by Nigel Jones
R.A.F. Brackley was designated as an emergency airfield and was kept permanently lit to accept returning, damaged aircraft that had taken hits on their bombing raids into Europe. That, and its other role as a training base made it a prime target for night bombing raids by the Luftwaffe.
Freddie died instantly when the bomb hit his billet. The siren had just alerted them to the impending attack but he had no time to get to the bunker. It seemed daft to Jacques that they should light up the approach and runway to lead the enemy straight to the door of one of the Air Force’s most important training facilities, but he was told resources were limited and it was strategically placed near a number of bomber stations who needed all the help they could get to retrieve their wounded ships.
Two weeks later another friend, Dickie, was cut down by MG 17 machine-gun fire from an attacking Messerschmitt 109 as he’d tried to run for cover.
It was a strange environment. Jacques swung from elated highs as he flew the marvellous birds that he had become part of, to deep sadness as another colleague died. Young men he’d known only briefly were being killed even before they had been trained for battle. They all knew their chances of surviving the War were slim and even before his elementary training was complete they were resigned to the fact that death was part of their life. But the high he got when he flew the aeroplane excited him. The adrenalin rush as he pulled the aircraft out of a spin, or did a barrel roll made the danger almost worthwhile.
His third friend had died in a Tiger Moth because he did not recover the plane from a spin he’d put her into too close to the ground. They took risks, all of them; their future would rely on them taking risks and gambling that they had enough air between them and the ground to stay alive. One instructor had said, “It’s the ground that ultimately will kill you. The bullet, or the fire will injure you, but it is the ground that kills you.”
They were prophetic words for Jacques in particular, as he was posted to 161 Squadron. The ground killed nearly everyone they lost, the ground they couldn’t see because it was too dark.
At first he was disappointed when he got his posting. He’d wanted Spitfires or Hurricanes and he was good enough, they’d told him that. They also told him he was too good and his talents were needed for more clandestine activities.
Those activities brought their own adrenalin rush, especially at the beginning as he gambled against the ground as he practised night landings in appalling weather on the darkest of nights. Initially these landings were into fields he knew, later he was sent to find a field in parts of the country he’d never even heard about before. When he was proficient he was given his first sortie to France.
It was weird, he felt as if he was going home. He was English and had lived all his life in England, but his father had done a good job in convincing him he was French too. That night, as he flew over the French coast, he felt a strange calm inside, a sense of belonging. He’d smiled to himself as he had the sudden thought, ‘Thank God Dad was not German!’
Often he would have to turn back when he couldn’t locate the flashlights guiding him in. Once he’d got so low in an attempt to see them the branch of a tree clipped his wing. The next night he flew a little higher, you could get too much adrenalin. It had taken five attempts to get that particular saboteur into France. He was English and had been a schoolteacher, teaching French. Now he was a demolition expert and there was a bridge that needed taking out by a certain date, they were even carrying the explosives in the hold. His name was Peter, but had quickly become Pierre when he realised Jacques spoke French. It was Pierre who first suggested Jacques’s excellent French might be of more use on the ground. It had got him thinking, and something inside was pulling him to France. Then he met Yvette.
After that memorable encounter he was convinced that he was destined to be in France and to be with her. Sure, he was young and his seduction had been one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to him. She, and her body had completely bowled him over and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Meeting her and losing his virginity, somehow seemed part and parcel of his destiny.
When he’d gone to his C.O. and said he wanted to apply to join the S.O.E. the Boss had said, “Not surprised, you’re more Frog than Brit. I’ll see what I can do, but we’ll be sorry to lose you.”
Two days later he was on a train to London to be interviewed by the S.O.E. in their headquarters at 64 Baker Street. Colonel Gubbins and Vera Atkins, the woman who ultimately become his handler and prepared him for active service, interviewed him. The young man who spoke perfect French impressed them. He had proved his bravery by working with them already and appeared to be friends with one of their best agents. They did not know just how friendly. His soul appeared to be French, and he was motivated. Their only reservation was his age, he’d finally told them the truth, and the fact that he had never actually lived in France, despite appearing to know more about it than England. But he had a proven military background, and he had one other thing. He had charm, and charm could be as effective a weapon as any other, especially when trying to stay alive in an occupied country whilst undertaking clandestine operations.
He spent two more nights of bliss with Yvette before taking the train to Guildford where he was picked up and driven to Wanborough Manor for his initial training. He was taught how to use guns; surprisingly the only guns he’d fired up until now were on an aeroplane, and explosives. His knowledge of explosives would become integral to his work along with other methods of sabotage. He did a course on wireless telegraphy, and how to live secretly in occupied territories. They taught him how to kill with his bare hands and how to take another’s life without them uttering a sound. He was taught how to be an assassin and he was taught how to save a life. At the end of this training he was sent to Scotland where the Commandos toughened him up on courses in the Highlands to a level of fitness he’d never thought possible. At the end of it all he was a killing machine that could have a real input into the outcome of the War.
It was this killing machine that had gone to visit Honeysuckle, but all she had seen was her Jacques. He had told her something of his training, but had avoided the more radical aspects of it. Yes, he was a different man when he’d gone to see her but when he left again he was once again her Jacques. And Jacques was still confused.
He was about to enter a world he had tried to imagine, and live in a country he’d always loved yet rarely visited. The reality was not what he had expected, but the life he led there did not disappoint him.
Vera Atkins had been working on his cover; he was to become Philippe Villon, a wine distributor. It would allow him to travel freely in both the free and occupied France. She spent a day teaching and testing him on his family history, then a day teaching him about wine. Initially he would join up with his friend Yvette, who would introduce him to the real art of sabotage. In time he was probably going to be given the task of leading another team from within her group, which was growing fast as more joined them, and together they would undertake whatever was needed. Later they would start to organise the various groups of the Resistance into a more co-ordinated fighting force to prepare for the eventual invasion by allied troops. He was not given a time scale, nor told when he would be brought back to England for debriefing or further instructions, but he was told he would certainly be coming back before the ‘final push.’
On April 3rd 1943 he reported to Tempsford where his old friend Daniel from 161 Squadron flew him to a field somewhere in Normandy.
As he jumped from the plane he yelled, “Thanks for the ride, see you soon.” Then started running towards the flashlight in the woods.
Yvette had personally come to meet him, and his heart leapt when he saw the cat’s whiskers smudged on her face. It had been nearly three months since he’d last seen her in England and he had never stopped thinking about the nights they’d spent together.
There were two other men with her who she quickly introduced, then smiled at him but made no attempt to kiss
him. Three months earlier she couldn’t keep her hands or her lips off him, but this was business and they had to leave before the Germans arrived to investigate where the shadowy English plane had landed.
Within a minute they were in the back of a van driving like maniacs without any lights, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the drop off point.
It was probably thirty minutes before the van came to a halt outside a farmhouse and all four went inside. Yvette’s colleagues were called Alain and Pierre. They were older than her, yet deferred to the young woman. A third man appeared and introduced himself as Albert, he was younger, about the same age as Yvette, and he was English.
“Albert is our radio operator, Philippe, trained by the S.O.E. He has been with us for six months,” said Yvette.
It sounded strange when she called him by his new name. “Good, radio telegraphy is not my strongest point. If I had to do it the Germans would be here before I had the first word transmitted.” He continued to talk in French and smiled at Albert, who returned it with interest. The other two were less trusting of the new Englishman they had just been sent. Jacques knew he would have to prove himself to gain their trust.
Albert spoke first, “I have prepared a daube while you were out. Rabbit, a fresh rabbit that I shot this afternoon.”
Pierre replied, “Bon, daube is the only food you can cook!” Then slapped his young English radio operator on the back.
“It smells good, Albert. Come, we’ll clean up before we eat, then I’ll explain our next job to Philippe,” she paused. “Mes amis, Philippe’s Papa is French and he has already worked with us. He is a good man.” Then she turned and left the room, climbing the wooden staircase to the creaky floorboards above.
“French eh? You may be alright,” Alain said with a smile. Pierre’s moustache just twitched.
“Come on, Philippe, I’ll show you to your room and how we escape from this shit-hole if we need to,” said Albert, grabbing Philippe’s bag. “This is heavy, what the hell do you have in it?”
“Presents for you all, actually they’re presents for you to give the Germans.” He grinned and followed Albert.
“In here, you’re in with me. There is the bathroom. Yvette lives in luxury, on her own, and the other two are in there. I’ll let you have a wash then I’ll give you the rest of the tour.” He turned and clumped down the stairs.
Yvette appeared from the bathroom drying her face with a towel. She saw him and pulled him into her room and kissed him passionately. “I’ve missed you, cheri.” She kissed him again then said, “They don’t know about us, we must keep it like that for now. They are superstitious about relationships within the group. They think it is bad luck so I must appear aloof around you whenever we are with them. I’m sorry, cheri, I will make it up to you.” She gave him her wicked smile and her hand caressed his already hard penis, then she was gone.
Jacques, or rather Philippe washed and returned to the kitchen.
“So what is the set-up here?” he asked.
“Alain and Pierre are brothers, real brothers, and this is their farm. I am their little sister and Albert, a cousin. We work the farm, badly, and the house is used to harbour prisoners-of-war who have escaped, along with the less lucky airmen who through the network find their way here. The farm also acts as one of our arms caches. There are a number in the area, so our resources are spread out and growing; they are supplied by the S.O.E. who also finance us. We are about a hundred at the moment, but people are joining the Resistance all the time and we operate throughout most of Normandy. It is our playground. ”Yvette was smiling. “We also go further afield when London wants a special job done, or we see a target ripe for picking.”
Alain took up the explanation. “The various groups have been too autocratic in the past and resources have been wasted. We are beginning to work more closely with groups like the maquis next door in Brittany, but that brings its own dangers. Small is safe, family is better.” He looked at his brother. “If too many know your business torture can loosen their tongues, so we are careful when we meet new people. To the Gestapo we are just bad farmers, which is actually what we were before the war.” He laughed at his own joke, an infectious laugh that Philippe grew fond of hearing.
“But I am a wine distributor. So where do I fit in, surely not here?” asked Philippe.
It was Yvette’s turn to explain. “For a few weeks you‘ll stay here, but there is a priest’s hole you may have to get used to hiding in when people come. I still have to set up your cover with hotels and bars. It should be easy, we have people there already and they will have more contacts. We even have some samples of the wine you’re going to sell and distribute; we will sample a bottle in a minute. Tomorrow we will visit your employer and he will circulate your name to his customers, so within a few weeks the name Philippe Villon will be known, and then you will move here from Toulouse and we will put a face to that name. Plus, you will get to drive your own van.” She smiled at him. “It’s being prepared as we speak, an Aladdin’s cave of arms and explosives beneath the crates of wine.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be idle, Philippe.” It was Alain again. “There is work to be done tomorrow night. And we’re expecting a couple of unlucky pilots later in the week, and if you are bored you can be a bad farmer with me!” He laughed again. Philippe already liked him. Pierre’s moustache just twitched.
After their daube, which really was extremely tasty, Albert showed him round the farm and its outbuildings. In one of the barns there was an underground room that they reached through a trapdoor covered with hay. It housed a plethora of arms, ammunitions, explosives and everything needed to detonate them.
“This lot has been supplied by the S.O.E.”
Another barn played host to what looked like a junkyard of scrapped vehicles. “There are eight vehicles in here and two of us can reassemble any one of them in an hour. I can paint one in two hours and change registration plates in two minutes. The Germans think they are just junk that a lazy farmer cannot be bothered to get rid of. That lorry will carry thirty men.“ He pointed at a chassis half-covered in straw with one wheel removed. Its flatbed and canopy were thrown haphazardly in the corner of the barn. “Remove the chickens’ eggs and change two spark plugs, put the bonnet back and it’s the fastest lorry in Normandy.” He smiled proudly at his prized vehicle. “The only problem is getting petrol, so we steal it from the Germans.”
Other barns were actually used by the farm. Two cows mooed hello, while chickens clucked around his ankles as the two men walked back to the farmhouse.
“Any visitors, French or German, you sit in here until we tell you to come out.” Albert pushed the top left hand corner of a wooden panel he had counterbalanced. It clicked and the panel swung open to reveal a space about twice the size of a coffin with a mattress on the floor and a book lying on it. “You may get bored,” he said pointing to the book. “We’ve left it here with a torch for our guests. I don’t know what it is, I’m not much of a reader myself,” added Albert, rather dismissively.
They joined the others in the kitchen who were already poring over a hand drawn map. “Philippe, your first job.” Yvette pulled him closer to the map. A railway formed its centrepiece, arrows and crosses obviously signified other things and he waited for Yvette to explain.
“As you know, one of our main jobs is to disrupt the German supply lines and their communications network. We have learnt from our people in the railways that the Germans are bringing a freight train to Caen. It will be carrying arms and a number of soldiers to replenish their dwindling garrison, courtesy of our attentions and those of the maquis. When we have finished with the train their problem will have become even more intense. As the Allies prepare to invade, the Germans will try to move as many soldiers as possible to the coastal regions to defend against allied landings. In time we will become very active, disrupting their movements and yapping at their heels, but for now it is attacks like this that will be most e
ffective. We need to lay the explosives tonight under cover of darkness. The train will be well guarded with the usual machine guns that give 360-degree cover. We don’t know yet if there will be sufficient troops to warrant any anti-aircraft carriages. If the guns are there, we will take them out too. Our people in the railways will be able to let us know which carriages carry the soldiers. They are the main targets. If we can detonate the explosives as their carriage passes, then that will cause maximum damage. Guns are useless if there is no one to fire them.”
“Do you want me to set the charges?” asked Pierre.
“Yes, but take Philippe with you and show him the tricks of the trade the S.O.E. didn’t teach him. You are our top man, so who better to learn from?” Yvette knew how to get the best out of her people. Pierre did not know whether to make his moustache twitch or smile, so he did both.
