing was done. In dribs and drabs the men wandered outside. By rights, they were only a couple of hours away from getting airborne once more.
Vaculik turned to Paddy Barker. ‘Sounds like a tough job,’ he ventured.
‘Could be. But by the grace of God we’ll get through.’
‘What about a pint?’ Vaculik suggested. There was just enough time for one for the road.
‘Never heard a better idea,’ Barker enthused.
Not surprisingly, Ginger Jones was of a similar mind. Together they headed for the Cage’s canteen, where all minds turned towards France
‘How long since you’ve seen your mother and father?’ Jones asked.
‘Six years,’ Vaculik replied, ‘and I’ve never had a word, apart from the one Red Cross message . . .’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of worn and crumpled paper, one that went with him everywhere.
Jones stared at it blankly. ‘Can’t read your lingo.’
‘Just says they’re well and they’d like to hear from me,’ Vaculik explained. ‘Not much in six years.’
The conversation was cut short by a yell from the entranceway. ‘CO wants you!’
At that the men drained their pints and hurried over to Colonel Mayne’s tent. At their appearance, the SAS commander got to his feet and reached out to shake the first man by the hand. Despite his reputation as a hard, toughened killer, Mayne looked visibly moved. His handshake was firm but emotional. Though he himself was only twenty-eight years old, the men of SABU-70 were mostly a whole lot younger; some were barely out of school uniform.
This made it all the more surprising that between them they shared such widespread and varied battle experience. The SAS commander didn’t doubt their resolve – each man was determined to take the fight to the enemy no matter what might transpire on the ground. But equally, Mayne didn’t doubt that some at least would not be coming home.
Having bade their farewells, the men dashed to grab their personal gear and weapons, before jumping into the jeeps that would ferry them to the airfield. En route, they paused to collect their parachutes. A pretty young WAAF was handing them out, and almost without thinking Vaculik – known to be something of a ladies’ man – turned on the charm.
‘Why don’t you come with us, love? Pleasant journey. Not too tiring. Foreign travel broadens the mind.’
The WAAF, a blonde, smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind, especially with a Frenchy – to show me around, of course . . . But there you are, I’m stuck here.’
‘Get on with it,’ the others chided. ‘Plenty of time for that when we’re back, Casanova!’
Vaculik lingered for a few seconds more, long-enough to get the girl’s name. ‘As lovely as you are,’ he announced, gallantly. ‘So long, Mary.’
Minutes later, twelve figures were lining up beside the massive bulk of the Stirling, which, with its 6 foot-high wheels and 100-foot wingspan dwarfed them. For their previous flight, Garstin had had to draw straws with the other SAS commanders, for there weren’t enough airframes to ferry all the parties into war. On 10 June they had gathered to do so, Garstin getting lucky and drawing lot number four of six. Tonight there would be no such uncertainties. And something else was markedly different about this departure.
Last time around, Garstin and his men hadn’t taken off from RAF Fairford at all.
In its 12 June Operational Instruction No. 22, the SAS had ordered that ‘Parties for DZ R.7603 will be . . . flown from TEMPSFORD for a reception committee with lights and EUREKA.’ DZ R.7603 was Garstin and his men’s destination, and RAF Tempsford was where the sneaky-beaky flights of the SOE were dispatched. Its existence was one of the best-kept secrets of the war.
Garstin and his men had taken off from RAF Tempsford, a ‘ghost airfield’ situated in rural Bedfordshire, and accessed via a side road marked ‘Closed to the public’. Better known as ‘Gibraltar Farm’, during daylight RAF Tempsford had all the appearance of being nothing more than a ramshackle farmstead. But come nightfall, Churchill’s secret aerodrome was revealed, as seemingly run-down farmhouses, barns and shacks transformed themselves ingeniously into hangars, storerooms and control towers.
RAF Tempsford was the nerve centre for the resistance armies being raised across Europe, at Churchill’s urging. It boasted a direct and secure communications link to SOE headquarters in London, and from Tempsford weaponry, explosives, ammunition and radio sets were dispatched into Nazi-occupied Europe, along with the SOE agents charged with raising merry hell deep inside enemy lands.
As for ‘EUREKA’, the Rebecca-Eureka transponding radar was a homing system designed to navigate an aircraft directly to its target. It consisted of an airborne receiver – the Rebecca unit – fitted into the aircraft, which detected a ground-based radio signal emanating from the Eureka. The Rebecca calculated the range and position of the Eureka, from the timings and direction of the return signal, so as to steer the pilot directly to the drop-zone.
But tonight, at Mayne’s urging, Garstin and his men were dropping blind, and that meant they would have no reception party, no beacons to guide them in and no need to head out from Churchill’s ghost airfield. Still, more than any of the Cain/Gain missions, theirs had the hand of SOE stamped indelibly upon it. There was something about their targets that had caught SOE’s attention, making their mission a true SAS–SOE hybrid, as future developments would powerfully demonstrate. But for now they were heading out from RAF Fairford, the base adjacent to the Cage.
The Stirling pilot shook hands with all in turn. ‘So, you’re the live cargo. Right-ho, lads, we’ll get you there.’
They’d better do. No one fancied a second dose of false starts and on-off bailouts, let alone another crash-landing. As they went to climb up the steps leading through the Stirling’s side door, a voice cried out a last-minute caution. ‘What about the rum?’ It was Ginger Jones, and he had suddenly remembered the calamity over the rum-jar last time around.
‘It’s all right,’ Wiehe answered, ‘I’ve got—’
His last words were lost in the roar of the first of the Stirling’s four engines firing into life. The dozen men filed aboard, taking up their allotted positions – facing each other, backs to the fuselage, knees almost touching. Vaculik found himself sandwiched between Jones on the one side and Wiehe on the other. With a shake and a roar the Stirling got airborne, clawing into the skies above Fairford, the red and green navigation lights rising ever higher, until they were swallowed into the darkness.
The conversation amongst the raiders turned towards the inevitable –women. The chat went back and forth, alternately lifting up then denigrating the fairer sex, before Jones, typically, got the last word.
‘Give me a pint of beer any day, and you can keep your women,’ he grumbled. ‘They cause nothing but trouble.’
At that point a voice interrupted, crying out above the deafening beat
of the engines: ‘Check your watches!’ The dispatcher paused for a good few seconds, giving each man the time to get eyes on his timepiece. ‘Okay, it’s eight o’clock dead,’ he announced, once all were ready.
‘They’ve given me a dud,’ exclaimed Jones, as he studied his watch-face disgustedly. ‘It’s over half an hour slow already, the dirty dogs.’
‘Never mind,’ said Wiehe, with a wink, ‘you probably won’t get time to use it.’ The intimation was clear: you’ll be too busy blowing up the enemy.
‘I’ll exchange it with a German’s,’ Jones growled.
To left and right the men chuckled. Jones’s irreverent ways proved unfailingly contagious and served to lift the spirits. Most of the raiders wore military-issue watches, although the better-off amongst the SABU-70 party – Wiehe included – were wearing privately purchased ones. For sure, they’d want a quality timepiece that would last the course, for right now they were deploying for some considerable time, as the SAS’s Operational Instruction No. 22 made clear.
‘All parties will drop . . . containers loaded with food, ammo and explosives. The containers will be hidden upon arrival and will provide a reserve which will enable party to carry out operations for some time.’ Weeks were envisaged, not days. ‘After carrying out the first missions, each party will return to a temporary base formed in consultation with Resistance Groups, pick up fresh supplies and repeat the attacks.’
The warplane swung southeast, setting a course for France, and all lights were extinguished. Just one bare bulb illuminated the hold, with blackout curtains shielding the porthole like windows, the better to hide the Stirling from any watching eyes – a shadow, flitting across the darkened heavens. The men covered their faces with camouflage veils and tried to catch some sleep. If they could only get their feet onto the ground, their next proper rest was very likely a good few days, maybe even weeks, away.
Some time later, the dispatcher shook them awake. They were twenty-five minutes from the DZ, and somehow they’d sneaked across the French cliffs seemingly undetected. As figures shuffled towards the trap, checking the chin-straps of their helmets were tightly fastened and dragging their bulging leg-bags after them, Garstin gave a few final instructions.
They were dropping blind, he reminded his men, so they were to take cover and await his call. ‘As soon as you land, stay where you are and listen hard. Then, when you see my signal, gather around . . . I shall give three flashes. Above all, don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
The eleven raiders held their commander in high esteem. Captain Garstin was phlegmatic, seemingly unflappable and a born leader of men. His long experience rivalled that of even Ginger Jones, not forgetting the Military Cross that he had won in the fevered battles before Dunkirk. His was a timely reminder, especially as SAS orders were to ‘avoid a pitched battle at all costs’ and to concentrate on their speciality of ‘all-out guerrilla warfare’.
From where he was practically dangling out of the aircraft’s bomb-bay, the dispatcher yelled for all to get ready: ‘Five minutes to go.’
He signalled for the men to shuffle closer, as he moved to one side of the trap, making space for the raiders to file past and jump. Then: ‘One minute to go. Action station number one.’
Seemingly even as he’d said it, the red jump-light flashed on, and an instant later it switched to green. Before any of the men had time to indulge in second thoughts, the dispatcher banged the first in line on the back, yelling ‘Go!’ One after the other the figures stepped past the crouching dispatcher, who gave each a slap and a Go!, before they plunged through the trap and were swallowed into the dark and howling void.
It took barely a second for each man to make the jump, plummeting through the Stirling’s slipstream and dropping like stones. Within moments their chutes bloomed silver above them, catching the air with a sharp snap, swinging back and forth like pendulums. Ghostly apparitions, twelve figures dangled from domed stretches of quilted silk, laced in tight formation across the moonlit sky. It looked to have been a perfect jump, to follow a perfect flight. What a contrast to what had gone before.
Now, to discover what might await them on the ground.
Chapter 5
A tall, lean figure stood resolute at the DZ, his form silhouetted against the wide sweep of the night sky. Just as they’d intended, they’d come down in the middle of a cornfield that rolled towards the dark horizon on either side. The Stirling had executed a second pass over the DZ, dropping their all-important reserves – containers stuffed full of kit. As the thunder of its engines faded to a whisper, all settled into stillness and silence. Just the faintest breath of wind stirred the corn, which rippled like the surface of a calm, moonlit sea.
Satisfied that they were alone and unobserved, Garstin fished out his torch from his jump-smock and gave the signal – three brief flashes of light. To left and right figures rose to their feet, emerging from their places of hiding and dragging their chutes and kit behind, as they converged upon their commander’s position. One of the first was Vaculik, who looked visibly elated –tearful, almost – to be back upon his native French soil.
‘You all right, old man?’ Garstin whispered, as the Frenchman joined him.
Vaculik smiled, his features lit with emotion. ‘Couldn’t be better.’
To the north there was a distant rumble like thunder, which reverberated across the heavens. Intermittent flashes rent the sky. It looked as if anti-aircraft fire had broken out over Paris, which had to mean that Allied bombers were hitting some of the factories and military targets on the outskirts of the city. For Vaculik, who’d lived in Paris as a student, it was a poignant reminder of why they had come – to help drive the invader from this land.
Four years earlier almost to the day, the French government –her forces comprehensively defeated, Paris lying in enemy hands – had signed an armistice with Nazi Germany. It had split the country into two halves. The north and larger segment was governed by the forces of Hitler’s Reich, the south by the French Vichy state, named after the city from which it ruled. It was a day of infamy, but tonight was likewise a perfect riposte to the long years of ignominy and shame.
When all twelve were present and correct – no injuries suffered in the drop – Garstin decided it was time for a quick booster, for a long night’s work lay ahead. ‘What about a swig, Rex? I hope there’s some rum left to celebrate our landing?’
‘There is,’ Lieutenant Wiehe – Rex – replied. ‘I haven’t let Ginger drink it all.’
True to type, Jones had made sure to get his hands on the rum-jar, while most had been sleeping. But there was a good deal remaining, and in reverential silence the precious tipple was passed around.
‘Right, let’s get on with the job!’ Garstin announced, once thirsts had been properly slaked.
Wiehe and Paddy Barker were dispatched to a grove of nearby trees, to seek out a hiding place, somewhere both chutes and containers could be buried. Under normal circumstances, the French Resistance would be on hand to help carry and conceal such kit, but having jumped blind they’d have to manage by themselves. At the same time they’d have to ensure that they’d found a good place to lie low, by daybreak. It was well past midnight, which meant they’d have to get cracking.
‘Jean, you and Ginger go find the containers,’ Garstin announced. As ‘Jean Dupontel’ was Vaculik’s cover name, it was how all would refer to him in the field. Garstin dispatched the others to form a perimeter guard, ordering them to raise a warning at the slightest hint of trouble. ‘I’ll stay here, so you’ll be able to find me more easily.’
Sunrise was around six o’clock, with first light due a good deal earlier. A frenetic few hours ensued, as the containers were located, dragged into the depths of the woods and buried. By daybreak, apart from the odd flattened patch of corn, there was little visible sign that a dozen SAS men had dropped out of the sky, complete with all the supplies necessary for waging war. Garstin and his raiders were in position over
150 miles behind the frontline – the D-Day beachheads – and had set up camp deep in a patch of forest. It had taken a herculean effort to get here, but at last they were primed to go.
There was German armour and heavy reinforcements to be stopped. It only stood to find out when and where the first such trainload was due, and then they would be in business. Inevitably, that task would fall to Vaculik, the only native French-speaker amongst them. As tired men settled down to rest, Garstin ordered Vaculik to strike out on foot towards Dourdan, to see if he could gather useful intelligence on their intended targets.
With a thick greatcoat slung over his uniform – brought for the very purpose of disguise – and with his beret tucked deep in a trouser pocket, there was nothing to distinguish Vaculik from any other Frenchman who might be out and about at such an hour, at least at first glance. But his distinctive British uniform, plus the Colt .45 pistol he had secreted in the voluminous folds of the greatcoat, would be sure giveaways, if he were to be stopped and searched.
The thing that struck Vaculik as he emerged from the cover of the woodland was how calm and peaceful everything seemed here in the heart of war-torn France. It was still early, and apart from the cocks crowing and the odd dog barking, there was little to break the silence as he set off along a network of small roads. From the map, he’d figured it would take him a good two hours to reach Dourdan, if he had to walk the entire way, as opposed to hitching a lift on a passing farmer’s cart.