That was when his luck ran out. He was so close to the Allied lines that he could hear the machine guns and artillery. Refugees fleeing the fighting streamed past him; he was so near that he could hardly restrain himself. Perhaps it was this last feeling of relief that let his usually coy senses down. As he headed out into a field that had become no-man’s-land, he heard a guttural German voice behind him shout ‘halt’.
Later, Forest wrote: ‘It all appeared so unfair.’6 Metres from safety he had been spotted by a German patrol. He wanted to run, but his body refused and when bullets hit the ground around him he collapsed, finally overcome with hopelessness. Surely this was not how it would end, a bullet in the back of the head from an unknown German?
Fortunately the soldiers who had found him were more interested in taking him alive. They hauled him back behind German lines and to their unit. At least they were pure army and inclined to treat prisoners fairly. Forest gave himself the name of Adjutant-Chef Maurice Thomas and stuck to his story of being an escaped French POW who had been living off the land for some time. At least his appearance convinced them of that. They supplied him with as much potato soup as he could eat and a bed for the night in a hut. To Forest it seemed the epitome of luxury, the only thing that spoiled it was the resurgence of his dysentery.
The decent army officers unfortunately handed him over to a band of little thugs from the Hitler Youth at Chemnitz. They enjoyed spitting at him, slapping him, slamming their rifle butts into him and generally torturing him as he endured a 10-mile march to another town. It seemed he would never be free of this torment.
He spent an unpleasant night in a prison cell and then was returned to Chemnitz to wash, which at least was a welcome relief. Before long he was being moved again, this time to a transit camp. Briefly he was reunited with some British servicemen, but then he was on another forced marched to a French POW camp.
Forest had not come this far to give up now, and remarkably, within two days of his arrival, he had not only convinced ten other prisoners to escape with him but had agreed upon a plan and created forged documents and passes to enable it to happen. Despite the speed of its organisation the plan proved successful.
At 10 p.m. one evening Forest and the others slipped from the camp. At the nearest train station they booked tickets to Chemnitz and, once there, split into pairs and headed west for the front line. So far so good, but Forest had forgotten how badly his body had deteriorated: ‘All my old pains came back even more acutely than before. My feet felt like open stumps, my legs were stiff and appeared to be receding into my guts. Dysentery kept wringing my innards, I could hardly place one foot in front of the other.’7
Forest had to rely on the support of the NCO who had paired with him to walk the relatively short distance. Even so it was agony and when finally all the escapees reunited in sight of the front line, he collapsed.
Hope and freedom were so close. Forest could see the outline of camouflaged tanks and could hear the shrill bursts of gunfire. Yet he couldn’t move. He lay on the ground and yelled to be left, promising to follow the others when his strength returned. No one moved, and with a generosity others had not shown, the escapees all refused to leave Forest’s side. He grumbled and ordered them to leave, but by now they were well aware that he was actually a British officer and so, being French, they ignored his orders. They hauled him up while Forest grouched and complained: he didn’t like to think of himself crossing the Allied lines in the arms of others. But he had no choice, and off they headed towards the sound of guns.
They later would discover that they had crossed a minefield to reach the American troops, who looked at them mildly astonished. It was a peculiar moment as the dishevelled men explained they were French POWs and emphasised Forest’s importance. It was like a dream come true when he found himself sat before an American officer, sipping coffee and explaining his story in detail. He was too exhausted to truly give in to his feelings; he was almost numb to them after all this time. Yet here he was back in the land of the living, being treated as a human being once again. As he took in the civility of his surroundings and the men questioning him he felt a sharp pang of happiness – he was home.
The White Rabbit had returned to his hutch.
* * *
Notes
1. Spitz, V., Doctors from Hell: The Horrific Account of Nazi Experiments on Humans.
2. Forest reports that he was a prisoner due to his habitual drunkenness.
3. Seaman, Op cit.
4. Letter to SOE, 10/8/1945.
5. A barber in Buchenwald, who Forest later reported as being a useful witness for the American War Crimes branch.
6. Seaman, Op cit.
7. Ibid.
– 17 –
And then the War was Won
IN LONDON, NEWS QUICKLY spread that the White Rabbit was on his way home, but no one could be more relieved and elated than Barbara, though plenty of people within SOE and the departments it liaised with were ecstatic at the news.
Within rooms 39 and 40 of the NID (Naval Intelligence Division) one man was particularly intrigued by the news. This was a kooky NID officer who had created the 30AU (his ‘Red Indians’ as he liked to call them): an elite troop of commandos. Somehow this man, who was both loved and loathed by his contemporaries, had learned about the reports Forest had had smuggled home to Britain, in particular his letter about what was happening at Buchenwald. He had plans to publish the letter in order to inform the public about what was really happening in the depths of Germany, but when news reached him that Forest was on his way home, he hesitated:
As we arranged at lunch, I am sending you a copy of the letter from Squadron-Leader Yeo-Thomas which I told you about.
Now that we have the good news that the writer is alive and on his way home, we will postpone our decision about giving publicity to this appalling document until Yeo-Thomas’ own views are known.
In view of this, I am sure you will not give the letter too wide a circulation.
Commander Ian Fleming
Admiralty1
Ian Fleming (future creator of the eponymous spy James Bond) had always shown a great deal of respect for the agents he had come to know both directly and indirectly. His role with the NID was largely one of liaison between the various secret intelligence units. SOE occasionally needed the assistance of the navy (though not as often as the air force) and it was useful for there to be an official contact. Fleming’s brother, Peter, worked for SOE and was involved in a number of high-profile missions, so it was hardly surprising that Ian knew much of the workings within the organisation.
In later years his memories of the brave and unique individuals who worked for SOE in their various divisions filter into his novels; at least two SOE female agents are reputed to have been inspiration for characters in the James Bond stories. It doesn’t seem that Forest ever knew Fleming personally, but his daring adventures, lucky escapes and, ultimately, his survival, caught Fleming’s attention to the extent that he became personally interested in Forest’s story.
Ian Fleming was a backseat spy, and there are various legends about great plans he concocted and missions he went on, including a story about training at SOE’s Camp X in Canada. However, the facts behind these legends are missing: they are a combination of wishful thinking and purposeful misdirection on Fleming’s part – he was always the natural storyteller.
Fleming’s career in NID was largely a desk job; he did make a trip to France to try and persuade Admiral Darlan to move his fleet to England in the early days of the war when the Nazis had taken Paris, but he was unsuccessful and his mission was one more of diplomacy than espionage. From his position in room 39, orchestrating and listening to the various intelligence missions the British were running, he could live the life of a spy vicariously. It was the closest he could get to the action; no one really considered him secret agent material, but as an organiser and creative individual he stood out.
Somewhere along the line he learnt abou
t Forest Yeo-Thomas. It’s probable that had the two ever actually met they would have got along quite well. Both had a well-ingrained stubborn streak and an independent nature. Neither had been particularly fond of school or academic achievements, despite being intelligent men, and had preferred instead to excel at sports, though not team games (Forest was keen on boxing, while Fleming was exceptional in athletics). Neither had a peaceful relationship with their parents and both felt the burden of being compared to a favoured sibling: in Ian’s case his older brother Peter, in Forest’s his dead younger brother Jack.
Both were men of action deemed unsuitable for the field, Ian because of his independent streak and difficulty to control, Forest because of his age. But while Forest had managed to overcome these obstacles and become an active agent for SOE, Ian remained stuck at his desk. That is where their similarities end. Ian was glorified as an ideal spymaster, had he only had the opportunity to sit further up in the NID. His work with 30AU, which he initially controlled, demonstrated this. Forest on the other hand was much more typically a spy: he found organising necessary but frustrating and his temper could make him far from diplomatic.
Emotionally the two men had a lot in common, especially their creativity. Forest had come up with some audacious and completely unworkable ideas during his time in SOE and Ian had certainly matched him with schemes for underwater concrete observation posts and daring raids. Both had individually concocted plans for kidnapping a high-ranking German officer. There seems little doubt that Ian would have liked a man like Forest working on espionage for him, though Forest may have found the budding novelist’s need for control rather taxing on his patience.
This leads smoothly to speculation about the ultimate spy and ladies’ man, James Bond. Was Forest one of many inspirations for 007?
Over the years there has been a great deal of speculation as to who the real Bond was, and the consensus is now that there was no single individual who formed the character, but that he was an amalgamation of several people, both known and not known personally to Ian Fleming. Fleming rather enjoyed spreading rumours about who the real Bond was, sometimes doing it for publicity, sometimes for a joke. But his time in NID and his connections to other secret organisations certainly gave him plenty of inspiration for the ultimate secret agent.2
SOE in particular contained a lot of brave and heroic individuals whose stories stuck in Fleming’s memory. Agents went undercover for months, even years, and faced horrendous torture and death if captured. There was something extraordinary and dashing about these men and women who slipped into the Nazi world, many never to return.
Two significant SOE names that have been linked to Fleming are Vera Atkins and Christine Granville. Atkins was an executive officer in the F Section of SOE and known for her work after the war of trying to trace the fates of the hundreds of SOE agents who never returned from missions. She was originally employed as a secretary, but quickly proved an exceptional intelligence officer. In her obituary in the New York Times she was credited with being the inspiration for Miss Moneypenny, the formidable secretary to Bond’s boss ‘M’ and a staple of the novels. It is reasonable to suspect that Atkins might have preferred a more dynamic fictional role.
Christine Granville caught Fleming’s attention just after the war. An amazing and audacious agent, Christine managed to talk her way out of many difficult situations partly because of her dramatic and inventive imagination and partly because of her innate sex appeal. In his 1993 book, Donald McCormick makes a case for her being the original Vesper Lynd, Bond’s love interest in his first adventure Casino Royale. There is no conclusive proof, as in all Bond speculations, that she was the genuine inspiration, but she was a friend of Fleming’s and it is possible that he carried on a quiet affair with her. In 1947 he wrote to a friend: ‘I see exactly what you mean about Christine. She literally shines with all the qualities and splendours of a fictitious character. How rarely one finds such types.’3
In 1952 Fleming wrote his first Bond novel as a mental escape from his pending marriage. The same year, Christine was murdered. She was stabbed to death in a hotel at the age of 37.
The list of Bond inspirations is forever growing, but Forest Yeo-Thomas’ name has not cropped up with a Fleming connection before. The letter that links them and proves that the novelist had at least some interest in the man and his escapades, is tucked away in a thick personnel file. It is small slip of paper, all too easy to overlook if the name ‘Ian Fleming’ was not spotted on the bottom.
What could have been the reason for Fleming’s fascination with Forest? Well, he was a rarity among SOE agents – he fell into the hands of the Nazis and came out alive. His amazing escapes (switching identities, jumping from trains, fleeing through no-man’s-land) would be enough to draw any budding thriller writer’s attention, but Forest’s connection with James Bond went deeper than that.
Forest was not just a good secret agent, he was a great one. SOE was swamped with the mediocre, the mundane and even the dangerously careless. There were not many men like Forest who had the skill to stay undercover and the caution to maintain their security. There were even fewer who survived the war to tell their story. Forest was also a relatively high-ranking agent: he took charge of situations and was not just another wireless operator or messenger boy to be bossed around. He demanded respect and he usually got it. Fleming could identify with such a man.
Then there was Forest’s life. He was charming and attractive to women, not necessarily because he was stunningly handsome, but because he was good company, and in a war situation, gave worried helpers the impression that he could take care of them. Forest was surrounded by women: the main members of his personal cell were all female. While Bond would have struggled to put such faith in female agents, he certainly would have appreciated being surrounded by loyal women. Jose Dupuis could even be considered reminiscent of the formidable Miss Moneypenny.
Aside from his female connections, Forest was an impressive master of disguise. He had a whole host of tricks that would have appealed to Bond, who also knew the value of a good cover. From faked walks to a range of hats that changed his appearance, Forest could blend in anywhere. He also always carried a gun; this was not general SOE policy, but for once Forest broke the rules and was not afraid to get his hands dirty if the need arose. If he had to kill he could do so, armed or unarmed.
His eventual capture was due to an act of betrayal, the same method that usually results in Bond’s downfall. His torture held all the dark torments that Fleming would inflict on his personal spy. The beating of Bond’s genitals in Casino Royale is all too familiar of the Gestapo techniques that Forest endured.
Lastly there is the daring and incredible escape, the bravery to the last and, when trying to survive, still that desire to fulfil a mission. For Forest, that was getting details of medical experiments out of Buchenwald, something he achieved despite the terrible odds against him. It was probably his ‘letter from Buchenwald’ describing these experiments that Fleming refers to in his own letter.
Finally there was the fact that Forest survived. He came home, he made it. There is an element of thriller fiction in Forest’s story, a suggestion that some of the incidents he was involved in may have been exaggerated slightly. Fleming would have liked that: he was fond of inviting legends about himself. But what was ultimately important was that Forest returned a hero, even if it was only a hero to his closest friends and those he saved. Bond could identify with that.
So was Forest an inspiration for Bond? He certainly has as many credentials and Fleming connections as other accepted contenders. His story was known to Fleming and intrigued him. Is it unreasonable to think he would not have stored away memories of Forest’s adventures that would resurface when he began creating a new spy? All novelists are inspired by the people around them and the stories they hear and lock away inside their minds. Forest was a true-life hero and he was as close to Bond as any real agent could possibly be.
But the pos
t-war period for Forest was far removed from Fleming’s world. When he arrived in London it was to be greeted by Barbara, who had been tormented with the idea that she would never see him again. Forest was not the man she remembered: gaunt, shaven-headed, ailing and with too many dark and grim memories to enable him to settle easily back into normal life.
Forest’s mind was consumed with one overriding desire: revenge. He wanted to find the man who betrayed him, he wanted to make the Germans who had tortured him suffer and he wanted to make the camp doctors and commandants stand before a courtroom and try to defend themselves. As he arrived home his thoughts revolved around the friends he had lost: Brossolette, who he now learned was long dead, and Hubble, whose chess set he had sacrificed bread for, to name but two. Life would never be the same.
Meanwhile SOE was singing its swan song. There would be no need for it in peacetime and the various sections were rapidly reduced to leave enough space for the tying up of loose ends only. De Gaulle was back in France and scorning his British allies as only he could, and the Americans were fast preparing for the pending war crimes trials at Nuremburg. Then there were the Russians, but that was business for MI6. In the muddle of post-war confusion, one sick and frail rescued agent was greeted warmly and then forgotten.
Forest’s first stop was a military hospital at Millbank, where a preliminary diagnosis was a tad depressing. The physician noted:
1. Diminished airway right side of nose.
Churchill's White Rabbit Page 24
