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Authors: Jerrard Tickell

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"
Si
,
si
,
vous
pouvez
partir
."

The airfield was ten miles away and, even if they were to get there in time, they still had to make ready the rudimentary flare-path. They half-ran back to their hotel and jumped on their bicycles which had miraculously remained
theirs and no one else’s. With aching limbs, and sweat running into their eyes, they pedalled out into the empty countryside. There was not time to draw breath, much less to rest. At last, they came to the home stretch with the field only a few minutes away. It was then that they heard the steady hum of the Lysander's engine and saw its shape move across the stars as ‘Whippy’ circled the air, searching vainly for the glimmer of their welcoming torches.

So near and yet so far. There, in Bernard's sight, was the very aircraft for which he longed
for during supremely dangerous nights and days. But he knew none better that the pilot could not circle much longer without attracting the attention of the watchful Germans or the hostile French. Already the humming of the engine was like thunder in his ears, awakening the tranquil countryside. The thunder lessened and receded while he prayed for its loud crescendo once more. If it complied, his prayers were answered.

 

Whippy banked and came back, peering downwards. It was a moment for desperate decision. Bernard took it. He jumped off his bicycle, leaving it to wobble drunkenly into the hedge, and stumbled into a field. A lightning, measuring glance told him that it looked all right. He had only the light of the moon by which to assess this strange terrain and another prayer was soundlessly uttered; not for himself, but for the pilot of the circling aircraft. Breathless and with every muscle quivering, he laid out the torches and waited. The Lysander flicked a momentary answering light, instantly quenched, then vanished to reappear at the far end of the field at thirty, twenty, then ten feet. Its wheels skidded along the unfamiliar, unexamined grass, bumping and jolting. The Lysander finally stopped and wheeled and taxied back to the spot where it had touched down, its propeller swinging jerkily. The door opened. A shadowy figure clutching a cheap fibre suitcase jumped out. Bernard scrambled in. Whippy said genially:


Good evening to you, or should I say 'Good morning’. What's this field been laid out for? The French Grand National?"

"Sorry. It looked all right."

"My dear chap, don't give it another thought. We're off to E.H. and B."

"What does that mean?"

"England, home and beauty. Here we go. Hold your hat on."

The propeller spun. The Lysander gathered speed, hopping like a gigantic dragon-fly over the ruts and hillocks. A sudden smoothness told Bernard that they were airborne and that smoothness was interrupted by a violent jolt. The aircraft had fouled a line of telephone wires. It rose like a rocketing pheasant and, by superb piloting, settled down again to level flight. Trailing
several feet of telephone wire, Whippy hedge-hopped across France and over the Channel as the sun lifted a sleepy golden eyebrow over the sea.

But his troubles were not yet over. His radio telephone was out of actio
n and, in the strengthening sunlight, the English airfield lay hidden in dense ground mist. Whippy found his way down, and slid at last along the friendly tarmac between what looked like impenetrable bridal veils of fog. He brought the Lysander to a stop and taxied back, the telephone wires of France trailing behind him. He switched off his engine, yawned, stretched and got out stiffly. His passenger began to thank him.

"Piece of cake," sai
d Whippy. "Piece of cake. Now let's get over to the mess and have one or six drinks." He looked frowning at the mesh of telephone wire that lay coiled and twisted on the dewy tarmac. "Odd," he said. "Very odd. My friends told me years ago that I had straws in my hair. Must be true. Er . . . you didn't happen to bring a bottle of Champers with you that you don't want?"

"No," said Bernard. "No Champers."

"Pity," said Whippy with a sigh. "Pity. No Champers. Brings the war home to you."

 

This was the prototype of the ‘pick-up’. Scores of similar operations were to follow it, some easy, some very tricky indeed, some to end in disaster. The successful ones were always light-heartedly described by the pilots as ‘pieces of cake’. In fact, they were never other than dangerous to a degree, demanding and receiving the maximum in courage, quick-thinking and skill. Cake yesterday, cake tomorrow, but never cake today.

 

There is, of course, a postscript to this- 138 Squadron's first descent on to a French field. The Joe in the lamentable hat waved good-bye to Whippy's Lysander, took a deep and satisfying breath of the French night air, lit a Gaulloise and decided to put as many kilometres between him and the improvised landing ground as possible. The aircraft had made enough noise to waken the dead, or, of far more immediate importance, the Germans. He tiptoed silently (or so he thought) over the ruts of the field towards the shadows of the hedge. He had begun to walk in the direction of the town when he heard a loud arresting shout. Certain that the Germans were already on his tail, he started to run for it, pounding along the road with his fibre suitcase desperately clutched in his left hand while, with his right, he groped for his revolver. After all, he had only been in France for a matter of minutes and was possibly over-wary. He could hear the gasping and the stumbling of his pursuer and on he sprinted, believing that his only chance of survival depended on the speed of his legs. When he could run no more, he put his back to a wall and prepared to sell his life for as dear as possible. His pursuer faced him in the waning moonlight. When he could speak, he began to swear in rich and imaginative fluency; he cursed the police, the Germans, the landing field, the aircraft, the R.A.F. in general and the Lysander's pilot in particular. He then turned his vocabulary to the subject of bicycles. He singled out his own bicycle for invective and that of Bernard for an even more pointed invective. Lastly he dealt with British agents, agents who, having had the honour to land in France, took to their heels at the sound of a welcoming voice, thereby forcing the owner of that voice, who had already pedalled an innumerable amount of kilometres in the last hour at an unconscionable speed, to chase them like a pack of English dogs after
le
fox
. He paused for breath. He smiled. He said warmly:

"Monsieur, you are most welcome."

 

Chapter Five

STRANGE MEN

 

Strange, eager, resentful men came to Newmarket, talking a strange language. They had a way with the girls.

Poland had been invaded by the Germans on the night of August 31st, 1939. For Britain, the war had begun three days later. The triumphant Nazis accepted the capitulation of Warsaw on September 26th, when the city had been reduced to rubble by concentrated bombardment from the sky and by massed heavy artillery, when food had given out and the last muddy drops of water had been drunk. The Panzers of the conquerors entered what was left of the Polish capital on the first day of October, and the Polish government in exile was set up in France under General Sikorski as Prime Minister. The Polish forces who had escaped before the overwhelming tide of the German invasion were then vowed to the liberation of their country from that moment of almost-complete catastrophe.

Early in 1941, the call had gone out for volunteers from the Polish bomber squadrons to drop equipment besought by the desperate, ardent Home Army in the sewers of Warsaw. The call was answered to a man. Three complete crews were picked. The liberation of their beloved country was the burning inspiration of these Polish airmen. They were warned that they might well be commanded to go into action against the
common enemy in alien skies which they undertook to do cheerfully and heroically. But their thoughts and their strong desire was for battle in the Polish sky.

By September
, the three crews had completed their training. For a few days they kicked impatient heels. Then, to the fierce envy of their comrades, the first crew was posted to 138 Squadron and arrived eagerly on 9th October. A month later, they were briefed for their first mission to the homeland, where they would drop equipment and instructors into the wreck of tortured Warsaw.

The risks were frightful. The round trip to a Polish target was about two thousand miles. The range of a Halifax, given reasonably fair weather, was two thousand, one hundred and seventy-five miles. The crews, licking their fingers to the wind, were aware that the flying margin between success and disaster was a paltry pint or two of petrol. It was a consideration that dismayed th
em not at all. Only let them go for the love of God and of Poland.

To Wing-Commander A. Rudkowski (late of 301 Squadron, now of 138) fell the inestimable honour of piloting the first aircraft. Prayers were said, prayers of gratitude, prayers of hope. A dedicated man and his dedicated crew walked to the Halifax. They were men to whom a glimpse of paradise had been granted and there were most honourable tears among those of their compatriots who watched them go. When the aircraft had become a dwindling speck in the darkening sky, the men who had been left behind sank on their knees before the softly illuminated Virgin to pray that they too might soon follow. It was a moment of splendour and of glory and of grief.

The Halifax flew on, the three parachutists who were to be dropped in the outskirts of Warsaw, counting each minute until their boots would once again tread their native soil. The route chosen was by Denmark, the Baltic and Danzig and, after many hours, the men knew that the long plains and the longed-for pine forests of Poland were below. There was envy among the crew, envy for those who would vanish into the moonlit night, sure in the knowledge that their vulnerable bodies would, at worst, lie in the welcoming earth that they loved. The Halifax approached the shell of a city. Hands were clasped, the last messages repeated, messages to those who still breathed within the ruins. Gladly, the three men jumped. They were followed down the sky by wireless transmitters and by weapons and by ammunition to use in those weapons. The Halifax wheeled over the stricken city and set course for England, for the country that had become their second home and their base for offensive operations. But there were powerful and constant head-winds and the needles that indicated the dwindling contents of their fuel tanks began to shiver and to point steadily to the ominous letter E. When the last drop had been used up, the Halifax landed miraculously intact in Sweden. Wing-Commander Rudkowski and his crew were interned as was required by international law. Barbed wire merely presented a challenge to these bold and patriotic men. They were men who were absolutely unprepared to accept this early check to their sworn mission. Within a short space, they bade a joyous if silent farewell to the flesh pots of neutral Sweden and escaped. Using the route that came to be known as "Northern One," they came to England. They had travelled by the North Sea, Denmark, even the Baltic as far as an unfrequented stretch of coast between Danzig and Kolobizeg and then southwards inland. Their privations were terrible, their target Newmarket. To reach that delectable base for future sorties, they were prepared single-mindedly to endure. They came-not to Newmarket but to Stradishall. The Squadron had moved. They reported there for duty. "Please, as soon as possible, we are wishing to make a flight to Poland."

Alas, that longed-for return flight to Poland w
as delayed. In November, 1941, 38 Squadron had settled down in its new but temporary home. It was to remain there for a bare three months-under the command of Wing-Commander Farley, D.F.C. Brief as this period was, it was a violently active one. In the space of less than ninety days, the Squadron undertook fifty special operations and every single one of them was a success. Their wings had been over France, Belgium, Holland, Norway, Czechoslovakia, and once more over Poland when a second crew had the delight of seeing their native soil below them. Two Whitleys were detached from the Squadron in this same month of November for service in Malta. Using the island as their base, their objective was to parachute agents and equipment into the lowering mountains of Yugoslavia where the hungry partisans waited. The Whitleys flew to Malta. The agents were sent by submarine-packed in with dried milk, babies' dummies, plastic explosive (light-heartedly known to saboteurs as ‘stagger-juice’), insect powder, brassieres and hand-grenades. Men and machines arrived safely but one of the Whitleys was found to be unserviceable. The other took off with a Serbian as second pilot. Though the mission was successfully completed, it was regarded as a testing flight from which much might be learned. These were still the days of trial and experiment. Much was learned. It became clear that Whitleys were too slow for daylight operations of this kind. Their lack of oxygen and de-icing equipment imposed a tremendous physical strain on both passengers and crews and it was sadly realised that, other than in cases of extreme urgency, the aircraft were impracticable. The two Whitleys returned to England to rejoin I38 Squadron at Stradishall. Their stay there was brief.

In March, I942, 138 Squadron moved to Tempsford. As the Danes had done a thousand years ago they abode there, thinking that from thence, they could by war and hostility get more of the land again.

It was not their own unassailable soil that they sought.

 

Chapter Six

THE TRAP IS SPRUNG

 

To Tempsford came a second special duty squadron that had been formed a month before. The cadre of this new Squadron was The King's Flight, commanded by Wing Commander E. H. ("Mouse") Fielden, former pilot to the then Prince of Wales and famed for his brilliant captaincy of crews detached for duty to His Majesty King George VI.

The number of this Squadron was 61. They were the
‘pick-up’ experts. The ‘pick-up’ sortie, eventually brought to an exact art by 161 Squadron, was perhaps one of the most spectacular regular operations of the war.

The original request came from the underground group. Using an ordinary Michelin road map which, if found on one's person by the Germans was in itself not a suspicious object, the group found what looked on paper to be a suitable field. But personal inspection was essential. Usually two people, a man and a woman, then mounted their bicycles and trundled off to see the ground and to measure it by pacing. The requirements were rigid. A Lysander needed a good, clear flat surface about six hundred yards long and four hundred yards wide. A Hudson's needs were greater. It required about one thousand six hundred yards by eight hundred. The Germans, aware of these dimensions and the use to which such fields might be put, were apt to dig trenches across them and to erect hazards in the shape of farm carts, reapers and binders or steel stakes. If these trenches were filled in over
-night and the hazards removed (this was done on more than one occasion), everything had to be back in its place by the dawn, every single trace of the operation obliterated.

Jean and Jeanette, therefore, set off on their bicycles. In the event of their being stopped by the Germans and asked to explain their presence in an unfrequented place, the answer was an obvious one. It had little to do with the war. Jean and Jeanette had to be prepared at a moment's notice to assume a position in a haystack that would leave no doubt whatsoever as to their purpose in visiting these lonely
, private fields. These reconnoitring expeditions were very much sought after and it is on record that full dress, or rather undress-rehearsals, in
case
the Germans came, were not infrequent.

The field having been chosen on paper and inspected in person, its map-reference was signalled in code to Baker Street. There it was checked against an identical Michelin road map. Its location was then passed on to a certain section at the Air Ministry who looked at its own more detailed maps and pondered the physical features of the area from the point of view of their specialised knowledge of the requirements of a good landing field. Only when they were absolutely satisf
ied with the preliminary survey did they assent. If there was the slightest doubt, aerial photographs would be taken while an aircraft was ostensibly en route for somewhere else, and the site would again be studied in minute detail. If these meticulous gentlemen were
still
in any uncertainty, the field was rejected. Baker Street was asked to contact the group and to request that another location be submitted.

Jean and Jeanette would exchange languishing glances and mount their bicycles again. The whole elaborate process was about to be repeated.

The field was chosen, inspected and eventually approved. The British agent, the Joe, who was to be set down in France, was taken to a large country house in the Tempsford area, there to eat admirable meals, drink a little admirable claret and wait for the night of the operation with what patience he or she could muster.

In and around about Tempsford, the unhurried life
of farming seemed to go on. Within the aerodrome, the camouflaged briefing room was unobtrusively guarded by sharp-eyed men for twenty-four hours a day. No unauthorised person has ever been known to enter its doors, until a mild morning in March, 1942.

The whole of one wall was covered by a large scale map of France, showing the Channel coast li
ne of both England and France, extending South to take in the Dijon area. The room was strictly utilitarian. At a deal table sat a middle-aged man in the uniform of a Flight-Lieutenant R.A.F. He was the station's Intelligence Officer, a worried looking man with plenty on his plate. A Wing-Commander in battle-dress came briskly into the room. The Intelligence Officer rose to his feet.

"Good morning, sir."

"And good morning to you, Peter. What's the programme for tonight?"

The Intelligence Officer rubbed his chin.

"There's quite a lot on. I've just had details from the Air Ministry. We've got our usual quota of parachute jobs but there's a special pick-up as well. Looks quite interesting."

The Wing-Commander picked up the sheet of paper and read aloud, frowning.

"Let's see. Operation TROJAN HORSE. Target position 47-10 North 05-30 East." He turned to the map on the wall and pointed unerringly with his finger. "Hmm. That's just a little south of Dijon in this area. Between two rivers. No difficulty in finding that. Take one Joe out and bring another Joe back. I take it that the passenger is all lined up."

"Yes, the Joe's ready. How about routing, sir?"

"Usual route to the West of Paris, down to the Loire at about Orleans and then bang into the target area." Again, he frowned. "We'll have to keep our eyes skinned at Dijon.

There's a highly efficient German fighter base there. Too damned efficient. And there's bound to be bags of light flak as well."

"Moon's good tonight."

"Yes. Rises late. Means that we won't be on the target until well
after midnight. Met. seems O.K, so you can count it 'on.' You'd better warn the Air Ministry straight away to lay it on. Got any photographs of the landing strip?"

The Intelligence Officer handed him the photographs. While the Wing-Commander studied them, the Intelligence Officer picked up one of two telephones on the deal table. "Air Ministry, please. Oh hullo, Monk Street? That you, John? Peter here. Can you scramble please? Right. Over we go." Now using his secret line, he could talk freely. "Tonight's ops. TROJAN HORSE is on. The code words for our French friends are
'The
moon
is
full
.
'
Can you get that over to Baker Street for onward transmission to the B.B.C. THE MOON IS FULL. Right. Good-bye."

He put down the telephone. The Wing-Commander was deep in the photographs, translating every darkness, every shadow, every indentation, into terms of the physical ground. At last
, he put them back on the deal table.

"Right. The field looks O.K. Barring accidents, should be like the runway at Croydon. Briefing will be at 1400 hours and we'll fix the details at the planning conference. See you then, Peter."

The Intelligence Officer stood up. "I'll be there, sir."

He sat down again. It all sounded all right and, bless his soul, he was used to these jobs by now. But the feeling persisted in the marrow of his bones that this particular TROJAN HORSE
- or more suitably TROJAN MARE - was going to drop a premature foal.

 

The routine had long been established. The news that TROJAN HORSE was indeed now ‘on’ reached Baker Street from the Air Ministry. It was then told to a young woman, unknowingly unaware of its significance, who included the code phrase ‘
The
moon
is
full’
with a number of other equally mysterious messages and took it down to the French Section of the B.B.C. The B.B.C. undertook to relay it at the time appointed and the young woman sat down with earphones to listen and to check the second of the minute of the hour when the message would be told to those who awaited it so eagerly in France.

 

God knows what happened to the French men and women who took part in this operation. These words are meant literally. God knows - for there is nobody left who can tell in human words. Those who could have told are dead.

Jean and Jeanette set off on their bicycles. They arrived at the alternative field which had been chosen by their group. Arrived there, they parted. Jean paced one side of the field, counting his steps in terms of metres. Jeanette paced the other side, counting. She even made allowances for the fact that her stride was shorter than Jean's. They met at the south
end of the field by a haystack (an essential prop) and agreed that it was perfect.
Epatant
! Overjoyed, they were about to mount their bicycles when the Germans arrived. These were not the loutish members of the Wehrmacht whom the French despised. These were the
Abwehr
, the counter-espionage section of the German General Staff, and, for these expert observers, nothing was too trivial to notice.

Jea
n and Jeanette made for the haystack and prepared to perform the usual routine. But their simulated transports failed to convince. They were questioned and blandly allowed to go. They were wholly unaware, when they rode away with many bashful apologies for their inexcusable behaviour, that they, and the field, were under the strictest and most professional surveillance.

Jean and Jeanette returned to the group. They related what had happened, dismissing the incident with a snap of the fingers. The Germans had been fooled. But the Germans had not. With great patience, they waited until such time as the operation was judged to have been "laid on" with London. Then they swooped.

The means that were used to extort information would not make pleasant reading. Women were more especially subject to the young Nordics of Rimmler's No.1 Interrogation School, to whom members of the Group were turned over. Nobody knows who talked. It is only known that details were at long last squeezed out of some crushed, broken and blackmailed body, male or female. The undertaker was indifferent; the
Abwehr
were elated. At last it was going to be possible to ambush one of these elusive spy-carrying aircraft. Suppose its crew could be taken prisoner. Then, after a suitable "humane" interrogation, it might even be possible to find out the name and address of the English aerodrome from which these English Scarlet Pimpernels took off. Once this aerodrome had been pin-pointed, the rest would be easy. It would be well worth the while of the German High Command to organise a special bombing mission by the
Luftwaffe
to smoke out this wasps' nest. The German Kommandant foresaw glory and promotion. Let the English come…

 

The news in French as relayed by the B.B.C. took a long time that evening and was followed by an inordinate number of
messages
personnels
. To the impatient Germans listening with earphones clamped to their heads, it seemed as if the one message for which they waited would never come. Had the tortured informer betrayed them after all? It was, in fact, the last of the messages, but it came through clearly.


The ... moon ... is . . . full ...”

Now to prepare a suitable reception. The Germans knew the field. They knew the hour when the aircraft was due to arrive. They knew the m
ethod of illuminating the makeshift runway, four torches spaced at even intervals, the fourth of these being red. They knew the code sign for the night, the sign that the reception committee would flash into the night sky, telling the pilot that all was well. As the batteries of torches were sometimes weak, the French would ‘borrow’ a car from some collaborator or police official and use its headlights to signal the aircraft down. Tonight there would be no mistake. The lights that would welcome the British to France would be clear and unmistakable. The Germans even knew the danger signal, the quick flashing of a series of dots which could mean anything from an impatient "sorry, not quite ready yet" to a firm order: "no no no. The Gestapo are a hundred yards away." In this case, they knew the drill that would be followed by the pilot. He would fly over the field and vanish. After a decent interval, he would cautiously return. If he were again greeted by the warning signal, or worse still, by no signal at all, he would give up the operation and make for home.

Knowing all these things, the Germans began to make ready.

 

At Tempsford, Operation TROJAN H
ORSE was assigned to a Squadron-Leader. He was an Irishman, a cool, confident and thoroughly experienced pilot. He had done trips of this sort before and knew the form. On one of them, peering for a light, he had been deceived by the fluttering of a curtain in a lamp-lit room as the occupant peered out in curiosity at the sound of his engine. It was woefully easy to mistake the glimmering of a badly blacked-out village for the glow of beckoning torches. Weather forecasts relating to enemy occupied territory could not be expected to be exact. In the past, Squadron-Leader Conroy, nicknamed ‘Conroy’, had been mystified and worried and spent many anxious minutes trying to check his course because ground mist covered the landmarks by which he had hoped to fix his position. Another climatic hazard could be the cause of many a missed heartbeat. Airstrips which had been used before and were known to be serviceable in dry weather were apt to become unsafe after rain. One pilot had cheerfully put down in a morass into which his wheels had sunk and every revolution had merely plunged them in more deeply. Despite every effort of the reception committee, the aircraft was immovable. There was nothing to do but to set it on fire. He watched it burn and then grimly set out on foot on the long and dangerous journey from occupied France to Tempsford.

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