The Secret Ministry of Ag. & Fish (9 page)

Besides being much more dangerous, a Lysander pick-up was a completely different operation from a drop by Hudson, Whitley or Halifax. The plane, having to land to pick up its passengers, needed
a much larger area as a landing ground, without too many holes, and preferably on a height. The ‘Lizzie’ flew unarmed, with only a pilot and a despatcher, usually an RAF sergeant, and
with the observer’s place left empty for the passengers. From the rear it was completely unprotected, its only safeguard from the Messerschmitts sent up to intercept it the grey and
grey-green paint with which it was camouflaged! The Lysander was also slower than the larger planes, with a maximum speed of 212 mph and a cruising speed of 165 mph, and was therefore much more
vulnerable.

A Lizzie could only take three passengers. Being so light, it was frequently tossed about in violent air currents when the pilot, in order to avoid flak from anti-aircraft guns on the ground and
German fighter planes in the sky, had to twist and turn to such an extent that not only the passengers but also he and the despatcher were horribly sick! A Lysander was also used to pick up an
organizer whom London needed to see for a ‘briefing’ session, or a dignitary HQ wanted to interview.

When the sound of the plane’s engine was heard, and after the prearranged signal had been exchanged, four résistants each lit a bonfire, prepared in advance – this was later
changed to four flashing torches, or flashing bicycle lamps – forming a flare path along which the plane would rumble almost to a standstill. The pilot would make a U-turn, bank the plane
steeply then descend almost vertically and cruise along the flare path. He did not cut off his engine: he hardly stopped. The despatcher threw open the door, the replacement, if they were
collecting a wounded agent, leapt out, those departing leapt – or were thrown – in, and they were off. It was a rapid and very dangerous operation, which had to be carried out in less
than three minutes.

The return journey by Lysander was always perilous, because the Germans had been alerted by the engine noise, but also by the bonfires. Consequently, the plane was almost always subject to very
heavy flak all the way to the coast, and many pilots lost their lives.

Hugh Verity, one of the best-known of 138 Squadron’s young pilots, picked up the famous résistant Jean Moulin from a landing ground in France and flew him to England for
consultations with General de Gaulle. They had such an horrendous return journey he said on landing that he was ashamed to face his ‘Joe’, the nickname pilots gave to all their
passengers, after the bumpy ride to which he had subjected him. Climbing down from the cockpit, Hugh Verity turned to leave. But ‘Joe’ came up to him, held out his hand and thanked him
for a safe landing. Jean Moulin returned to France but was later captured and died under the most cruel torture. We heard that every bone in his body was broken by his torturers and that he was
unrecognizable, no longer a human being, when death mercifully released him.

The journalist Pierre Brossolette re-entered France by submarine, landing on the Mediterranean coast, not far from Narbonne. Like Jean Moulin, he was later captured, and, after suffering
excruciating torture in the infamous Gestapo HQ at 84 avenue Foch in Paris, he was left alone in a cell on the fourth floor of the building, with his hands tied behind his back. He somehow managed
to climb up to a window high in the wall and hurl himself to his death. Neither of these brave men ever revealed anything.

More than half the planes making night sorties over occupied France arrived safely back at Tempsford or Tangmere between four and six in the morning, depending on what part of France they were
coming from, and also the time of year. Ideally, they had to have crossed the Channel, away from German flak, before dawn. But they often arrived in a dreadful state, the plane’s
undercarriage riddled with bullets, the wings torn half off, having suffered terrible damage on the return journey. Sometimes the pilot managed to land but the plane burst into flames as soon as it
touched down, imprisoning him in the cockpit. The passengers sat at the back of the plane and were able to leap to safety. There was always an ambulance and a rescue team at the airfield, but if
the rescue team did not manage to pull the pilot to safety, he was burnt alive. Even if the team did manage to haul him out of the cockpit, he was often horribly burnt and so terribly disfigured he
was barely recognizable, since it was usually his hands and face which were exposed to the flames. Plastic surgery was in its very early stages during the war. Although Dr Archibald McIndoe, one of
its pioneers, did his best and often worked wonders with terribly mutilated flesh, I’ve seen young pilots with hands which were nothing more than claws, and faces which no longer existed:
merely a piece of skin dragged between the ears, with two holes for the nose and a slit for the mouth and eyes – without the protection of eyelashes – peering out. The goggles the
pilots wore usually protected their eyes to some extent, but even so some pilots were blinded. Yet when they had taken off from that very airfield only a few hours before they had been healthy,
handsome young men with their whole lives before them. Now their ‘normal’ lives were virtually over, and many were so disfigured they were no longer able to live in society and spent
the rest of their lives making poppies for Remembrance Day in one of the Star and Garter or Cheshire Homes.

Out of the 329 high-risk landings and pick-up operations by plane organized by SOE, 105 failed. 161 Squadron made 13,500 sorties into occupied Europe, and in France alone landed 324 agents and
picked up 593. There were in total 600 casualties among their air crews, whose effective strength was 200. So between 1943 and 1945 the force was literally wiped out three times. And 138 Squadron
had considerably more sorties to their credit – with corresponding losses. It is almost impossible to imagine the scale of the SOE’s clandestine operations, let alone the huge losses
inflicted upon the Special Duties Squadrons.

After working in Montague Mansions for a while, I was transferred to Norgeby House. The main building was teeming with people, representing every occupied country. It was by no
means a quiet life, but at least it wasn’t as hectic as my days with the Crazy Gang. On the surface, there appeared to be some kind of order. We had a much closer contact with the agents,
whether they were departing or returning from the field or setting off to begin their long training. And I soon became very well acquainted with the whole process.

Every returning agent was given a huge breakfast at the airfield on arrival and then immediately taken to Orchard Court, a luxurious block of flats in central London, for a Y9, the codename for
a debriefing. They were usually able to give very valuable information about what the conditions were really like behind enemy lines.

SOE also had another flat along the Bayswater Road, less well known in the Section than Orchard Court. We used to take the bus to go there, a tuppenny-ha’penny fare, which dropped us right
outside the door. I have heard that agents who were under suspicion were kept under lock and key there, as well as Germans who said they wished to defect to the Allies and join SOE. Escaped
prisoners were supposedly interrogated there, too. I never attended any such interrogations, but I was told that there was one foolproof question the interrogating officers posed to any prisoners
they suspected of being German spies: what was meant by the phrase ‘a maiden over’. It was deemed that such arcane cricketing terms would only ever be identified by a true Brit. Another was to
enquire whether they knew the name of Buck’s dog. Every agent had met Buck’s faithful companion, which accompanied him to the office every day, and would certainly have remembered its
name. Unfortunately, after so many years, that is a detail I cannot remember!

SOE occupied the whole of the first floor of Orchard Court, and the people living in the other apartments going about their everyday business hadn’t the remotest idea – I doubt they
even suspected – what was going on under their very noses. The French agents jokingly nicknamed Orchard Court
la maison de passe
(the brothel)! It was anything but! More like Clapham
Junction, with people coming and going non-stop in every direction. Arthur Park, a lovely man, was the major-domo or butler – I don’t think he had an official title. He was in charge of
the flat and, for security reasons, had the difficult task of keeping agents of different nationalities apart. Not always easy since often there were agents leaving for various countries, all
clustered there together, while waiting to be collected by their conducting officers. But Arthur held a trump card! Orchard Court had a black marble bathroom – with a bidet, which was an
unheard-of appliance in England at the time. Today no one would bat an eyelid at the bathroom’s exotic design, but in those far-off wartime days a black marble bathroom was the height of
eroticism. And everyone wanted to view it for themselves. So should he have a collection of agents leaving for different countries all at the flat at the same time, Arthur would shut them in
separate rooms, after promising to personally give them a tour of the famous bathroom – if they behaved. But that if ever they escaped to take a peep for themselves they would not be allowed
even a glimpse, and would have to leave with their curiosity unsatisfied. I became very popular in the Section because I had actually seen the black marble bathroom, so my company was often sought
by those eager to learn the details.

Arthur was a middle-aged Brit who had lived most of his life in France but who, after Dunkirk and the fall of France, had had to leave his French wife and hurriedly make his way to England to
serve King and Country – only to discover on arrival that he was too old for active service. He was perfect for his job at Orchard Court, however: very firm, but very gentle. I remember
telling him so and asking him why he had been chosen. ‘The General [Colin Gubbins, the head of SOE] told me it was because I knew how to keep my mouth shut,’ he replied, smiling. He had
a lovely smile. And it was that smile which departing agents carried with them, since Arthur was one of the last people they saw before leaving. And one of the first persons they saw upon their
return.

One afternoon in the early 1960s I was in Paris helping with a Toc H tea party for elderly British residents when the organizer came over to where I was busily buttering scones:
‘There’s a gentleman here who says he knew you during the war,’ she announced. ‘He’s sitting at that table over there. Would you like me to bring him to meet
you?’ It was Arthur. To the astonishment of the other helpers and, I imagine, most of the other people in the room, we fell into each other’s arms, delighted to meet up again. After the
war, when he was demobbed, Arthur had returned to his French wife, whom he had left in Paris in 1940. But sadly, not long after they were reunited, she was diagnosed with cancer and died. They had
married late in life and there were no children, so Arthur was now alone. We ‘adopted’ him, and our children became his ‘grandchildren’. Before he died he spent many happy Christmases
with us. We used to collect him on Christmas Eve and take him back to his little flat on Boxing Day. I think that after the noise, the excitement and the hustle and bustle of our family festivities
he was happy to collapse into his old armchair by the window looking down into the courtyard . . . and sleep.

Sitting in on the debriefings and witnessing the different reactions of the returning agents was a revelation. Some came back with their nerves shattered, their hands trembling uncontrollably as
they lit cigarette after cigarette. Yet others who appeared, to me at least, to have lived through much more harrowing experiences returned completely relaxed, behaving as if they had just spent a
fortnight lying on a sea-lapped tropical beach soaking up the sun.

One agent had been the organizer of a
réseau
in Normandy. His radio operator had been killed, and he had sent an urgent message to London requesting an immediate replacement.
Although every agent learned something about wireless communications, it was only the basics, and without the pianist he was cut off from any substantial contact with HQ. I don’t know whether
trained radio operators were in short supply at the time, or whether there was some other explanation, but London sent in a man who didn’t speak French. It was a disaster. He was a danger not
only to himself, but to the whole
réseau.
The organizer, furious, sent a signal to London saying ‘Send me a Chinese next time,’ to which London replied: ‘Looking
for a suitable Chinese.’ Perhaps understandably, the organizer returned with his nerves in shreds.

But there was another
chef de réseau
who, although he had been very cleverly evading the Germans for months, had finally been captured. He was arrested, imprisoned and sentenced
to death. He was to be executed at dawn the following morning. We were all in despair. He was only twenty-nine, and the father of two young children. The next morning the whole of F Section was
silent, without its usual frantic activity. Suddenly there was a loud commotion. A signal had arrived. ‘He’s escaped and is in hiding, but the Germans are searching for him everywhere
and are closing in. The situation is desperate. They won’t be able to keep him hidden much longer. Must send in a Lysander tonight.’