******
Later that evening a large R.A.F. Humber was travelling fast up the Great North Road in the direction of Cambridge. The rear windows of the car were covered by small squares of black material and Group Captain Leighton sat in front beside the squadron leader who was driving.
Charles Carnac and I sat in the back concealed by the curtains. We bore little resemblance to the R.A.F. pilot and the immaculate French officer who had recently left a building in Whitehall.
Carnac was dressed in a very dirty French uniform and his dusty boots which were caked in mud and filth looked as though he had been marching for a week. His hair was untidy and matted, and his moustache had been shorn of its magnificent turned-up ends and now looked ragged and un-kempt. His carte d'identité and army pay book proclaimed him to be Jean Baptiste Prouvy, a corporal in the 177th Infantry Regiment. He looked as though he'd been a poilu since the day he was born.
My appearance had also altered considerably. I was a lieutenant in l'Armée de l'Air and my dusty blue uniform and filthy shoes spoke of many days tramping the roads. The metal identification disc on my wrist bore the name Pierre de Buissy and gave my number, class and place of mobilisation—in my case Paris. I was an observer in the 61st Bomber Squadron; we had been flying the Potez 63 and I had a fairly comprehensive knowledge of the Squadron's movements and operations during the past three months. I knew the names of the C.O. and several other officers and at any rate could have held my own in general conversation on the subject.
Altogether we had been very thoroughly briefed and I knew my present personality fairly well. My obvious English accent was explained by the story that I had lived in England for many years as my father had been in charge of the London office of a big firm of Lille cloth manufacturers; on the outbreak of war I returned to Paris for mobilisation and joined l'Armée de l'Air.
My carte d'identité bore my photograph and although the paper was overprinted like a cheque to avoid forgery, the official stamp had been impressed on both the photograph and the surrounding paper in the same way that a passport is stamped. There was no trace of the stamp for the original which must have been removed and the whole thing had been very skilfully faked. I don't know whether our papers were forged or not, but Leighton had assured us that there was no chance of our being confronted by the true owners of these identities from which I gathered that they were either in this country or dead. “Remember,” he said, “these papers will pass an ordinary scrutiny but they will not stand up to a thorough investigation. No false papers ever will and you must not rely on them if you are in trouble.”
I lifted a corner of the black curtain and peered out of the window. It was a perfect late June evening and the setting sun cast long shadows from the trees and hedges across the road. The tranquillity of centuries seemed to lie over the English countryside. For a thousand years we had been immune from invasion: it was difficult to realise now that only a hundred miles away the most formidable army and air force in the world were gathering themselves for the final assault on these shores.
I glanced round at Carnac. He was smoking a cigarette and humming snatches of a little tune. He seems a pretty cool customer, I thought to myself. I began to feel a strong regard for this debonair Frenchman.
He grinned at me and pointed out of the window. “You see,” he said, “it's a beautiful evening. We shall have a nice flight.”
“I’m not thinking about the flight,” I retorted. “Our troubles start when we land.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, “or perhaps not. I think it may be quite easy till we have to deal with Monsieur Passy. It will be difficult to do that quietly and the Boches will not be very pleased to find they have lost this prize. We shall have to be very quick then and very careful.”
There was a pause. “What do you suggest we do after landing?” I said. “It may be rather difficult to join up again in the dark.”
“There will be a good moon,” he said thoughtfully. “I think before we leave the aeroplane we will choose some point on the ground—perhaps a wood or a road—and both walk there as soon as we land. We will meet there and start our journey into Laon.”
“Very well,” I said, “and if anything should happen and one of us fails to appear at the rendezvous the other one must go straight to Laon and not wait.”
“I agree,” said Carnac. “We mustn't fail in this. Whatever happens one of us must see this doctor and then look for Passy.”
We lapsed again into silence. The car hummed along through Letchworth and Royston and half-an-hour later we turned into the main gates of an aerodrome.
Evidently we were expected, for a Wing Commander emerged from the guard room, saluted Leighton and then got into a car and led us round the perimeter track till we stopped by a Whitley. The adventure was about to begin.
It was getting dusk and around us lay the flat rather featureless Cambridge countryside. A few yards away the glow of cigarettes showed the crew of the Whitley standing in a small group. They had evidently been briefed about their odd passengers for they glanced at us curiously but made no effort to talk to us.
The Wing Co. came over and spoke to me, asking if we had any special instructions for the pilot. He had no idea of my rank for he persisted in addressing me as “sir” which at any other time would have amused me more than somewhat.
He called the pilot over to join the discussion and as he approached I recognised John Millard who was on the same course at F.T.S. with me. Fancy meeting old John again! He ambled towards us with the same slow gait that had always acted like a red rag to every drill sergeant he ever encountered.
“Hallo, Millard,” said the Wing Commander. “We want a final word with you about dumping these gentlemen.”
“Very good, sir,” said John. He looked first at Carnac, then at me, but never batted an eyelid. My disguise must be fairly effective, I thought.
“Hallo John, you old scoundrel,” I said. “Mind you don't do any of your old style take-offs tonight with me on board.”
He jumped as if he'd been stung, and peered into my face.
“My God, Peter Claydon!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you—” He realised suddenly that he was asking questions and checked himself abruptly in the middle of the sentence.
“Oh, just off on a little jaunt to France,” I said. “I’ve got to see a man about a dog, actually.”
The Wing Co. just hadn't a clue on this conversation. From the expression on his face we might have been talking basic English.
“Well, well,” said John. He was recovering from his surprise. “I suppose you must be up to some dirty work. Anyway, what do you want me to do? We've been told the place to dump you—two miles south of Vitry-le-Grand which is a few miles east of Laon.”
“That’s right,” said Carnac. “There is a big wood just south of the village and we want to drop as near to that as possible in case we have to hide.”
“What height do you want?” asked Millard.
“As little as possible,” I said. “The less time we have to spend dangling in the air the better, and it cuts down the risk of being spotted by any Huns on the ground. I'd say 1,500 feet would be about right.”
“I agree,” said Carnac, “and we must jump close together.”
There was a pause. Everything was settled, the aircraft was ready, and yet somehow I was reluctant to give the word to start and take my feet from the good English soil that seemed so solid and comforting beneath me.
Carnac evidently had no such feelings. “Eh bien,” he said briskly, “let us start.” He turned to Leighton and shook hands. I did likewise.
“Goodbye,” said the Group Captain. “Goodbye and the very best of luck to you both. You'll never have a bigger job than this. Far more depends on you at the moment than you probably realise. Au revoir.”
We walked across to the Whitley. Millard emerged from the aircraft with two sets of parachute harnesses which he handed to us. I put mine on and clambered on board with Carnac just beh
ind me.
Millard came past and settled himself down in the pilot's seat. He started the engines and ran them up carefully and a few moments later we roared along the flare path and climbed steadily into the darkness.
Pursuit of Passy Page 10