Some time later lunch arrived in a NAAFI van and was served up by two cheerful middle-aged women who, Douglas suspected, were more than they seemed to be. The food was basic — vegetable soup followed by sausages and mash — but they ate it with relish nonetheless, seated around the stove that stood in the middle of the barn.
‘Nice touch, this is,’ commented Barber, the cockney. ‘Good old bangers an’ mash. Won’t be much of that where we’re going.’
Douglas shot him a warning glance, but the women who had served the meal had not heard him, or pretended they hadn’t. Colette smiled at him. ‘You can have mine, if you like,’ she told him. ‘Not my favourite food, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m not hungry.’
Barber took the plate from her with a mumbled thank you that changed to a shout of protest as Conolly pinched one of his sausages.
The two women collected the empty plates and disappeared. The men resumed their game of cards and Colette went back to her book. Douglas fidgeted and wondered how much longer they were going to have to wait. Inactivity chafed on his nerves.
It came as a relief when an RAF truck drew up outside. Douglas, looking through the window, saw some stores being unloaded from the rear of the vehicle. The Army major stepped down from the cab, followed by an RAF officer. The latter approached the barn, opened the door, nodded cheerfully to the occupants then stood aside to admit a relay of airmen, carrying assorted boxes and bundles of clothing which they placed on the floor. Finally, they brought in what Douglas had been waiting for: the MP-40 machine-pistols, together with a case of ammunition.
The men appeared totally unconcerned, as though their activity was routine stuff — which, Douglas told himself, it probably was. He could guess that whatever aircraft were hidden in the hangars on the other side of the airfield plied a regular trade into the heart of Occupied Europe, carrying their cargoes of gallant agents — men and women alike — who were fighting their own secret war against Nazi tyranny and who faced, at best, a quick death if they were captured, and at worst a lingering one at the hands of Gestapo torturers.
The airmen departed without a word, not sparing anyone a glance. Douglas heard the RAF officer tell them to come back in an hour. Then he re-entered the barn, followed by the major.
Douglas saw that he had the rank of wing commander. The major introduced him, after a fashion.
‘This officer is the wing commander (flying) on this station,’ he said. ‘His name, of course, is irrelevant. He is here to brief you on tonight’s operation.’
The wing commander peeled off his greatcoat, revealing an impressive array of medal ribbons under his pilot’s brevet, and draped it over the back of a chair. He was not very old, probably not yet out of his twenties, but his relative youth was partly camouflaged by an enormous handlebar moustache. His eyes were old, though; the eyes of a man who had seen too many of his friends set out on operations, never to come back.
He stood with his back to the wall map and surveyed the gathering for a few moments before speaking. His voice was clear and slightly high-pitched. He wished them good afternoon, and a reciprocating murmur went around the room. They looked at him expectantly.
‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you,’ he said with a slight smile that rather gave the lie to his words. ‘The weather forecast for southern France tonight is not good; lots of low cloud. So that means we can’t parachute you in. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Douglas could sense the relief among his colleagues. All had been through the parachute course at Ringway, but few of them had made an operational drop; none of them had been looking forward to it, especially at night.
‘However,’ the wing commander continued, ‘there are other ways and means. One of the aircraft types we operate here is the Lockheed Hudson; for the benefit of the uninitiated, that’s a twin-engined aeroplane kindly supplied by our American friends. Coastal Command used a lot of them earlier in the war, and we’ve got a few of their cast-offs for long-range trips where we need to land a number of passengers. Usually we take a maximum of eight, but this time we’re going to stretch a point and take all eleven of you. After all, I don’t suppose the young lady weighs very much. One of the advantages of the Hudson for this sort of job is that it lands in a very short distance.’
The wing commander paused briefly, fiddling with the button of his tunic left breast pocket. Douglas noticed that two fingers of his right hand were missing.
‘Be under no illusion that this is going to be an easy trip. It won’t be. Under different circumstances, with more time available, I would have recommended a different course of action — flying you out to Gibraltar, and then landing you on the Riviera from the sea. As it is, you are faced with a four-hour flight, almost all of it over enemy territory, and at the end of it we’ve got to land you on a strip about the size of a cricket field. Fortunately, our crews are the best in the business; they’ll get you there. After that, it’s up to you and the reception committee. We’ve already sent a coded signal to them to advise them of the change in plan.’
He turned to the wall map of France and tapped it with his index finger. ‘The landing zone is here,’ he told them, ‘northeast of Vauvert, between Nîmes and Arles. It’s about two miles from the main road that runs to the coast, and passes Istres. It’s one of our regular landing-grounds, and there are no Germans in the immediate area — at least, not as far as we know.’
The wing commander finished his briefing and then handed over to the major, who first of all indicated the bundles of clothing. Bending down, he picked one up, untied the string band that was holding it together, and shook it out. They saw that it was a black, one-piece garment. The major explained its purpose.
‘These are a new type of overalls designed especially for SOE operatives engaged in sabotage and other covert work at night. They are waterproof and flame resistant, and are fitted with a hood so that the wearer can render himself virtually invisible against a dark background.’
‘Good job there’s no snow where we’re going,’ someone chuckled. The major shot a frosty look at someone behind Douglas.
‘Quite. Now, if I may continue. As you will see, the overalls contain plenty of pockets, including a built-in sheath here on the right leg for the standard one-pound Sheffield dagger. What you store in the other pockets is up to you; I know that you like your own private arsenals. As far as explosives and detonators are concerned, these have already been air-dropped to the Maquis in your operating area. When you change into your overalls, please bundle up your uniforms and leave them here; they will be looked after and forwarded to you upon your return.’
‘Optimist’, somebody murmured.
The major ignored the remark, then said: ‘As this is not a normal SOE operation, you will not be carrying the standard issue equipment used by our people in the field. However, we can let you have something that may be of use to you in the unhappy event that you are taken prisoner.’
He delved into a carton and produced a handful of small, transparent packages, each one marked with a different colour, and held them up in turn. ‘These are pills to resist fatigue,’ he told them, ‘and these produce a high fever and every symptom of typhoid. They have, on occasion, been known to get people out of a tight fix by persuading the Germans to transfer them from a prison cell to hospital, from which escape is obviously much simpler. And finally, we have these.’
He opened one of the little packages and a glass capsule rolled into his palm. He held it out so that they could all see it.
‘Concentrated arsenic,’ he said mildly. ‘Inside the capsule it’s quite harmless; you can keep it in your mouth and even swallow it. But break it between your teeth and you’re dead in less than a minute — about forty-five seconds is the average for a normal, healthy person. It’s not a pleasant way to go, but preferable to some of the alternatives, should you fall into enemy hands.’
Douglas resolved to have nothing to do with that particular form of self-execution. The rest of them, it seem
ed, felt the same way, for when it came to distributing the pills, they all left the arsenic capsules alone. All except for Colette, who picked up three or four of them.
Douglas looked sideways at her. ‘You’ll only need one,’ he said. She gave a short laugh.
‘Oh, it’s not for me. The arsenic might come in handy for dropping into somebody’s coffee, though.’
Douglas was forced to agree with her. Changing his mind, he picked up a couple of the tablets himself and stowed them away in a pocket of his overalls.
Take-off was scheduled for 20.00 hours. That would get them to the landing zone shortly after midnight GMT, well inside the hours of curfew imposed by the German occupation forces. In this way, there was less risk of the clandestine landing being seen by casual eyes.
The Hudson’s mid-upper gun turret had been removed, presumably to save weight and add to the aircraft’s range. Canvas ‘bucket’ seats had been fitted on either side of the fuselage interior. The Hudson carried a crew of three: pilot, navigator and wireless operator, who would normally have doubled up as air gunner if there had been any guns for him to sit behind. Douglas saw that the navigator had his left hand and wrist in plaster, and inquired about the injury; the man told him cheerfully that he had fallen off a beam in the Mess bar at Tempsford during a prank a few days earlier.
The Hudson’s passengers made themselves as comfortable as they could as the pilot taxied out and revved his engines at the end of the runway. Douglas’s black overalls felt stiff and smelt of oil — something to do with the waterproofing, he told himself … It made him feel slightly sick, and he hoped he would get over it. His MP-40 was lashed securely to a metal strut beside him.
The pilot gunned the engines to full power and the Hudson began to move. After a few seconds the rumble of its undercarriage ceased as it lifted away from the runway, turning as it climbed on course.
For Douglas, the next four hours were the most nightmarish he had ever spent. The Hudson was flying in cloud for most of the time, lurching and bumping as it encountered turbulence.
Nothing but inky darkness was visible through the small window next to his seat. Warm air was coming out of the aircraft’s heating system somewhere near his backside, and after a while he began to sweat. He had taken a bath that morning — they all had — and had shaved an hour or so before take-off, but the heat began to make him feel scruffy and queasy.
They had eaten a substantial meal earlier that evening, and some of the passengers were beginning to regret it. From behind Douglas came the sound of someone retching into a paper bag, and the nauseating stench of vomit drifted through the aircraft, starting a chain reaction. For a while Douglas tried hard to breathe through his mouth, then he too succumbed.
The wireless operator came round with some coffee, which made the sufferers feel much better, and collected the noxious paper bags.
‘I’ll drop’em down the flare chute,’ he yelled to Douglas above the roar of the engines. ‘We’re well inside enemy territory now — might give some Jerry a nasty surprise!’
Douglas grinned weakly. His eyes were well accustomed to the darkened interior of the aircraft now, and he could easily see the figures of his companions, slumped in their various attitudes of misery.
Some time later the airman came back and roused Douglas from a heavy sleep.
‘Skipper wants to know if you’d like to come up front. We’ll be starting our descent soon so that the navigator can pick up some landmarks.’
Gratefully, Douglas followed the wireless operator on to the flight deck. The airman took his seat behind the pilot, who half-turned and motioned him into the second pilot’s seat. The navigator was already down in the Perspex nose, ready to get his bearings when the Hudson broke cloud.
The wireless operator tapped Douglas on the shoulder and handed him a flying helmet, complete with face-mask and microphone. Douglas put it on and the airman plugged the microphone lead into a nearby socket.
‘Can you hear me OK?’ The pilot’s voice sounded in Douglas’s earphones. ‘Just put the mask across your face and flick that little switch at the end when you want to talk. Don’t forget to switch it off again when you’ve finished talking, though, or it makes unpleasant noises over the intercom.’
‘I can hear you fine,’ Douglas told the anonymous pilot. ‘Have we far to go?’
‘About fifty minutes. Sorry about the bumpy ride, but at least the cloud gave us cover from any fighters that happened to be around. Bit of flak as we crossed the coast; quite close, really. Must have been radar-directed. Did you see it?’ Douglas had to admit that he hadn’t. Nothing, as far as he knew, had interrupted the pitch darkness outside.
Suddenly, the Hudson popped out of the cloud base. ‘Thank God for that,’ the pilot said fervently. ‘Two thousand feet — a bit higher than the Met people led us to believe. You could have been parachuted in, after all. Oh, well, this is what I’m paid to do, I suppose. Any idea where we are yet, Taff?’
‘Still looking,’ the navigator answered from his position in the nose. He sounded worried. ‘I hope we haven’t drifted too far east of our track, or we’ll be into all the high ground. Can’t see a damned thing except what’s directly below.’
‘We ought to be somewhere near Montauban,’ the pilot told Douglas. ‘We’ve been flying more or less due south to avoid letting down into the high ground of the Massif Central,’ he explained. ‘Mind you, with the cloud base as high as it is, we could have taken a more direct route and avoided most of it. But there it is. Can you see anything out of your side?’
Douglas peered out of the window on his side of the cockpit. Strangely enough, although there was cloud above the aircraft, and no moon to afford even a haze of light through its layer, he found that he could pick out some detail against the dark shadow of the ground; the faint ribbons of waterways made patterns in the gloom.
He was still looking when the navigator’s voice came over the intercom.
‘Hold on, skipper, I think I’ve got something.’ There came a few seconds’ pause, and then: ‘Yes, I’m certain now. That’s the Garonne up ahead. We’re a few miles west of track.’
The navigator made a few rapid calculations, then ordered the pilot to turn on to a heading of zero nine eight degrees. ‘That’ll take us between Montauban and Toulouse,’ he announced, ‘and put us on track for the landing zone. We’ve lost a little time, but we’ve got a good tailwind now. We should make our ETA all right.’
The pilot tilted the Hudson’s left wing and swung round on to the new heading. As they flew on, the navigator kept up a running commentary on the landmarks that came up under the nose. Douglas noticed that there did not seem to be an effective blackout; lights flickered in towns and villages, making the navigator’s task easier. He remarked on it to the pilot, and also on the fact that they hadn’t seen a single searchlight.
‘The searchlight and flak belts are concentrated in the north,’ the pilot informed him, ‘stretching in arcs from the Channel and North Sea coasts right back into Germany. There’s hardly anything in the way of air defences this far south — lucky for us.’
They flew between Castres and Albi, scene of terrible religious persecution in medieval times, and then crossed a hilly region dotted with lakes that showed up in the valleys as patches of dark gun-metal. At length, the navigator announced that they would be passing five miles north of Montpellier in eight minutes’ time. Their target area was approaching fast.
‘I’m going to ask you to go back to your seat now,’ the pilot said to Douglas. ‘The navigator will be coming up out of the nose as soon as we spot the LZ.’
‘Right. I’ll go and alert the others. Thanks for the ride.’
Douglas climbed out of the right-hand seat, passed his helmet to the wireless operator and went back into the fuselage. He told the others that they would be landing in about ten minutes, and there was a flurry of activity as they checked their weapons and equipment. If the reception committee turned out to be hostile, th
ey were determined to give a good account of themselves.
In the nose of the Hudson, the navigator picked out a faint ‘V’ of roads, just visible in the darkness. The left-hand fork led to Nîmes, the right-hand one to Arles. He had done all he could. Somewhere, just up ahead — unless things had gone badly wrong — the Maquisards would be waiting to detect the sound of the aircraft’s engines before lighting a rudimentary flarepath. He scrambled out of the nose position and climbed into the seat recently vacated by Douglas.
‘Nice work, Taff,’ the pilot said quietly. The navigator grunted. He didn’t think that he had done anything special.
They circled, looking for the elusive pinpricks of light that would show them the position of the landing ground. The blackness below remained unbroken.
‘Bit bloody grim, this is,’ the pilot remarked. ‘Could have done with a moon. Surely they must have heard us by now? I hope there hasn’t been a cock-up. Can’t go on swanning round the sky for much longer.’
The navigator said nothing. He was concentrating on scanning the ground as carefully as he knew how. After a few more tense minutes, his persistence was rewarded by the sight of a red light ahead and off to the right. It flickered on and off in a series of dots and dashes.
‘Recognition signal, skipper,’ the navigator said urgently. ‘Two o’clock. We’re just about on top of it.’
‘OK. Got it.’ The pilot turned the Hudson towards the flickering signal and flashed the aircraft’s navigation lights in response. A few moments later, two parallel lines of flowing dots came to life. The flarepath seemed ridiculously small. This landing, the pilot knew, was going to need every ounce of his accumulated skill. The wireless operator, returning from a quick trip to the main cabin, assured him that the passengers were firmly strapped in.
‘Right. Here we go, then.’ Gently, the pilot eased the Hudson round until it was in line with the flarepath, landing into wind. They already knew which direction the wind was coming from, for the navigator had been checking it throughout the flight, but the pilot saw with satisfaction that the reception committee had placed an additional flare at the upwind end of the strip. He suspected, although he could not see, that it also marked the boundary of the field, which was useful to know.
Attack at Night Page 5