They Fought Alone

by Maurice Buckmaster

  II

  The next day I reported to the headquarters of the French section of Special Operations Executive at 64 Baker Street. As I walked in through the plain entrance and rode in the lift up to the fifth floor, I wondered what my duties would be exactly. There was, I found, little exactness about the routine of the fledgling organisation in which I found myself.

  ‘The fact is, Buckmaster,’ my commanding officer told me, ‘everything’s highly embryonic here.’ The bare office and the deserted atmosphere of the place confirmed this gloomy observation. The man on the other side of the desk was a civilian, whom we knew by his initials, H. M., who had experience, as I had, of working in France. He seemed rather dispirited to me and indeed he was soon to retire because of illness. However, I could not know this and I asked rather brusquely what my job entailed.

  ‘The general idea,’ H. M. explained, ‘is to see what we can do about getting information about occupied France. We want to find out what’s going on there, what sort of targets we should concentrate on attacking – when we’re in a position to attack them – and so forth.’

  It seemed to me that the man was either being cryptic or rather vague.

  ‘What sort of information is available?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Very little. There’s hardly anything to go on.’

  ‘What about Secret Service reports?’

  ‘Oh, no, we don’t get those. Can’t get hold of them.’

  ‘Well, what can we get hold of?’ I demanded.

  He smiled wanly: ‘That’s for you to discover.’

  It seemed that there was nothing further to be gained, so I took my leave. My elation at the new job was fast disappearing. I telephoned a Colonel in the Intelligence Corps on the ‘scrambler’ and asked him what the whole set-up was about.

  ‘Subversive activities,’ he explained.

  ‘I’ve gathered that, sir, but what kind of subversive activities?’

  ‘I’m not too clear myself, but I think the idea is to sabotage industrial installations in France which have been or might be put into service for Jerry.’

  ‘This isn’t a Secret Service affair then?’

  ‘Heavens no, old boy, Special Operations.’

  ‘Well, what’re we under?’ I inquired. ‘The War Office?’

  ‘Doubt it. MEW, I should think. Ministry of Economic Warfare. I should try them.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  It is not easy to contact a Ministry and since I had no idea who, if anyone, in the MEW was responsible for SOE (French Division), I decided to waste no further time in attempting to find out what I should do or what information I was supposed to procure. I sat in the bare office with which I had been provided, staring into the empty wire out-tray. There was no in-tray.

  On reflection, it seemed to me that the best thing I could do was to try and remember what I could about French factories which I had visited when I was working, during 1932–6, for the Ford Company of France. My information might be out of date, but at least it was information. I drew a pile of typing paper towards me.

  Day after day, for three weeks, I dredged my brain for knowledge, noting down every conceivable thing I could about the potential, the staff and the lay-out of French industry. In spite of my hard work, however, I could not conceal from myself the haphazard and incomplete nature of my notes. There was no system, save a vague geographical ordering from north to south. If only there were an alphabetical list…

  ‘The Bottin,’ I said, aloud. ‘Of course, the Bottin!’ It was exactly what I had been looking for – an alphabetic thesaurus of French industry and commerce, department by department, from A to Z. It only remained to get hold of a copy. I telephoned confidently to my chief.

  ‘I’d like a copy of the Bottin,’ I told him.

  ‘You are our Bottin,’ I was reminded.

  ‘Somebody must have one.’

  ‘That may be; I haven’t managed to get hold of it.’

  ‘Do I have your authority to try and get a copy?’ I demanded.

  ‘Certainly, but it won’t do you any good.’

  I got through to my Colonel in the Intelligence Corps.

  ‘Bottin? Haven’t got one in the place, old boy,’ he announced cheerfully.

  ‘Do you mean to say that in the whole length and breadth of Military Intelligence there’s no copy of the Bottin?’

  ‘If there is, I haven’t seen it,’ the Colonel said, putting down the receiver.

  I thought of getting through to de Gaulle’s people, but my earlier experiences of them, together with my instructions not to do anything to upset them, dissuaded me. I tried the booksellers: nothing. With some hesitation I rang through to General Templer’s office. I explained my difficulty in procuring a copy of the Bottin and was given another extension in the War Office where it was thought they might help me.

  ‘Colonel Denvers here.’

  ‘Oh, this is Major Buckmaster, French section of SOE.’

  ‘Of what?’

  I explained roughly the nature of SOE in so far as I knew it myself and then said: ‘I need a copy of the Bottin very badly if I’m to get on with my work.’

  ‘Who told you that we had a copy?’

  ‘General Templer suggested I ring you.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to release any of our secret material.’

  ‘Why should the Bottin be secret material? The Germans have got as many copies of it as they want. What’s the point of keeping material from your own side that’s freely available to the enemy?’

  ‘Look, old man, that’s not my worry.’

  ‘Well, it is my worry. Your name was given me and I really would be most grateful if you could help me.’

  ‘My instructions are not to let my copy of the Bottin out of my sight.’

  ‘You have got a copy then?’

  ‘Possibly, possibly.’

  ‘Well, sir, can I come round to your office and use it there? It would still be in your sight.’

  ‘Mm, that’s a thought.’

  I went round to the War Office and managed to present myself to Colonel Denvers.

  ‘I can’t have you working actually in the room with me, Buckmaster,’ he told me. ‘I’ve put you in the little office my secretary uses for keeping her coat.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir,’ I replied. He showed me into the fawn partitioned office. It was quite bare except for a desk and a chair, but on the desk was a copy of the Bottin. I sat down and began to go through it; to my delight I discovered, as I had hoped, a preface to each chapter which detailed the industries of the département with which it dealt. The first which really interested me was the Timken Ball Bearing Factory, Quai Aulagnier, Asnières, Seine. I happened to know that particular factory well.

  Each day I returned to the Colonel’s secretary’s cloakroom in order to pursue my researches, comparing them with the notes I had already made and adding new details of which the names of various manufacturers and factories reminded me. After I had been working in this manner for some weeks, undisturbed either by inquiries from my CO or liaison activities from other members of the SOE organisation, I chanced to meet a man I knew who had something to do with the War Office library.

  ‘Are you working here now?’ he demanded.

  ‘I have to,’ I complained, and went on to tell him about the Bottin.

  ‘What do you mean you can’t take it out of the building?’

  ‘I gather it’s the only copy in the place.’

  ‘Come along with me.’ I followed him to a large and dusty storeroom which was piled high with various out-of-date handbooks and French guides. Under the window-sill was a stack of Bottins. ‘Help yourself,’ he suggested.

  I helped myself.

  That was the end of the only work I ever did in the War Office. I thanked Colonel Denvers for his kindness, informed him deferentially where he might replenish his slender stock of Bottins and repaired to Baker Street. As usual, things seemed pretty quiet there. In spite of my indus
trious tabulation, I was still unable fully to understand what SOE was all about or when it was going to start doing whatever it was supposed to do. Patiently, I continued my study of the Bottin; I had reached ‘P’ by now.

  III

  One night in May 1941, when I happened to be Night Duty Officer, I heard somebody moving about in the corridor outside the NDO room. Since my job made me responsible for the security of the building, I went out to investigate. A figure was standing in the lighted doorway of one of the rooms. It was no member of the staff I had ever seen. A voice said: ‘Good evening.’

  My eyes narrowed in an effort to see the man’s face. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘My name’s Hambro,’ he replied.

  ‘Is it just? Would you kindly step into the NDO room?’

  ‘Willingly.’ The stranger strolled past me into the bright room. He walked over to the window and checked the blackout curtain before turning to me with a smile. ‘You seem to be cosy in here.’

  ‘I’m sorry but I must ask to see your identity papers.’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled and handed them across.

  I read the name ‘Sir Charles Hambro’ and handed them back: ‘I still don’t quite see—’

  ‘I happen to be the number two in this SOE set-up,’ he informed me gently, producing another piece of paper.

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir, I had no idea.’

  ‘Ah!’ He sat down in the armchair behind the desk. ‘What’s all this?’ he asked, looking at my Bottin researches.

  I attempted to show him the lines on which I was working.

  ‘You’re just doing this off your own bat, are you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am, yes. I thought as Information Officer, I’d better try and get some information.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ Sir Charles indicated a symbol against the name of a proprietor of a big motor car plant.

  ‘That means that I think the man will co-operate with us in any operation we might plan against his factory – if it’s put to him in the right way.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘Those factories are the ones likely to be producing war material for the Germans.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘There are likely to be collaborators there, sir.’

  ‘Well, well, this is all very interesting.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so, sir. You see, I’ve been rather working in the dark—’

  Sir Charles smiled. ‘We’re very much in the first stages still,’ he explained. ‘You see there’s never been a situation quite like this before and that means that it takes a long time to persuade people to see just what’s needed; they always want to build on what already exists and when a new situation presents itself they prefer to ignore it rather than make a few innovations. Churchill’s told us what our job is – it only remains to persuade the high-ups that we know how to go about—’

  ‘What is our job, sir?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never been told.’

  Sir Charles looked up and blinked mildly. ‘To set Europe ablaze,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t see, do you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I confessed. ‘I mean – what’s being done?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a small nucleus in training already, including about ten men preparing to get back into France and see what it’s all about. Naturally our information is very poor – apart from newspaper analyses and that sort of thing. The chiefs of staff are very keen to know what sort of active support we can hope for when we’re ready to start going in again. That’s why I was so interested in what you’re doing; it ties in very well with the general scheme. The important thing is to move fairly slowly at first—’

  ‘Well, we certainly seem to be doing that,’ I observed.

  Sir Charles said: ‘I know it seems slow but there’d be little point in encouraging rashness on the part of the French; we don’t want a lot of people shot and repressive measures taken until the reasons for them are sufficient compensation for the fall in French civilian morale that would result. What we want is co-ordinated action and co-ordination takes a long time.’

  ‘All the same the sooner we get someone into France to take the temperature of the French so to speak, the better we’ll be able to plan future action.’ Sir Charles nodded. ‘Has anyone gone yet?’ I went on.

  He said, ‘They’re in training.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I said, ‘it’s nearly a year since we were chucked out of France—’

  ‘Now look here, Buckmaster, these things take time. In 1940 we had to concentrate on real essentials – defensive essentials – we’re only just beginning to get our breath back. If SOE is to have any justification it must be as a military operation, properly planned with a definitive object. We must build an organisation and have it ready for use when it’s most needed.’

  ‘But why are our numbers so small? Surely there are plenty of Free French?’

  ‘We can’t use the Free French. They’ve got their own set-up. That made recruiting a bit slow to start with. You see we can only use British citizens to train as agents who happen by some good chance to speak French like natives. Those people aren’t easy to find.’

  In the face of Sir Charles’s quiet and logical exposition of the aims and difficulties of the organisation I began to temper those criticisms of it which had been germinating in my mind for some time. Our conversation continued till the early hours of the morning and in the course of it I became much better acquainted both with the tactical hazards and strategic objectives of the organisation. I realised the immense difficulties that faced us and became aware of the fact that the kind of analysis which I had been making with the aid of the Bottin could be extended, with the aid of Michelin guides and railway maps, to cover every aspect of French industry and communications, so that when the time came we would have a comprehensive and cross-indexed dossier on France. In order to know the most vulnerable length of line and the most easily blocked section of road, it would be necessary merely to turn up the relevant card. The shape of future operations grew in my mind as my eyes sought to detect from the dry statistics the nerve-centres of enemy industrial and economic planning.

  IV

  In May 1941, a solitary aircraft was reported to have dropped leaflets on a town in the centre of France. Leaflet raids were not very common and the inhabitants of Nevers were somewhat surprised. So were the Germans, and they spent a great deal of time collecting the leaflets and fining those who kept them. On the way to Nevers the plane had passed over a large private property.† As the plane flew over the middle of it a single parachute opened and a solitary figure floated down. The plane droned on to its mission over Nevers. The parachutist landed and undid his harness. He did his chute in a ditch and walked up to the great house. The man was George Noble, the first SOE agent to land on the soil of France. The house he entered belonged to a close personal friend of a certain Major Maurice Buckmaster.

  V

  Sir Charles Hambro rang me up in July 1941, and asked me to take over temporary control of the Belgian section of SOE. Accordingly, I left my indexing in the hands of my secretary, Yveline, and started working on a similar scheme for the Belgian side of things; naturally I felt less at home there, for though the language was still French I was less acquainted with the industry and national temper of the Belgians. There were, of course, separate departments of SOE for each of the occupied countries, each of them concerned with measuring the power and the will of their inhabitants actively to assist in the discomfiture of the common enemy. I still managed to drop into the fifth floor office and see what progress Yveline was making with our index system and I never really considered my link with the French section broken. I was amused to notice, on one of those visits, that my office had recently been issued with an in-tray; there was, however, as yet nothing in it. No information had yet come into the office.

  In September 1941, I was working in the office of the Belgian sect
ion when a phone call came through to me from Sir Charles Hambro. ‘Buckmaster, how do you feel about a change of job?’

  ‘Another one, sir?’

  ‘Well, this isn’t exactly a change so much as a reversion. H. M.’s health has finally proved too much for him and he’s decided to retire. We want you to take over.’

  ‘In what capacity, sir?’

  ‘As head of the French section, of course.’

  ‘Permanently?’ I inquired.

  ‘Permanently.’

  The next day I took over. I was at once conscious of the immense amount of work with which I was faced. As yet we had no organisation, few means of having our agents received by friendly patriots or of accepting messages from them once they had landed. France was without means of speaking to us. So far we had landed only three or four agents whose job it was not to make contact but to obtain information; they were much more ‘spies’ than were our later agents. They included a Lancastrian named Cowburn whose code name was Benoit.

  If our actual impact on France was still negligible, however, our London organisation was recruiting with modest zeal. My staff now numbered about eight at headquarters: my secretary, my personal assistant (the indispensable Vera Atkins), recruiting officer, briefing officer, escorting officer (for observing and reporting back on the training behaviour of our agents), signals officer and planning officer. We used every possible means of discovering likely material for recruiting men (at first they were all men) of character, of courage and of resolution whose French was perfect and whose nationality was not French.

  Two months had passed and we had still heard nothing from Cowburn. We wondered if he had been picked up by the Germans. It would not be a good omen. Already questions were being asked by inquisitive Generals about the usefulness of our organisation and the efficiency of its staff.

  One day in late September my secretary came into my room where I was working on a recruit’s report and did the most extraordinary thing. She dropped a sheaf of papers into my information in-tray. For the first time we had information direct from France.