by Damien Lewis
As he stepped out, Vaculik reflected upon how dearly he loved his adopted country, the son of Czech immigrants as he was. Earlier, he’d paused to grasp a handful of soil, realising then how much he’d longed to free France – and all of Europe – from the dark yoke of Nazi oppression. Yet the feeling of elation was tempered by the knowledge of the responsibility that he shouldered: the entire fortunes of the SABU-70 raiders might turn on how he comported himself over the next few hours.
Having little idea exactly how he might go about gathering the intelligence they needed, he reached the outskirts of Dourdan. To either side sparse French farmsteads gave way to tree-lined avenues and rows of ancient townhouses. Dourdan dates back to pre-Roman times, and is steeped in the history of resisting invaders. Perhaps that boded well for Vaculik’s mission. More or less immediately he spied a cafe, and something about it struck him as inviting. Deciding to follow his instinct, he plucked up courage and pushed at the door.
With a squeak of hinges it swung open. Vaculik found himself the only customer in a typical French cafe. From behind the counter the proprietor studied him. He clearly wasn’t expecting any strangers at such an hour. Taking a seat at the bar, Vaculik ordered a cognac. It was something to settle the nerves – and in any case, French workmen habitually took a brandy with their early-morning coffee. Making small talk and ordering a second shot, Vaculik tried to gauge the calibre – and crucially the likely loyalties – of the man behind the bar. He had an honest, intelligent-looking face, but who knew? He could be in league with the enemy for all Vaculik could tell.
To chance his luck with the first person he met was some gamble, especially as the lives of eleven men – plus his own –might depend on its outcome, and few amongst them were under any illusions as to what would happen if they were caught. Of course there were Frenchmen who were risking their all to help liberate their country – hundreds and thousands of them. But equally there were the perfidious and the self-serving, ready to denounce anyone to further their own ends. Which might the cafe owner be?
Spurred by the fiery liquor, Vaculik ventured a first question, the response to which would very likely give him the answer. ‘Tell me, whereabouts is the railway station around here?’ He was about to add that he was after a timetable, but the cafe owner cut him off.
‘It’s at the end of the road to the right,’ the man explained, sharply. He fixed Vaculik with a piercing look. Then, in an intense whisper: ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’
For a moment, Vaculik was lost for words. Admittedly, he’d been away from France for well over three years, speaking mostly English, but how could the cafe owner know? He returned an equally searching look, wondering if he really could put his trust in this man. But the longer he delayed, the more difficult – almost impossible – it would be to deny it. A man with no connection to Britain would instantly have said so. Vaculik had singularly failed to speak up. What now?
Throwing caution to the wind – after all, something, some sixth sense, had driven him in here – he reached into his pocket and pulled out his red beret, opening it so the cap-badge was plain to see. Upon spying the iconic headwear, the triumphant smile that lit up the cafe owner’s face was something that Vaculik would ‘never forget’.
‘So, you’re here at last,’ he declared, delightedly, as he motioned Vaculik to follow him into the back room. ‘We’ve been expecting you for some time.’ They entered the kitchen, whereupon the cafe owner cried out: ‘Marie! Marie! Ham and eggs for this gentleman! ’
Soon a sumptuous feast was set before Vaculik, while the cafe owner gave a hurried explanation of his links to the Resistance. They had been expecting British parachutists for several days, but for one reason or another – Gestapo surveillance, the weather –the drops kept getting cancelled. For his part, Vaculik explained that ideally, he’d like to speak to the town’s stationmaster, if he was the sort who might be inclined to help.
‘Nothing easier,’ the cafe owner replied, effusively. ‘He happens to be one of ours and he drops in every morning for a drink, so all you’ve got to do is wait.’
For an instant it struck Vaculik that this was all proving a little too easy. Perhaps all was not as it seemed. He lit a cigarette, and fingered the cold steel of the Colt that he had stuffed deep in his greatcoat. If the cafe owner was planning to sell him out, at least he wasn’t completely defenceless. Vaculik had barely had time to finish his smoke when the cafe owner slipped away. Moments later the kitchen door opened again, and he was back with a second figure. This man, he announced, was the stationmaster himself.
The three had a round of conspiratorial cognacs, clicking glasses in a silent toast. Then the new arrival got straight to it. ‘You want to know the timetable for the Boche trains,’ he ventured. The term ‘Boche’ was an insulting one used for the enemy, meaning ‘cabbage-heads’ or ‘thick-heads’.
‘I do,’ Vaculik confirmed, ‘and the exact number of carriages.’ In fact, he wanted to know every possible detail, including – crucially –what the trains might be carrying.
The stationmaster promised Vaculik he’d have the information by midday, when the Germans would send through details. While the war materiel travelling by rail was wholly German, the train drivers and the network staff were still mostly French. If Vaculik waited at the cafe, the stationmaster would return, just as soon as he had the required information. They shook hands warmly, after which the stationmaster left with a creak of the noisy hinges. A drop of oil on those wouldn’t go amiss, Vaculik mused.
He killed time with the cafe owner, talking about the German sentries posted along the rail line and the patrols they tended to mount hereabouts. Vaculik made sure to commit all to memory, for this was priceless intelligence. But around eleven o’clock he heard the cafe door swung open as if ‘by someone who owned the place’, hinges squealing in protest. It was too early for the stationmaster, and he detected that a group of voluble Germans had crowded inside and were ordering drinks at the bar.
Vaculik figured there was nothing for it but to remain where he was, in the comparative safety of the kitchen. Surely there was no reason for any German to venture back here, not unless someone had ratted on his presence. The minutes crawled by, as he kept one nervous hand on his concealed Colt. Then, without warning, the kitchen door was pushed open and a German soldier appeared, framed in the doorway.
Vaculik tried not to stiffen when the soldier’s eyes fell – unsurprisingly –on the stranger in the kitchen, draped as he was in a heavy greatcoat. One wrong move now and Vaculik didn’t doubt he was done for. From all the noise they were making, he figured an entire German patrol had crowded into the cafe, and he wasn’t about to eliminate them all with his Colt .45 pistol, which chambered just eight rounds.
It seemed a long time before the soldier finally spoke. ‘You French?’ he demanded, revealing right away his suspicions.
‘Of course,’ Vaculik countered, forcing himself to look the man straight in the eye and adopting what he hoped was a relaxed, convivial air.
‘What are you doing here?’ the soldier asked, giving voice to the obvious next question.
Fortunately, Vaculik had his answer at the ready. ‘I’ve been ill, and I’ve come here to spend a few days in the country with my cousin.’ He was sick, hence the thick coat.
The German eyed him, sceptically. ‘Oh, I see,’ he murmured. He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘It’s just that I like talking French,’ he added, as if to put Vaculik at his ease. He turned back to the doorway, gazing out into the cafe, as if undecided.
Vaculik steeled himself to flee. It was the SAS’s credo: He who shoots and runs away, lives to shoot another day. Well, Vaculik might get off the first shot, to nail his inquisitor, but after that he’d have to make a mad dash out the back of the kitchen, for the cafe was sure to have a rear entrance. Even if he made it, he’d have an entire German patrol on his heels, and by the way they were acting these guys seemed to be regulars at the cafe, and Vaculik had to presume they knew th
e lie of the town.
As the figure hovered at the doorway, Vaculik felt his feet go cold as ice. They were thrust tight together far under the table, in an effort to hide his army footwear. He reproached himself for being such a damn fool, and for placing all his confidence in his very basic disguise and in the cafe owner; for not having asked to hide himself away, while he awaited the stationmaster’s return; for risking everything on this one wild card.
From the far side of the doorway he heard the scrape of chairs, as people got to their feet. Now was the moment of truth. Voices called in German to their comrade, who still seemed frozen at the kitchen doorway. Finally, he turned back to Vaculik, and with what appeared to be a friendly wink he bade his farewell. Moments later, all twelve of them filed out of the bar.
Vaculik didn’t know what to think. All he was sure of was that he wanted a stiff brandy to calm his nerves. The minutes dragged by, before finally the stationmaster put in an appearance. In hurried tones he gave Vaculik the lowdown. A train was expected around 1.30 a.m. the following night, one that would be packed full of munitions and fuel. It was scheduled to stop at Dourdan to take on water, before steaming towards the Normandy beaches, where its cargo was urgently needed to spur the German counter-offensive.
It seemed like the perfect target. ‘Any other trains at around that time?’ Vaculik queried.
‘None. The last passenger train is at eight o’clock, and the first after that is at six in the morning. There’s no danger of making any mistake.’
The risks of hitting a train crammed full of French civilians were minimal. Lastly, Vaculik asked about guards and watchmen. There were sentries posted at either end of the tunnel, their intended ambush point. As to the wood itself – the supposed location of the ammo dump – the stationmaster knew nothing about that. Vaculik had just about everything he needed, and it was time to cut and run. He thanked his helpers, but the stationmaster insisted that he guide Vaculik out of Dourdan via the back way.
They left by the cafe’s rear entrance, after which he threaded his way expertly along a series of narrow alleyways and lanes, until open country beckoned. There the two men shook hands, the stationmaster wishing Vaculik good luck. As if in afterthought, Vaculik asked him one final thing: might he find a way to warn the train’s driver and guard, especially if they were good loyal Frenchmen? Might there be a way to save their lives, without forewarning the enemy?
The stationmaster agreed to do what he could, after which Vaculik set off, taking a series of paths that wound through forests and fields and across streams. Now and again he opted to hide himself, as people wandered past, but mostly it was an uneventful if hot and tiring journey. Late that afternoon, he paused for a break in the shade of a wood, stooping to mop his brow. By his reckoning, it couldn’t be far now.
All of a sudden a voice hissed out of the shadows to his rear: ‘Hands up!’
‘Pack it up,’ Vaculik countered, recovering as best he could from his initial fright. He’d recognise the tones of Ginger Jones anywhere.
‘We’d given you up for lost,’ Jones announced, with a grin. ‘What’s the news? Any good?’
Vaculik assured Jones he’d got what was needed, after which Jones led him a few hundred yards into the depths of the woods, to where the raiders had set up camp. Sensing he had good news, Captain Garstin greeted Vaculik enthusiastically, shaking hands and slapping him on the back. There were cries of ‘Good old Frenchy!’ all around. Beams of sunlight pierced the shadows and birds chirped happily. Though fatigued, Vaculik felt elated. He’d done it. He’d pulled off his mission, even if mostly by good fortune and chance.
He proceeded to brief his fellows on what he had discovered. It was a bonanza of intelligence, that was for sure, but one vital piece was missing. They still knew nothing about the ammo dump in the woods. They needed to determine its exact location, the strength of any guard, sentry shifts, the amount of ammunition stored there and how best to blow it up. Ideally, they’d need to gather all that information tonight, if they were to be ready to strike by tomorrow evening.
Garstin figured four men should be enough to execute such a close target reconnaissance. Typical of a man who led from the front, the SAS captain would command the recce party, together with Paddy Barker and Ginger Jones. Vaculik would also have to go, as their native French-speaker, leaving Lieutenant Wiehe, who also spoke fluent French, in command of the rear party. They’d set out at ten o’clock that evening, as the summer light faded into darkness, which left Vaculik just a few hours in which to try to grab some kip.
Having gobbled up a tinful of Spam, washed down with a hot mug of tea, Vaculik pulled a pair of old socks over his muddy boots, crawled into his sleeping bag and fell instantly asleep, with Colt and grenade at his side just in case of any surprises. The trick with the socks was one learned during SAS training: it enabled you to emerge from your sleeping bag fully clothed and booted, and with grenade and pistol to hand, so you could move immediately and run and fight if needed.
At ten o’clock sharp the four men set out in single file, with Garstin in the lead. Minutes earlier, Vaculik had been woken by Paddy Barker, thrusting a steaming mug of tea into his hands. He’d just had time to gulp it down before the off. The moon was bright, despite a high veil of thin, wispy clouds, and it provided more than enough illumination by which to see and to navigate. Moving on a compass bearing, they marched across open country, through woods and along twisting bridlepaths.
Now and again a figure took a nip from a hip flask, passing it back and forth, and Jones and Vaculik chewed on wads of tobacco, to help keep alert. For three hours they pushed ahead into broken, difficult countryside, legs tiring at the pace demanded by Captain Garstin, until finally they emerged from a patch of woodland and stumbled upon the rail tracks, the pair of iron lines glinting beguilingly in the moonlight. Finally, they had eyes on the very thing they had come here to blow up, along with the locomotives that steamed back and forth.
But Jones for one seemed singularly unimpressed. ‘I thought they said this was a mechanised war,’ he grumbled. ‘My poor feet are giving me real gyp.’
Garstin glanced at Jones, shaking his head in mock despair. ‘Shut up moaning,’ he chided, gently.
‘The British soldier must grouse,’ Jones countered, stubbornly. ‘It relieves his ruddy feelings. What I’d give for a pint right now!’
Vaculik offered Jones his hip flask. It wasn’t exactly beer, but it was half-full of whisky and Jones was welcome to a swig. Typically, the former miner from Wigan almost drained it dry.
‘My God, what a swallow!’ Vaculik complained, as he held the flask to his ear and shook it. ‘You’ve practically emptied it!’
Before Jones could think of a suitable retort, Garstin announced that it was time to get down to business. The rails marked the dividing of the ways. One party, formed of himself and Paddy Barker, would execute a reconnaissance moving east, searching for the ammo dump, while Jones and Vaculik would head in the opposite direction.
‘Once done, return to the camp direct,’ Garstin instructed. ‘Don’t wait around for either party, don’t shoot unless absolutely necessary and move like snakes.’
With his simple set of instructions given, the two parties shook hands and went their separate ways. It was now that the months spent amidst the rugged hills and dales around Darvel would truly come into their own, the countless nights spent prowling through darkened forests – or camping in rain-soaked woodlands –more than proving their worth.
Lieutenant Wiehe had written of such things in his war diary –of ‘forty-three hours without sleep’, of running for mile after mile ‘in pouring rain and through swamps, risking getting stuck at every step’. He’d described an exercise on Kintyre – a peninsula on the rugged, storm-blasted west coast of Scotland – ‘two days and three nights of walking, attacking, and practising all we will have to do’ as the rain lashed down. But equally, he’d noted how ‘at the farms where we stop we are the object of almost em
barrassing hospitality: eggs, milk, butter . . . the benevolence of the locals is really charming.’
Now, the SABU-70 raiders would reap the benefits of such rigours many times over. For a short while Jones and Vaculik followed a path that ran alongside the rail tracks, pausing every now and again to wait and to listen. The cloud cover was heavier now, the moon obscured for long periods during which the night grew as still and dark as the grave. Windless and deathly quiet, it felt oppressive somehow, the air thick with some unseen but predatory menace. Now and again they lost their way, before finding it again, until finally, without warning, Vaculik dropped to the ground like a stone.
Jones followed suit, realising as he did just what had spooked his comrade. Somewhere nearby someone was stamping his feet, and whistling to himself under his breath. The tune was instantly recognisable: it was ‘Lili Marlene’, a German love song that had proven surprisingly popular with Allied troops as well. But neither man doubted that it could be anything other than a German soldier whistling that song, right here and now.
Raising their heads a fraction, the two SAS men spied the source of the noise: a sentry was positioned just a few paces along the railway embankment. It was a miracle that neither Jones nor Vaculik had been spotted. It was also testament to the stealth with which their training, plus their rubber-soled boots, enabled them to move through the dark. Further along the track, they could also make out the yawning black void of what had to be the entrance to the tunnel. This was it: their planned ambush point.
But however much Jones and Vaculik might appreciate the song, neither wanted to risk moving from their place of hiding, and as the minutes ticked by the cold from the gravel embankment seeped deeper into flesh and bone. Both men racked their brains for some means to slip past, but short of knifing the sentry, how were they to do so? If they killed him, his body would be discovered, which was sure to blow their mission wide open. They would have to stay put and gamble that eventually the sentry would move on.
