Churchill's White Rabbit (32 page)

It was not long before he faced a trial that was too much for him. They reached an open expanse of land with only a small clump of trees to act as cover. They had no choice but to cross it, but their luck had run out: they were some distance from the trees when three men appeared to their left. Dulac and Piot made a dash for the clump and vanished into the trees, but Forest could not run long before his dysentery tortured him and forced him to slow down. He could only make it to one solitary tree that stood away from the rest and there he slumped down on his belly and hoped. What could he do but trust in his luck and hope that the men would miss him?

He heard them walk past and then, to his horror, they stopped. They had seen him. One called out to him in German. Forest feigned a heavy sleep; perhaps they would think him drunk. They were closer now and someone else shouted at him, but he didn’t move. There was a pause and then one man said something to his friends that made them laugh loudly. Forest had the impression they were commenting on his laziness, and now he just hoped they would move on as if they tried to shake him awake he was doomed. His German was too limited to talk himself out of the situation. He waited miserably.

The Germans watched him for several moments then abruptly turned and walked away. As soon as it was safe he got to his feet and headed for the main clump of trees, but when he got there Dulac and Piot were gone. He reflected that had he been in Dulac or Piot’s place perhaps he too would have assumed that when he fell he was doomed to discovery by the passing Germans. Still, he liked to imagine that he might have hung around to see what happened. But the end result was simple, he was on his own.

Now the weather deteriorated. Forest encountered another river but found an unguarded bridge and, soaked to the bone by heavy rain, made it into the refuge of woodland once again. He was exhausted, but there seemed nowhere to settle, then suddenly the world fell away from him. He had stumbled into a pit lined with branches. The fall shook him, but in the next instant he realised that he had found his bed for the night. Thanking his luck he pulled branches around him and doing his best to block out the pain and the cold, he slipped into sleep.

When he woke it was still raining and he was famished. He found a potato field and rooted around for something to eat without success. He fell behind a woodpile and drifted into sleep again. When dawn came he was at least a little rested and carried on towards a road. He had a vague idea of heading to Chemnitz and reaching the Allied line, but beyond that he was just walking. He was less alert than before and when he reached a road he was spotted by armed Germans who challenged him.

Some reservoir of adrenaline spurred him back into the trees despite shots whizzing past. He collapsed into the undergrowth – his body was spent. When he tried to lift his legs he simply couldn’t. His head throbbed and stabbing pains shot through his eyes. He wanted to be sick, but retching only hurt his empty stomach. It was then he realised that his dysentery had struck during the run and his legs were wet with his own bodily waste. He confessed to himself that he was in a sorry mess.

Somehow he eventually gathered his strength together and carried on. He had lost his sense of direction and before long stumbled into another pit. This one was deeper and he panicked when he realised he did not have the strength to climb out. He tried to remain calm, but there was no option left but to sleep and try to conserve his flagging energy.

He awoke to the smiling face of a Yugoslav prisoner of war. The friendly figure tried to explain something to him, but Forest was ignorant of Yugoslavian. Fortunately the POW knew French and when he switched to this language they were able to communicate. Forest told him he was an escaped prisoner of war and had to get moving. He endeavoured to stand but his body collapsed in protest. Gently his new friend lifted him up and carried him into the shelter of some woods. Forest sunk into unconsciousness again.

When he awoke it was to see that the Yugoslav POW had brought him bread and a little wine in a bottle. Forest could not express his gratitude at the small gift, but the first bite of bread on his sick and hollow stomach made him violently ill. Unperturbed, the Yugoslavian offered him the wine and that at least stayed down. The POW had brought some food for Forest, which he insisted he took. He then allowed Forest to rest while he kept a watch for enemy patrols.

Finally Forest felt strong enough to carry on. He thanked the kindly stranger and walked away, after a short distance he turned back and waved and the POW waved back. He could only wonder where this generous and compassionate man had emerged from: was he part of a working party in the woods or was he an escapee too? Forest had not asked and he would never know. He was just grateful for the miracle of stumbling upon a friendly face in these vast and enemy-filled woods.

Though he was still ailing and his legs were heavier with each step, Forest felt a new-found hope and decided to push his luck and follow a main road for a time in the hope of finding a signpost to give him a clue where he was. It wasn’t long before he came upon a crossroads and, to his amazement and joy, he discovered he was only 2km from Chemnitz. The elation of seeing the town, despite its bomb-damaged buildings and ruinous appearance, was over-whelming for the footsore Forest. Better still, he realised that the Germans were using French POWs and civilians to clear rubble and carry water, so for the first time he was in no danger if someone heard him speaking French. His luck seemed eternal when he even managed to hitch a lift on a horse and cart driven by a French POW. It was the fastest 25km he had travelled during his entire escape and now he was on course for the Allied lines.

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

Admiralty
¹

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.