by Paul Henke
I nodded, trying to figure out where all this was leading.
The master sergeant spoke. ‘It’s a new idea for America but follows in the footsteps of one of the best organised, best trained outfits when it comes to clandestine operations anywhere in the world? Know who that is?’
I thought for a moment. ‘The British.’
‘Damn right,’ said the major. ‘The British. We can learn a lot from them and we’re going to. I asked the master sergeant here,’ he nodded at the highly decorated soldier, ‘to trawl the ranks, officers and enlisted troops, to find men we can recruit. That’s what he’s here to do. In the meantime, he’d met you and had an idea.’
I looked at the MS. I was still standing to attention so he said, ‘Take a seat Mr. O’Brian and relax.’
I sat down. I didn’t relax. I didn’t ask the major his name nor was it offered. He wasn’t wearing a name tag. I looked and saw that the master sergeant wasn’t either. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought. I found the gumption to ask, ‘What idea?’
‘We’re looking for men and possibly women who can operate on their own,’ said the major. ‘No orders. No one telling you what you can and can’t do.’ He was a dapper looking man, well groomed, I couldn’t tell his height but he looked about average with an ordinary face. The phrase lost in a crowd of two came to mind. ‘Now, we thought we’d look for people already in the military. Trained personnel we could work with. Then the master sergeant here suggested we take raw recruits, check them out physically and mentally and see whether or not they would be right for the OSS. He also pointed out that language skills were of more use than weapons training or, heavens above, square bashing.’
I knew the term. It was British for marching, saluting and parading around the place. It was one aspect of the military I didn’t like.
‘The skills that you need,’ said the MS, ‘are not learnt in the military. We are talking about the ability to think on your feet, speak the local language and to lie without blinking. You can think on your feet as you showed in New York, your French needs work on your accent, but you’re fluent, and you’re a lawyer.’
I had a flash of inspiration as he grinned at me. ‘Which means I’m an accomplished liar.’
The major laughed. ‘Sylvie was right about you. You are sharp.’
‘Sylvie?’
‘Master Sergeant Sylvester.’
I looked at the MS more closely. I’d realised he was a big man but now, on further inspection, I saw he wasn’t carrying much in the way of fat.
‘Sylvie?’ I repeated.
‘You can call me master sergeant.’
‘So what is it you want me to do?’
‘First of all,’ said the major, ‘I want to confirm a few facts.’
I nodded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘You’re not married?’
‘No. It never arose. Though there was one girl...,’ I trailed off, leaving the sentence dangling.
‘Any family?’
‘Parents and a brother. They’re still living in Indiana.’
‘Much contact?’
I shrugged. ‘The usual, I guess. We haven’t fallen out or anything. It’s just life gets in the way. I go home when I can. I phone from time to time.’
There were more questions which I answered truthfully. After about 30 minutes I realised that during the ride south MS Sylvester had asked me similar questions which, spread over the two days hadn’t seemed intrusive. I grinned.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked the major.
‘You know all this,’ I replied.
‘We do? How?’
‘The master sergeant has already interrogated me though in a more subtle manner.’ I looked at the MS. ‘I hope my answers are consistent?’
Sylvester grinned and nodded. ‘Like I expected.’
They told me more about what was required of me. ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Of course,’ said the major. He glanced at the wall clock. So did I. ‘You have until 16.00.’
The clock was showing 15.59.
I looked from the major to the master sergeant. They were displaying poker faces. I looked back at the clock. The second hand was showing 30. I watched it tick down. With ten seconds to go I nodded. ‘I must be out of my cotton pickin mind, but I’m in.’
The major nodded and then smiled. ‘You cut it a bit fine there. Only ten seconds left.’
I often wondered in later weeks and months what would have happened if I hadn’t answered on time.
‘Now that I’m in, so to speak, can you tell me more?’
‘Master Sergeant Sylvester will brief you,’ said the major. ‘Now, I have to be elsewhere.’ He stood up. He was about 5ft 8ins, his uniform trousers had creases you could cut a finger on and he looked like a dandy.
I stood and saluted.
‘No more of that,’ said the major. ‘We don’t salute where you’re going.’
Ramrod straight, he walked out of the room.
I turned to the master sergeant who said, ‘Don’t be fooled. He’s one of the toughest sons-of-bitches you’ll ever meet.’
‘Him?’
‘Yes, him. He knows more ways of killing a man than you can dream of. And I don’t mean with a weapon. I mean with his bare hands.’
The MS’s voice was steady, no bravado, no boasting, ‘And you’re going to learn the same things.’
I nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Master Sergeant Sylvester’s smile was more like a crocodile contemplating its lunch. ‘Oh, I doubt that.’
‘Care to tell me more?’
‘Sure. Let’s cross to the canteen and get some coffee. I’ll fill you in. But remember, pass or fail, under no circumstances are you to talk about what we do nor how we go about it. Is that clear?’
‘Sure, master sergeant. I stay shtum, or else.’
He looked at me and nodded. ‘You got it in one.’
His look was enough to convince me to keep quiet. It wasn’t what he’d said but the way he’d said it. Okay, I was a lawyer. I was used to keeping clients’ secrets. I’d keep this one.
The canteen was half full with grunts filling their metal trays with food and balancing mugs of coffee or tea. Like all such establishments the place worked on a 24 hour basis. Men were out training day and night in all weathers. They needed feeding and watering on a regular basis.
Collecting a couple of coffees, we took a seat at a table in the corner. We were still speaking French. There was nobody near us but we stayed with the language.
Sylvester began, ‘A couple of years ago a man by the name of Colonel William J. Donovan wrote a report on the lack of intelligence we were collecting about our enemies. He said we should create an organisation based on the British Secret Intelligence Service. Ever heard of it?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope.’
‘Believe me, those guys know their stuff. Anyway, with the help of the Brits we’ve been building an intelligence gathering organisation that’s proven pretty effective. Not in the same league as our overseas cousins but we’re getting there. We learnt that they were not only training Frenchies, Germans and Russians in intelligence gathering but also training them to take an active role in actually causing,’ he shrugged, ‘mayhem, I guess you could call it. Blowing things up and killing people. Now we’re getting into the game big time. It’s no secret that we’ll be heading to Europe pretty soon. We think we’ll hit Italy at the toe and work our way north. After that we can’t be sure. What we do know is that France will be retaken with a lot of fighting and a lot of casualties. Our job is to minimise those casualties. We are going to recruit and train the French Maquis. Help them to operate on a more refined plain. The maquisards are men and women who risk their lives daily. Not only is there a danger of them being killed but worse, being captured, tortured and forced to supply information to the Germans. Which in turn will lead to more arrests, torture and death. We are going to send in people who can help them secure their organisations and teach the
m key skills for clandestine operations.’
I nodded as though what he was saying was perfectly reasonable and easily achieved.
‘We need to work on your accent,’ he said.
‘My accent?’
‘Yes. You’re fluent but you have a twang. I doubt it will be noticeable to the Krauts, but a Frenchman could pick it up.’
‘I thought the French were on our side. Being occupied and all that.’
The Master Sergeant shook his head. ‘Nope, that ain’t the case. While there are many in the resistance there are almost as many who support the Germans. We never hear about it over here, but believe me, you can’t trust the French. You just don’t know who supports the allies and who supports the enemy.’
‘And you want me to go to France? Amongst the enemy?’
The MS pursed his lips, stared at me for a few seconds and then said, ‘I guess that about sums it up.’
‘Out of interest, for the sake of my sanity, what’s my life expectancy when I get there?’
‘I don’t know. It could be anything.’
‘Go on, humour me,’ I said taking a mouthful of lukewarm coffee.
‘It could be twenty-four hours or as long as six months. The average life of a British agent is six to eight weeks.’
I nearly choked on my coffee. I cleared my throat and said, ‘You’re a bundle of laughs. A whole twenty-four hours. That isn’t much time to get things done.’ My sarcasm was lost on him.
‘Hey, Frank, lighten up. That’s worse case. You could live as long as six months and have enough time to enjoy the mademoiselles and the fine wines.’
‘You think?’
‘Nope. But you have to have hope. Listen, we want you to come home when this is all over and be telling your grandkids what you did in the war. You’ve still got time to back out. I won’t blame you. All I’m saying is that it’s vital work. You’ll contribute more to the war effort with us than in the infantry. A damn sight more.’
‘I can back out? You won’t have me taken out and shot?’
‘Much as I would like to, no. You’d just have to keep quiet about what you know.’
He sat staring at me. I sighed. Then I said, ‘You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Yep. I’m a pretty good judge of character. You proved that out there.’
‘What do you mean, out there?’
‘Didn’t you realise that you were being picked on? That things were tougher for you than the others?’
‘I did, but I figured the instructors didn’t like lawyers.’
‘That wasn’t the case. I wanted to know how you would handle yourself if things got tough.’
‘And how did I do?’
‘Okay. It’s a start. The worse is still to come. If you’re in, that is.’
I held out my hand and he shook it. ‘Okay. I guess we’d better get this show on the road.’
6
They didn’t hang around. The following morning my bag was packed and I was escorted by Master Sergeant Sylvester to the airfield situated in a corner of the huge base.
‘You never said where I’m going.’
‘True. We now have training places here in the good ol’ US of A but due to the nature of where you’ll be going we’re shipping you out to Canada.’
‘Why Canada?’
‘Because of the French. You never asked but let me tell you, you won’t be going to France anytime soon. You’re going to undergo some pretty intensive training for the next six months. We learnt that from the cousins. Going off half-cocked isn’t an option. They showed us that the better prepared you are the better your chances of survival. The longer you survive, the more effective you are and the more damage you do to the enemy. How long do you think this war will last?’
I shrugged. ‘I haven’t given it much thought.’
‘Few people have. Well, you can be sure it won’t be over by Christmas. According to Colonel Donovan it’s going to take another two or three years. And let’s not forget we’re fighting on two fronts. The Germans and the Japs.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ I paused and then added, ‘I guess now I think about it, I can see the war going on that long.’
‘I’m just a Master Sergeant, but we’re the professionals. We know what’s what and we know how things work. It’s going to be a long haul but one thing you can take to the bank.’
‘Which is?’
‘We’ll win.’ We shook hands. ‘Good luck, Frank. Though I don’t think you’ll need it.’
‘I hope you’re right. Will I see you again?’
‘Maybe. We’re a pretty small outfit in the overall scheme of things.’
I spent 6 months in Canada at a base in Quebec. There were 30 of us. A real mixture of nationals - Americans, Canadians, French, Italians and a few Spanish.
Half the time was spent using weapons, explosives and learning unarmed combat. I was given intensive French lessons, de-Americanising some of the words and phrases I used.
On top of all that came our introduction to the dirty tricks department. This was run by the Brits and was an eye-opener. They had spent years transforming innocuous objects into weapons and kit that would be useful in the field.
There were the basics such as silenced pistols and lightweight machine guns. Explosive devices came in all shapes and sizes from exploding watches to lumps of coal. There were compasses hidden in buttons and playing cards that hid maps. We even had access to tasteless poison pills called “K” and “L”. Both were fast working, dissolved in liquid and guaranteed a fairly painless death. A lot of time and effort was spent on eavesdropping gear and radios for line of sight and short wave communications. The former was ideal for contacting airplanes, lessening the likelihood of Jerry picking up any signals.
Another important section specialised in printing German and Japanese identity cards, ration books and counterfeit money. After all, you couldn’t walk into a bank in France and ask the teller to change dollars into francs. Eyebrows would be raised and questions asked.
In 1939 a man by the name of Christian Lambertsen invented an oxygen re-breather diving set. He showed it to the navy and they rejected it. He demonstrated it to the OSS in a swimming pool in Washington who saw the potential immediately and hired him to train divers in its use. A special unit was established within the OSS to take the fight to the enemy coastal defences. Special limpet mines with accurate detonators were designed and the OSS led the way in attacking the enemy from below. I was part of that section.
It was six months to the day when I shipped out. First to England where I kicked my heels for a couple of weeks and then to France.
I worked in France for over 18 months. I killed the enemy, blew things up, recruited suitable people and generally committed mayhem and distress. I was captured, I escaped, I was shot, I survived, I was chased, I fled. I made it to Spain with about 10 minutes to spare. I walked across the border on the back roads in January 1945 - I can’t remember the exact date as I’d been running for 10 days.
I took buses and trains to Portugal and finally made it to the embassy in Lisbon. It took me the best part of a couple of weeks to get the idiots in the embassy to find out who I was and to arrange an American passport for me. They also kindly arranged for me to fly to England although that took a further 10 days.
Back in England I hooked up with the British SIS who began to debrief me. They knew a fair amount about what I’d done, they just hadn’t known it was me. However, most of the time my story was corroborated one way or another not that I really cared. I hadn’t been in it for the glory. For me, to have done my duty to the best of my ability was enough. I also figured I’d done more than my fair share but that was before I was re-introduced to the major. Only now he was a colonel.
I was in the officer’s mess on an airfield in Kent when I was told to report to a Colonel Kay. I strolled across to a Nissen hut, knocked on the door and entered.
I was surprised to see who was sitting behin
d a desk. I didn’t stand up straight, I didn’t salute, I merely said, ‘Hullo, Colonel.’ He still looked as neat and dapper as when I’d first met him all that time ago in Fort Benning. A lifetime ago, I thought. After all that had happened, even a double lifetime.
He stood, held out his hand and smiled. ‘Hullo, Frank. It’s good to see you again. I gather you had a few problems getting back here and, more importantly, having your story believed.’
I shrugged. ‘Something like that, but its history. I’m looking forward to getting back stateside and being able to relax properly for the first time in over a year.’
‘You’ve done a wonderful job, there’s no denying it, but I’m afraid you can’t go just yet. I have another mission for you.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on, Colonel, haven’t I done my fair share?’
‘Yes. More than that. Much more. But there are a lot of people who have done just as much and are still giving it their all.’
Giving it their all. An idiom if ever I’d heard one. He’d been around the Brits too long.
We sat in silence for a few seconds until I said, ‘Okay. Let’s have it. What do you want me to do?’
‘We’re halfway to Berlin. The war can’t last more than four or five months. We want you in Northern France ferreting out as many traitors as you can.’
Something a bit more than this.
So that was what I did. The 8th May 1945 was declared Victory in Europe Day, or VE day for short. It was the day Germany surrendered unconditionally and the day I resigned the OSS. I wasn’t sure I could do that but what the hell! I did it anyway. The Colonel tried to get me to change my mind and stay either as an instructor or maybe I could help in the war against the Japs. I pointed out I didn’t look anything like a Jap and couldn’t speak the language. He had the good grace to shake my hand and wish me luck.
I did ask after Master Sergeant Sylvester and was told he was somewhere in Borneo but hadn’t been heard from for a couple of months. Nothing unusual in that, I was told, but I wasn’t so sure.