Moon Squadron (3 page)

In April and May came the last all-out raids.

On two days of one week on, a tragic Wednesday, and on a tragic Saturday, nearly two thousand tons of high explosive dropped on London. The grim battering of Portsmouth followed, beginning four terrible nights which left Plymouth looking like a gutted carcase. Suddenly, the Blitz was over. Weary but indomitable Londoners slept again in their beds and Union Jacks fluttered bravely on the rubble of the great ports. The Blitz was over.

By
mid-summer, nearly 75 per cent of the
Luftwaffe
had been to the other fronts, to the East across to the South. The Fuhrer could lick his chops in anticipation of even more lavish blood-letting. Britain had suffered appalling damage. Over forty thousand civilians had been killed; war production had been slowed up; essential docks had been wrecked; tens of thousands of tons of food had been charred; and all this had been achieved at a cost to the Germans of only a paltry six hundred aircraft. Our enemies had lost less than one and a half per cent of the total strength that set out from the Reich. In straight accountancy, in the acrid totting up of profit and loss, the Germans could claim that they had won the Blitz. But, in the larger accountancy, in the fundamental balancing of a people against a people, a nation against a nation, they lost. They had failed in their objective. They had known defeat.

Hitler had set out to crush and to render impotent a. small island with dense concentrations of population and industry, an island with no means of survival other than by ships and by ports . The
Luftwaffe
had failed in the skies over what must have looked like a bomber's paradise. The Germans had had a vast numerical superiority in the air yet they had failed. True it was that Britain was bent and bloody. Equally true was it that she was unbowed.

In t
he light of these dire events, ‘The Firm’ began to think again. It was decided to present its requirements in another and in a more realistic way. By March, 1941, coinciding with the arrival of Major Maurice Buckmaster in the French Section, ‘The Firm’ had already begun to convince the Service Chiefs of its importance not as an irregular cloak-and-dagger organisation but as a straightforward
military
arm. Its agents and organisers, transported with ever increasing efficiency by their ‘Carter Paterson’ Flight 1419, had proved their strategic importance. It was pointed out how readily their operations of sabotage could be linked to bombing policy. S.O.E. could take some at least of the strain off Bomber Command. They could affect key point destruction with economy and efficiency from the ground. The bomb, no matter how accurately aimed from the air, could not compete with the skilfully placed plastic nestling where it would do the maximum of damage at the most propitious moment by a simple matter of setting a time pencil. Bull's eyes could therefore be guaranteed and the lives of civilians, potential or actual allies, would be saved. It was an unanswerable case and, in spite of the fact that the Air Ministry was sore pressed for aircraft and for the crews to fly them, a brilliant and far-seeing decision was made.

It was decided to
form a Special Duties Squadron, for which the number given was 38.

Chapter Four

"WHIPSNADE"

From the nucleus of 1419 Flight, 138 (Special Duties) Squadron was formed at Newmarket on the 25th of August, 1941, under the Command of Wing-Commander Knowles, D.F.C. The Squadron badge was symbolic. It consisted of a sword bearing a knotted
rope and the simple motto read ‘For Freedom’. There was no delay, no time wasted in ‘working up’. This was a difficult and dangerous phase of the war. Echoing the trumpetings of Dr. Goebbels' Propaganda Ministry, collaborators in all the conquered countries were spreading the news of Britain's defeat, and even the patriots were getting worried. Perhaps the Quislings were right - perhaps Britain was finished. There had been little to contradict that gloomy prediction. The missions undertaken by 1419 Flight had been mere grains of sand when a whole Sahara was needed. But they had served to keep the flicker of hope alive, and it was now proposed to step up operations in number, scope and distance. Four days after the formation of the Squadron, the first Whitley took off. It was captained by Flying Officer Hockey with Squadron-Leader Pickard, D.S.O., as second pilot. Pickard, who played a true-life part in the film
Target
for
Tonight,
was later to command the Squadron and lose his life gallantly during the return from the raid on Amiens prison. The first 138 job was given the appropriate code name of ‘Trombone’. It was a mute fanfare to celebrate the fact that 138 was reborn, and in active service after two decades.

It was on th
e night of the 4th of September, or in the opaque darkness long before the dawn of the sun of that day, that a Lysander took off to search for a certain field in the vast, black mosaic of Occupied France. It was the Squadron's first ‘set-down and pick-up’ operation, and the pilot was well chosen. His name was Flight-Lieutenant ‘Whippy’ Nesbitt-Dufort.

Why ‘Whippy’
? I know him well, and we had drunk many a tankard of beer together in the Lamb at Burford before I asked him the origin of his curious nickname. He told me one evening as he drove his elderly Daimler between Brize Norton and Burford during the war. He had been one of the three regular R.A.F. officers who had been chosen to give a display of aerobatics before delighted and awe-struck crowds at the Hendon Air Pageant. Nesbitt-Dufort - he didn't become ‘Whippy’ until some hours later - threw his aircraft gaily about the sky, looping the loop linked on to two other aircraft in perfect precision. When the display was over, he set course for base. High over Bedfordshire, an engine began to splutter. Nesbitt-Dufort looked anxiously for somewhere to land. He found it. From the air it looked almost too easy, a flat, green expanse of field or meadow with no trees or other obstructions. He came down, and at about a hundred feet, his engine losing power. Using every eddy of the air, he managed to execute a perfect forced landing on the perfect field, skimming along the grass, braking to a stop as he ran up a gentle incline. He drew a deep breath, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Then he looked around, and was electrified to see that he was not alone. A gigantic rhinoceros was trotting ponderously in his direction, head lowered. At the same instant, he heard the deep-throated roaring of lions and, as he bolted for the stout fencing, he acquired his nickname. Flight-Lieutenant Nesbitt-Dufort had put down in the middle of Whipsnade Zoo. This was not the first-and by no means the last of Whippy's hairs breadth escapes. He was a man of infinite resource and gaiety. I had flown with him many times and he is the surest pilot I know. He took me up one golden morning in the Cotswolds and we traced the winding course of the Windrush, following every twist and turn of that shining little river until it flowed into the Thames. We hedge-hopped over the fields of Somerset once in a tiny aircraft and landed somewhere and had a sandwich lunch, leaning against a hayrick in the sun, and took off again and flew home, with Whippy lifting the aircraft over the high shoots of the blackthorn and sliding down again to flatten the grass. All this was for a purpose. On the eve of one of his many missions, he came to see me in the War Office. We had a hilarious luncheon party together and before he left me, I asked him where he was going to. He put his finger to his lips and one eye-lid drooped, and replied: "funny business."

Some weeks later, I read to my dismay in
The
Times
that Squadron Leader Nesbitt Dufort, D.S.O., was missing, believed killed. It was hard to believe that all that vitality could have been quenched so very swiftly and my heart was heavy. But I had hardly put the paper down when there was a tap on my door. My Sergeant told me that there was an R.A.F. officer to see me. Without asking, I knew that it could only be him. Yet, what had happened to him and how he had come home from Occupied France is another story. He appeared to have lost some weight, not that there was much to lose, because he was always as lean as a greyhound, but there he was as gay and casual as ever. All he said was this: "I'm back. Let's go to the Silver Cross and have one or six drinks."

From the man transformed to the machine, as always.

The Lysander was a small, nimble aircraft, capable of taking off and landing in a restricted space. Because of its size and purpose, these Special Duty ‘Lizzies’ had to be stripped of all guns, armour and wireless equipment (except radio telephones) in order to allow room for the passengers. Amongst other disadvantages, this meant that the pilot had to fly without a navigator. On an operation which demanded absolute navigational accuracy, this also meant that he had to find his way in the moonlight with maps crumpled on his knees, stealing a glance whenever he could, acutely aware that the aircraft made a copybook target for both flak and fighter attacks. On the crumpled map, the target was a needle-point. Seen from the air, it was not much larger. A tiny field in a darkened countryside; three glimmering lights arranged in an agreed pattern, lights that flickered and went out as the feeble batteries in make-shift torches died; all around, a vast darkness prickling with menace, for the Germans and their toadying collaborators were never far away. It was not only the life of the pilot that was at stake, or even that of his passenger. The lives of the brave people on the ground could readily be forfeit and the hands that held the torches racked in torture or stilled in death. The security of the whole elaborate underground network of which these men and women of France were a part could be ripped into shreds by one minute error made by the man with the map on his knees. The margin between success and disaster was frighteningly slim. Whippy Nesbitt-Dufort undertook his mission with cool and competent gaiety.

During the af
ternoon of September the 4th, Whippy was briefed. He studied his maps and waited for the last up-to-the-minute Met. report. He tested his aircraft meticulously and took a glass of orange-juice in the mess. Although he was unaware of it, the telephone kiosks within a wide radius of the airfield were discreetly but firmly padlocked and local residents who had telephone appointments with their boyfriends or girlfriends were unable to keep them. After an interminable wait, the moon rose. The Lysander taxied to its dispersal point. A car drove up and from it two men got out. They had a brief, muttered conversation and shook hands. Whippy noticed that they spoke French. One of the men then confronted Whippy himself: "This is your passenger," and to his companion he said, "This is your pilot." The passenger wore what was obviously a suit of French cut, and the sort of hat which has never seen St. James' Street. His shoes had triangular eye-holes and he reeked of Gaulloise cigarettes. He carried a cheap fibre suitcase, and his face was in shadow. He was a mysterious type. A Joe.

"Well,
if you're ready," said Whippy, "we'll get cracking."

"Right." To his companion he said, "
Au
revoir
." "
Au
revoir
."

He climbed into the Lysander. He was wholly uncommunicative, busy
with his own thoughts. Whippy took off and set course for Occupied France. The Channel was stippled with flecks of light, and, high over it, the Lysander's engine sang a steady, confident song. A thread of white foam dissolved forever on a dark shore and "Whippy" slid down the sky to brush the hedges of Normandy, and to frighten the cows on his way to a moonlit rendezvous.

Who awaited his coming?

It was another Joe, a Joe who would be replaced by the Joe who crouched beside Whippy, catching his breath as the Lysander hiccupped gently over the apple-trees and the blackberry bushes and the roofs of the sleeping farms. This Joe (who had let us call him ‘Bernard’) was a radio operator and had been parachuted into France some months ago. He had done a full, rich job of work, and had recently become aware that he was what Scotland Yard refers to as a ‘suspected person’. There was only one course of action before a suspected person, and that course was flight - the sooner the better. His papers and his cover story had been designed to render their bearer free from suspicion. If they failed in their purpose, the end was sure. No papers, no matter how skilfully forged, could stand up to examination if that examination were sharpened by suspicion. No cover story could endure labyrinthine analysis, for not only Time but Goring's Big Battalions were on the other side. If the fox heard even the distant, uncertain tongue of the hounds, the hunt was up. Bernard had heard the echo of that lethal music and had wisely decided to run.

He had put a coded request for a pick-up to Baker Street. Baker Street had agreed with alacrity, reserving the intention to put another - as yet unsuspected - person down. Bernard would know that an aircraft was on its way by an innocent message which would follow the news in French as
"WHIPS N A D.E”, relayed by the B.B.C. The message was "
Les
Lions
Rugissent
", an unwitting reference to the occasion when Nesbitt Dufort had acquired his curious nickname. This time, it would not be the lions of the hunt who roared but the engine of Whippy's Lysander.

Bernard, accompanied by his French assistant and courier, put up at a small and reliable hotel in a back street in a town some ten miles away from the chosen landing field. He slept uneasily on the night of September the 3rd, beguiled by thoughts of the two eggs that would sizzle on his plate when he arrived in England, eager to be in living touch with those whom he loved. He awoke early. With impatience, he awaited the minute of the hour when he might expect the news of the roaring of lions. Punctually to the second the message came thro
ugh, distorted but unmistakable "
Les
Lions
Rugissent
." Failing any last-minute change of plan, the operation was on. Bernard went up to his room and began to pack. He told himself that he would be in England in a matter of hours. It seemed almost too easy.

It was.

As the afternoon passed, he played endless games of dominoes, drank innumerable cups of acorn coffee, and smoked unceasingly. A thousand times he asked his assistant what the time was, and came to the conclusion that his watch must have stopped. It hadn't. It seemed as though night would never come. At long last that day, there was a dimness about the horizon and the sky reddened. Sunset was an interminable affair and darkness a benediction. Soon, soon,
the
moon
would
raise
her
lamp
above
,
to
light
the
way
to
thee
,
my
love
...

Bernard and his most faithful friend settled their bill and began to walk out of the hotel. Had they not paused to argue about the price of the wine they had drunk, all would have been well. As it was, they stepped into the cobbled street-to be halted by a policeman. He rocked on his h
eels and made the demand they were hoping never to hear.

"
Vos
papiers
,
Messieurs
."

Whippy Nesbitt-Dufort was loping his Lysander over the moonlit fields. He navigated himself by rivers and by landmarks, verifying his position by peering at the maps on his knees. The honey-coloured moon picked out the spires and towers of churches, and the dim shadow of his wings flowed swiftly over grass that seemed to be illuminated by a pale and sinister light. He glanced at his watch. All was well. Unless he was to run into unforeseen or indeed unforeseeable trouble, he should make the rendezvous by the agreed time. He half-turned to the silent, anonymous figure that crouched beside him.

"Should be there in seven minutes.
I don't want to appear inhospitable or anything, but there will be no time for affectionate farewells."

"I understand."

"So if you can be ready to beat it like a scalded cat ..." "Certainly."

"Fine. About six minutes to go now. Jolly good luck to you."

"And to you."

The Lysander flew on.

Bernard and his companion had not been the victims of a brilliant c
ounter-espionage swoop, but merely been caught up in a bureaucratic and quite arbitrary spot check of identification papers. The officious policeman declared that he was not satisfied, and followed up with the request for the gentlemen to please accompany him to the police station. Bernard and his companion looked at each other and swallowed. They went to the police station. The Sergeant yawned at their approach. He had had a long and boring day and was in no hurry. The examination of Bernard's papers was lengthy and tedious. To show the slightest sign of haste or impatience might well be fatal, so Bernard studied his nails, keeping his eyes away from the clock over the Sergeant's head, trying not to hear its inexorable ticking away of the precious minutes. The forgers of Baker Street had done their work well. At last there was a grudging “
Tout
est
en
ordre
,
Monsieur
." Bernard took his documents and stood up eagerly. The Sergeant yawned again. He said to Bernard's companion: "
Et
maintenant
,
c'est
à vous
,
Monsieur
." Bernard sat down again. With a desperate, sustained effort, he controlled the tapping of his foot. Some twenty minutes passed before the Sergeant was satisfied. Again, everything was in order. But before they could leave, they had to listen to a dissertation on the beauty of the moonlight and on the malefactions of the "
sale
R.A.F." who made use of such nights for their own fell purposes. They expressed themselves heartily in agreement and asked permission to leave.