Churchill's White Rabbit

by Sophie Jackson

  With danger mounting there was a greater need than ever to ensure loyalty. Forest was feeling the pinch of clandestine work, when his newest agent de liaison, Horace, arrived late one evening.

  Horace, real name André Lemonnier, had been recruited by Jose Dupuis when the pressing shortage of agents de liaison was beginning to hamper the work of Forest’s small réseau. He had been recommended, along with his friend Edmond Vacher (Ernest), by a priest known to help men on the run from the Germans. The patriotic Abbe Leveque had been convinced by the young men’s sincerity and put them in touch with Jose Dupuis through a resistance contact.

  Horace became Forest’s agent de liaison, while Baudet engaged Ernest as an assistant. The desperate shortage of men had rather thrust Horace upon Forest and it wasn’t long before he felt uncomfortable with his choice. Horace seemed more interested in chasing Parisian women and spending the money he earned via Forest than serving the resistance. He quickly proved himself unreliable, always late for appointments and vague when asked for information. Ernest was proving equally disreputable, when entrusted with 500,000 francs by Baudet he split it with Horace and another man, then vanished hoping to escape to North Africa before being caught.

  That left Forest even more concerned about Horace. Ten years younger than Ernest and still very much a boy at heart, was he just incompetent and irresponsible or a traitor?

  One evening Horace arrived at Jose Dupuis’ flat where Forest was waiting for him. He had been set a test, a test that would seal his fate. Forest had his Colt with him, loaded and sitting to hand. He was in a dark mood and if the boy failed him this time he would have no mercy, the Gestapo were getting too close for any unnecessary risks to be taken.

  Horace had been told to take a message to a house Forest knew to be unoccupied. He had been given the address along with the telephone number and was expected to report back as soon as the work was done. He was late as usual, further inflaming Forest’s anger. When he did arrive Forest could barely contain his temper as he asked him how the mission had gone. Horace was nonchalant, the house had been empty when he arrived, but he had made inquiries of the neighbours and had arranged to return the next day when someone was home. Forest felt his fingers closing on his Colt.

  ‘Describe the house’ he demanded of the boy.

  Horace hesitated, which was enough for Forest to see through his lies.

  ‘You didn’t go there, did you?’

  Horace glanced to Jose Dupuis for help, but she was not about to intercede – this was Forest’s business. Slowly Horace admitted the truth: he had not been to the house, he had telephoned and received no answer so had decided not to bother doing anything further.

  Forest was incensed. He grabbed the Colt and aimed it at Horace. The boy froze in the face of the gun.

  ‘You are a traitor and shall not leave here alive!’ Forest bellowed, his finger on the trigger.

  Horace, trembling, begged for forgiveness. He was reckless, yes, and neglectful, but not a traitor and he didn’t deserve to die. Forest was unmoved by the boy’s denials and tearful apologies, he no longer had any patience for him. He was tired of the incompetence around him, tired of the constant fear and above all, tired of Horace and the worries he caused.

  He was about to kill him when Jose could stand the tension no more and moved to Horace’s aid. Perhaps it was his youth that played on Jose’s mind, or the fact that she had recruited him and now feared her mistake, but she could not watch Forest kill the boy in cold blood. Quietly she slipped between them and with gentle words persuaded her old friend to let Horace go with a warning. Forest lowered the gun, still glaring at the boy.

  ‘You are dismissed from my service,’ he told the terrified Horace, ‘but never forget if you betray us the organisation will have you shot!’

  Greatly relieved, Horace ran for the door and left them. Forest must have had a pang of doubt over what he had done and he was right to do so. Later events would prove that both Horace and Ernest were working for the Germans long before they had met with the patriot Abbe Leveque. Like so many traitors the Nazis employed, Horace and Ernest had no deep feelings of Germanic loyalty, but were driven rather by the thought of easy money. Both were lazy wastrels who found holding down genuine work problematic. Horace was recruited by the local Gestapo branch in his hometown and sent to infiltrate Abbe Leveque’s escape network. It was pure coincidence that he met with his old friend Ernest at the abbe’s home and that the other man had also been independently recruited by the Germans. They instantly joined forces and together set about infiltrating the network.

  There seems no doubt that the entire time Horace was working for Forest he was in touch with his German controllers. At one point he mysteriously vanished and reappeared claiming he had been in the clutches of the Gestapo – this was probably true, though rather than an interrogation it had probably been a prearranged debriefing!

  Ironically it was Horace’s feckless nature that made him as poor an asset for the Germans as he was to Forest. He aroused suspicion almost immediately and this prevented him from penetrating deeply into the resistance network, but it was also the case that his natural disinclination for work meant he was barely trying to infiltrate anything. He worked for the Germans for convenience, the worst type of agent, and as proved by Ernest, should an opportunity arise for easy money they would take it and flee both of their respective masters.

  He may have been an incompetent traitor and he may have gotten away lightly with his betrayal, but he would be back to haunt Forest in the not too distant future.

  * * *

  Notes

  1. Official diary of events: Marie-Claire Mission, SOE files, the National Archives.

  2. Report to SOE about criticism of Brossolette by advocates of Sophie and Baudet, 2/12/1943.

  3. Courier from Marie-Claire, 18/10/43, the National Archives.

  4. Official diary of events: Marie-Claire Mission, SOE files, the National Archives.

  5. Ibid.

  – 10 –

  A Good Agent has no Routine

  FOREST BROKE HIS OWN rules when it suited him and the Marie-Claire mission, with its endless pointless meetings and tiresome quarrels, was wearing him down to a point where he took risks. He was very conscious of these lapses and kept them hushed from SOE, but they happened nonetheless.

  Madame Bosc’s restaurant, where he set up his letterbox on the Seahorse operation, proved a temptation beyond his resolve. Visiting the building eased his tension for a time, but it was a dangerous indulgence, because his frequent visits were noticed. Forest recorded in his memoirs, several years after the war, what occurred one night when he left the restaurant. It was an ordeal he only obliquely revealed to SOE.

  At 10.30 p.m. one evening he left Madame Bosc’s restaurant. Across the road from the restaurant a man was standing in the shadows of a doorway. Forest felt his natural suspicions rising. Deciding to test his concerns he took a different route to that which he would normally use to get home. It wasn’t long before he was aware that the stranger in the shadows had followed him.

  A burst of adrenaline temporarily shrugged the tiredness from him; there was something about the chase that despite being frightening was also exciting. Forest headed for the nearby Métro station. At that time of night trains were not frequent, so there was plenty of time to get a good look at the tail while Forest waited for a train. Sure enough Forest had not sat down on a bench for long when the shadowy stranger appeared on the platform. He was a tall man, clean-shaven, wearing a brown felt hat and the stereotypical brown overcoat. Forest observed him cautiously, aware that he would need to get back to his apartment soon to avoid being caught out by the midnight curfew. The last thing he needed was to be arrested due to such a paltry thing as being out late at night.

  A train pulled in at last and Forest jumped into the first-class carriage, while his shadow settled into the second-class carriage behind. Further along the line Forest got off the train and hurried to the Pont de Ne
uilly line, which would take him close to home. Again there was no train so he sat down to wait. His pursuer had followed, but this time he did not sit and quietly wait, but paced the platform, even passing in front of Forest once or twice. Forest suddenly found he was doubting his own suspicions – would a pursuer make such a dangerous error as to walk past the man he was following and risk being seen so closely? Forest had to be sure and time was running out.

  When the train pulled in he hopped into the first-class carriage and yet again the stranger jumped into second class. Forest was desperate to test his theory and so picked a stop two before the one he really wanted in order to hop off the train and appear to head for a different line. No sooner had he done so, he doubled back and returned to his original platform. Sure enough the stranger followed and now he had no doubts or that he was being tailed.

  But what to do? Time was slipping away from him, and he had barely half an hour before the curfew would make him an easy target for any patrolling Germans. If he made a dash for it no doubt his pursuer would instantly call for assistance from any passing Germans and have him caught. He was certain that the pursuer was also aware that he had been spotted, as Forest’s frantic doubling back would have been enough to give him away. He could not therefore be following to secretly pick up a rendezvous or safe house, but rather was intent on keeping Forest in sight no matter what and as soon as curfew came and Forest had to make a dash for a house, he would call his chiefs and have the building cordoned off and searched. There was nothing clandestine about the situation anymore and Forest knew the next few minutes would either condemn or save him.

  Yet again a train came in and Forest hopped into the first-class carriage while his pursuer jumped into second class. Sitting in a corner of the carriage Forest surreptitiously felt in his jacket for his .32 Colt. How often had Brossolette warned him about carrying a weapon? It would be an instant giveaway should he be stopped and searched, just the shoulder holster it was sitting in was a danger. But right now Forest could only feel relief that he carried it night and day. He had made up his mind – there was no choice but to dispose of his shadow.

  So where to kill him? It had to be somewhere secluded, somewhere the noise would not attract attention, and he would need to dispose of the body quickly. A flash of inspiration hit him. Jeanne Helbling’s flat, where Brossolette sometimes stayed, was not far from the next stop and right next to a river. A ramp led down to the riverbank where a bridge spanned the water. There would be little light down there and under the bridge no one would see a thing. If he could entice the man into the darkness for a moment he would have the advantage as the stranger’s eyes accustomed to the sudden gloom. That moment could be all he needed to shoot him at point-blank range and dump his body in the river.

  Forest checked his watch: there were only 20 minutes until curfew. It would be risky to kill his tail, but what choice did he have? The man had his back against the wall.

  Off the train again he quickened his pace, heading towards the river, his shadow close behind. Dodging down a side road Forest could hear a group of Germans laughing and singing marching songs nearby, what witnesses they would be if they should hear anything! Forest slipped the Colt from its holster – it was loaded and cocked. He held it discreetly in his overcoat pocket, ready to draw it the instant he was under the bridge, and then on he ran. Now he broke into a trot to keep his pursuer concentrating and eager. He scuttled down the ramp and under the bridge. In the darkness he drew his gun and pulled his hat forward so that his face was obscured, then he waited breathlessly.

  Mere moments passed before he heard footsteps pattering down the ramp. His tail appeared at the base of the bridge, brilliantly silhouetted against the moonlit night – he had forgotten himself in the heat of the chase. What a fool, Forest thought, as the man stumbled forward in the darkness straight into his Colt. The barrel of the gun was against the stranger’s chest and Forest didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  The man grunted and began to sag. Leaving no room for error, Forest brought his pistol barrel down on the man’s head as hard as he could. His victim crumpled to the ground. Now he just had to get him into the water and make his escape, but even that would not prove easy. The man was incredibly heavy and Forest’s burst of nervous energy had his whole system shaking with the exertion. Somehow he heaved the man to the edge of the bank and with a final push sent him tumbling into the water. All he had to do now was get away unseen. There was no one about and with no time to lose, Forest fled the scene and arrived at his flat with 5 minutes to spare before curfew.

  It was only then that the gravity of the situation hit him. He had killed a man, or at least he thought he had killed him. Perhaps he had not been quite dead when he hit the water and had slowly drowned. It was an unpleasant thought, and Forest tried to clear it from his mind. His life had been at risk and there had been no other option; if the man had not been such a fool, perhaps he would have lived. Anyway, Forest was still free, and that was what mattered. He went to bed and slept deeply, utterly exhausted by the ordeal. (In an official SOE interview after his escape from Buchenwald this event is briefly mentioned as occurring during the Asymptote mission rather than the Marie-Claire mission. In his personal memoirs Forest wrote of it occurring as described above. The confusion of dates could be blamed on a number of factors, but was probably a misinterpretation by the interviewer).

  More and more Forest found himself having to live his life in dangerously close contact with unsuspecting Nazis. They were everywhere, and more often than not they seemed be drawn to Forest, much to his exasperation. At one of his apartments, a personal bolthole, Forest discovered he was neighbour to a Wehrmacht colonel who was personal assistant to General von Stulpnagel, military governor of France. Forest toyed with the idea of killing him, but as the man always had bodyguards around the opportunity never arose. He had to satisfy himself with the knowledge that the good colonel was regularly exchanging pleasantries with a British agent.

  After a much-anticipated visit to the Maquis organisation, Forest found himself in the company of Germans once more. There had been several train delays due to damaged lines (it was a resistance speciality, but an irony when it delayed one of their own) when Forest was trying to get back to Paris after his visit. Finally a train came into the station but it was almost full aside from the carriage marked ‘reserved for the Wehrmacht’. Forest was in one of his belligerent moods and, as he had a first-class ticket and only a German general and his staff officer were seated in the carriage, he decided he would take a chance and flout the rules. Clambering into an empty Wehrmacht compartment he promptly fell asleep.

  A short time later he was awoken by a German railway police officer who asked him if he had permission to be in a Wehrmacht-only carriage. With typical Forest bravado he replied he did not, but had been so tired and the train so full except for the Wehrmacht carriage that he had decided to settle down in the unoccupied compartment. He went on to complain bitterly about the sabotage of the trains, how it delayed everyone and messed up French business, and why were the Germans not doing more about it? For the next 2 hours he discussed similar matters with the German, who eventually had a look around the train and found a second-class passenger in a first-class French carriage, whom he kicked out and replaced with Forest. Shaking Forest’s hand as he went to leave, he looked grave.

  ‘I am sorry you can’t stay in my compartment but orders are orders.’ He seemed rather apologetic and added, ‘Of course I am not at all suspicious of you, on the contrary I have the utmost confidence.’

  Then he went to carry on his duties while Forest settled back and smiled at yet another German fooled.

  But at tea in the restaurant car his next encounter proved more unsettling. The restaurant car was full when Forest arrived, but he heavily tipped an attendant to find him a seat. The man worked his way down the carriage and finally signalled that he had found a free space. Forest headed towards him only to hesitate when he realised his teatim
e companion was a Gestapo chief. The man had been pointed out to him as being exceedingly dangerous. Worse, he had been told the chief had been informed about the elusive ‘Shelley’ and may even have seen a photograph of him. It was a stomach-knotting moment, but if Forest scurried away now he would attract even more attention, so he sat down, his appetite suddenly gone.

  The Gestapo man observed him openly. Gold-rimmed glasses framed cruel blue eyes and accentuated the duelling scar that ran down one side of his hard, clean-shaven face. He had a sparkle of hostile amusement in his eyes that pierced Forest ‘as though a gimlet were being screwed into his head.’1

  At the time Forest was unaware that this was Klaus Barbie, the murderer of Jean Moulin. It would have done little to ease his mind had he known the utter barbarism and cruelty that sat before him.

  The waiter brought bread, ersatz jam and tea and, relieved, Forest paid attention to his plate rather than his tablemate. However, the Gestapo man was proving rather interested in his new companion. In slow, careful French he asked: ‘Are you going to Lyons?’

  ‘I have come from Lyons, monsieur,’ Forest answered equally carefully, wondering if his interrogator had already deduced who he was. His stomach was churning as he tried to spread the ersatz jam on his bread and to think of any way to distract the steely eyed Gestapo chief.

  Abruptly the train passed by some overturned carriages and trucks, very clear to see from the window. Forest turned his head as if curious and said solemnly: ‘Seems to have been a bit of trouble here.’ Finding refuge in such a controversial topic was dangerous, but he needed something, anything, to channel the man’s curiosity away from him.

  ‘These unfortunate events are always happening,’ Barbie replied quite coolly.