by Damien Lewis
During the Second World War radio was the only viable means to make rapid contact from the field. For the SAS, the nerve centre of such communications was at Moor Park, Kilbirnie, some 30 miles to the northwest of Darvel. There a series of BBC transmitters, linked up to ‘Jedburgh’ radios – specialist elite forces wireless sets, known as ‘Jed sets’ – was able to transmit signals across hundreds of miles deep into occupied Europe. Once in the field, stick commanders used their portable Jed sets to receive and send such messages, each having a unique SABU call-sign via which to do so – Lieutenant Wiehe’s being ‘SABU-70’ of course.
While one team at Moor Park manned an emergency frequency 24/7, in case any party in the field needed urgent help, units were supposed to restrict their signals to a once-daily comms window. Such restrictions meant that sending long messages – enciphered and via Morse code – was impossible. Communications were limited to the briefest of missives regarding air operations (most often, radioing in target coordinates), intelligence of immediate interest or urgent orders. As a result, once a patrol had parachuted behind the lines, it was largely self-governing. Little might be known of its movements, and little control could be exerted over it in the field.
There was another, compelling reason to ensure that communications were kept short and sweet. Knowing such teams were deploying to wreak havoc and mayhem, the Germans were hell-bent on finding them, and radio detection was one of the best means of doing so. Just as soon as a patrol risked coming up on the air, codebreakers from German intelligence might be handed intercepts to decrypt and decipher, plus the enemy’s direction-finding units might be dispatched in their mobile tracing vans, in an effort to locate the source of the signals.
Morse code is a universal language – a series of dots and dashes that represent the individual letters of the alphabet, plus numbers. As with any radio signal, intercepting a message sent in Morse code couldn’t be prevented. Once it was plucked from the ether the codebreaking began, and the senders of the message became the hunted. Predictably the Germans had a highly efficient direction-finding unit within the signals intelligence division of their army, with a well-defined system for going about its work.
First, powerful transmitters picked up the clandestine signal, narrowing its location to a town, city or rural district. Then the mobile detecting vans trawled the area, trying to pick up further signals and pinpointing the exact source of the transmission. Once that was done, the location was raided in an effort to seize the radio set plus operator(s). The Germans sought to capture the top-secret codebooks, along with the sets, which made it a great deal easier to break future transmissions. Hence the need to keep any such communications to an absolute minimum, or to risk being caught.
Lieutenant Wiehe had received his own brief burst of dots and dashes, winging through the ether from Moor Park. When he’d decoded the short message, its content had proven extraordinary. Not only was the RAF fully intending to drop in and pluck them to safety, but they planned to do so from an enemy airfield. For the Mauritian lieutenant, this was some kind of news to have to deliver to his commander, a decorated SAS captain with long experience at the sharp end of operations.
When Garstin asked Wiehe if there was ‘any news from London’ and if the RAF pick-up was still to be expected, and if so when, Lieutenant Wiehe decided to give it to him straight.
‘In three days’ time exactly, at Étampes,’ he replied. ‘They’ve had the nerve to choose a Jerry airfield. We can only try it. What do you think, sir?’
As Garstin well knew from their briefings, there was an important German airbase situated at nearby Étampes. Having seized France in its lightning summer 1940 offensive, Nazi Germany had proceeded to build a series of airfields all along the Channel coast, from which to launch its air offensive against Britain. By late 1940, there were 700 such landing grounds across France. But by late 1942 those along the Channel coast were being pulled out of service, for fear of the Allies launching airborne operations –glider or parachute landings – onto those airstrips, as part of their invasion plans.
By the summer of 1943, only 100 airfields were in regular use across France, and the Luftwaffe had pulled back to those set a good distance from the coast. Étampes was one of these. In fact, there were three airbases at Étampes, forming a complex set within a 4-mile radius. Étampes-Bellevue was an emergency landing ground, which meant there was little there to see. Étampes-l’Humery was simply a dummy airfield, designed to draw Allied attacks away from the real airbase, which was Étampes-Mondésir.
Étampes-Mondésir was the real McCoy. It came complete with four large hangars, plus workshops, barracks, storage bays and thirty-one reinforced aircraft shelters. Fifteen separate flak positions ringed the airbase, which also boasted radar stations, a demolitions detachment, signals staff, air raid detachments, and refuelling and ambulance units. Most intriguingly, Étampes-Mondésir also housed Feindgerät Untersuchungsstelle 6 – ‘Enemy Equipment Examination Station 6’ – a place where captured Allied war materiel could be taken apart, studied, replicated and ultimately defeated.
In recent months, US bombing raids had had a massive impact over France, and Étampes had played a key role in trying to assess what specific pieces of technology the Americans might have brought to the party. In particular, the Norden bombsight –which used an analogue computer calculating ground speed and direction, combined with an autopilot system to achieve unprecedented accuracy – was something the Germans were desperate to get their hands on. Development of the Norden was on a scale comparable to the Manhattan Project – the building of the atom bomb – and it had been granted a similar level of secrecy. If a Norden could be salvaged from a downed Allied bomber, Feindgerät Untersuchungsstelle 6 was just the kind of place to study, examine and master it.
There was also a battle-hardened Luftwaffe squadron based at Étampes-Mondésir. Kampfgeschwader 51 (KG 51 – Battle Wing 51) ‘Edelweiss’ was named after a white flower found high in the Alps that was known as a symbol of beauty and purity. Having fought in the Battle of Britain and the Blitz, KG 51 had been posted to the Eastern Front, before being pulled back west to counter the D-Day landings. Commanded by Oberstleutnant Wolf-Dietrich Meister, KG 51’s most recent successes had been against the March ’44 Nuremberg raid, during which RAF Bomber Command had lost more than 100 aircraft, accounting for 545 aircrew.
The Nuremberg raid constituted Bomber Command’s worst night of losses in the entire war. In repelling the fleets of Allied bombers, Oberstleutnant Meister had executed a daring sortie deep into British airspace, piloting a twin-engine Junkers Ju 88, one of the most versatile combat aircraft of the war. At 4.30 a.m. he’d spotted a Lancaster bomber over Cambridgeshire. The aircrew, believing they were home and dry, had switched on their navigation lights. Meister put two long bursts of cannon fire into the Lancaster from dead astern, forcing it to crash-land at Wickenby airfield, where it collided with another bomber. Miraculously the aircrew survived.
Unsurprisingly, Meister and his Battle Wing were held in high esteem by German command, and KG 51 had recently received perhaps its greatest accolade of the war: it had been one of the first Luftwaffe units to receive the Messerschmitt ME 262 Sturmvogel – Stormbird – the world’s first ever jet-powered fighter plane to enter active service. Boasting a top speed of some 560 mph, it was faster and more heavily armed than any Allied fighter, and was one of Hitler’s so-called Wunderwaffen –supposedly revolutionary superweapons that would enable Nazi Germany to turn the tide of the war.
That, in a nutshell, was the airbase from which Garstin and his men had been ordered to expect a pick-up by RAF aircraft. Typically, after the long war that he had fought, Garstin didn’t seem to turn a hair at the prospect. His main concern appeared to be whether he and his men could manage to hide from the enemy for long enough to make the rendezvous with whatever RAF crew was daring enough to fly in to collect them.
The Dourdan railway and ammo dump had been hit early on the morni
ng of Wednesday 21 June: the pick-up was set for midnight, two days hence – so Friday 23 June. Two days to avoid capture. ‘I think they’re leaving it a little late,’ Garstin told Wiehe. ‘We’ll be lucky if we don’t get bagged before then. Still, it can’t be helped, I suppose.’ And with that, the matter was settled. If the RAF were up for it, so were the SAS: the pick-up would go ahead as planned.
Still, Garstin felt a recce of Étampes airbase might just be in order, to see what they were up against.
Chapter 8
As Garstin and his men had trekked deeper into the wild wood to the west of Étampes town, they’d discovered wide stretches of ancient, tangled forest – perfect for hiding out. But over a long and fretful night, the hunted found they had time on their hands. Perhaps too much time. Too long to dwell on their thoughts. Too many false alerts and alarms. Too long straining eyes and ears in an effort to detect pursuers amongst the maze of trees. Too long with the mind playing tricks.
‘The woods seemed full of strange and louder-than-life noises,’ Vaculik recalled. ‘The sudden cracking of a branch or the rustling of foliage sounded tremendous. I almost thought I could hear a leaf fall.’ Hour by hour, they’d felt their spirits darkening.
Despite his Canadian cover name, Vaculik – ‘Jean Dupontel’ –was a Frenchman, of course, and he had the most to fear if he was taken alive. For days now, he’d felt as if he’d not known ‘a moment’s relaxation when body and soul were at rest . . . Always at my shoulder was the thought of death and the dread of being captured . . . All life consisted of . . . the edge of the wood, a longed-for radio call and the danger of more shootings.’
All the better, then, that they had received a much-needed morale boost. It was the morning of their second day in hiding when London had called. Not via their Jed set, of course. For a good-news message such as this, headquarters wouldn’t risk communicating via a means that might be traced. Instead, the SAS had developed an ingenious back-up system for the very simplest of communications, one that was believed to be foolproof in terms of tracking or interference.
Captain Garstin had been the first to detect it, as he tuned into the BBC, using a set of headphones to ensure no noise could leak into the surrounding woodland. Bizarrely, it was the distinctive, singsong opening lines of a French nursery rhyme that had drawn his attention, inserted into the normal running order of programming.
Sur Le Pont D’Avignon,
L’on y danse, l’on y danse . . .
On the bridge of Avignon,
They are dancing, they are dancing . . .
In Avignon, an ancient town in the south of France, there existed a thirteenth-century bridge that was the inspiration for the ditty. Indeed, the dance was supposed to be performed on or under the bridge itself. But for whatever reason – sheer bedevilment; a classic dose of British eccentricity; to better thumb one’s nose at the enemy – those opening lines were played over the BBC in order to alert SAS parties scattered across France, and their Resistance brethren, to listen out for a message.
There was the briefest of pauses after the nursery rhyme lines had faded out, before the clear voice of the BBC announcer came on air: ‘Hello SABU-70. Hello SABU-70.’ For several days now, Garstin had been hoping to hear something like this – a message specific to their call-sign. Now, at last, it was happening.
‘Hello SABU-70, this is London. Good work and thanks. Good work and thanks.’
Glowing with excitement, Garstin passed the headphones around to those who were awake, as the message was repeated several times over. The meaning was clear. The RAF must have got a reconnaissance aircraft over the Dourdan area, to check the damage they had wrought. Only if they had definitive evidence would they send such a clear message of congratulations. London was calling to let them know what a fine job they had done. It was only the briefest of missives, but it served to lift everyone’s mood.
The twelve gathered in a circle with a newfound sense of purpose. None had doubted that their mission had been successful, but it was quite another thing having London say so. The woodland covered hundreds of acres, and they’d chosen a perfect spot as a hideout, where a clear stream tumbled through. One or two figures bent over the cool flow, using razor blades to shave, after which they wiped themselves clean with an old handkerchief. Others checked and cleaned their weapons and recharged magazines.
Jones and Vaculik declared they’d had enough of living on meat cubes and dry biscuits, the staples of their rations. They were intent on executing a covert scavenging operation. Their maps revealed a farm a few hundred yards away, on the fringes of the forest. They’d try for that. They set forth, and en route encountered not a soul, apart from one young boy who fled in terror at the very sight of the Robin Hood warriors.
The farmer seemed somewhat less perturbed at their unexpected appearance. Vaculik soon learned why: he had mistaken them for Germans. With a little gentle probing, Vaculik discovered what lay behind the man’s misapprehension. The previous night, a force of enemy troops had searched the area in strength, including the farmstead. They hadn’t let on exactly what or whom they were looking for, but Vaculik and Jones could hazard a guess. Clearly, they would need to be ‘more cautious than ever’ now.
Using the French francs provided as part of their kit, Vaculik purchased a brace of chickens and two dozen eggs. It made sense to leave the farmer with the impression that they were German soldiers, for obvious reasons. Vaculik figured that with his shock of red hair and stocky physique, Jones could just about pass as a Boche. As for Vaculik himself, with his dark hair and dark eyes, plus his height, he could just as easily be German as French.
With the deal done, the two men headed back to camp where they delivered the fresh provisions plus their news. Upon learning of the enemy search party, Garstin decided to stiffen their watch. Although they had put a good many miles between themselves and the site of their Dourdan sabotage, clearly the hunt was still on. And while they might be ensconced deep within the woods, Garstin made certain that they should keep the smoke from any cooking fires to an absolute minimum.
A day earlier, Howard Lutton – soldier by trade, poacher by nature – had rushed out of the forest excitedly. ‘Plenty of rabbits around!’ he’d declared. ‘Traces everywhere. Rabbit pie on the menu in no time!’
‘For crying out loud,’ Jones had grumbled. ‘Anybody’d think you’d bagged Hitler!’
Well, in scavenging those chickens and eggs, he and Vaculik had done something close to capturing the Führer, or so at least it seemed to those twelve men in their deep forest hideaway. It was a long wait, but when finally the meal was ready, they filed up one by one to receive their portion reverentially. Thankfully, Wiehe had managed to husband a little of their precious rum. It was issued with the meal, a shot in a mug of steaming tea for each of Garstin’s men. It proved sparse, basic fare, but rarely had they enjoyed a meal more.
The sun went down, shadows lengthening amongst the trees. It was time to undertake the recce of Étampes airfield. Garstin wanted to know the location of strong points and any weaknesses, plus where the guard posts were situated. That way, they could better plan how to steal onto the airstrip, to catch their RAF taxi service home. It made sense for Vaculik to undertake the recce, and he was free to choose who to take with him. Unsurprisingly, he picked Jones and Barker – the three musketeers once more.
Though the Irishman and the man from Wigan groused a great deal – as was their wont – in truth they were pleased to have something to get their teeth into. The three men slipped through the darkening woodland, pushing east towards the aerodrome. Situated some 6 miles to the south of Étampes town, the airbase lay in flat, open countryside, with a railway line cutting past its western perimeter. This was a different set of tracks from the ones the SABU-70 raiders had sabotaged, but as with all such routes hereabouts, the rails headed north to Paris and beyond.
Once they were out of the woods, the airbase was in plain view, the glare from the runway lights casting a
bright halo into the sky. As they neared the perimeter and the cover grew more and more sparse, the fugitives dropped into a crawl, slithering through the dark bush like wraiths.
‘Blast this belly-crawling lark,’ Jones grumbled. ‘I’ll end up with housemaid’s knee.’
‘A few pints when we’re back in London will soon put you right,’ Vaculik shot back at him, reminding them of the reason they were there. All being well, from this very airport lay their route home. ‘Now shut up and keep your eyes peeled.’
A dark, blocky mass reared up ahead of them. It had to mark some kind of perimeter fortification. As they paused to watch, a sentry appeared in silhouette, then slipped from view again, before reappearing a few moments later. There was one guard at least up ahead, treading a regular beat back and forth along the wire. With the wind blowing in the watchers’ direction, not a sound had carried across to the sentry, and he seemed oblivious to their presence.
‘I could just about do him,’ growled Paddy Barker. ‘What’ll you bet me?’
‘Save it for tomorrow,’ Vaculik hissed. None of them were out to kill any Germans tonight.
Glancing left, another blocky shape was visible – a second sentry post, around 200 yards away. They figured they should aim for the midpoint, and see if they could cut a path through. Inching ahead, they reached the first coils of vicious barbed wire without any sign that their presence had been detected. One by one, they snipped the strands, each bite of the steel cutters making a sharp click as it sliced through.
Once the way was clear, the three wormed past, wriggling into a patch of long grass on the far side. Having taken stock, they decided to make for a nearby patch of trees. From there they should be able to get a proper look at the airstrip with little danger of being spotted. But when they reached the copse, they had the shock of their lives: the ‘trees’ were entirely fake. Utterly lifelike at anything other than close quarters, their trunks and limbs were artificial, and the foliage seemed to consist of chicken feathers spray-painted to imitate leaves – green for new growth and brown for those on the wane – mounted on what looked like chicken-wire frames.
