As Moravec watched, the President stopped and turned to look at Kubiš who was responding to his entreaties. Moravec could not hear the men but it didn’t matter. When Jan had completed his piece, Beneš opened his mouth to say something but no answer was forthcoming. It was the first time Moravec had ever seen his President lost for words. He had been similarly struck by the desire of the two soldiers to do what was required even at the cost of their own lives. There would be no lengthy philosophical debate about it with these two. You’ve given us the job and we will carry it out.
When Beneš finally returned, he walked ahead of the two soldiers and Moravec noticed his eyes were red and slightly puffy. The President realised his emotion was there for all to see and, like all good politicians, he attempted to make a strength out of weakness. Turning to face Jan and Josef, he unashamedly declaimed, ‘These men make me proud of our country, František, and they give me hope – hope for the future. May God watch over you both tonight. Good luck, I know you will succeed!’ He shook the hands of both men firmly and, with that final blessing, walked on into the old abbey, leaving Moravec alone with his men.
Witnessing Beneš in such an emotional state made Moravec resolve to keep the latest news from Prague to himself, for a day or two more at least. Why ruin the optimism of the moment by revealing the dreadful secret he was nursing? For Agent 54, scourge of the Abwehr, the one source of information Moravec could call upon from within the enemy’s own ranks, the sole prize catch of the Czech Secret Intelligence Service, had suddenly, inexplicably, gone off the airwaves.
The President’s secretary, Taborsky, met Beneš at the doorway, expecting the usual raft of instructions concerning the business of the day.
Instead Beneš said, ‘Leave me alone this morning, Taborsky. I need some time…’ and the sentence remained unfinished.
‘Of course, sir.’
The secretary could see Beneš was emotional and as he returned to his desk he automatically wondered what hellish task had been assigned to the two young men he had seen walking with his President.
Barely a quarter of an hour later, the phone on Taborsky’s desk rang shrilly. It was Beneš.
Something had changed in the moments since the President had last spoken to him. His voice was different now, unwavering and free of emotion.
‘That last appointment,’ and Taborsky would remember the words clearly years later for they were spoken with such firmness, ‘don’t make any record of it in the official diary.’
So it was as bad as that.
‘No sir,’ he replied and the phone clicked in Taborsky’s ear as the line went dead at the other end. There was such an aura of cold finality about the President’s instruction that his secretary experienced nothing less than a deep sense of foreboding. Despite this, he reached for the leather-bound diary, opened it and carefully tore out a single, lined page.
‘God help them both,’ he said to himself as he went about his President’s bidding.
14
‘Orders came for sailing
Somewhere over there
All confined to barracks
Was more than I could bear;
I knew you were waiting in the street
I heard your feet
But could not meet
My Lili of the lamplight
My own Lili Marlene’
Lili Marlene – a favourite song for both German
and Allied troops in WW2
28 December 1941
The three ton Bedford took the bend into RAF Tangmere at speed and the lorry rattled on its axles as it bounced out of a bump in the road, finally dislodging a covering of snow that clung stubbornly to a bumper throughout the journey. At the last moment, the brakes were applied and it pulled up smartly alongside a sentry. He held a torch in front of him and shone it down at the truck’s number plate, then up into the driver’s face, before waving it speedily through into the RAF’s fighter base. The lorry and its cargo were both expected.
Hidden beneath the dark green canvas stretched over the frame of the truck were seven men. They knew each other well but were prevented from acknowledging the fact beyond an introductory nod, a self-conscious smile or a mumbled grunt of greeting. All of the passengers were Czechs or Slovaks, had passed through the SOE course and were now part of their own individual, highly secret operations. As a result they were expressly forbidden to communicate with each other – about their missions or anything else. It was a ridiculous arrangement. The men felt like children forced to sit in silence by a strict schoolmaster. Occasionally they would exchange smiles of acknowledgement or raise eyebrows, to show their understanding of the absurdity of this position, but they continued to obey orders.
Kubiš was restless, drunk with the heady mixture of anxiety and excitement that characterised the beginning of a mission. He found himself impatient to get underway but retained a deep, nagging concern he might somehow let everyone down. The sum of their training, the hours of planning and the weeks of waiting would all come to nought if he suddenly found he was not up to the task. Right now, his dread at this eventuality was more potent than the fear of injury, capture, even death. How insignificant was his own life by comparison to the mission they had been assigned?
The men climbed down from the truck and walked wordlessly into the main building. The base was selected by Hockey for its proximity to the south coast, and its relative closeness to London where many of the agents currently resided. Its three squadrons of Hurricanes and Spitfires still formed the vanguard of the country’s air defences and the building usually swarmed with pilots and aircrew alike. There was a strong likelihood the presence of a few Czech irregulars was barely worthy of comment even at this hour.
The men were separated to undergo final pre-flight checks. Strankmüller was there to meet them and he attended to Gabčík and Kubiš personally. They were made to empty their packs for the umpteenth time, laying their equipment out for one final inspection, leaving nothing to chance.
Amid the more mundane items, the pairs of socks, the shaving razor, the carefully authenticated civilian clothing each man carried, was a Sten gun, disassembled into three pieces and a Colt Automatic pistol. There were spare magazines for both weapons and three specially adapted Mills hand grenades, green tape wrapped around them. As Strankmüller slowly inspected the array of equipment it was the smallest item in the kit that drew his eye – the article each man would keep with him at all times yet prayed he would never have to use – a single capsule of fast acting cyanide.
Strankmüller carried out a final standing search of the men, checking every pocket, scrutinising papers and examining the lining of wallets.
‘We don’t want you to betray yourself with an English bus ticket or a stub from the local cinema,’ he explained and both men were glad of his thoroughness.
‘Although I’m more likely to find a beer mat on you two,’ he muttered with a mock gruffness.
That very afternoon an SOE expert had issued new clothes specially adapted to look as if they had been made and purchased in the Protectorate. Even the distinguishing marks on the zipper of Kubiš’ English made trousers had been carefully erased with the deft use of an adapted dentist’s drill.
Above their civilian clothes they donned heavy cotton flying suits with mottled camouflage patches of brown and dark green. Jan put on the khaki skullcap but kept the chinstraps loose until he was ready to jump. They then rejoined their comrades, filing outside into a threatened downpour of fresh snow.
Strankmüller’s arrangements meant they spent their last hour in England clustered together in a dispersal hut at the furthest edge of the airfield, two hundred yards short of the runway. There was an inevitable delay before boarding the plane.
The men waited quietly for the Halifax to taxi out, a nauseating tension spreading among them as they anticipated the burr of the plane’s engines. Some huddle
d together, chain smoking silently like expectant fathers. Jo Valčík, a handsome sergeant, popular with girls wherever he was billeted, handed cigarettes to the two men on his team, codenamed Silver A; Corporal Jiří Potůček and his officer, Lieutenant Alfréd Bartoš. Silver A had been up in RAF planes before, with three failed attempts to get over Prague behind them – their new mission, assigned at the eleventh hour by Moravec, was to urgently re-establish contact with Agent 54. Bartoš struck Kubiš as an ambitious leader in a hurry. He was trying hard not to show nervousness but betrayed his tension as he puffed urgently at the cigarette, wearing it down to a stub in moments. The final group was Silver B. Two sergeants, Vladimír Škacha and Jan Zemek, would deliver a transmitter and much needed equipment to the resistance.
Even if conversation had not already been barred it would have been unforgivable to drown out the approaching sounds of the plane with mere chatter. Instead the apprehensive Joes stood in silence in the freezing hut, with steam rising off their damp flying suits and clouds of hot breath pouring from their mouths like cigarette smoke.
Then Kubiš heard a sound; a beautiful, throaty purr that changed everything and made them all start in expectation. The plane was taxiing towards them outside and the men were immediately energised, hastily lifting bags of equipment and stowing parachutes on shoulders, as if the plane were an infrequent village bus that might suddenly leave without them. They shuffled to the door together, adjusting their strides to avoid knocking into each other as they bottlenecked through it.
There was no time for further instruction as the men filed out silently. The only sound was the crunch of the top layer of frozen snow as seven pairs of shoes traversed the runway. Seconds later even that was drowned out by the approaching plane.
As Jan and Josef drew alongside the Halifax, Strankmüller was struck by how small and insignificant they looked next to the bomber. He wished he were going with them too, to guide, encourage and cajole them through the hostile streets of Prague. Instead he was left standing helplessly in the snow as he called out a final farewell.
‘Good luck to you both and may God go with you!’
‘You can rely on us. We will fulfil our mission as ordered!’ shouted Gabčík.
Any further words he may have been saving for that historic moment were lost in the din of the plane’s four Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. Instead they merely waved an acknowledgement before climbing up the ladder, one after the other, then disappearing into the body of the plane.
Kubiš occupied a space in the furthest corner of the Halifax as the plane began to move. He could feel every bump as it trundled along a runway liberally dusted with fresh snow. Who would have thought the weather might decide the future of a nation? Well, at least they would know nothing about it if they piled into the hedgerows.
Kubiš was pressed gently backwards as the plane picked up speed, vibrations from the metal frame numbing his limbs and torso. Then he experienced a slight lurch deep in the pit of his stomach as it finally left the ground. He could feel the craft being pushed up underneath him and he knew this was the most dangerous time. Kubiš said a quick and automatic prayer and waited helplessly. A moment passed then another and the plane continued to climb. Finally it levelled off and there was a tangible easing of tension. He knew the critical moments of take-off had passed without incident and the Halifax was making swift progress through the dark air around them.
The journey over the channel was pleasantly uneventful and, when they crossed into occupied France at Le Crotoy, Hockey breathed a small sigh of relief. The crew knew that, once spotted by the Luftwaffe, the chance of escape was slim and the possibility of rescue from a night-time parachute drop into the darkened sea virtually non-existent. All of the men dreaded the prospect of baling out into cold and choppy waters on a filthy winter night like this one.
They left the Channel behind them and crossed the hostile fields of France thousands of feet below – and still their luck held, but Hockey knew it was unlikely they would have an entirely trouble free flight. Finally, at a little after midnight, over German soil near Darmstadt, Holden picked out the first of the enemy night fighters. His voice, sounding calmer than it ought, indicated the presence of two ME 109s flying hard, hundreds of feet below the Halifax, clearly visible through a parting in the clouds. Barely had he finished noting their appearance when one of the fighters dramatically altered course.
‘I think he’s seen us, sir.’
Hockey needed no further prompting and he flew the virgin aircraft hard away, pushing it to its limits. The Halifax veered, pitched then rose, answering its pilot’s call. He altered its trajectory repeatedly – attempting to lose the Messerschmitts in the dense banks of welcoming cloud around them. But each time they returned with the persistence of angry hornets.
Hockey tried not to think of the frozen ground below. Instead, as he wrestled with the controls of the aircraft, his subconscious mind was occupied with random images of home. As the plane pitched out of a steep climb he found himself remembering the pretty girl who delivered it; a young ferry pilot, no older than twenty two, who had calmly conveyed the Halifax for adaptation.
‘This one for you, Flight Lieutenant?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ was all he could manage.
‘Well, she’s a good ’un,’ she assured him, with just the trace of a West Country accent, as she strode closer, ‘try not to scratch her.’
Try not to scratch her. Christ, he thought, I hope that wasn’t a premonition. Don’t think about it now, got to keep a firm grip on the kite. And his manoeuvres continued, above the hostile German territory. Still the Messerschmitts did not give up the search. Until finally, gloriously, Holden’s voice came over the radio.
‘Flare, sir. Below us at five o’clock.’
Sure enough, the pilot of one of the night fighters was betraying his frustration at the fruitlessness of the hunt by harmlessly scattering a flare into a corner of the sky they had long since departed. They had lost him.
‘I see her,’ replied Hockey.
He dipped his wings in the opposite direction then rose, as swiftly as the plane would allow, climbing up and away from the reddish tinge of light far below them.
Kubiš enjoyed a few moments of calm. The plane had ceased its frantic evasive action, particularly unnerving for passengers who could not tell the difference between a deliberate tactical manoeuvre and an irreversible nose-dive. Jan allowed himself to hope the worst was over and that before too long he would be gently descending onto Czech soil. His optimism was ended an hour later by a hollow sound that seemed to be coming from outside the plane.
Belatedly, he realised they were under attack. Hundreds of feet below them, German anti-aircraft batteries were opening up on the Halifax with everything they had. The sound he could hear was the dull and distant crump, crump as flak exploded outside the bomber and he exchanged nervous glances with Gabčík. They had little choice but to sit there and accept the random detonation of the ack-ack as it exploded all around them.
The volume increased steadily until Kubiš was convinced the flak was about to find its mark. Then slowly, so very slowly, the sound began to diminish until presently it faded away all together. The last obstacle to the landing zone had been cleared. Hockey would later recall in his flight log that flak had been experienced over Plzeň at 02.12, but was merely sporadic.
Jan felt a hand clamp firmly on his shoulder and he looked up into an urgent face.
‘Get ready. You two go first. About ten minutes.’
Kubiš nodded his understanding.
The ten minutes seemed like an hour as Kubiš waited for the signal to jump. Would the chutes open? How ironic and terrible if the parachutes let them down after all this. And he wondered how many elite paratroopers had trained for months, and waited all of their lives, merely to crash into the ground before they had fired a shot, because someone had been careless packing their ch
ute. And what would happen if they landed slap bang in the middle of a German patrol?
Even above the noise of the plane’s engines Kubiš became aware of the animated conversation between Holden and the Czech intelligence officer accompanying them, Captain Šustr.
‘I can’t make out a single landmark for the drop zone!’ shouted Šustr. ‘Every river, railway, hilltop or bridge around the capital is covered by snow!’ Captain Šustr’s shame and agitation were understandable, thought Kubiš. He had come all this way, at great personal risk, for nothing. Following a brief consultation with Hockey, Šustr made a decision.
‘We must trust in God and compass and drop the men immediately. Hopefully they will all be within a mile or so of their drop zones. We don’t know when we will be able to attempt a journey like this one again. Anthropoid will go first!’
Gabčík and Kubiš climbed to their feet, shuffling forward under the weight of their packs. Jan tightened his chinstrap and watched as Sergeant Walton released the specially adapted hatch. As the pitch black hole opened up before them the men were struck by an icy blast of winter air and the noise level in the Halifax rose as the wind whistled by beneath them. Kubiš’ first instinct, as ever, was to place himself away from the proximity of danger and he had to fight the urge to sit back down again. He had been dreading this moment but knew it was the only way. He had to endure.
Kubiš walked to the edge of the hatch, took a last glance at the concerned faces around him and, before fear gripped him entirely, launched himself out through the hatch.
Gabčík followed immediately, striding determinedly up to the opening. He turned to Šustr and roared over the din of the wind.
‘Remember, you will be hearing from us – we will do everything possible!’ And with that he too was gone.
15
‘Now they’ll work for they know we are pitiless and cruel’
Adolf Hitler on the Czechs
Hunting the Hangman Page 9
